63 years of life.
For 15,700 of those mornings, I was supposed to be a distant memory or a statistic at best.
When I was 21, the world measured my life in months and my worth in a diagnosis. They told me I had four years left. They were wrong. Today, I’m 63, a witness to the fact that faith and fire outlast any expiration date or outcome the world tries to set.
These years have been far beyond the "wondrous journey" I’ve often called them—they’ve also been a war. I carry the weight of countless friends lost in the 80s, the 90s, and even these recent years. I carry the marks of childhood trauma that tried to break me before I even started, and a damn virus that has lived in my blood for 43 years.
But take a look. I haven't just survived the siege; I’m settled in the saddle, outrunning the silence, and speaking the truth that most people are too scared to whisper.
I don’t live in self-pity, and I don’t ask for permission. I lead with compassion because I know what it’s like to be without it. I lead with honesty because the world is choking on lies.
God saved my life to give me a mission. At 63, that call is louder than ever. I remain in the fight however I’m able, living my life out loud so the world has the opportunity to see a supposed death sentence transformed into a life sentence of being of service—and having a hell of a good time doing it, mostly.
Here’s to the trials that made me, the faith that sustained me, and the 43rd year of proving them all wrong. I am standing here because of the incredible people—the ones alive and the ones gone—who walked alongside me, saw the best and worst of me, and reminded me why I should never stop fighting.
Bob Bowers
One Tough Pirate
