Becoming What You Can’t Yet See

One of the things I appreciated most about the military was how it threw all kinds of people together into the same big, messy mission. You didn’t get to pick who your bunkmate, colleague, or boss would be. People you might ordinarily shy away from became part of your daily life. And somehow, in that forced proximity and in the shared purpose of something larger than ourselves, we found camaraderie. We learned to give each other grace and work together, even when we were all a little lost in our own ways.

That’s how I met Frank Losi.

Frank could rub people the wrong way at first. He was from the Boston area, and he was loud and opinionated, absolutely unafraid to tell you when you were wrong. He was also one of those people who genuinely enjoyed himself in a loud way, whether he was laughing, telling a story, or giving you a spirited lecture about tactics. Frank was going to be Frank. You either adapted to him or you didn’t, but he was a bulldozer going through life, unapologetic and fully alive.

I appreciated that about him, even if sometimes his spirit was a little too much to fit my mood, especially first thing in the morning before I’d had my espresso. Frank was my bunkmate, so we’d walk to work together each day. He’d be excitedly rattling on about some work detail—enemy tactics, new intel, something he’d read—and there I was, just trying to get my morning fix of caffeine. Over time, he came to understand that those early hours went better for both of us if he gave me a little space to wake up.

Once we got to work, though, it was clear how much he thrived in that environment. We ended up side by side in the counter-IED shop for the Marines at the division level while I was a contractor. Frank loved the job. He loved studying the tactics of the enemy, trying to stay two steps ahead so he could protect Marines. He loved mentoring the younger guys, and he was fiercely proud of what we were doing together.

And Frank loved Diet Coke. On deployment, even soda was rationed—two cans per meal, no more. Frank had this stash of Diet Cokes under his desk that he guarded like they were the last reserve of civilization itself. I swear he never cracked a single can, no matter how hot it got or how long the mess hall ran out. One day I asked him, “Frank, if you won’t drink your precious reserve Diet Cokes now, when the hell will you?” He didn’t miss a beat: “When the base is overrun by the Taliban and I need a Diet Coke!”

That was Frank. Serious about the mission, but never too serious to crack a joke.

But the thing I appreciated most about him wasn’t the humor or the big personality. It was how he believed in me when I didn’t yet believe in myself.

I used to tell Frank about this half-formed dream I had, how when I got home, I wanted to start a deli because I couldn’t stop thinking about the perfect turkey sandwich. It probably sounded ridiculous to most people. Here we were in a war zone, worrying about IEDs and convoy routes, and I was daydreaming about fresh bread and shaved turkey piled high. But Frank never laughed it off. He’d lean back in his chair, look at me thoughtfully, and say, “That’s wonderful, Lou.”

He told me it was going to be difficult, but that I could make it because I had a way through life. He said my personality would bring people in. He always called me a diplomat, someone who explained things in a reasonable, logical way. Frank thought all Italians were hotheads, and he’d joke that I was proving him wrong.

He believed in my idea so much that he insisted my face should be on every piece of marketing. He’d say, “You should call it Lou’s Apple Spice. The Lou-ness is what will make it work.”

It meant something that this wasn’t just anyone telling me I could do it. This was Frank, an O-6 in the Navy, a man who had led teams and accomplished things in the world. He didn’t hand out compliments lightly. So when he said he thought my presence alone could be the foundation of a business, I started to believe that maybe I had some leadership qualities in me after all.

I can’t point to a single moment when it all clicked, but going from imagining something to actually doing it is a fertile time. You’re trying to plant and germinate a seed, and that seed needs water. I had the idea, but I don’t know if it would have materialized without Frank’s belief. I knew I needed a new direction for my life. The turkey sandwich came from my love of food and the feeling that I could build something different, a life where I could be home with my family. Frank’s words gave me the push I needed to make the leap.

And he didn’t disappear when I came home. He was there. He worked as a delivery driver for me when he could find the time. He helped me install a wood floor in my house. He came to hear my jazz band play gigs in DC. He knew my wife and my kids as they grew. Even just a couple of years ago, we stopped by his house on the way to Maine.

That was the thing about Frank. He was loud and unstoppable, but he was also someone who quietly helped people without asking for anything in return. He liked pitching in, liked being useful, almost like he was building a surrogate family wherever he went. Underneath all that noise and confidence was someone who was searching for connection.

The closest thing to magic I’ve witnessed is when someone sees what you could become before you can see it yourself, in that place where possibility, belief, and reality all intersect.

Here’s to you, Frank. Thank you for believing in me when I was still figuring out that life didn’t have to follow someone else’s blueprint. If we measure our lives by the effect we have on other people, your life was a great one indeed.

• How I’m Going to Teach My Kids to Drive — on passing down wisdom, instincts, and belief to the next generation.

• Please Be Kind, Rewind — a nostalgic reflection on youth, friendship, and the importance of holding on to optimism.