A story about Michael Neville, music, family, and the moments that shape us.

I believe I met Michael Neville sometime around 2009 or 2010. The exact year is fuzzy now, but what I remember clearly is that I instantly liked him.

Michael has that effect on people. He’s a natural extrovert, professional without being stiff, sincere without trying too hard. He carries himself with an intentional moral compass that comes from a place of honesty. It makes him easy to trust and easy to like.

When we finally met, we were both surprised we hadn’t crossed paths earlier. Santa Barbara isn’t that big, and the circles we moved in overlapped in ways that made it seem inevitable. But timing, as it turns out, matters.

Someone suggested we meet and passed along Michael’s number. I left him a voicemail. According to Michael, that voicemail has since become one of his favorite stories to tell. Every now and then he reenacts it in the worst New York accent imaginable.

“Yeah, this is Jessica SOLOMON. So-and-so gave me your information… we should get together.”

Apparently, I sounded kinda obnoxious.

I beg him to stop every time he does it, whether we’re alone or standing in front of other people, but Michael gets so much joy out of the story that I’ve accepted it’s just part of our shared mythology now. He delivers it with the grin of an older brother teasing his younger sister, and in many ways that’s exactly what he’s been to me: a mentor, a friend, and someone who has always looked out for me.

Michael also happens to have something else about him, something harder to describe but immediately recognizable.

He has rock star energy.

Not the fame kind. The vibe.

Music isn’t just entertainment for Michael. It’s woven into who he is. He talks about it the way people talk about places that shaped them or teachers who changed their lives. Music is healing for him, grounding, something he loves to share with the people around him.

And unlike most people, Michael doesn’t need a group to go to a concert. He’ll go solo without hesitation. He’s that committed to the experience.

Maybe he should have been a music manager. He would have been great at it.

Michael knows I love music too. My tastes are all over the map. I enjoy classical, disco, hip hop, yacht rock. Almost anything except country or polka. But if I’m honest about it, deep down I will always be a hair-band chick.

It was just the era.

For me, Paradise City by Guns N’ Roses hits the trifecta: one of my favorite songs from a favorite band, one of my favorite albums Appetite for Destruction, and one of my favorite MTV videos of all time.

What makes Michael so fascinating in this regard is that he was actually there for that moment in music history. In the 1980s he spent time on the Sunset Strip when the whole scene was exploding. He was there with Poison, Mötley Crüe, and the rest of that electric chaos that defined an era. He didn’t just hear the stories later. He lived in the orbit of them.

Yet Michael’s upbringing also had a quieter side. He grew up in Pacific Palisades, a beautiful coastal neighborhood where the ocean breeze and tree-lined streets created a peaceful backdrop to life. From there he could dip into the intensity of the Sunset Strip whenever he wanted.

That contrast with serenity and spectacle was what probably shaped him more than anything.

Michael was raised largely by his father, Bob. His bud. His best friend.

If you ever heard Michael speak at networking meetings, you could sense how deep that bond was. There was admiration there, but also warmth and humor. It was the kind of relationship where father and son truly enjoyed one another’s company.

I sometimes imagine young Michael tagging along while Bob conducted business in the 70s or 80s, maybe hanging out near a pinball machine while his dad finished conversations with clients. Eventually Michael followed in Bob’s footsteps and built his career in the title and real estate world.

One thing about Michael that has always stood out to me is how fiercely he protects friendships. He will walk away from deals, partnerships, or opportunities if he believes they threaten a relationship. That level of loyalty is rare, and it tells you everything you need to know about the man he is.

Years later, on a beach walk with Michael and L.W.D. Little White Dog, may he rest in peace, and we ran into a woman sunbathing in the sand. Her name was Jordan. They already knew each other. Michael introduced us and somehow the three of us ended up grabbing drinks at a beachside bar.

I remember thinking that Michael and Jordan made a good match. At the time, Michael agreed, but the timing was off.

Fast forward a few years and they were married in 2019.

They are solid.

Jordan is thoughtful, stunning, detail-oriented, and one of those people who instinctively takes care of the people around her. Michael and I tend to live in big-picture space and we are sometimes floating somewhere in the same mental atmosphere and then Jordan somehow manages to translate for both of us.

Houston, we have connection. That’s what I think every time she steps in and translates.

Within the same time period my favorite rocker buddy, Michael, offered to take me to see Guns 'n Roses perform in Los Angeles. The timing created a conflict with my friend Christen’s wedding shower, so I called her to explain the situation.

Before I could finish the sentence, she cut me off.

“Girl… go.”

Christen knows me.

In fact, when she walked down the aisle at her wedding and the acoustic version of Sweet Child of Mine started playing, I lit up immediately. Christen said she was looking for my face and reaction when she was walking down the aisle. She knew I would instantly recognize it.

The night Michael and I went to see Slash was pure Sunset Strip energy. Music, laughter, probably more tequila than necessary. We stayed in Los Angeles and made an entire adventure out of it.

But the next day held something even more meaningful for me. I was going to meet Michael’s father.

Bob Neville lived in the house Michael had grown up in was perched high on a hillside in the Palisades with a sweeping view of the neighborhood below and the Pacific Ocean stretching toward the horizon. It was the kind of view that stops you mid-sentence when you see it.

When we arrived, Michael’s former girlfriend Amber was there. They had remained close friends and she adored Bob.

Bob had recently come home from the hospital and wasn’t doing well. Within minutes I slipped into my other role. Me, the senior-care consultant who has spent decades navigating the complexities of care systems. I started asking questions, making calls, trying to understand why certain services hadn’t been scheduled yet.

Advocacy sometimes requires a little force, and while Michael’s natural instinct is politeness and patience, he trusted that I understood the system.

But what stayed with me most from that visit was a simple moment between father and son.

I asked Bob what Michael had been like as a child.

Bob looked at him with quiet pride and said softly, “Michael was always a good boy.”

Michael smiled and said, “Thanks, Papa.”

Later Amber took Michael outside to talk privately. They needed to have the difficult conversation that many families eventually face. The moment of recognizing when someone you love has reached the final chapter of their journey.

Inside the house Bob asked me why they were outside talking. I told him there were some kids making noise with skateboards and they were checking on it. Which was partially true.

When it was time to leave, Michael and I walked down the steep driveway toward the street. The sun was beginning to set and the sky had turned that beautiful California blend of gold, purple, and pink. Behind us stretched the ocean, palm trees, and miles of coastline.

Halfway down the driveway I turned back toward the house and saw that Michael grabbed onto the mailbox like it was a life raft.

And that’s when I saw my friend cry. Tears streamed down his face.

“This might be the last time I see my father,” he said.

It was one of those moments that strips away everything else. It strips the industry knowledge, the professional roles, the noise of everyday life. It was simply a son facing the possibility of losing his father.

Bittersweet.

One of the most complicated and meaningful emotions we can experience.

It wasn’t the last time Michael saw Bob, but it was one of the last. In the weeks that followed there were many phone calls between us. Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes I spoke with Jordan because she needed details and grounding. She was the interpreter, too. Jordan can convert words and emotions into a symphony we can understand.

And sometimes the best thing anyone could do was simply listen.

 “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.”

                             – Prince

This story is about exactly that.

Heavy metal.

Heavy times.

Trusted friends.

And the strange, beautiful way life comes full circle.

Because now, years later, Michael and I find ourselves living in the same incredible place — Santa Barbara.

Paradise City.

Where the grass is green…

and the girls are pretty.

We Are All Navigating LIFE

What struck me most about those days with Michael wasn’t the music, the Sunset Strip memories, or even the incredible view from his father’s home in the Palisades.

It was the realization that even the strongest, smartest, most capable people eventually find themselves facing the same moment.

The moment when a parent’s health changes.

When the questions start.

What do we do now?

Who do we call?

What does the system even look like?

Even Michael who is someone who had built a career helping people navigate real estate and life decisions — was suddenly standing in unfamiliar territory.

That’s what LIFE does.

It humbles us.

It reminds us that no one gets through it alone.

In my world, I’ve spent decades helping families navigate those moments — the confusing intersection of health care, housing decisions, finances, and the emotional weight that sits on top of all of it.

Sometimes people think senior care planning is about facilities or services.

It’s not.

It’s about people trying to find their way through LIFE.

And that’s why friendships matter so much.

Trusted people.

People who will sit with you, advocate for you, translate the system when it stops making sense, and sometimes simply listen when the answers don’t exist.

Michael and I didn’t know it when we first met all those years ago, but our friendship would eventually intersect with exactly those moments.

Heavy metal.

Heavy times.

And the kind of trust that helps people navigate LIFE.