Twenty-nine years ago today, I became a CERTIFIED FINANCIAL PLANNER™ professional—but if it hadn’t been for a long night in a hospital five years earlier, it might never have happened.
I still remember that night as if it were yesterday.
After working all day, I took the last flight into town on a Friday evening. My mother was at Crestwood Hospital, fighting—and slowly losing—a brutal battle with cancer. This had become a painful routine. Every few weeks, she would return to the hospital, and I would fly in after work to be with her, eventually falling asleep on the floor of an empty room nearby.
That evening, as usual, I sent my father home to shower, collect the mail, and bring back fresh clothes. I asked my 15-year-old sister to watch over Mom while I tried to get some sleep.
After what seemed like two minutes, my sister woke me to tell me Dad still wasn’t back. I don’t remember my exact choice of vocabulary, but I probably couldn’t repeat it in public anyway.
A few minutes later, my sister returned and poked me awake again. “Byron, Dad’s still not back!” Before she could finish her whining, I threw the little cushion-like thing they call a hospital pillow at her. I don’t even know whether I hit her. I fell asleep in mid-throw.
A hospital telephone has a distinct—and very loud—ring. I knew it was the telephone and not my sister bothering me, but by then I was so disoriented that I turned toward the door, ready to hurl another brotherly insult.
My sister had run into the room when she heard the telephone ring. The voice on the other end was calling from the emergency room downstairs.
They had my father. He had been in a head-on collision.
My heart sank. My sister saw the look on my face and immediately ran toward the emergency room. I raced after her, desperate to shield her from whatever she might find four floors below.
As I ran down those stairs, my fear of losing my mother was suddenly joined by the horrifying possibility of losing both parents at once. My mind filled with questions: Where would my sister finish high school? Would she move to Tampa with me, or would I move home? How would I support her? Had money been set aside for one funeral—or possibly two? What arrangements would my parents have wanted?
By the time I reached the emergency room, breathless and exhausted, my sister had already seen our dad strapped to a board and covered in blood.
He claimed he was okay. He didn’t look okay.
For the next several hours, my sister and I moved between two floors of the hospital, trying to care for both parents without letting Mom know what had happened. After extensive testing, the doctors miraculously allowed Dad to go upstairs to see her. He had several cuts and bruises, but otherwise, he was going to be okay.
I was not. I was shaken to my very core.
My mother had always taught me to look for the good in every situation, but I could find nothing good in this one. When it was over, I found a quiet corner and broke down. I was frightened, angry, and consumed by self-pity.
The next day, we went to retrieve my father’s personal belongings from what was left of his minivan. I still don’t know how he survived.
As I looked around the lot at the other wrecked vehicles—many whose occupants had not survived—something finally became clear.
Many people lose someone they love in an instant, without the opportunity to say goodbye. I realized I had been so consumed by my own pain and self-pity that I was wasting the precious time I still had with my mother.
During her final days, I said my goodbyes. I spoon-fed her when she became too weak to eat, and I was there for her final breath.
That experience changed the course of my life.
I had wanted to work in the investment industry since I was 12 years old, but after college, I pursued the biggest paycheck instead of my passion. That night reminded me that the future is promised to no one. I vowed to stop postponing my dreams and begin pursuing them.
The following year, on June 26, I passed the Series 7 stockbroker examination and joined a large national financial planning firm.
And, 29 years ago today, on July 21, 1997—five years after losing my mother—I became a CERTIFIED FINANCIAL PLANNER™ professional.
This time of year will always be bittersweet. It reminds me of one of the greatest losses of my life, but also of the promise that grew from it.
My mother did not live to see me become a financial advisor, a CFP® professional, or build Studdard Financial. Yet the lessons she taught me—about faith, perseverance, and finding the good in every situation—have guided every step of my journey. Those same lessons continue to shape the work I do for families today.
In 2003, I formed Studdard Financial in Memphis, TN with the goal of using active management to help smooth out the ups and downs of stock market volatility. In 2007, we opened up an office in Sarasota, FL to serve our growing Florida client base. Today, we serve clients from coast to coast – many of which are the kids (and grandkids) of clients that took a chance on a kid over 30 years ago.
As I celebrate 29 years as a CFP® professional, I am filled with gratitude: for my mother’s enduring lessons, for the path that grew from a painful night, and for every family that has trusted me along the way.
Here’s to the next 30 years.
Studdard Family Portrait from Faith Presbyterian Church Directory, 1987
Byron Studdard is the founder of Studdard Financial, a fee-only registered investment adviser that operates under a fiduciary standard. For more than thirty years, he has provided personalized investment advice, long-term wealth-building strategies, retirement planning guidance, and intergenerational wealth-transfer support to clients seeking disciplined, trustworthy financial oversight. His writing has been featured on the websites of ABC News, Good Morning America, and Yahoo. He can be reached at Byron@StuddardFinancial.com.