I first came into this business with determination and ambition — but little clarity and even less direction. The industry had its doors open to many who could do the math, didn’t have a shadow in their past, and could pass the licensing exams. What it lacked was personal guidance. The kind of hands-on mentorship that separates those who drift from those who thrive.
For two years I floundered while learning products, chasing leads, and trying every tip and trick thrown my way. My income shrank to a third of what I’d once made. I had burned the boats. Failure was not an option. But success felt distant and elusive.
Then one afternoon, without fanfare, John Broderick called me into his office. He wasn’t my manager; in fact, we barely knew one another. But he had been watching. He noticed the grinder in the back, running uphill through mud but stuck in place. He asked simply: What are you doing daily? What are your habits? What numbers matter? Who are you trying to serve?
For forty minutes he listened. He questioned. He cut through the noise I was chasing, the weekly sales tips, the management memos, the wholesalers’ latest “strategic plays.” He handed me blinders: focus on what’s in your control, decide what to learn and what to delegate, clarify your tasks and your role in delivering value. He asked me to come back in one week and report what changed.
Week after week, I did. John was consistently present: encouraging, honest, direct, impatient with nonsense yet generous with direction. “Here’s what I'd do,” he would say. And though he had no obligation, no stake in my path, he offered me what he had: time, insight, and conviction. He introduced me to Strategic Coach and Dan Sullivan’s frameworks. He convinced me LEAP licensing was worth the investment. He became my MDRT coach, granting me access to tapes, presentations, and a lineage of professional excellence.
Over time, mentorship became friendship. Our conversations expanded from business to family, from strategy to life. John taught me that weekends filled with laughter, music, and smiles weren’t distractions but rather fuel to be sharp when the lights came on again. I would still check in; he would still say, “Adam, you got this,” or “You nailed it.” That affirmation was gold.
When John left our shared firm, I followed on a different path. But we never drifted. We grabbed dinners, caught concerts, went to games, and traded stories. He became the big brother I never had. Our calls were spontaneous, sometimes months apart, but always catching up as if no time had passed. Usually, it was John checking on me. He’d light up my day.
He let me in when he was sick, but in classic John style, he downplayed it. He smiled. He kept his schedule. He traveled. He played golf. He kept shining.
On that final New Jersey visit this past July, I remember the cadence of our time together: late nights filled with laughter, golf in the morning, conversations about music (yes, Miley Cyrus rock covers were a delight), parenting, legacy. We were two dads, two dorks, comfortable and alive in each other’s presence. When I walked beside him, I felt honored.
Then on October 4th, as Diane and I boarded our river cruise to mark our 30th wedding anniversary, Diane received a text from Laurie, John’s wife, asking us to call her. In that moment, Diane knew. I thought she was being dramatic.
John had passed. And in that very moment, the mentor became absent. The big brother became a memory. The laughter became an echo.
Laurie told me how much John valued our bond, how he cherished our talks, our growth, our stories. I told her that if not for John’s push, his guidance, and his blinders, we would never have been on that river in France, celebrating 30 years. Because he let me see, believe, and act differently.
I’ll miss how he laughed. I’ll miss how he called me “Big Irish” after a sandwich I devoured. I’ll miss his Teddy Ruxpin smile, his strategies, and his friendship. I’ll carry forward the lessons he gave, that our industry is sacred because we serve dreams, help people focus, and help them build lives. And such service depends on mentors passing the baton, not just of knowledge, but of care, time, example, and conviction.
John, thank you. For entering my life. For challenging me. For being more than a mentor. For being my brother and my friend. Because of you, I’m a more honest advisor, a more grounded father, a more intentional husband. You may be gone from sight, but never from heart.
I love you. I miss you. And I will never forget.