by Anonymous
Soon after DH wrote me the psalm, he mailed me a card which is pictured below. Because he had my address, he would often send cards seen as encouragements or with a prayer attached. There were times over the last few years that DH would give monetary contributions to fundraisers I was hosting for other organizations and nonprofits. I had done some education justice work for young women in Africa, and he was interested in my pursuit of that vocation, but this card was out of the blue and I wasn’t expecting it.
I didn’t know that being frozen in a church pew and not responding favorably to a psalm dedication translated to “Just love you so much – Thanks for not giving up on me.” Again, this man has no shame.
On September 30, 2014, David reached out to me via facebook messenger to ask for help with a concert. How many times did he have to take no for an answer? Not only did he have no shame, but he’d do and say anything to get us to work for him for free, even if we left the organization years ago.
I didn’t attend and didn’t help. At this point, it felt like going to the concert a few weeks prior was a dumb choice. For a while, I was out of sight / out of mind to him. Now that I was in his frame of reference again, he was asking me to give a testimony? Have a meal? Haul his materials? And locate a hotel for him!?
Dear reader, must I remind you? I. Was. Not. His. Employee. And never had been.
In November 2015, my friend and fellow MMA alumna forwarded me a job description for another sacred music industry position. When you’re Catholic, it’s easy to blame a lot of things on or give credit to the Holy Spirit, whether they were really destined for you or not. I sat with the idea of taking the position for a while, but wasn’t convinced. The salary was less than what I was making at my current job and the commute was extremely long. We would have to buy a second car, which would be a major expense.
Soon after, DH also sent me the position and offered to write me a recommendation, just as he had last time. It was confusing, but maybe he did have my best interest at heart. After all, he knew my passion for ministry and was the second person to send me the job description this time around. Perhaps I could trust him again. After all, he said he was getting the professional help that he needed. Perhaps the mentor figure that had meant so much to me as a young person was returning and “making all things new,” so to speak.
I had two rounds of interviews in December 2015. No questions asked, I was overqualified for the position and didn’t get it. I was, and I quote, “too impressive.”
Here is where I hesitate and pause in the story because…
- I was eventually hired by that sacred music company,
- … on my own merits,
- … and still work there, nearly five years later.
- I want to be fair and respectful to all parties involved, but it would be unfair to withhold my current employment from the story since the situation with DH escalated significantly when he gained additional proximity to me. Many of my colleagues do not know my full story. I’m sorry that they now will.
- I also hesitate and pause because I pride myself on being a humble person, but the next section will include truths that some of you will interpret as bragging. Quick reminder that we never accuse men of bragging. We call them successful.
After being turned down for the initial job for being overqualified, in March 2016, the company reached back out with an offer for a management position in a different division. I took the job freely, and without reservation. After all, I didn’t go looking for it — they came to me. I didn’t need DH or anyone else as a reference — I had earned it on my own. Dear reader, this is a done, settled, and end of story kind of moment. I will not entertain any other narrative or accept shame for taking a position with a company DH had great clout in. I deserved to be there just as much as he did. After all, I had been training for a career in music ministry since I was 15 years old.
We were a small team, but I was hired for the expressed purpose of change management. In nine months time, we were scheduled to launch a major merge and rebrand. The launch would merge several major organizations together and bring on more clients and data than ever before, all responsible for a major justice component in the sacred music industry. In true start-up fashion, the work was tireless but enjoyable, and it quickly became the largest professional achievement I’ve ever undertaken. I am immensely proud of my work to this very day. I was a great fit for the role, with dogged millennial energy, and a clear vision for the future.
In many ways, I could have left the organization after two years or so, completely satisfied with my work and being someone who is always looking for the next big project to showcase my often workaholic tendencies. But for me, this was so much more than that, and the work just kept coming. This role, earned on my own merits because they were so impressed with my other interviews, was everything I was looking for — a combination of the arts, management, ministry, and social justice. Maybe it was time to settle down for a while and really see this thing through.
At first, it was relatively easy to have good boundaries when DH visited the corporate office, often once or twice a year. Like other visitors that came through, we all stood up to greet them as they walked around (often escorted by an executive employee), and I saw him no differently. But then, early in my career in 2017, DH visited, charged into my office on his own, and closed the door, catching me incredibly off guard. I shared my office with another colleague at the time, but he wasn’t there that day. I wished he was. David sat down in his chair like he owned the place. I’m sure in his mind he thought he did.
He wanted to know everything. Was the company “treating me right” (harkening back to how he asked about my boyfriend in 2009…), was this person and that person “treating me right?” How was my salary? He could get me more. He talked and talked and talked incessantly. Being in the middle of a project and never, ever, having someone close my door without my consent, I sat there, frozen, in shock, reminded of the hotel incident nine years earlier, where he stared at me and wouldn’t break eye contact.
I looked to the right and remembered that there were bars over our windows. While on one hand a smart security design to keep others out, at this moment, it was keeping me in. I couldn’t get out the door because he was sitting right next to it. I couldn’t bang on the window because he was sitting in front of it. I was trapped.
I regret that to this day, I still get triggered when male colleagues close my office door without my consent. It’s not their fault and I wish it didn’t happen, but it’s added to a long list of bull-in-a-china-shop tendencies that DH has, seemingly in control and totally out of control of his behavior all at the same time. Dear readers, we could do a lot better by respecting our colleague’s space and not placing hands on their shoulders, leaving items on their desks, sitting in other people’s chairs, and closing doors without consent. All of these behaviors are microaggressions that can add up to a pretty misogynistic environment.
I was proud of setting boundaries with myself around how I was going to communicate with him. I was often included on company emails from him that I had nothing to do with, so I didn’t reply. In September 2016, the friend that sent me the job description the second time around was hired by the company and I found it a bit easier to explain to my management-level peer that I was uncomfortable communicating with DH directly. After the office door incident, I shared with company leadership that I was uncomfortable being in the office at the same time he was, moving forward. We all worked to make my division its own entity, ensuring that the flow of communication for every internal and external client, not just DH, was through the parent company and not through my division directly. I was relieved. But still, DH did everything he could to reach me.
What was difficult to avoid was his presence at conferences, especially the largest convention in our industry, National Association of Pastoral Musicians (NPM), held each summer with thousands of attendees. I had attended as an exhibitor since the Houston convention in 2016. Each year, DH would visit my booth and lean his weight, sweat, and beverage of the moment onto my exhibitor table. I found myself carrying Lysol wipes at each convention and avoiding him at all costs. He became more measured and direct in his presence, often coming behind my booth to sit next to me or to make physical contact. In 2017, I showed up at my booth to open for the day and he was sitting in my booth waiting for me. Year after year, I would strategically position and adjust my table and booth differently so he couldn’t get in. Because of this, he would find other ways to get in contact with me, like intentionally running into me in a hallway or after an event. It became a situation where I would be so traumatized by his presence and his desire to get into contact with me that I would transform into some auto-pilot version of myself for the entire week. Being constantly on guard was beyond exhausting.
A major part of this convention is networking, and there’s a real emphasis on “being on” all of the time. It’s understandable, as it’s our industry’s largest convention of the year. But with “being on” comes lots of makeup, and suits, and heels, and comments from DH about “how pretty” I am and how “grown up” I look. As a woman in her thirties, this was beyond inappropriate. Moments of him just staring at me adoringly, with his stupid hand under his stupid chin. He was looking at me like a parent looks at an adorable baby, making obnoxious and doting faces. Conferences were the high point of my anxiety and networking mixers were the worst moments for me, having to be overly conscious of where I was sitting in a restaurant or standing in a bar, wanting to see all around me at all times. I lived with deep dread that he would approach me without me knowing, especially in a casual and social setting where he could get away with it.
Being away from home and effectively traveling and staying in a hotel room by myself was more triggering than I expected it to be. I used all of my tactics from the October 2009 incident — confirming no one could get access to my room, confirming no one could get a key, requesting that he be named on my account as someone who could be in a position of asking for information on me and not providing it, double locking my door, requesting a room that didn’t have an adjacent suite that someone could reserve and gain access to my room if I mindlessly forgot to lock that door, and on and on. It was exhausting and I was deteriorating. I did these hypervigilant mental gymnastics for four conventions and became a shell of myself by the end of each week.
In July 2017, he emailed me on my personal email address with an URGENT ALL CAPS TIME SENSITIVE REQUEST, even though I had been working at the company for well over a year at this point and told him not to communicate with me personally. He called me on my personal office line randomly, without good reason. Without caller ID, I was caught off guard each time. If I hung up, I was sure he would tell my boss that I was being unprofessional and rude towards him, even though we had set up boundaries around communication. It takes a special person to assume a direct line of access, without any expectation that the rules apply to them.
Three months later, in October, news of Harvey Weinstein broke. Matt Lauer broke. #MeToo was happening. And the revelation wasn’t that men were paying attention… it was that women were paying attention. I was paying attention. I was paying attention to every encounter, every email, every subversive attack on my career. I was replaying every moment in my head. I was paying attention to every moment he tried to manipulate me, play mind games with me, make me feel uncomfortable in a professional environment. He had messed with me as a child, and then as a young adult, and now as a professional. Where was the line? When would this stop?
On October 16, 2017, I posted a status on my personal Facebook page about supporting women and survivors who were coming forward to share their Me Too stories. I shared that “Me Too” applied to me as well, but didn’t over explain. Within hours, David liked my status. I forgot I was Facebook friends with him. When I confronted him on Facebook Messenger about it, he was “confused”, and “didn’t remember.” I told him to “unlike” my status, and if he didn’t unfriend me, I would block his account.
What ensued next was a long series of lies and garbage.
Your “aunt” used the phrase “I want to crawl inside of you”? Cool cool cool. Right. Except that another survivor’s story has the same exact line in it, pal. Thanks for the playbook.
A few months went by.
In January 2018, despite me communicating that he should not be contacting me, I shared with my executive colleague that DH had reached out to me directly about how a logo should appear on his personal website. He wanted to ensure that my company could get “as much exposure as possible” and “lots of support.” Him reaching out was both unnecessary and inappropriate. I hated his consistent implication that the success of the company I was building was dependent on him for “exposure” and “support” when we served almost tens of thousands of accounts globally. I referred all of his questions to my colleagues so they could answer on my behalf, which I sincerely appreciated. When DH followed up yet again about the website, I asked a colleague to reply all to the messages so I didn’t have to.
On February 26, 2018, I replied to a group email from him on my personal account and asked that he stop emailing me. I copied my executive colleague on this email, because I needed support from my friend first, and my colleague second. I was grasping at straws for support, as he consistently reminded me that he existed every few months.
On May 15, 2018, David tried to connect with me on LinkedIn. At this point, it was beyond difficult to do my job effectively. It was as if the moment I got over one of our interactions, he would come right around the corner again, trying to communicate with me. It was turning into harassment, his desire and constant need to connect with me. I rejected his invitation.
On June 6, 2018, he reached out again. On my personal email, again.
Dear reader, this is the email that still shocks me to this day. This is the email that makes clear his patterns of behavior all along.
What he said: “I know that things are broken between us, and this really continues to break my heart.”
What he meant: “I’m reaching out to keep my manipulation game strong. I’m a liar and I’m not going to ever stop lying.”
What he said: “I feel so awful for how I have hurt you, and can only say, again, that it was/is the last thing I would ever intend or want to do.”
What he meant: “I said again. I’m being nice. Why aren’t you paying attention to me?”
What he said: “I will be coming to visit [redacted] next week… So I will be in the building.”
What he meant: “If I announce to you my visit in advance, you can’t claim that you were caught off guard.”
What he said: “I do not want to make things uncomfortable for you, and I most certainly am not asking for a time to talk about any of these troubles, especially in your work environment.”
What he meant: “I am warning you now that things will be very, very uncomfortable for you. I am going to try and corner you, just like last time, in an attempt to create a scene and get you fired. I am going to march right into your office, yet again, and make this a million times worse.”
What he said: “I guess I wanted to give you a heads up that I will be there – I hope that I can at least come by and say Hi, and see how things are going with the job”.
What he meant: “I don’t care about the number of times you’ve told me to stay away from you and stop contacting you. I’m warning you now that I’m coming to your office and you will have to be a good girl and not make a scene.”
What he said: “I do actually, have some [redacted] questions.”
What he meant: “I don’t give a damn about your boundaries or the number of times you’ve asked me to communicate with other colleagues instead of talking directly to you. I want you, and that’s what I’m going to get because I’m David Haas and I can have access to anyone I want.”
What he said: “… but it is inevitable that we will bump into each other.”
What he meant: “There’s nowhere you can run and nowhere you can hide. You won’t be able to get a thing done all day because you’ll be so terrified that you’ll let your guard down to work on something and that’s when I’ll swoop in.”
What he said: “And it may seem awkward if people observe that we are avoiding each other while I am there.”
What he meant: “People fawn over me, it’s their nature. If you aren’t fawning over me, people will assume something is wrong with you. If you don’t fawn over me, it will be very awkward for you when you are fired out of nowhere. Assimilate. Fall in line. Don’t trust your own instincts.”
What he said: “So I guess I am asking about where your boundaries or concerns or thoughts are about this. I want you to be as comfortable as possible, and I want to respect your wishes.”
What he meant: “As previously stated, I don’t give a damn about your boundaries, but I wanted to put it into writing on your personal email so you-can’t-forward-this-to-your-work-colleagues-and-claim-that-I-didn’t-ask-what-your-boundaries-were. Also, I just heard the buzzword “boundaries” for the first time last week and now I think I’m going to use it every chance I get so I look woke and no one “Me-Toos” me.”
He leaves the conversation asking me to be cordial. Asking to make amends. Asking for time to ask for forgiveness to my face. Nine. Years. Later. We’re past forgiveness. And I’m not going to let you corner me into a fake apology in front of my colleagues so you can sleep better at night. Furthermore, can we stop the divisive rhetoric of tone-policing women?
I sent the email to my executive colleague. Her immediate reaction, “STOP. NO. SO ABUSIVE.” I continue to remain grateful for my friend who blurs the line between friend and colleague in a way that provides so much support. She helps me communicate my reply, sent three hours later:
David,
Note that [redacted] and not with [redacted] directly. Any questions you have regarding the service can be answered by [redacted], your company [redacted], or by emailing [redacted] to speak with our customer service team.
I advise you not to contact me again, especially on my personal email, and most especially not in person at any future events or office visits where we may inadvertently cross paths. I will expect this boundary to be adhered to the fullest extent. I will be out of the office during your visit.
Best,
[Redacted]
He does not respond. And I take a few deserved days off while he’s in town.
One month later, at the NPM convention in Baltimore, I entered the exhibit hall to find my booth sharing a back wall with the Emmaus Center, DH’s ministry. It was almost comical, arriving to see that. Even though I was with the industry for years, I felt I had no agency to advocate to myself. Who was I going to talk to? How would I get them to not ask questions? Who could I trust?
I spent the entire week listening to him laugh obnoxiously, play his keyboard as if no other exhibitors were sharing the ballroom, and making it very known to me that he was right behind me, at all times. I was incredibly uncomfortable, but I knew that moving spots would cause more commotion than I wanted. While I am a naturally extroverted person and I love presenting, speaking, empowering, and educating those around me, I really hate too much attention on me, and asking to move my booth would have brought up serious questions that I didn’t have succinct enough answers for. Being quiet, minding my own business, and dealing with the psychological warfare of the week seemed easier than taking up space. Remind me to let my future daughter read my words one day so she knows her worth ahead of time and doesn’t need to make the same mistakes.
Ladies. Move your booth.
Other than the loud ruckus happening behind me, often at a level that I couldn’t hear the customer talking in front of me, DH stayed away from me. He didn’t make eye contact, he didn’t say anything. It felt like he was finally respecting my communication. Sure, we were aware of each other, it was impossible not to be, but he kept his distance.
Until he didn’t.
And my worst fear came true.
Midweek, I was talking with an industry colleague next to my booth, in a wide carpet walkway designed to control the flow of movement through the massive exhibit hall. I remember having a great conversation with this colleague, full of energy and excitement about a new project we were hoping to collaborate on. One minute, I was my extroverted self, and the next, shut down and silent, as David came up behind me, deliberately placed his hand firmly on my lower back, said nothing, and walked away.
I froze.
Time froze.
The room froze.
Selah.
Freeze is now my default instinct from years and years of being so caught off guard by this monster that I have no fight or flight left in me.
I struggled to speak as I quietly excused myself from the conversation with my colleague mid-thought and managed to muster only enough energy to get a few steps back to the chair in my booth. I was numb, every ounce of oxygen pulled from my body. I had worked so hard to avoid him, and there I was, a sitting duck in an open walkway.
How could I let this happen? How could I be so vigilant every other moment except for this one? This was my fault.
I can still feel his hand, two years later. You don’t forget something like that. You don’t forget someone ripping your soul out of your body, especially in a moment of professional collaboration — a moment you know you excel in. You don’t forget someone who you’ve repeatedly stated your boundaries to giving zero fucks about you. You don’t forget someone sexually assaulting you, touching a sensitive area of your body in plain daylight, with no option for you to remain anything but cordial.
I told my executive colleague immediately. She told me to tell my boss and the president of the company. My colleague had been helping me struggle through this as a friend for years. But we were in new territory now, and officially out of our depth.
Later that afternoon, I continued to put on a brave face at my booth, but I was visibly shaken as my boss stopped by for his daily check-in. Conventions are historically busy events, every moment filled with meetings and meals and things way more pressing than a conversation he and I could have the following week back home. But this interaction was different. I couldn’t keep up the brave face anymore. Trying to calm my shaking body, I said:
There’s something I may want to tell you. I haven’t decided yet, and I still need to think through it, but could you make some time for me tomorrow? Perhaps in the morning before everything gets started?
We had a meeting scheduled the very next moment. To his credit, he was attentive to my body language and could tell something was wrong, I’m sure of it. I had dinner with my colleague-friend and we processed everything that happened. She agreed to join my conversation with my boss the next morning as my advocate.
Dear reader, find yourself an advocate.
The next morning, the three of us met in a secluded back hallway of the exhibit hall. The type of corridor where you make deliveries and take out the trash. It was incredibly loud, but private. Private was my only requirement. That, and that the meeting not be in a hotel room.
I started crying immediately. My friend was there. I was terrified. My friend was steady. I apologized. My friend was present. I was vague. My friend was supportive. I was specific. My friend was kind. I was wrecked. I was certain I would lose my job. I told my boss that there was something I had been wanting to share with him for a long time, but I worried about my job and my reputation. That’s where we pause and remind ourselves that this is exactly what the shame of sexual assault does — puts all of the pressure on the victim-survivor and none on the assailant.
I’ve been trying for years to control it on my own, with the help of friends, but it’s reached a point where I can’t control it on my own anymore. I need your help. I don’t feel safe anymore.
He’s not respecting what I told him in person. He’s not respecting what I told him in writing. I don’t want him to lose his livelihood. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I just want him to stay away from me. Why is that so hard?
My boss was immediately sorry to hear I had been dealing with this. And kind. And supportive. And willing to help. He asked if writing DH an email would help.
There needs to be something more than an email that says “Stay away from her. Do not talk to her.” Email hasn’t worked.
I can’t control it anymore. I can control it in the office because I can work from home. But I can’t here. Here, it’s a free-for-all.
My boss said that contacting DH was the least he could do, if I felt comfortable with that. I agreed, and he contacted DH later that day. My boss followed up with me afterwards and said that he made it clear that DH wasn’t to contact me again.
To my boss’s credit, David has never contacted me again.
Selah.
It’s hard to write about what’s happening right now. As of this moment, it’s September 2020 and over 40 people have come forward to Into Account to share their stories of abuse, assault, and manipulation. The story is still very much unfolding, but the National Catholic Reporter and The New York Times have done major stories on him since the news broke in May. Both this week as my story was being released and after the news broke in May, I was contacted by some of DH’s “cronies” who were helping him with damage control. Not only was I named with my identity outed in messages and social media comments implying that I was a liar, but they implied that I was the reason for all of this coming about. As stated earlier in my story, I found out the same way almost everyone did — being forwarded a copy of Into Account’s letter in late May to members of the industry. I had no idea. To put the emphasis on one person’s story does a great disservice to the other 40 something survivors that have come forward. Each has stories of varying depth, and each deserves the space to tell their story and have it heard. I am immensely grateful to the entire Into Account team for their selfless service in support of the truth. For many of us, the validation of our stories and the promise of future change is all the justice we’ll ever receive. Into Account deserves to be supported in spades.
For many of us, the professional retaliation is the largest piece of the puzzle we are navigating, which has demanded our anonymity. The labor of putting these stories together — the research upon research of emails and messages on our own time is utterly exhausting. When I say that writing this narrative was harder than my Master’s Thesis, I mean it. Digging into our physical and emotional archives has been a trying process, and I for one am now seeking rest. Dear reader, we have been carrying the weight of this for years, but especially since May. Now that everything is public, please pick up the mantle for us. Please do the work. And at the very least, please allow survivors time to rest.
For my professional colleagues, I’d like to call you to action. We can do better. We can be better. We can develop codes of conduct and values statements that are specific, measurable, and hold individuals and institutions accountable. We can hold conferences that welcome critical feedback about ways to keep attendees and exhibitors safe. We can be bold and book extra meeting rooms, refusing to hold break out sessions in hotel bedrooms because we all need to feel safe in professional settings. As a professional industry, we can leverage our leadership, influence, and desire for social justice to move forward with clear action. We can listen to our guts and the whispers of others, however uncomfortable it may make us, to reduce the “economy of sexual secrets.” Colleagues, I’m in this fight with you and will proudly serve at your side. We need not wait for any other leader, or any other entity to tell us when to move. Now is a very acceptable time.
On a more personal note, as if this entire piece hasn’t already been deeply personal, I told the NCR reporter and wrote in this three-part narrative about how it became really difficult the last few years to avoid him. It was even more difficult to avoid his music. I think back on all the things I missed out on — friend’s weddings, events, concerts — because there wasn’t a chance I would be found anywhere near him or near people singing his praises. Last year, as a good friend was planning her wedding, I texted her to see if he would be invited. They seemed close and he was often a frequent performer at her parish, in the same diocese he grew up in. That, and he had been invited to other MMA weddings. I’m ashamed I asked my friend that, but the hyper vigilance is always there when someone has been lurking around your life for 19 years. I’ve left text groups, Facebook conversations, ignored friends who reached out when all of this broke, felt triggered when well-meaning friends asked for my address to send me gifts, and on and on as the grief washed over in drowning waves. I feel absolutely awful that these relationships have severed, some having once been my closest confidantes. I have to believe that these friends know my character and now understand the best way they can. I still have an infinite amount of love for my MMA siblings, each and every one of them, and am grateful for the positive moments that forged lifelong friendships and deep connections to our faith. Some I know will find themselves in these words and the collective grief of that is both comforting and heartbreaking. Dear siblings, each and every day, I will lift you up.
My issues with safety and security have been hell for my partner of ten years and now fiancé to live through. From waking up in the middle of the night convinced that the doors weren’t locked, to asking for extra trips to the hardware store because we needed another chain lock for the door, to intentionally searching for homes that only have one point of entry and not two… it’s difficult to live with and I know that. The hotel trauma never goes away. AirBnB rentals are worse because they often have multiple points of entry and electronic locks which don’t allow control of who has access. I change the locks on every new home we move to because I’m convinced some maintenance employee or former owner/renter still has their keys. I just can’t take the risk and I need to be in control of as much as I can because I feel solely responsible for my personal safety. I believe that I manage the best way I can for someone who had all of their safety and security stolen from them time and time again.
In a way, while much of the media attention is appreciated, it’s also still really hard to be a victim-survivor left to pick up the pieces. Especially when many of us are still members of parish music ministries and lead worship as cantors. There are over 40 brave warriors out there now and I urge you to witness their stories. I have the authority of my experience and you have read it in these words. Dear reader, I did not choose anything that happened to me. But it happened, and I have to reconcile that. Part of that reconciliation is sharing these truths with you. The years of panic, anxiety, and hurt are over. We stormed the gates, turned on every light, and now it is time for us to rest. It is time to let our guard down, many of us for the first time in our lives.
I can’t be hurt by this anymore. I can’t be shamed by it.
Some will try. Some have this very week. I can assure you they will not win.
And so, I suppose I am taking my first deep breath in a long time.
And so, Selah.
Thank you for taking the time to read these words. Like I said in the beginning, I hope that this helps you understand my story. I hope it helps paint a picture of how a young, bright, energetic young woman was manipulated, chewed up, and spit out to make sense of her life.
In true Triduum fashion of knowing the end of the story while still needing to work through it, I promised you in the beginning and I’ll remind you now that she did. I did. I did make sense of my life. And I’m a fierce and determined boss of a grown woman running the corner of the world that has been entrusted to me with diligence, integrity, grace, and courage. And while knowing that there are other victim survivors of this man’s abuse, assault, and manipulation brings me no relief, there is comfort in finally knowing that I’m not the only one.
His final words about me, written to my colleagues earlier this year?
“You would have never even HEARD of Brenna Cronin, if not for me.”
You can put that on my gravestone, folks, because there’s no better compliment out there.
Tell the story of the mountains you’ve climbed.
Your words could become a part of someone else’s survival guide.
Morgan Harper Nichols
End of Part 3
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