How Mentoring Shaped Me — and Prepared Me to Be a Father
By Jacob Centeno
I can count on one hand how many days have changed the trajectory of my life, the day I lost my dad was one of those days.
Some of you already know my dad, SCPO Daniel R. Healy, was killed in 2005 when his helicopter was shot down in the Kunar Province of Afghanistan. Over 20 years later, I still think about him almost every day.
Just this week, a younger photo of him on the refrigerator caught my eye. I thought about his eyes and remembered what it his presence used to feel like. I thought about his gentle smile and funny chuckle which sounded more like a gasp for air. I missed his voice. A sudden ache in my chest stirred awake; it’s the same pain that has pushed me to grow and help others over the years. Most notably, I felt called to mentoring other surviving children who had lost their parents as a result of their military service.
What I did not expect is how mentoring other Gold Star children for the last 15 years has deeply shaped the man I’ve become. For me, mentoring wasn’t just service. It was purpose. It was healing. It was survival.
And much of that journey happened through one special organization — Operation 300.
A “God” Thing
On August 6, 2011, a Chinook helicopter was shot down, killing all 38 people aboard, including 17 U.S. Navy SEALs. Extortion 17 would be the largest loss of Navy SEAL life since Operation Red Wings. When Extortion 17 happened, it felt like losing my dad all over again. I didn’t know those families personally, but I knew exactly what they were feeling. The shock. The forming of that endless void. My heart ached for the surviving families of Extortion 17, but deep inside, I knew there was nothing I could do that would help them grieve their incredible loss.
One day, I remember scrolling through Facebook when I saw something about a small camp honoring SOC Aaron Vaughn, one of the Navy SEAL/s who was killed during Extortion 17. So I messaged the founder and Aaron’s sister, Tara Vaughn Baldwin. Reaching out to Tara felt like reaching toward something instead of running from it.
Her response changed my life.
Tara didn’t hesitate to offer me a place at camp. Less than a month later, she flew me out to West Palm, FL. At 21, I was too old to be a camper — so I became a mentor. What I didn’t know then was that I wasn’t just signing up to mentor kids— I was signing up to be mentored myself.
A Family I Didn’t Know I Needed
Tara flew me out not just once — but dozens of times.
The men who served alongside me as mentors showed me what steady, present masculinity looked like. Tara modeled strength and resilience in her grief. Her husband Adam showed incredible support and resolve — the kind that later gave me confidence to propose to Katie. Billy, Tara’s dad, demonstrated what loving protection looks like and his wife, Karen, has always greeted me with warmth and care.
In a season of my life that felt unstable at best, I felt seen. Heard. Loved.
Operation 300 wasn’t just a camp. It became family.
What the Kids Taught Me
Mentoring Gold Star children is deeply personal work. You go in thinking you’re there to guide them through grief.
But what I learned over the years surprised me:
The kids didn’t want therapy.
They didn’t want lectures.
They didn’t even always want to talk about their loss.
They just wanted to be kids.
They wanted to fish. Wrestle. Laugh. Stay up too late. Eat junk food.
They wanted a cool father figure beside them.
Only one mentee has asked to speak with me outside of camp, Ty. What I loved most about Ty was his passion for weather and incredible knowledge at such a young age. The first time I met Ty he asked to sit on my shoulders and walk him out to watch the lightning strikes off in the distance. Ty’s dad was AMT2 Joshua Nichols who served in the Coast Guard and loss his life on September 4, 2008 during during a training exercise. Ty had been having a hard time with the loss of his dad and wanted to chat. We talked for about an hour but he didn’t mention anything about missing his dad, we just talked about camp, the weather and school. We laughed, let the silent moments last and said our goodbyes. I didn’t realize it then, but Ty just needed me to be there for him.
Over 3–4 years, trust formed. Bonds formed. Boys who arrived guarded slowly opened up. Campers came back each year excited to see old friends and mentors. Some camps were smooth. Others were hard. And strangely enough — it’s the hardest ones I remember most. Sleeping in tents soaked by a hurricane. Waking up in two inches of water. Letting a six-year-old camper climb onto my chest in the middle of the night to escape red ants that had invaded our tent.
Those were the moments that mattered.
The Goodbye I Didn’t Expect
This past summer, after 12 years of mentoring at Operation 300, I felt something I couldn’t quite explain. At the end-of-camp pow wow, I asked if I could say a few words. I thanked the Vaughn family for loving these kids — and for loving me. Then I told them something that I wasn’t sure I would be able to say.
I said goodbye.
Although the words felt like mourning leaving my body, I knew felt peace about saying goodbye. I didn’t know why. I just knew in my heart Operation 300 was ready to go on without me and, more importantly, I was ready to go on without them. I was ready for the next chapter. They responded the way I expected, they loved me hard. All the mentors and Tara’s family held their hands over me and prayed. Even now, I get emotional thinking about it.
Three days later, I found out I was going to be a dad.
My mentorship journey wasn’t ending. It was transforming.
Full Circle
Katie and I are overwhelmed with gratitude and joy as we prepare to welcome Forrest Centeno this May.
Looking back, I can see how God was shaping me through every uncomfortable camp, every hard conversation, and every fleeting moment that I now know to appreciate in full. Operation 300 didn’t just help me mentor boys and girls who lost their mom or dad as a result of their service- It helped prepare me to become one. For years, I was helping boys like Ty learn how to live without their fathers. Now, I get the chance to be one.
In God’s eyes, this isn’t goodbye to mentoring.
It’s just “see you later.”
God bless,
Jacob Centeno, Founder & Creative Director, Poor Bear Stories