Between 2009 and 2014, I joined Toastmasters—much to the bewilderment of everyone who knew me well. After all, my employers had already invested thousands in speechwriters, presence coaches, and confidence boosters. I was accustomed to inspiring audiences of up to 1,000 people and had been leading teams of all sizes since I was 25.  

So why Toastmasters? I had three specific goals: to learn how to network with ‘regular’ people and develop my human side, to master the art of effective extemporaneous speaking, and to strip away 30 years of corporate programming and control.  

News flash: I failed spectacularly at the last two objectives.   I share this context not for sympathy, but to establish that I wasn’t your typical Toastmaster with typical objectives. What I did gain, however, were connections with some incredibly decent, genuine, salt-of-the-earth people—a handful of whom I treasure to this day.  

Which brings me to the heart of this story.  

In my first year, I met a father who delivered a speech about his teenage son. He had donated part of his liver to his boy, who had been diagnosed at sixteen with a rare, incurable condition. (Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis) At the time, he was describing his son’s first transplant.

Sidebar: I still cringe when I remember the evaluator who dissected his speech with cold, clinical precision—dogmatically adhering to format while a real person shared a real story about real life and death. Some mysteries of human nature will never cease to confound me.  

Recently, this father reached out with an update. His son has now celebrated his 30th birthday—a milestone many thought impossible. He’s had to look death squarely in the face five times since his initial diagnosis, endured two liver transplants, still battles the original incurable disease, and continues to face poor odds of surviving yet another year.   

Matt, his son, created a 13-minute video explaining what it’s like to live with the daily awareness of mortality, why embracing the present moment isn’t just philosophy but a matter of survival, and where he finds the strength to keep going. His personal tag line (since he was that 16-year-old kid) has always been and continues to be ‘born to make a difference.’  

I urge you to do yourself a profound favour: watch it.

Then ask yourself: