This is not a highlight reel.
It's a real story about what happens when life doesn't go according to plan - and what's possible when you choose your response anyway.
Four Words
It was Thursday, March 7, 2024. Abnormally cold that morning. My appointment was at 7:45 a.m.
Christine and I got there early. We sat in the car, held hands, and prayed. I'd already researched my symptoms - Dr. Google had given me a long list of what it could be, including Parkinson's and ALS.
I was nervous. I was scared. But I was also, strangely, at peace.
In the appointment, my neurologist looked at me. Then at Christine. Then back at me.
Then he said four words.
"You have Parkinson's Disease".
I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel dread or despair. I felt peace. Perfect peace.
I looked at Christine and told her: it's going to be okay. Now we know what we're up against.
Afterwards, we went back to the car. We held hands again. We prayed again. Christine cried. I didn't - not because I was stronger, but because I'd already made my peace before I walked through that door. The prayer in the parking lot wasn't ritual. It was preparation.
We sat with it together, just the two of us, before we told anyone else. And then we opened the doors wide. I shared my diagnosis with friends, family, and church members. I've been transparent about it on social media ever since.
Because this is part of the journey. And the journey is better when you don't walk it alone.
"For I know the plans I have for you — plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." — Jeremiah 29:11
This verse was sung at our wedding in 1998. We didn't choose it because life was easy. We chose it because we believed it when it wasn't.
The Fire and the Forgiveness
Before the diagnosis, there were two career chapters that tested everything I thought I knew about loyalty, resilience, and what it means to respond instead of react.
The Firing - September 2022
I was an Executive Director at a company I loved, working toward a Market President promotion I'd earned in every way that mattered. I poured myself into my team. I coached and mentored my direct report - went to bat for her, helped her earn a promotion she deserved.
She got the promotion. I didn't.
What followed was a slow unraveling. I was gaslighted by leadership. I lost sleep. I made the mistake of being honest - baring my soul to a boss who used my vulnerability against me. When I asked her for help finding another role within the company, she said a few words of her own:
"We need to talk about your exit strategy"
When I got my termination letter and the first sentence read "We have decided to end your employment", I was devastated.
At my going-away Zoom, a peer told me something I've never forgotten:
"If I didn't know what was happening, I would have thought the team was celebrating you being promoted."
I fought to stay at an organization I loved, but after several months of carrying a burden that needed to be left behind, I was done. I was spent emotionally and physically, and I knew it wast truly time to move on.
Three years later, our pastor preached a sermon about forgiveness. I felt compelled - even though I'd done nothing wrong - to reach out to my former boss. I asked for forgiveness. I got no response at all.
That told me everything I needed to know. That chapter is now fully closed.
The Layoff - Christmas 2024
Ironically, the next company hired me as a Market President - the exact title I'd been denied before.
I was good at it. Actually, I was great at it.
My boss was younger than me, and we learned from each other. I grew.
Then came the rounds of layoffs. I survived two of them, took on more territories and responsibilities with grace.
And then, right around Christmas, I got a calendar invite for a 15-minute call with my boss. No topic. No agenda.
I knew what was coming. I called some colleagues who'd already been through it to confirm my suspicions. And then I waited.
I didn't panic. I didn't do anything rash. I didn't react.
I responded
When my boss delivered the news, he told me this was one of the hardest calls he'd ever had to make - because he knew about my Parkinson's diagnosis, and he knew the value I added. This wasn't about my performance. It was a numbers problem.
I accepted it with grace, because I knew God had bigger plans for me.
My boss called me afterward and said: "Of all the times I've had to have that conversation, you handled it differently than anyone."
I knew why. I'd been practicing this my whole life.
The Lottery Room
Christine had always wanted to be a mom. Medically, biologically, that path wasn't available to us. So we chose another one.
We partnered with the Children of the World adoption agency in Fairhope, Alabama - a remarkable organization that placed children from China and Russia. Before we left for China, we attended a picnic with other adoptive families. There were little Asian girls running everywhere, laughing, playing - and calling men who looked a lot like me in their twenties and thirties "Daddy."
I remember thinking: that's just weird. I couldn't comprehend it.
In China, after going through the legal adoption process with government officials, we were taken to what was described to us as a lottery building - literally a place where people received winnings from lottery drawings. We felt like we'd won the most wonderful lottery of all that day.
The orphanage workers from a remote province in China, who had taken a seven hour train ride to the lottery building, brought the babies in one by one.
I held the video camera. Because I knew - this moment belonged to Christine. Christine the mom.
The look in her eyes when she first saw Olivia is something I will carry for the rest of my life. Pure joy. The kind of joy that doesn't need words.
Olivia, for her part, wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. She'd been surrounded by women at the orphanage. A man with a camera was not what she had in mind. She clung to Christine and tolerated my existence from a safe distance.
Then came one exhausted night, weeks later, back home. Christine had been carrying everything - every feeding, every comfort, every moment of care. She was worn out. I told her: go rest. I've got her.
I took Olivia to another room. She fought. She cried. She fussed.
And I just held her. I looked in her eyes. I talked to her. I was simply there.
And then, quietly, she stopped fighting. She settled into my arms.
In that moment, I understood every single one of those daddies at the picnic in Fairhope. I understood why those little girls called those men daddy. Because now I was one of them.
Olivia is now finishing her junior year of college. And when she looks at me during a hard moment and asks, "Daddy, are you reacting or responding right now?"- I know that every chapter of this journey was worth it.
This Is For You
I've run 18 races - marathons and half marathons - carrying the flag for fallen service members through an organization called Flags for Fallen.
They assign you a person. Sometimes there's contact information. Sometimes there isn't. But I always find the family. I learn their story. I connect with them on Facebook, on the phone, however I can. And then I print their photo, laminate it with their name and the facts of their service, and I put it on my back when I run.
So everyone on the course knows who I'm carrying. So the name is visible. So the person is not forgotten.
After the race, I mail the family my medal and a handwritten letter. Every time.
Some of the ones that stay with me:
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My first race carrying the flag. An Army soldier whose mother met me at the finish line. I gave her the flag and the medal in person. She held them like they were sacred - because they were.
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A Marine killed in a motorcycle accident, whose wife had been written off by his own family. My medal and letter meant everything to her, because almost nothing else did.
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A little girl killed in a school shooting. I connected with her parents. I carried her name. I ran every mile thinking about what she never got to live.
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A female Navy fighter pilot - an Annapolis graduate - whose story resonated with me deeply. Her family let me honor her, and her legacy and service lives on. The family has formed a nonprofit to benefit women in leadership.
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A Blue Angel pilot whose jet malfunctioned during a show. Rather than crash into the crowd, he steered it away and gave his life to save others. I carried that flag with everything I had.
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Sgt. Shawn M. Dunkin. A soldier. A hero. A man who gave everything to protect othersI’m still connected with his mother. I still show up for her.
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A decorated Marine who served multiple combat tours in the Middle East, and returned stateside as a recruiter. He continued to build up the Marine Corps while silenty coming apart on the inside. He took his own life, and because of that one act, his family is not given some of the honors and courtesies they deserve. I am still connected to his mother as well, who advocates for mental health and suicide awareness and policy changes.
When I'm close to a finish line - maybe hurting, maybe struggling, maybe not sure I have anything left - that's when I pray. For the family. For the people who loved this person. For the contribution this life made.
And when I cross that line, I hold the flag as high as it will go. I smile through whatever is happening in my body. And I say my own four words out loud:
"This is for you"
That moment is not mine. It never was.
The Second Act
I want to be honest with you about what building a second act actually feels like, because too many people make it sound easier than it is.
It feels like fear. It feels like uncertainty. There's no W2, no employer benefits, no guaranteed paycheck. There are mornings when I wake up and don't know exactly where the next dollar is coming from.
And it also feels like trust. Like hope. Like potential. Like purpose lived out loud instead of managed from a distance.
It feels like I am finally being who I was created to be.
I've built my second act on a principle from a book called The Go-Giver by Bob Burg and John David Mann - The Law of Compensation: "Your income is determined by how many people you serve and how well you serve them".
So I keep serving. I keep showing up. I keep carrying people across finish lines, coaching authors through their first books, standing on stages telling the truth about what resilience actually looks like.
And I trust that the income will catch up to the calling.
E + R = O
The Event plus your Response equals the Outcome. You may not be able to change what happens to you. But you always get to choose what you do next.
That's not a formula I invented. It's a formula I lived.
Through the diagnosis, the firing, the betrayal, the layoff, the surgeries, the finish lines, and every ordinary Tuesday morning when the fear shows up and I choose trust anyway.
I
t's all part of the journey. Every single chapter.
And the best ones are still being written.
The Short Version
BIO:
Michael C. Jones, MBA is a keynote speaker, podcast host, author, and book coach.
Diagnosed with young onset Parkinson's Disease at 52, Michael is a living example of his core message: E + R = O. The Event (E) plus your Response (R) equals the Outcome (O).
He has run 18 marathons and half marathons carrying the flag for fallen service members, adopted his beautiful daughter from China, and built a second act rooted in purpose, faith, and the belief that every chapter - even the painful ones - is part of the journey.
He lives with his wife Christine in Helena, Alabama and speaks nationally on resilience, second acts, and what it means to respond instead of react.
KEY FACTS
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Diagnosed with young onset Parkinson's Disease, March 2024
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Deep brain stimulation surgery, November 2025 - and still running
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18 races run for Flags for Fallen - honoring the names of our heroes
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Married to Christine for 28 years
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Father of Olivia, adopted from China, now almost 21
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M.B.A. received in 2001 - credentialed, corporate-experienced, business-minded
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Goal: Marine Corps Marathon, October 2027 - with the flag
Ready to take the next step?
If you want Michael to speak to your organization
If you are ready to write your own book
If you just need to know someone else has been through the fire, and learn their story
Until we meet again, remember......
"It's all part of the journey"
- Michael