If you'd asked me at 18 what my life would look like today, I'm pretty sure I would've gotten most of it wrong.

There have been successes I'm proud of, failures that taught me more than I wanted to learn, opportunities I never expected, and more than a few changes of direction.

But somehow a kid born in Wyoming and raised in East Texas ended up building a pretty good life in Oklahoma.

Here's how I got here.

I was born in Gillette, Wyoming, in 1978. My parents were both from East Texas, but the oil and gas industry had taken them north.

After my parents divorced when I was young, my mom moved my sister and me back to Kilgore, Texas. I went to school in Kilgore and spent my summers with Dad in Wyoming.

In a lot of ways, I grew up in both places.

My mom is one of those people everybody loves. She's a sweetheart, has a great laugh, and has never met much of a stranger.

Dad was different. He was tougher and expected more from us.

One Christmas, my grandmother — whom we called "TooHoney" — gave me a subscription to Sports Illustrated. I mostly wanted it for the football phone that came with the subscription.

Dad had other plans.

He made me read three articles from every issue and then quizzed me about them.

I hated it.

Looking back, he taught me how to read something, understand it and actually retain the information. Funny how some of the things you hate as a kid become things you're grateful for later.

Summers in Wyoming meant baseball and helping Dad on the oil leases. Some of my favorite memories are simply riding around in his truck while he checked wells. Dad would drink iced tea all day from a gallon jug, and I'd occasionally take a swig because somehow drinking out of Dad's tea jug made me feel like a grown man.

I can still smell that jug.

Baseball connected my two worlds. I'd play in Kilgore until it was time to leave for Wyoming, sometimes having to leave before the season was finished, and then pick up another season in Gillette.

When I was 12, my Gillette All-Star team came within one game of reaching the Little League World Series.

We lost.

I'm apparently still not completely over it.

I graduated from Kilgore High School in 1997.

I lettered in baseball as a catcher, played pickup football with friends on Sundays, spent as much time outdoors as I could, and worked throughout high school sacking groceries at Brookshire's for the princely sum of $4.50 an hour.

I loved that job.

I learned how to work, how to talk to people, how to properly mop a grocery-store aisle — an underrated life skill — and spent a completely reasonable amount of time flirting with the cashiers.

I graduated as a GLOBE Scholar after taking advanced coursework and enrolled at Kilgore College.

College lasted one semester.

I was perfectly capable of doing the work. I just wasn't particularly interested in doing it. At that age, partying and being young sounded considerably more appealing.

What I probably needed was some structure.

So I enlisted in the Air Force.

Growing up on 1980s movies, I'd originally entertained visions of joining the Navy and becoming a SEAL. Reality — and a better Air Force signing bonus — eventually prevailed.

I never got the chance.

In the spring of 1998, I'd bought an FZR 600 motorcycle. On November 18, a car hit me. The footpeg went through my knee behind the kneecap, requiring surgery, and I had significant road rash on my shoulder.

I was fortunate to make a full recovery.

But the Air Force plan was gone.

It was the first of several times I'd learn that life doesn't particularly care about your plans.

By 2001, I needed a change.

A buddy and I were watching a television show one night about salmon fishing in Alaska and the money people could make doing it.

We may have had a few drinks.

By the end of the evening, we had developed what seemed like an entirely reasonable life plan:

We were moving to Alaska.

I packed essentially everything I owned into two boxes and a duffel bag, threw it in my buddy's truck, and we headed north.

There was just one small problem.

Salmon season was nearly a year away.

He had family in Ada, Oklahoma, so we'd stay there temporarily, make some money and save for Alaska.

Ada was a college town.

Within days we'd made friends, discovered the local social scene and both eventually ended up in relationships.

We never made it to Alaska.

I stayed in Ada for several years.

Sometimes the road to where you're supposed to be doesn't look anything like you expected.

Mine apparently ran through Ada.

I worked just about every restaurant job there was — bartender, waiter, bouncer and eventually restaurant manager.

In December 2005, I moved to Oklahoma City for a management position with Ted's Café Escondido. I slept on a buddy's couch for a couple months until another friend and I got an apartment.

Then the phone rang one day at Ted's.

I was one of the managers on the floor. A woman I'd never met called, asked who I was, and before I could really answer informed me that she wasn't coming to work.

She then proceeded to explain exactly how I should rearrange the staff to cover her absence.

And hung up.

The general manager saw the look on my face and asked who had called.

"Natalie."

He smiled.

"Oh, you're gonna like Natalie."

He was right.

We worked together for several months. I loved her no-nonsense personality, her work ethic — when she actually showed up for work — her smile and those blue eyes.

We flirted, but kept things professional until an event outside of work finally brought us together.

Before the night was over, I knew I had to kiss her.

We started dating in November 2006 and became pretty much inseparable.

I fell in love not only with Natalie, but also with her two daughters, Dakota and Lily. Within a year, we were living together.

Just like that, the self-proclaimed "most eligible bachelor in Oklahoma City" was living the dad life.

And I wouldn't change it.

Dakota grew up to play college soccer and eventually graduated from the University of Oklahoma. Our little ballerina Lily grew up to cheer in college and become a member of the Oklahoma City Thunder dance team.

Then Levi came along in 2011.

Somehow he's already 15 and nearly as tall as I am. These days, one of my favorite things is hitting the gym with him after school.

Natalie and the kids have aggravated me occasionally and worried me constantly.

They're also, without question, what I'm most proud of.

Becoming a father also changed how I looked at work.

Restaurant management meant nights, weekends and long hours away from home. After Levi was born, I wanted something different.

In 2011, I left restaurants and went into banking with Chase. I became a licensed banker and eventually a Relationship Manager.

It was a good opportunity.

I hated sitting in an office for eight hours.

Then, in 2014, I met a sales manager from Thermal Windows.

He asked what I thought about selling windows for people's homes.

My actual response was:

"Don't windows come with houses?"

He laughed and invited me to come learn more.

The next month I was selling windows.

And something clicked.

In-home sales isn't for everybody.

I've watched people who were rock stars in training completely crumble when they actually sat down at someone's kitchen table.

For me, it felt natural.

Restaurants had taught me something I didn't fully appreciate at the time:

I genuinely like people.

I liked walking into someone's home and noticing the pictures on the wall. I'd ask about their kids. Their hobbies. How a couple met. I'd hear stories about births, marriages, careers, illnesses and deaths.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't particularly good at sales because I was "salesy."

I was good because I was curious.

I've now sat at thousands of kitchen tables and been welcomed into thousands of homes.

I've shared coffee, tea and water with people of different races, religions, political beliefs, backgrounds, lifestyles and sexual identities.

And after all those conversations, I've come to believe something pretty strongly:

We're constantly being reminded of what divides us.

But when you actually sit across the table from people, you discover that most of us want remarkably similar things.

We want our families to be okay.

We worry about our kids.

We want to feel safe.

We want enough money to live.

We want to be loved.

We want to be happy.

There are far more similarities between us than differences.

You learn things like that after enough cups of coffee with strangers.

My career eventually took me from selling into entrepreneurship and leadership.

While at Thermal, I had the opportunity to operate my own window-covering business selling shutters, blinds and shades. What began as a complementary business grew enough that I eventually left Thermal to run it.

In 2017, another unexpected opportunity took me to The Journal Record, where I ran its Legislative Report division. During Oklahoma's legislative session, I led a team of roughly 20 people responsible for legislative tracking, a dedicated website and a podcast.

Then on August 20, 2019, corporate leadership walked in and shut the entire department down.

By 9:00 that morning, I was unemployed.

Fortunately, I was paid through the end of the year.

Unfortunately, my other business was also winding down following changes with its parent company.

Within a matter of months, two income streams disappeared.

So I went back to what I knew.

Windows.

I joined Champion, and that's where I went from being a good salesperson to becoming a top producer.

For the first time, I received real sales training — not just product knowledge or compliance training. I learned how to lead a conversation, discover what mattered to a customer, address objections and become more intentional about a craft I'd largely learned through instinct.

Then COVID hit.

Home improvement exploded.

2020 and 2021 are something of a blur.

At least the money was good.

In March 2023, I joined Pella of Oklahoma as a sales manager.

I'd been looking for an opportunity to move into leadership, but I wasn't willing to relocate my family to chase a promotion.

Pella arrived at exactly the right time.

I went from personally producing roughly $3 million per year to leading a team responsible for about $10 million.

During my first year, I worked on processes, accountability and training. Sales increased approximately 20% while the size of the sales team decreased significantly.

In June 2024, I moved into new-construction sales leadership. My team roughly tripled in size, and I became responsible for roughly $20 million in annual sales.

It introduced me to an entirely different side of selling.

Consumer sales can be transactional. Builder and trade relationships are built over months and years.

Fortunately, the thing I'd always enjoyed most about sales was never really the transaction.

It was the people.

I loved my time at Pella of Oklahoma.

I honestly thought I'd retire there.

I didn't.

Changes in ownership, leadership and direction eventually brought that chapter to an end in 2026.

It felt a little like getting broken up with out of nowhere.

I was heartbroken. And, yes, a little embarrassed.

But I'm grateful for my time there and for what it taught me — both about things I want to do and a few things I don't.

Sometimes another door opens.

Sometimes you have to build the damn door yourself.

I'd always wanted to work for myself again.

So I decided it was time.

BK Exteriors grew from everything I'd learned during more than a decade in the window and home-improvement industry, including the final program I helped develop at Pella.

The name itself is a little inside joke that's followed me most of my life.

If you grew up in the '80s, you probably remember the Nike commercials:

Bo Knows.

When your name is Bo, people have been making some version of that joke your entire life.

Bo knows this.

Bo knows that.

Bo knows diddly.

Turns out, there are two things I actually do know pretty well:

Windows and sales.

So BK Exteriors — Bo Knows Exteriors — seemed appropriate.

Today, I'm building BKE around three words:

My vision is bigger than selling some windows.

I believe BKE can become a trusted regional home-services company — one that treats homeowners well, takes care of its people, develops future leaders and eventually doesn't need me involved in every transaction.

I want to build something that lasts.

Something my family can be proud of.

Something I can leave behind.

And something that shows my son what's possible when you're willing to dig in and build it.

Business has never been the only thing that's mattered to me.

After Natalie and I bought our home in Warr Acres in 2014, it didn't take me long to end up on the neighborhood HOA board.

There I met a couple of neighbors who happened to be the mayor and a city councilman.

The next year, somehow, I was sitting on the Warr Acres City Council myself.

I ultimately served three terms.

I loved it.

I learned about municipal budgets, city departments and the people who quietly keep a community running every day. I rode along with our police and fire departments and developed enormous respect for people who don't get nearly enough credit for what they do.

I also received plenty of phone calls about trash cans that didn't get picked up.

Public service isn't always glamorous.

In 2016, I learned during filing week that our state representative wasn't seeking reelection.

On a whim, I filed.

I got crushed in the primary.

Turns out state politics requires slightly more preparation and money than deciding to run a few days beforehand.

But I'm glad I did it.

I learned an enormous amount about Oklahoma government, and that experience became unexpectedly useful when I joined the Journal Record Legislative Report the following year.

I've continued to be drawn toward community organizations and service throughout my adult life.

I like being part of something bigger than myself.

I like helping.

And I like believing that, in some small way, we can leave things a little better than we found them.

Maybe I'll serve again someday.

In 2026, I was honored to be recognized as a Marquis Who's Who Honored Listee.

I'm proud of the recognition.

But at 47, I don't spend much time thinking I've arrived.

If anything, I'm more aware than ever of how quickly time moves.

I've watched people my age deal with heart attacks, serious illnesses and even pass away.

You get one body.

You get one life.

And the clock keeps moving whether you do something with the time or not.

So I'm working on my health. I'm trying to be a good husband. I'm trying to set an example for my son. I'm building a business. I'm still learning. I'm still screwing things up occasionally.

And, yes, while BKE grows, you'll also find me out there selling LeafFilter.

Great things take time.

Put in the right ingredients, set the right temperature, do the work, and eventually you've got something pretty good.

I'm willing to work in the kitchen.

My biggest fear with BKE is failure.

My biggest concern is time.

But my goal isn't fame or some arbitrary number in a bank account.

It's security. Period. Full stop.

Security for Natalie.

Security for our kids.

The ability to control more of our own future.

And maybe someday, the picture looks like this:

A barndominium sitting on a hill.

A pool out back.

Low fog settling into the valley below.

The sun coming up.

Coffee in my hand.

Natalie beside me.

Saturday ahead of us with nowhere we have to be — cooking outside, working on hobbies, having the family over and enjoying the life we spent all those years building.

And ten years from now, maybe BKE doesn't need me running around selling every job.

Maybe I'm spending my time developing the next generation of leaders and helping other people discover what they're capable of.

And, God willing, somewhere along the way I'll finally win the TCC golf trip and get my hands on that damn trophy.

I've still got goals.

If 18-year-old Bo could see me today, I think he'd be proud.

But I also think he'd know what 47-year-old Bo knows:

I'm not trying to build a perfect life.

I'm trying to build one I'm proud of.

And when it's all said and done, I don't need anyone to say I got everything right.

I'd be pretty happy with:

Bo was a good man. He was flawed. He made mistakes. But nobody could ever say the ol' SOB didn't try.

I'm still trying.