50 missed calls.
The morning that changed how I think about planning.

I felt my heart drop into my toes.

It was 2016. My son was a newly minted one-year-old and a terrible sleeper. The only thing that helped was music in his room — not any music, only Tracy Chapman's New Beginning, released in 1995. My phone lived under his crib every night, playing on a loop.

It was a typical September morning in Texas. Quiet. The sun just rising. Already hot. I picked up my phone and began scrolling through the missed calls, heart racing, sweating.

My brother. My sister. My brother. My sister. My stepmom. My sister. My brother. Hours old.

“Something is wrong,” I shouted to my husband. “I have 50 missed calls from my brother and sister!” He tried to calm me as I sat on the step and called them back. Voicemail. More voicemail. Panic with each unanswered call. Finally, a very groggy “hey Nick” from my sister. “What is going on?” I about shouted. Very tenderly, she said, “Dad died last night.”

What came next is a blur. Sobbing. Planning. Packing. Dad lived in California. I lived in Southlake, Texas. I remember people staring at me in the airport as I carried my one-year-old, sobbing uncontrollably — sadness, shock, disbelief, confusion. My husband in GO mode: “Get us to the plane. End goal. Just get us to the plane,” he muttered with each step.

Dad had suffered a massive heart attack. The kind that takes you in an instant. He and my stepmom had done some planning — but everything was built around her dying first. She'd been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer. It was pragmatic. Rational. And now, everything was backwards.

So many missing pieces. Guessing passwords. Searching. Scrambling for any scrap of paper, any clue. The word probate haunting each of us. Through the fog, we pieced together enough to lead to the next clue, then the next, and the next. Grief — not for the faint of heart — would have to wait.

A decade later, these scenes still play through my mind like a movie reel. I still feel the impact as if it were yesterday.

This is why I built Die Like A Pro.

My dad was Type A. He hiked the highest mountains, skied the steepest slopes, was a scratch golfer, rode his bicycle from Oregon to Virginia — twice — simply because he could. He would have wanted his death to have a plan. A good one. A plan amongst plans.

Don't shy away from death. It will happen to all of us at some point. Give your family the gift of clarity, not chaos. Do it right.

What I actually built

Die Like A Pro isn't a will-writing app. There are plenty of those, and they cost $199 to $599 a year. What our family needed when my dad passed wasn't another will — it was a map. Where were the passwords? Who had power of attorney? Which accounts existed? Who needed to be called?

So I built the map I wish we'd had. 10 guided steps. The exact tools you need, in the right order. Named people for each job. One-time payment. Lifetime access.

The 10 steps cover:

• Legal documents (will, trust, POA, healthcare directive)
• Password vault everyone in your family can actually access
• Apple and Google legacy contacts — set in 5 minutes
• Executor playbook: what they do, when, and in what order
• Document storage so nothing lives in a drawer nobody knows about
• Crypto inheritance (most plans completely miss this)
• Final wishes, letters, and an annual review template

See the full 10-step plan — it's laid out on the next page, and a one-time $47 unlocks your dashboard.

If you've been meaning to get this done but the size of it keeps you from starting — this is the shortest path I know. It's the plan my dad should've had. It's the plan I built for my own family. And it's the one I wish I could hand to everyone I love.