It all started in Hawaii.

We were there for something called The Beautiful Life Summit. A process our dear friend Mona Stuart created. Equal parts reflection, conversation, and soul-searching, it was a slow unfolding. A soft invitation to ask, What do I want this next chapter to feel like?

And it was there, somewhere between big waves and even bigger questions, that my wife Jodi said it:

“I think I do want a party to celebrate 60.”

Now, you have to understand. For years, she insisted she didn’t want one. Said it wasn’t her thing. Too much fuss. But something shifted in the stillness of those days. And when she said it, there was nothing wishy-washy about it. She was crystal clear. There would be a party. 

For years, she insisted she didn’t want one. Said it wasn’t her thing. Too much fuss.

Then life did what life often does. It threw us a curveball.

An unexpected health scare. Emergency surgery. Fear and fragility sitting right at our table. For a moment we thought, Maybe we cancel. Maybe we wait.

But the party wasn’t a flippant idea. It had come from deep within. From the marrow of honest inquiry. From those beautiful, sacred questions. It had come from her.

So we doubled down on our Yes. And we got to work.

We called it The Bright Side of 60 — a nod to Jodi’s radiant optimism and her gift for turning any moment into a reason to dance. Which, fittingly, is exactly how the night began. 

Thirty of her dearest friends. A beautiful barn. And an opening number inspired by the Netflix series The Perfect Couple.

We made it a girl’s night. Thirty of her dearest friends. A beautiful barn. And an opening number inspired by the Netflix series The Perfect Couple. If you’ve seen it, you’ll remember the wedding scene. We hired a choreographer to teach it. Thirty women—some dancers, some not—kicked off the night in full performance mode. Imagine laughter, commitment, and more TikTok material than the internet could handle.

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The kids and I catered it. We lit it right. We planned it with intention. And when the tributes to Jodi began, the barn lit up with joy and laughter.

Our three daughters opened the floor with an ode to their mother. Girl power. Hilarious memories. They made it clear the only men in attendance were there to serve. Literally.

Next, a childhood friend offered up tales from the early years, each one funnier than the last. Then came the Bridesmaids-inspired toast showdown—a theatrical, over-the-top tribute that had us howling. Another group staged a full-on awards ceremony, handing Jodi every honour imaginable—from “Ms. Indecision” to “Queen of (Retail) Returns,” capped off with the deeply accurate “Most Likely to Make You Feel Seen.”

Even our sons-in-law briefly invaded the barn and had everyone raise a tequila shot in her honour.

We ended the formal program with a handful of heartfelt toasts—our daughters again, our sister-in-law, and me. And then? The dance floor opened. And the balloons came out.

These were no ordinary balloons. They were six-foot balloons. Massive, ridiculous orbs of joy. They were meant as décor. Accent pieces. But as the night wore on, they turned into props in a dance-floor dodgeball game, flung through the air with glee. At one point, someone flipped over one like a human cartwheel. A full somersault of celebration.

It was play in its purest form.

It was outrageous.
It was glorious.
It was play in its purest form.

And more than anything, it was a testament. To friendship. To joy. To making space for laughter right in the middle of life’s unpredictability.

Because sometimes when life throws you a curveball, the best and most sacred thing you can do is gather your people, turn up the music, and hurl a giant balloon across a barn while screaming with laughter.

Happy 60th, Jodi.
You lit up the whole barn.
And all of us with it.