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I am an ADHD and product management coach, helping you change one belief and take one action each week.
This is an atypical issue. I’ll be back next week with a new series and the usual advice on how to survive the tech industry with ADHD.
Hi,
This week I want to pause and reflect on the passing of my friend, Alan Sprints.
If you didn’t know him, Alan was a pioneer of craft brewing and one of the forefathers of barrel-aged beer. Most of the world’s most prominent barrel-aging brewers knew his name, and the lucky ones knew the man.
Alan was never only a brewer. He was a ceramicist and a potter, a glassblower, a chef, a small business owner, a plant aficionado, a dedicated husband, and a father to three boys. I’m sure there’s even more to his life I didn’t get to know.
He loved big, and he did it all quietly and humbly. So much so, I didn’t know how much I meant to him until his final months.
I’m grieving him. I have cried more over these last few weeks than I expected to. But I also want to celebrate his final lesson to me, because it’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
Alan showed me how to die surrounded by love and connection.
In his final days, he invited his friends from all of his different worlds to come and say goodbye. Seattle, and everywhere else his many lives had taken him. He wanted one last moment with each of us. And we gave it to him.
On July 9th, I traveled down with my wife and the rest of the Seattle crew he had called to his side. We spent an afternoon together in his backyard, talking and laughing and crying.
We brought our favorite drinks and food for him share in. I brought a whiskey I made made from my previous company. I wanted to have him try something I made after years of drinking his beers.
My other thing with Alan was always bringing him Fran’s chocolates. Always two boxes. One box for him to eat on the 3 hour drive back to Portland and one box for his wife. I used to send one big one but they wouldn’t make it.
Even sick with cancer, he greeted me with a smile. He still had his go-to response whenever you paid him a big compliment. He’d give a little side smile, and say, “That is very kind of you.” He was a man who loved big and spoke quietly, and he stayed exactly himself right to the end.
That is what humbles me. Not all of us get to choose how we die. I can only imagine the suffering of those final days. And still, Alan chose love and connection. He chose to gather the people he cared about and spend what he had left pouring into them. I will always remember that.
There was an earlier lesson of his that prepared me for this one, and I only understand now how the two were the same lesson all along.
Before I had my own child, I once asked Alan what his greatest accomplishment was. I expected him to name a beer, or a barrel, or something he’d made with his hands. Without hesitation, he said it was his children. At the time, I didn’t have a child yet, and I’ll admit I thought it sounded a little sentimental. Nice, sure. But surely there was more to a life than that.
Then I had my daughter. Watching her grow, being there for her every day, I finally understood what he meant. I understood why he was so proud.
It was his greatest love, second only to his wife. And I understood, too, that being a father would be the most fulfilling thing I would ever do. It would be the biggest and best thing of my life. Without Alan, I don’t think I would have been ready to know that.
Both of his lessons were the same truth said twice: that love and connection are what a life is truly made of. He taught it to me in how he lived, and then he taught it to me one last time in how he died.
Alan and I knew each other for more than ten years, and for most of that time I thought of myself as one of his beer friends. A fan first, then a tangential friend on the edges of his big life. So when he called me a few months ago to tell me he was sick, and then invited me to say goodbye, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant. It wasn’t until after he passed that I learned he’d only called a certain few people. I was one of them.
I’m so grateful I got to know that while he was still here. I’m grateful I got to tell him those stories and what he had meant to me, and that he got to tell me what I meant to him. Not everyone gets that but, we did.
He was a great man. If you’d like to know more about him, please read the tributes linked below from people who knew him and his work well.
The last message I ever sent him is the truest thing I know how to say, so I’ll say it here too:
I love you, my friend. I’ll see you again in this life or the next.
To learn more about Alan and his legacy:
“Alan Sprints, 1959–2026”. Jeff Alworth’s remembrance at Beervana.
“Those Who Choose the Difficult Path”. On Alan closing Hair of the Dog and why he always went his own way.
His family’s obituary on Facebook.
I’ll be back next week with regular ADHD content. Thank you for letting me share this one.
A new series on the gifts of neurodivergence.
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