There is no tomorrow

For some reason, in either 8th or 9th grade, my social science teacher—Dr. Donna St. George—saw something in me. She believed I had the potential to be part of the Academic Decathlon team.

Academic Decathlon is exactly what it sounds like: ten academic events instead of ten athletic ones. You compete as a team, covering ten subjects, and your cumulative scores determine placement. Placement also determines whether you’re on the freshman, JV, or varsity team. In simple terms, selection is based on potential and performance—how well you think, score, and execute.

I don’t know exactly what she saw—curiosity, test scores, instincts—but she thought it would be in my best interest to try out. I did. I made the JV team. I believe I competed for two years.

The structure was rigorous: multiple tests across disciplines, all contributing to a final team score. One event, in particular, left a permanent mark on me. It was called Speech.

You had to write your own speech and deliver it in front of judges. You were evaluated on topic selection, creativity, and delivery. When I was on JV, I wrote a speech centered on Humpty Dumpty—specifically, the riddle behind the riddle: did he really fall, or was he pushed?

I delivered that speech and took first place.

Academic Decathlon did more than add academic rigor beyond homework and tests. It taught me how to think. That may sound obvious, but it isn’t. Studying across disciplines, preparing arguments, writing and delivering ideas—it fundamentally shifted my relationship with learning. It sparked a hunger. A genuine appetite for knowledge.

That appetite never left.

I preface this story because I never forgot who Donna St. George was to me. Nearly twenty years later, I still remembered her impact. She always called me Mr. Alce. Her teaching style was illustrative, almost theatrical. You could see the joy in it. The enthusiasm was real.

She exposed me to Academic Decathlon, to AP classes, and—more importantly—to curiosity itself. That curiosity still drives me today.

About two months ago, I was back in Redlands visiting my parents. I drove past my old high school and thought, I wonder where she’s at. I looked her up and saw she had retired. That felt right. She always talked about going on cruises. In my mind, she was traveling, exploring, enjoying life with another teacher friend she often mentioned.

Today, for no particular reason, she crossed my mind again. I looked her up, expecting nothing more than a quick update.

The first thing I saw was “In Memory Of.”

She had passed away—about two months ago. She must have been in her 60s.

It hit me harder than I expected. In my mind, she was still there. The memory was alive. And suddenly, she wasn’t.

It brought back an old truth we like to quote but rarely internalize: there is no tomorrow. You don’t know how much time anyone has. I don’t know what caused her passing. I don’t know if there were health issues. I only know that the assumption of time is a dangerous comfort.

In business, you live inside a constant tension.

On one side, you must think long-term. You build visions larger than yourself—visions that require time, patience, and belief. These long arcs pull abilities out of people that would otherwise stay dormant under small, uninspiring goals.

On the other side, you must live each day with finality. You execute as if there is no tomorrow. That sense of urgency—of now—is what allows you to stack days of disciplined effort into something meaningful.

If you’re fortunate enough, that combination produces something beautiful: a business, a culture, an institution shaped by sustained daily execution in service of a long-term vision.

Her passing drove that lesson home with force.

You project forward. You build with scale and longevity in mind. But you execute today as if tomorrow does not exist. Not next year. Not twenty years. Just today.

That balance—urgency paired with vision—is the only way this delicate dance works. Get it right, and you may build something strong enough to outlive you.

I pray her family is doing as well as they can in their loss.

What I carry forward from her life is a legacy of curiosity. A love of learning. A genuine excitement for ideas. I still read constantly. I still chase understanding.

And I would encourage others to do the same.

Carry an urgent, almost aggressive desire to learn and execute—as if tomorrow never existed. At the same time, paint a vision so large it feels unreachable, something that takes a lifetime to pursue.

If you can balance those two forces, you don’t just build a business. You build a life. And if you do it right—if you bring the right people along—someone else can carry the vision forward.

That, ultimately, is the point.