Tragically losing our CEO led us to build something that will outlast all of us. 

It was a sunny Saturday morning. My wife, Julie, and I had just finished breakfast at home. The windows were open, letting in that soft hum of summer — birds, a breeze, kids’ laughter as families rode by on their bikes. Then the phone rang.

Julie answered. I couldn’t hear the other end, just her voice — and the way it changed. “Oh my God. What happened?” Her tone told me everything before the words did. I felt it in my gut before she even said his name — Kevin. He died in his sleep on his boat at just 50 years old. I was in shock, disbelief, like the ground had disappeared from under me. We didn’t even get a moment to sit with it.

Our first thought was, “What can we do to help?” But almost instantly it became clear — we had to step in fast. Kevin was our CEO — a beloved 22-year veteran of the company — and now I had to figure out how to tell 2,000 people that the leader they knew, trusted, and followed was gone.

This wasn’t in any playbook. I’ve lost people — my sister, my brother, my parents — but I had never been the bearer of news like this. Never the one to hold the weight of so much collective grief. We called Sarah, Kevin’s closest executive confidant. His wife had just spoken with her. No one else knew, but that window wouldn’t last long. By Monday morning, the world would know, and we had less than 48 hours to get ready.

We prepared communications for the entire company, the advisory board, the public. It wasn’t just about messaging — it was about mourning. For some, Kevin was a mentor, a friend, a brother. For others, this was more about stability: “What happens now? Is my job safe? Is the company OK?” I had to somehow hold both the pain and the plan.

And the truth? I was grieving more than most of them. Kevin and I were close. After naming him my successor, I had stepped away from the day-to-day operations of the company and served as his mentor behind the scenes for over a decade. He was living the dream — guiding the company, spending weekends on his boat, fully in stride — and now he was gone.

I didn’t have experience leading through grief like this. I cracked time and time again, but I let people see it. I let them see me sad, and when I could, I offered comfort. I didn’t have all the answers, but I could offer my presence.

I relied heavily on others — internally and externally. Julie, whose background in crisis PR became a lifeline. Senior advisors, team leaders — I hadn’t been a visible face to many in the company for years, but there I was, showing up fragile and unsure, and even in that fragility, I had to become a lighthouse.

What kept me grounded was this: 2,000 people needed me to show them that we would find a way forward — and we did. That weekend and the months that followed taught me that leadership doesn’t mean knowing everything. It means being real. It means holding space for the mess, the hurt, the fear, and still saying, “There’s a way through.”

I learned to lean on others more than I ever had, and that changed everything. We transformed what had been a passive advisory board into an active leadership body. Together, we identified the top three priorities for the year — and we’ve done it every year since. That simple act aligned our organization like never before.

But perhaps the most powerful shift was what happened around succession. I used to think a succession plan was about picking the next CEO, but it’s so much bigger. Real succession is about building a structure that can survive anything — people coming and going, markets shifting, tragedies you never imagined.

Years earlier, we’d restructured into a franchise model, giving office leaders real equity and entrepreneurial control, but after Kevin’s death, we took it even further. We became an employee-owned public benefit corporation. From the CEO to the newest team member, everyone now has a stake. Everyone is building wealth from the value they create.

Here’s the hardest truth: This wouldn’t have happened without Kevin’s passing. If that tragedy hadn’t occurred, we likely would’ve followed the standard script — sold to private equity, disrupted the culture, maybe even lost what made us special.

Instead, we built something that will outlast all of us. My signature move — if I have one — is this: I love supporting entrepreneurs who are making a difference in their communities. Commercial real estate isn’t just about deals. It’s about the fabric of a community, a thriving main street, a place where people can live, work, and build something lasting.

What makes me proud isn’t that I founded this company. It’s that I’m leaving behind a structure where it can thrive without me, where leaders across the organization — not just one at the top — have real power and ownership. That’s a legacy I believe in.

To any CEO reading this, your moment will come, maybe more than once — a moment that upends your plans and cracks you wide open. When it does, let it. Let it change you. Let it show you what really matters. Let it invite you to build something not centered around you, but around us. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it.

“I had to somehow hold both the pain and the plan.”