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The Doll House

This wasn't my lowest point. That came later. But this was the fall that taught me how to get back up.

The doll house was the last thing to go.

I had built a telecom company, Voice Over IP, back when that was cutting-edge. We built infrastructure across Latin America, selling capacity to companies like Skype and major carriers.

At our peak, we were doing hundreds of millions in business. Growing fast. I thought we were bulletproof.

Then we made a critical error: we started extending large amounts of credit. Most clients paid. One didn't.

His company collapsed. He was a billion-dollar player in the industry. When someone that size falls, the ripple is brutal. He dragged us down, and dozens of others too.

Almost overnight, it was all gone.

I didn't have a backup plan. I always tell people: you need a cash cow and a moonshot. The truth is, you need TWO cash cows and a moonshot. I learned that the hard way.

I asked my parents for help. They refused. That lit a fuse that burned for two years.

So we faced the truth. We had to start over. Somewhere. Somehow.

But first, we had nothing. No money. No food. No shelter.

So we sold everything we had. A garage sale.

I remember standing in the driveway, watching strangers pick through our life. Furniture we'd saved for. Toys the kids had grown up with. Things that used to mean something, now marked with masking tape and a price.

What I didn't realize at the time, and it still breaks my heart, was what it meant to the kids. Especially the doll house.

I didn't know it mattered that much. They never said anything then. They just watched it go. But years later, they told me. It crushed them.

I would've done anything to spare them that. But they never complained. They just sacrificed, silently, bravely.

That's when I knew: my daughters were baby Cowboys. Quiet strength. No spotlight. Just grit. I told myself they were resilient. That was partly true, and partly me trying to survive my own guilt.

That's when I learned something: when you're in the mud, most people kick dirt in your face. But real people, real Cowboys, help.

A woman named Suzanne stepped in. A friend of my brother-in-law. She just offered us her small house on her farm.

She saved us. I'll always be grateful.

Oddly, we made some of our best memories there.

There was a big gator living out back in the pond. I knew feeding him was a bad idea. But we didn't have much else for entertainment, and Cowboys do crazy things.

So the kids named him. Started feeding him. Then he got aggressive. Started coming up toward the house. Hissing at the kids.

So we had to catch him and relocate him. Picture that: a broke family, at rock bottom, wrestling a gator off property we didn't even own.

Don't do that. Trust me.

But we were laughing the whole time.

Sunday drives down country roads, kids hanging out the windows, blasting Jason Aldean, singing loud. We didn't have money. We didn't have a plan. But we had each other.

We were broke. We were broken. But we hadn't lost our joy.

They took the house. The car. The doll house.

But not the joy. Never the joy.