Eight Eight Eighty Eight

Today is 8/8/26. Which is ✨ 8/8/8 ✨ for those in the know.

I have a core memory from a stoplight in Corpus Christi on 8/8/88. That story has been living in my heart, waiting to be shared.

I was seven years old on 8/8/88. I had just turned seven, actually. And I remember that day with a clarity that surprises even me — not because it was momentous in the way the world measures these things, but because my dad decided it should be.

We were in his 1976 RED Buick convertible. Yes, it was a tank. AND it was the best. The top was down, as it was 99% of the time.

A few classic Hopkins pics, circa 1988

He had strict rules about his convertible: you didn't use the doors. Wait, what?
AND we only listened to the Beach Boys, on cassette, of course. I digress.

We hopped into his convertible, always. Which, when you're seven years old with short legs, means you climb up on the wheelbase and basically hurl your body over the white leather seats.

People would ask my dad: "Aren't you worried about ripping the seats?"

He'd laugh. "It's a convertible. What's the point if you're not havin' some fun?"

So there we were, top down, sun everywhere. My dad driving, me buckled in as I sat atop the middle armrest, so I could be closer to my dad. We sat at the stoplight of Alameda and Everhart. There was a Blockbuster to my right on the corner. The light was red. And my dad looked over at me and said something I've never forgotten:

“Emily, it’s 8/8/88!”

And you know what? It's not going to be like this again until 9/9/99. Can you believe that? Think about how old you're going to be. Think about where you're going to be."

And we both sat there for a moment — a seven-year-old girl with windburned cheeks and a brain that was already cataloging details, and her dad, this brilliant geologist who read everything about technology and science and dreams. And he said something that changed how I move through my life:

"You won't remember this unless you decide to remember it. We have to crystallize this moment in our brains."

So we said it out loud. Both of us. "I'm sitting in my dad's convertible at the corner of Alameda and Everhart in Corpus Christi, Texas on 8/8/88." I took in the surroundings. The stoplight. The Blockbuster. The interior of my dad's convertible. The feeling of my dad right next to me. And we made it stick.

I've never forgotten it.

This picture is about as close as you can get: 5/9/88 written in my dad’s infamous red pen. And with a Trapper Keeper for 80s authenticity!

I've told this story countless times over the years. And then when I was a Freshman at Tulane and 9/9/99 rolled around, I called my dad and proudly exclaimed, "DAD, it's Nine Nine Ninety Nine! Remember when it was 8/8/88?" He chuckled as he remembered and we shared a special moment. His energy was contagious. And as I type this right now, I can feel it — tears burning my eyes. And until this very moment, today, I didn't realize what my dad was actually teaching me.

He was teaching me how to be present.

He was teaching me that what you attend to is what survives. That memory isn't something that just happens to you — it's something you choose. You crystallize it. You say it out loud. You decide: this matters, and I'm going to remember it.

My dad would lay in bed with my brother and me before sleep and teach us about that weird space between waking and dreaming where you can “control” your dreams. (I just Googled it. The "hypnagogic state" though I'm not sure what term he used then but I’m certain it came from his latest issue of Scientific American magazine.) "If someone's chasing you in your dream," he'd say, "look at a clock. Look away. Look back. If the time has changed, you know you're dreaming. You have power. You can control what happens next."

I remember being eight years old, skeptical. How do I make a clock appear in my dream?

"You just decide," he'd say. "Try it."

And then he'd tell us about how in his dreams, he always chose to hop on a slalom water ski, and just WHOOSH, take off. Fast across the wake, feeling the wind and the speed on his face as the boat pulled.

I’m pretty sure this is the exact scene my dad would play out in his dreams, though this is my brother, Geoffrey, also 1988-ish.

And over months and years, I would. I'd be chased through a dream and suddenly remember — look at the clock — and the moment I did, I'd realize I was flying through the highest trees in a rainforest, swinging from ropes like a monkey. Or I'd jump into my roller skates if someone was chasing me in a parking lot. I could feel the sensation in my stomach. I can feel it now. The freedom.

Decades later, I can still access those dreams. Not because they were real, but because my dad taught me to be intentional about my own mind. About my own experience.

I think about who I am at 45, and I see my dad everywhere in me.

I snagged this hat yesterday, 8/7/26. A bit of an inside joke and homage to my dad.
I am a Lucky Ducky, indeed!

I am a bright light — He modeled optimism and enthusiasm without denying reality. He was fascinated by everything.

I am a connector, a hummingbird cross-pollinating — He saw systems and patterns. He drew "treasure maps" professionally as a petroleum geologist. And for fun, alongside us in grade school, he learned astronomy and was determined to share his love for science with everyone.

I am a champion of people and purpose — He championed my brother and me relentlessly. He believed we could do hard things. He was always in awe, our biggest fan.

I am living each day with love and intention — He showed me that the mundane moment — a stoplight, a conversation before sleep — can be sacred if you pay attention.

I am living in alignment with my core purpose — He lived in the present, alive in the moment. He was determined to brighten others' days by planting the seed of curiosity using the literal rocks he carried in his pocket.

I am present with and for my family — He was there. And even though it's been 15 years since he's been here physically, he is with me. I feel his energy when I'm on a stage, or speaking passionately about whatever topic or human or idea is lighting me up.

I am living as an example for my kids, for my community, for others — He lived that way. He still does, through me. Through my brother and my step-sisters. Through his grandkids. Through everyone who knew him.

I am me — fully, authentically, unapologetically — He gave me permission to be exactly who I was. To climb into convertibles without using doors. To trust my instincts. To control my own narrative.

As I look up from what I just wrote, I am in awe of what inevitably happens. My stories, my memories, my intuition, my heart — they always go back to him. He died too young. 63. It ripped my heart open, and 15 years later, I am still weaving it back together, apparently one story and blog post at a time.

Somehow he knew. He knew he was a "short-timer" (a phrase he once said that broke me). He retired at 58, while at the height of his career. After decades of highs and lows in the oil business — and apparently a huge scare in his 40s that he was going blind — he finally "made it." He "had it all." And he was humble and wise enough to say, that's enough.

He knew he didn't want to spend the next decade, until 65, 70, or 75, "drawing treasure maps" and pitching wells to heavy-hitter investors. He also knew he didn’t want to retire and sit in a rocking chair. NO WAY! He wanted to LIVE. He wanted to be on his boat, that he had just named after his first granddaughter, Stella. Stella Blue. And then later "& Scarlett too" when his second granddaughter was born.

He wanted to spend more time with Susan, his wife and my step-mom. They wanted to travel the world together, with their friends, and with us. He wanted to see all of his kids — me, Geoffrey, Whitney, and Mallory — happy and living their own lives, in awe of how different and perfectly unique each of us were.

And he wanted to teach kids about science. He wanted to be in classrooms, championing one of his many projects as President of the Corpus Christi Geological Society: "Maps, Bones, and Boulders in Schools."

I mean he had his own YouTube channel in 2009. Y’all! The OG science influencer. Once again, I digress!

He quit his job at the height of his career to follow his heart. His calling. He had clarity, and he went for it.

Sound familiar? I am my father's daughter.

His death cracked me open, and I've been doing deep soul-searching, self-care, and healing ever since. And now I have this special place — my blog and Substack, my own personal brand of Nectar for Good — to tell my stories. To be me.

What am I building? What is next? I don't know. My soul and my heart do. So I keep going.

So on 8/8/8 in 2026, I celebrate the magic of clarity.

The kind that comes from being still enough to listen — to your body, to what rises and falls in your energy, to what feels true when you strip away the noise. My dad knew this. He listened. He leaped.

I'm learning to do the same. To trust what I know. To stand in my truth — whatever form that faith takes — and know it's exactly where I need to be.

To shine bright. To claim this space.

The magic isn't in the numbers. It's in the person who taught me to look at a clock in my nightmare and realize I had power. It's in my dad sitting at a stoplight and deciding that a moment was worth remembering forever. It's in choosing presence. Choosing intention. Choosing to crystallize the ordinary into memory.

My astro friends aren't wrong about portals. But the real portal has always been this: paying attention. Deciding what matters. Saying it out loud. Deciding to remember.

My dad taught me that when I was seven, sitting in a convertible with the top down.

I'm still learning from him at 45. And I'm teaching it — to my kids, to the people I work with, to everyone I build community with. By showing up. By being present. By crystallizing the moments that matter.

I'm sitting in my dad's convertible at the corner of Alameda and Everhart on 8/8/88.

And I'm still there, in some part of my heart. Still learning. Still glowing.

He's with me when I do.