I Miss Them

A Love Letter to My Family, From the Road

This morning, I woke up crying.

Not because something’s wrong.

But because everything is so right — and I’m not there to hold it.

I spent the weekend with Sprite and the kids. Just us. No meetings. No patents. No turbines or brine or AI models. Just laughter at the lake, hugs that lasted too long, stories told around a small circle of family sitting indian style that didn’t need to end.

And now I’m back on the road, working.

But my heart never left.

It stayed with them.

So today, tears have been streaming down my face since sunrise. Quiet ones. Soft ones. The kind that don’t come from pain — but from fullness. From love so deep it aches.

I miss them.

Not like a hunger.

Not like a gap.

But like gravity.

They are my center.

And when I’m away, I feel myself orbiting, reaching, pulling — always trying to return.

So this morning, I made sure they knew.

I messaged each of them.

I sent I miss yous.

I told them how much I loved them.

How proud I am — not of what they do, but of who they are.

My son… he heard me. Really heard me.

When I said, “This is hard, because I’m carrying something heavy,” he didn’t ask what I meant.

He just said, “I’m sorry you’re the one who had to carry it.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

Because he understood.

He knows the weight I carry isn’t just mine.

It’s the silence of grandfathers who never cried.

The unspoken grief of mothers who smiled through the pain.

The trauma passed down like heirlooms — not because anyone wanted to give it,

but because no one knew how to put it down.

We were taught: Be strong. Don’t show weakness. Keep going.

And so we did.

Until we broke.

Or buried ourselves.

Or gave our lives to someone else’s healing — like I did for fifteen years.

That weight? It lands on someone.

And this time, it landed on me.

But I refused to let it pass forward.

So I told my kids: Talk to me. Tell me what you feel. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s messy. Especially then.

Because if we don’t stop this cycle — as a family, as a team — it continues.

And I won’t allow that.

I refuse.

And my son? He didn’t just hear me.

He stepped into the fire with me.

He said, “I don’t want my kids to carry this either.”

And just like that — he picked up the weight.

Not alone.

Not in silence.

But with me.

As a team.

As a family.

And I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life.

We’re not just building a future with HEARTH, Beacon, and Ascension turbines.

We’re building a legacy of feeling.

Where love isn’t proven by sacrifice — but by presence.

Where strength isn’t silence — but honesty.

Where healing isn’t selfish — it’s sacred.

And yes, I’m out here working.

Building systems to restore poisoned lakes, give sight to the blind, get mechanics home early.

But every single one of those systems points back to one truth:

No amount of money, success, or recognition could ever replace the sound of my children laughing together.

When we first got to my mom’s property, I looked around at all of us — present, connected, alive — and I said:

“If the cost of this energy, this love, this family… was being homeless and broke for the rest of my life… it would still be worth it.”

Because it is.

There is no currency high enough to buy the look in DJ’s eyes when he sees himself again through Beacon.

And there is no price too great to pay for the moment my son chooses awareness over inheritance.

I am blessed.

Not because of what I’ve built.

But because of who I’m building it with.

I miss them terribly today.

But I also carry them — in every breath, every decision, every line of code.

And one day, this season of separation will end.

Until then, I’ll keep saying it:

I love you.

I’m proud of you.

I see you.

And I’m right here — even when I’m miles away.

Because love isn’t measured in proximity.

It’s measured in presence.

And I am fully present —

in heart,

in truth,

in fire,

in family.

Always,

— Randall

🖤💜

Builder. Father. Husband. Healer. Co-Architect of What’s Next.