​Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.”
​Henry David Thoreau

Inspiration

"You Only Live Once" is a phrase many of us know, but its meaning deepens as we move through life’s seasons. After more than 40 years in healthcare—including hospice and personal care—it has been a privilege and honor to accompany many people in the winter of their lives. What became clear, time and again, was that while some dreams were fulfilled, many cherished hopes remained just out of reach as the final days passed.​
Even as life’s horizon draws near, the desire to realize a final dream—to dance one more waltz, attend a family gathering, savor a favorite meal, or simply say goodbye—remains powerful and deeply personal. These wishes are not usually grand; most are simple, human moments. Hospice teams and compassionate communities show every day that honoring these dreams is both possible and profoundly meaningful. Whether arranging a special event, reuniting loved ones, or helping someone revisit a treasured place, these acts of kindness can bring comfort, dignity, and joy in life’s closing chapter.​
Fulfilling a dream, however simple, is more than a kind gesture; it is a celebration of an individual’s unique story and an affirmation that every moment—right up to the end—can hold meaning, love, and connection. Included below are a few experiences that inspired the creation of the YOLO Foundation.

Mimi

One of the deepest inspirations behind YOLO comes from a beautiful woman we called Mimi—my mother, who passed away in 2022. Before her health declined to the point that she could no longer travel, she made a 300-mile journey across Tennessee from Jackson to Maryville. It felt like it might be her last trip, and I wanted it to be special.
During her visit, I asked what she would most like to do. Her wish was simple: a convertible ride through the Smoky Mountains.
​We spent hours driving, sharing quiet conversation and the wind in our hair. She told me many times afterward how much she loved that ride and how much it meant to her. Though she is no longer here, those memories remain—and always will.

Mark

Mark was my best friend from childhood—we were inseparable growing up. Although we hadn't frequently spoken in recent years, we stayed in touch. At age 62, Mark was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. After his diagnosis, we reconnected in a deep and meaningful way, aware that his time was likely short.
Mark was a spiritual person. Whenever we discussed his future, he would say, "God's got this, and I'm good with the outcome."  We shared dreams we hoped to fulfill before we died, and one of his was to see the Tennessee Vols play in the College World Series. It was a tough dream—completely dependent on the Vols making it that far.
Remarkably, Tennessee made it to the 2024 series. Mark mentioned possibly going with his son, though I sensed some hesitation. I asked him, "What are you waiting for?" He answered without pause: "NOTHING."
Two days later, he called to say he had tickets and a hotel booked. I had nothing to do with making it happen—but I witnessed the joy it brought. Mark made it to the College World Series with his son and saw the Vols win it all. He passed away just a few months later.
In one of our final conversations, he told me how glad he was for taking that trip—and added, "You Only Live Once."

Ms. Della

One of the dearest and most selfless women I’ve ever known was "Ms. Della." She was a devoted friend who lovingly cared for her sister with Alzheimer’s disease. She had promised never to place her sister in a nursing home—and she kept that promise.
Both sisters were in their later years, and as you can imagine, Ms. Della didn’t get out much. Shortly before she passed, I asked if she’d like to go to lunch to get out of the house. Taking a leap of faith, I offered to drive her in my convertible. To my surprise, she was thrilled. When I asked if she wanted the top up, she laughed and said, "Let’s go mess my hair up!"
Afterward, she told me it was the best time she’d had in a long time. It was such a simple moment, but deeply meaningful for both of us—and one I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

Bob

I met Bob in the early ’90s while serving on a professional society board. He was a genuine guy from Seattle, and we quickly became friends. Even after we left the board, we stayed in touch.
Years later, Bob called one evening and asked if we could get together. When I asked when, he said, “Now!” He was in Nashville—and so was I. I had mentioned I would be there for work, and he had planned his trip to see me.
He gave me an address, and when I arrived, I could tell something was wrong. He and his wife were in an older RV parked beside a house where they had rented a spot for the night. He told me he had always dreamed of driving across the country, and then shared what few knew: he had terminal cancer, and it was now or never.
His goal wasn’t just to travel—it was to visit people who had mattered to him. We talked for hours, knowing it was our final goodbye. It was a bittersweet farewell, but there was comfort in knowing he was living his dream.
​A month later, his wife called to say Bob had passed. She shared that he was at peace, having fulfilled his lifelong dream of traveling across the country. Being part of his “goodbye tour” showed me how powerful it is to make time for the things—and people—that truly matter.

Tom

Mr. Tom was someone I met through my work at a hospice company who truly valued helping patients make the most of their remaining time. Whenever we asked what we could do for him, Mr. Tom would jokingly reply, “A Lamborghini,” with a wink and a smile.
One day, one of our thoughtful team members brought him a model Lamborghini. He was genuinely touched and proudly displayed it on his fireplace mantle. But from then on, when we asked what he wanted, he’d say with a grin, “A ride in a Lamborghini.”
Just to surprise him, and after weeks of planning, we arranged for a Lamborghini owner to stop by and give Mr. Tom that ride. Afterward, he said he had never been more surprised—and he kept repeating how much it meant to him.
It was a simple gesture, but it created lasting joy and unforgettable memories—for all of us.

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