There’s a quiet fear I carry that never really goes away. It doesn’t keep me up at night, but it walks with me in the background of every day. It’s not a fear of failure. I’ve failed plenty. It’s not a fear of hard work. I love to work. That’s never been the issue.
It’s the fear of an unlived life.
To me, an unlived life isn’t about missed vacations or unused opportunities. It’s about not using what I’ve been gifted. It’s about letting time pass without purpose. It’s about drifting instead of building. Playing small when I was called to go all in. Holding back when I should have poured it out. To me, an unlived life is the slow erosion of calling, creativity, and impact. And that’s the one thing I never want to look back and see.
I’ve been creating for as long as I can remember. My mother, who taught art for 50 years, used to call me creative all the time. But that’s what moms do. And she was an artist herself, so maybe she saw something familiar. Teachers said it, too. But for a long time, I thought they were just trying to steer me toward something they thought I might be halfway decent at. I figured maybe they didn’t see many other options for me.
Even when I began to believe it, creativity felt like too great a gift to claim. It sounded elite, boastful, and cocky. But it’s true. I am a creative. But I’ve come to accept that creativity has always been part of me — even if it took sixty years to finally say it out loud.
I fell in love with working in restaurants at nineteen. I knew I would open one eventually, I stayed up late at night dreaming, and I never stopped creating. During the day I was in class. At night, waiting tables. And during all points in between, I was sketching floorplans, writing menus, dreaming up concepts. That hasn’t changed. There’s no more class these days, but the rhythm is the same. I work in restaurants, work on restaurants, think about restaurants, and travel—mostly about restaurants. Late into the night, early in the morning. It never really stops. And I don’t want it to.
I have drawers full of yellow legal pads packed with ideas—before I had a laptop and a phone with a notes feature. Fully fleshed-out restaurant and bar concepts. Names, menus, design, pro formas, marketing, location, all of it. There are probably hundreds of them. Some are still sitting quietly on paper. Others have come to life. And with time, those ideas have matured. These days the concepts are more scalable. More refined. More focused on profitability. I’ve learned a lot over 40+ years. The ideas come easier now, but they land deeper.
Over the years, I’ve seen a few of those old ideas brought to life—by other people, some nationally. Restaurants I had sketched out long ago, down to the concept, the vibe, sometimes even the menu—opened by folks who never saw a single page of my notes. I won’t name names. But my wife has seen it, time and again. She remembers me sitting at the kitchen table late at night, building out these ideas just for the love of it. And then, months or years later, we’d walk into a new place, and she’d look at me and say, “This is yours. You wrote this down years ago.” That’s not a complaint. It’s not even a humble brag. It’s just one of those quiet confirmations that maybe my instincts were right all along. That maybe the creativity really was there.
I’ve been blessed to have had the opportunity to open 25 restaurants over my career. Three of those— in the early days— belonged to others. A few are still standing. Some closed because the lease ran out. Others because I sold to partners. Some because I saw room to do something better in the same space. And yes, some failed. I used to be ashamed of that. A closed restaurant felt like a scarlet letter. These days, I see it differently. Failure is a teacher. I embrace it. When you remove your ego, you can see the gift inside the loss. What not to do next time. What to adjust. What matters more than you thought.
I’ll fail again. Probably more than once. But I won’t stop trying. And I’ll get better every time. The honesty of owning the failure is very freeing.
There are twelve concepts right now that are ready to go from paper to pavement. My leadership team has a plan to open seven new places in the next five years. For the first time in four decades, we have the right people in the right seats. The talent, the leadership, the momentum—it’s all there. I may be the one sketching out ideas at midnight, but none of it moves without the people who bring them to life. I’m grateful for every single one of them.
Creation isn’t limited to restaurants. I’ve helped start a few nonprofits, too. Extra Table started as a simple idea to feed people in need. Today, it helps deliver over six million meals a year across Mississippi. That didn’t happen because of me. It happened because good people believed in it and gave their time, talent, and resources to make it real. I just helped spark something that took on a life of its own.
Same with the community park I dreamed about years ago. It started as a small idea — just a thought that maybe our neighborhood could use a little more space for families to gather. But, thanks to a lot of help from the right people at the right time, it came to life. These days, I still find myself taking the long way home just to pass by and see kids playing, parents talking, people enjoying the space. It brings me a quiet kind of joy. Not because anyone knows I had anything to do with it — most don’t. And that’s just fine. I didn’t do it for that. I just like knowing it’s there in my old neighborhood, being used.
We’ve got more plans in the works. A few more pieces we hope to add. Nothing flashy — just ways to keep improving the neighborhood— and my home state—a little at a time. I’ve lived in Hattiesburg a long time. I love it. I love Mississippi. And with whatever time I’ve got left, I want to do my part — however small — to help make it an even better place to live and raise a family. That’s always been the heart behind it.
This is how I was made. I can’t not create. My mind never shuts off. Call it ADHD— when I was a kid the doctor diagnosed me as “hyperactive”— call it whatever you want. I used to think it was a bad thing. Now I embrace it. It’s always working on the next thing. Usually, I’m juggling three or four ideas at once — not because I’m trying to do too much, but because that’s just how my mind works. And at this stage of life, I finally understand that this isn’t a flaw or a compulsion I need to fight. It feels more and more like a calling I’ve been trusted to steward. And it’s what I love to do.
I will never retire. I plan to live to be 100, God willing. And if I can have it my way, I’ll slip away quietly in my sleep, the evening after opening my 50th restaurant—surrounded by the people I love, in a place that was built with heart, full of laughter and light, knowing we created something that made the world a little better. That’d be a good final chapter.
But even then, it wouldn’t really be the end.
Because one day, I’ll stand before God. Not as a businessman. Not as a restaurateur. Not as anything the world might label me. Just as a servant, holding the life He gave me. And what I want more than anything is to know I didn’t let it go to waste — that I didn’t drift or settle or hold back. That I lived it fully. That I answered the calling. That I didn’t let the fear of failure, or the comfort of ease, lead me into an unlived life. And if I’m lucky — if I’ve been loyal — I hope to hear those words “Well done, thy good and faithful servant.” That’s it. That’s the reward.
And if grace allows, maybe He’ll then smile and say, “There’s someone I’ve been wanting you to meet for a long time.”Then we’ll walk over together, and He’ll place His hand on a familiar shoulder and say, “Robert, meet your daddy.”
And I’ll feel a kind of peace I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
And I’ll know I’m home in more ways than one.
Onward.
