I gather evidence for everything. A trait that made me an above-average investor, but which has had a not-so-great effect on the rest of my life. It is what I call a sneaky fault—one that I know is intrinsically wrong but for which I am constantly praised.

In the year I was born, my parents bought a tiny condominium in what was then, and to some degree still is, a backwater beach town about half an hour north of Daytona. In a place called Flagler Beach.

My father had recently left a secure job to start an IT consulting business. Like many entrepreneurs, the hours were grueling and the work all-consuming and nearly every dollar he made, he poured back into the business. In order to support us, he took a job stocking those old metal newspaper boxes. He worked when everyone else was asleep. When he should have been asleep. On many nights, my mother drove him on his rounds in their only car—with me sleeping soundly in the back seat.

It was the mid-1970s; the President had just resigned. And my father was running hard, determined to give his family a “good life.” To him, that life included a holiday home on a beach—even if meager and even if it was located in a forgettable town.

Flagler Beach is far from special. The beach is not pristine in the way that St. Barts is pristine. The handful of restaurants are filled with people in tattered bathing suits and hoodies. There are no familiar chains, shops, or cafés. The main sources of food are fish, burgers, pizza, tacos, ice cream, and lots of beer. The houses are worn—beaten down by years of hurricanes and patchy repairs. And the town’s defining “cultural” attraction is a collection of pirate statues someone has erected on their roof.

We spent two glorious months there every summer.

I remember one Fourth of July in particular. My friend and I wanted to shoot fireworks. Flagler Beach is a patriotic place, so fireworks and flags were everywhere, but shooting fireworks on the beach was illegal. Maybe because there wasn’t much of a police presence or due to some latent rebellious streak, my friend’s mother suggested that we go down to the beach with our bottle rockets.

Immediately, my body tensed. I wanted to announce that we couldn’t—it was not allowed, but I also wanted to be “cool,” so I kept my mouth shut. Besides, my friend’s mother was a responsible adult. If she thought it was okay, it must be okay.

The beach was deserted. In the distance, we could see the celebrations near the pier. My friend and I tore open the packages and built our first volley. I soon forgot about my objections. For two pre-adolescent boys discovering the world in the 1980s, the first ten minutes were complete bliss.

Then, the flashing blue lights.

I began to shake. I was a good kid. I looked to my friend’s mother for salvation. She would know what to do. But I had never seen that look on an adult.

Suddenly, she whispered, “Run!”

Run? For a moment, I was frozen in place. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. By this time, the police car had pulled over and I could hear the cop getting out of the car. I watched my friend and his mother dash into the shadows of the sand bank. This couldn’t be happening. I willed myself to follow.

We crouched low and held our breath. It felt like hours. The uncertainty was excruciating. If not for the flashing lights, I might have thought we had gotten away with it. Then, a light shone down on us. And a voice said, “I can see you.”

This was it. My entire life was ruined. I sent another pleading glance toward my friend’s mother hoping she had some grand plan. She didn’t.

We emerged from the shadows. I won’t forget the expression on that cop’s face when he saw my friend’s mother. He was momentarily stumped. Finally, he managed, “Ma’am, you should know better.”

The complex in which the “condo” sits—a low-built, unattractive collection of about 60 units—was constructed in the 1960s. Our unit is maybe 1,000 square feet and with the exception of some slightly updated furniture and pictures, it hasn’t changed much.

When I told some friends that I intended to go to Flagler Beach as my reward upon the completion of my book, they didn’t even try to hide their shock. But within 48 hours of sending the manuscript to my editor, I was on a plane.

It had been a while since I had been back. As I navigated a connection through the Atlanta airport on a busy weekday morning, I did momentarily question my sanity. But as soon as I pulled into the complex and climbed out of the rental car, I knew I had made the right decision. The familiar smell of salt air mixed with sulfur. The tough Bermuda grass that almost looked fake. The sight of the lone palm tree that has been standing sentry by our front door for decades. The American flags. The gigantic pick-up trucks.

My shoulders softened for the first time in months.

That feeling—total relaxation—had become increasingly rare. I never once experienced it when I was in finance. It didn’t matter how luxurious my escapes; the tension was ever-present. It was the same with my dad. Even after his company had become a success and he had “made it,” while my sisters and I were building sandcastles, he was inside on the phone. Was this the “good life” he was chasing?

I wasted no time—yanking open the flimsy screen door, flinging down my rucksack, grabbing some flip flops, and slipping into my shorts. I quickly checked the refrigerator in case by some miracle there was a box of Entenmann’s inside. There wasn’t.

I raced across A1A to the battered gazebo and its worn steps that would lead me to the beach. I couldn’t wait to go for a long walk on this beach. In fifty years, it hasn’t changed much. You can still walk for about two hours in each direction on a relatively undeveloped coastline, most days without encountering more than a handful of people.

I set off. Lathered with SPF 50, wearing a hat, and carrying my t-shirt in case the sun did a number on my winterized torso. I danced around broken shells. Did my best to avoid the seaweed. Smiled at the rare passerby. Played in the water. This was what had kept me going during those long days at my desk.

After maybe an hour of walking, I made my way back to the gazebo. As I approached, I noticed an elderly man struggling to move his fishing gear through the soft sand to the stairs. He was thin and shirtless—his skin leathery from years of exposure. I guessed that he was in his 80s.

I hesitated. If I continued in his direction, I would have to engage. But I was deep in the conversation in my head and not really in the mood to help. As I moved closer, it became clear that he was struggling far more than I initially realized.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He turned, visibly relieved, then unapologetically climbed the steps of the gazebo and collapsed on the bench to watch me work.

It took three trips to haul all the gear up the stairs. I offered to take it across the busy street, but he demurred and said I had done enough. I could tell he wanted to say something more, but he was still struggling to catch his breath.

“You visiting?” he finally managed. “I haven’t seen you around here.”

I confirmed that I was but quickly added, with a sort of pride, that I had been coming here for about fifty years. He stared at me for a long beat. Then, nodded slowly. I think he was trying to place me.

He asked what unit was mine. I told him. He smiled. “I knew your grandmother. And I remember you running around as a kid.”

I wondered if he also remembered the story about us trying to hide from the police after shooting fireworks on the beach. I bet he did.

I didn’t really know what to say. I certainly didn’t recognize him, but there was something that was familiar. Eventually, I responded that this place was special. He nodded again. Turned his gaze toward the ocean and exhaled. “You’re damn right it is.”

Wait. Did I really just say that? Flagler Beach, special?

I looked around. I noticed the difference in the sand from where the Army Corps of Engineers had recently completed its massive repair work on this stretch of the beach. It now, somehow, seemed less real. A group of Harleys roared past shaking the entire gazebo. A prop plane with a banner advertising all you can eat wings flew overhead.

Special?

Well, Emma Watson was seen in a dive fish shop a few years before. The rumor was that she had bought in the area—probably in St. Augustine where they had gated communities and green lawns. For the newcomers, and in recent years there were many, it didn’t matter where she bought, or even if she lived here at all. Emma Watson in Flagler Beach, even if only passing through, was proof that they’d chosen the right place. I’ll admit—I kind of wished I had seen her. I glanced back at the old man; I wondered if he had ever heard of Harry Potter.

No one gathers evidence for the Amalfi Coast.

That’s a different sort of love. If someone tells me they love the Amalfi coast, I smile and nod. If someone tells me they love Flagler Beach, I sit up straight.

Growing up in Memphis, I saw this distinction everywhere. A defining characteristic of all “true” Memphians—the ones who were committed to the city no matter what—was that they were always justifying their attachment to it. Especially in comparison to Nashville. Nashville is glitzy, polished, and on the rise. Memphis is literally falling apart.

The old fisherman and I turned our attention back to the water. A line of pelicans skimmed low. A family with young kids was trying to figure out how to make their umbrellas stable in the sand.

Flagler Beach is being “discovered.” I guess it was inevitable. There is more traffic. The battered houses are being renovated. Tricked-out golf carts are everywhere. There’s a bustling farmer’s market and even a trendy coffee shop that would be right at home in London. Maybe that is why the powers that be decided to call in the Army Corps of Engineers now to repair the shoreline.

My mother’s parents had retired here after a life in New York. I wondered if the old man had followed the same trajectory. Or maybe he was like me and grew up visiting this place only to eventually stay. I wanted to know more of his story.

But my eyes became hazy. I forgot that there was someone next to me. I wondered if my life had been what people would call a “good life.” I wanted to manufacture a list of my accomplishments as justification. Recall what others had said about me. I wondered if my dad was ever able to truly exhale.

Just then a group of kids rushed past with buckets and shovels in hand. They too looked somehow familiar, and I lost my train of thought.

I turned back to the old man. He didn’t need the Army Corps of Engineers’ repairs. He didn’t need Emma Watson. He didn’t feel the need to thank me for hauling his gear up the stairs. He didn’t even need to apologize for feeling tired. And his shoulders didn’t need to drop. His exhale was different. It was secure. And I don’t want to wait another thirty years to feel that.

I exhaled—shit. I just did it again.

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In November of 2022, I acquired the option on Peter Mayle’s book, The Vintage Caper. The idea was to write a spec script and try to sell it as a television series.

I was an inexperienced writer. Before this, my writing had been limited to occasional investor updates and inconsistent journaling. I had spent decades analyzing risk and probabilities, so I knew the odds were long. But for some reason, likely a combination of misplaced confidence and naïveté, I rationalized this risk away. I had a dream, and I was determined to realize it.

Soon after acquiring the rights, a friend introduced me to Ileen Maisel—a producer who had been in the film industry for decades. The purpose of the meeting was to pick her brain, get some advice, and maybe even a sanity check. I was floored when she decided to take a chance on me.

For the next fifteen months, I wrote as if possessed—hours upon hours of typing and retyping. When I wasn’t writing, I was dreaming of Hollywood glory: television premieres, fancy parties, and hanging out with all those interesting creative types.

I produced multiple drafts. Each one getting progressively better. Each one trying Ileen’s patience. I thought we were close.

Then, Ileen died.

She had been ill for months—though she hid it well. It was difficult to wrap my head around the fact that I would no longer hear her laugh, field her pointed questions, or simply bask in the glow of her presence.

Our meetings always happened at the same time—breakfast. And at the same place—Claridge’s. And at the same table. The very table where she had met with a veritable who’s who for over three decades. Ileen was such an institution at Claridge’s that within days of her death, management placed a brass plaque at the foot of “Ileen’s table.” It reads:

Sometimes, when I am back in London and find myself in Mayfair, I make a quick detour to glance at that table. I can still see Ileen asking the staff, who she knew by name, about their kids’ soccer games, exam results, and recent holidays, all while critiquing the scene I had written with painfully sharp observations. But always with a smile.

After reeling, I finally managed to pull together a half-hearted final attempt at the screenplay. Then, in March of 2025, I got a call from Mayle’s literary agency. They were not going to renew my option on the book. It was a blow, and a significant step backward professionally.

I once asked Ileen if I was crazy for trying to become a writer after spending two decades in finance. She looked at me as if the question were as daft as the questioner. First, she said all writers were a bit crazy. Then, she asked if I was writing every day. I said that I was. And she said, “Well then, you are a writer.”

I smiled politely at her encouragement, but without money flowing into my bank account, it didn’t seem like a real vocation. Still, it was all I had. I had closed the door on my previous life. At this point, there was no going back. I was determined to keep writing. If nothing else, it seemed a fitting tribute to this woman who had faith in me.

Most of my friends thought I was foolish. They didn’t say it to my face, but I could see it in their forced smiles accompanied by the practiced, “How’s it going?” I knew what they really wanted to say: “You need to get real. Be responsible. Go back to finance while you still have the chance.” Part of me suspected they were right, especially now that my only champion was gone. But I willingly shut down the rational part of my brain, or more accurately, ignored it, and pressed on.

I went back to my desk, set a timer for four hours, and began to write. I had no direction. No outline. No agenda. But within the first few minutes, stories spilled out: stories from my own life and the lives of others. This continued for the better part of two months.

When I finally stopped, I had about 65,000 words. I didn’t know if they were any good. I had no idea if there was any sort of interesting thread. And I certainly had no expectation that these words would lead to anything tangible.

My first reading only reinforced that expectation. About 70% was complete rubbish. Yet, the remaining 30% had something. What, I wasn’t sure. But I knew it was worth hanging on to.

Still, at that moment, I was certain that I didn’t have a book in me. The idea of writing hundreds of pages, tens of thousands of words, that together formed an intelligible, much less articulate, narrative, was not just daunting; it was laughable. My friends knew it. I knew it.

I had done what Ileen suggested, but now I didn’t know what came next. And she wasn’t around to help.

It was at this point that the idea of visualization popped into my head. It was a weird thought. How could tapping into my imagination help me produce a book or anything tangible? I had been exposed to the idea in Gallwey’s The Inner Game of Tennis and Rubin’s The Creative Act. Elite athletes and artists swore by it. Yet, it seemed desperate. It was desperate. But I thought: what the hell, maybe it could help.

So, each morning I carved out 5-10 minutes to visualize writing. Not just the act of typing but the whole thing: holding the finished book in my hands, people’s reactions, the book in a bookstore. I even imagined those days when I’d struggle to write anything at all.

For most of my life, no matter the endeavor, I have attributed my results to one input: time spent in physical effort. It was the hours spent at my desk or on the tennis court that were, in my mind, what produced the results. The formula was simple: effort over talent.

Visualization would require effort, so under this model, I absolutely expected it to do something. It was similar to the mental exercise I would perform during my commute to the office—where I would play, and replay, the various scenarios that could impact the outcome of the investments held in my hedge fund. But that “visualization” was different. Driven by obsession and fear rather than by a desire to bring about a specific outcome.

But there was a problem: I didn’t have any idea what being a published writer would actually feel like. Neville Goddard had said, “The feeling is the secret.” Not helpful. I could picture the scenes, but I couldn’t get to the feeling.

I struggled for weeks to manufacture that feeling. And I failed. Every day. As soon as I would call up the image of, say, my book in a bookstore, immediately my analytical mind would run a list of ten reasons why that would never happen. And suddenly the visualization turned into an argument. I could feel my heart racing. My mind going into overdrive as it wrestled with different probabilities—just like I had done for years in finance. The feeling wasn’t the secret; optimizing outcomes was.

But I couldn’t optimize this. I had no contacts in the publishing world. I had no platform. I didn’t even know if I could write anything worthwhile. I couldn’t shake the idea that I was deluding myself. Grasping at straws. A desperate middle-aged man who should know better than to play games.

I was frustrated. I cursed both Gallwey and Goddard. I think I actually told my wife that it was all bullshit. I could hear the manifesting crowd telling me that I had not given it enough time. But I didn’t have the luxury of years to test an esoteric theory. I needed to earn.

My mind was screaming that the entire approach was bonkers. I was at a loss. So, one morning rather than forcing more visualization, I decided to go for a walk to clear my head.

It was early and quiet. The sun was just creeping over the horizon. I took a familiar route. My body knew what to do and where to go, which allowed my mind to roam. And I mulled the problem over: how to find the feeling of something I had never felt. I couldn’t accept the possibility that others had some sort of skill or ability that completely eluded me. There must be a solution.

About halfway through that walk, a thought hit me—why couldn’t it be any feeling?

Holding my finished book would bring elation, relief, and satisfaction. What if I dove into my history and extracted experiences that had yielded exactly those emotions and layered them onto the imagined scenes about my book? No one had said the feeling had to be specific. Why couldn’t I borrow the feeling?

I stopped walking. Would that even work? Taking a feeling from a wholly unrelated experience and ascribing it to something I hoped would happen in the future. It seemed a strange idea, but it also felt kind of right.

I raced home. Went into my office. Collapsed into my chair. Closed my eyes. And called up the memory of holding each of my daughters for the first time. I felt all the emotions—the disbelief, panic, gratitude, and most importantly, the joy—as if I were reliving the experience in that moment. I quickly formed the image of my book in the bookstore while holding on to that feeling.

Then it was over.

I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe not fireworks or trumpets, but I certainly expected… something to happen. But everything looked exactly the same. I felt exactly the same.

By this time, I was questioning my own sanity. The notebook where I had recorded all the rational reasons why I could not write a book loomed large on the desk. But I couldn’t walk away. It would feel like giving up. And I was not a quitter. Besides, Ileen was in my head. I could hear her saying, “Don’t overthink it!”

So, I doubled down. Armed with my new method—the borrowed feeling—I continued the practice.

There was a lot of inconsistency. Some days my rational mind was simply too loud. And there were weeks when I would give up entirely due to the lack of any indication that it was working. The truth was that on most days, my imagination was consumed not by what I hoped, or dreamed, would happen, but by what I didn’t want to happen.

But occasionally, I was able to step out of that loop and capture the feeling of something more. If nothing else, it was an enjoyable experience. For that reason alone, it had value.

On a recent morning, I went out to the garden, coffee in hand, to listen to an audiobook. I sat on my favorite bench, slipped on my headphones, and pressed play. Within moments, I was lost in the rhythmic narration.

At one point I thought, “That was a great line, I should write it down.” I stood up, in a sort of daze, to go inside and grab my notebook. I thought, “Man, I wish I could write a book like that.”

I had barely moved toward the house when one of our cats leaped out of the bushes behind me in pursuit of a bird. I nearly spilled my coffee.

Holy shit. I had written those words. This was my book.

For a moment, I wondered if I had landed in some parallel universe. Sure, I had spent the hours writing. And I had visualized the finished book. But I hadn’t visualized this. And now, standing in that garden, completely bewildered, I was incredulous—did simply holding that feeling for a few minutes a day, a feeling which had nothing to do with writing, actually shift my reality?

I glanced around hoping there might be a witness or at least someone who could provide an explanation. Or better yet, someone with whom I could share my bewilderment. But I was alone. And confronted with a choice: I could give in to my logical mind and rationalize it all away, or I could acknowledge what I felt—that something mysterious had occurred.

The rationalist was fighting hard. It wanted me to do what I had done for most of my life: face uncertainty, resolve it, and move on. It’s what made me a pretty decent investor. But in that garden there was nothing to do. I couldn’t prove that my visualization had impacted my reality, but I also couldn’t disprove it. And that tension, or the inability to resolve it, was the most unsettling part of the experience.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I felt Ileen in that moment, I could see her look as clear as day. A look that said, “Well, of course, what did you expect?”

Dylan Dietrich, a junior at the University of Virginia and the #1 college tennis player in America, took a moment to compose himself. He was down a break in the deciding set of the deciding match to determine which team would win the NCAA National Championship.

Across the net was the #3-ranked player in the country who, at that moment, had all the momentum. The match had been a battle—a back-and-forth affair with almost no margin of error. Technically, the players were equally matched. Both were struggling with the heat. Both were feeling the weight of the moment. Neither wanted to let down their teammates, coaches, and fans. It was the sort of situation that tennis players both dread and dream about.

Dietrich and the rest of the team had played inspired tennis over the past ten days to arrive in this moment. They were the #4 seed—a strong team, but not expected to be a contender, especially after their #1 player, Rafael Jódar, had joined the pro tour only days before the start of the season. They were not as deep as the other teams. And they were arguably less experienced with a freshman and three sophomores in the main lineup.

Yet here they were—points away from the unthinkable. After crawling out of a deep deficit in the semifinals to upset the defending champions and the #1 team in the country, they were tied 3-3 with the #2 team in the country.

But being down a break in the third set was far from ideal. The score was 3-1, Dietrich’s opponent was serving, and it was deuce. There are no ad points in college tennis, so this was the moment. This was the point on which everything hinged. If Dietrich lost this point, it would take a miracle for him to win the match. In fact, one could argue that to win this particular deuce point would take its own miracle—something more than talent, technique, or even brilliant coaching.

It would take belief. Or self-belief. Not a belief in what he could do—a belief in who he was. An ability to set aside the external reality—to transcend his nerves, pain, and the weight of the moment—and call upon something intangible.

Everyone in the stands, everyone watching the live stream, and all the players and coaches could feel the tension. Everything went quiet as the players took their positions. The only sound—his opponent bouncing the ball and Dietrich’s own rhythmic breathing as he awaited the return.

And suddenly, the serve was on its way. It was a rocket. Dietrich just managed to make contact. His opponent crashed the net. He had the advantage. Dietrich was on his back foot—just trying to stay alive. They exchanged two balls. Then, Dietrich got a forehand. A floater—the sort of ball that on any other day he could execute in his sleep, but which, in a moment such as this, becomes loaded.

Everyone held their collective breath. This was it. The point of the match.

And Dietrich hit a perfect shot—a winner. His teammates leapt into the air. He was still alive.

Then, he held serve and broke his opponent again. Two games later, he won the match.

UVA had won the national championship for the seventh time since 2013.

In his post-match interview, Dietrich didn’t point to technique or training as the differentiator. He pointed to two things: mentality and the people around the court. And the two were linked. His ability to remain calm and focused came from what he received from the crowd, his teammates, and the coaches in that moment. What he received was a reminder of something bigger than a tennis match, and that reminder allowed him to access the belief necessary to propel him to victory.

Tennis is a solitary sport, arguably the most solitary of sports. And in the most solitary moment of the most solitary sport, when it must have felt like he alone was carrying the weight of all the hopes and dreams of his teammates, coaches, and fans, Dietrich was not actually alone.

I didn’t attend UVA. Nor am I what could be called a die-hard sports fan. I am an ex-tennis player who stumbled upon the team soon after moving to Charlottesville five years ago. Their facilities are near my house. And one day, when I was out running an errand, I noticed a line of cars pulling into the facility. On a complete whim, I decided to take a moment and see what the fuss was about. My plan was to stay for maybe 10 or 15 minutes. But from the moment I first took my seat in the stands, I could sense that something was different. There was an unusual energy.

Sure, the players were exceptional. The facilities were exceptional. And the fans were rowdy. On the surface, it resembled every other elite college tennis program in the country. But it was different. You could feel it in the air. There was an aura. This place was special. A specialness that was hard-won.

Later, I came to understand that what sets this program apart is what people call “culture.” That is an overused word in sports today—a sort of catch-all phrase, often said tongue-in-cheek, meant to communicate that the coaches, players, and fans care about more than trophies and titles. But for the tennis program at UVA, it is not just a word. It is everything.

It translates into a deliberate decision to pass on the most hyped junior players to recruit the rougher, maybe even immature, players whose presence may not guarantee a title—who might even buckle the first time they experience the pressure that is college tennis—but who fit with the culture. To select a player not because of his talent, but because of his attitude. When the careers of college coaches are dependent almost entirely upon titles and wins, selecting for something intangible doesn’t just seem strange, it seems entirely foolish.

And yet, what has been created in the process is the sort of place where a player experiences the same joy and applause for earning a 3.7 GPA as they do for winning a title. A place where a player can leave just before the season to turn pro, have an extraordinary few months that catapult him into the top 30 in the world, and yet who still texts his old teammates daily and intensely follows their season. And who, when asked in an interview about his time at UVA, said it was the best year of his life.

For me, the turning point of this season—the moment I actually believed that these guys could win the championship—was during their 2^nd round match against 26^th-ranked Columbia. UVA were expected to win. They were the higher-ranked team and had home-court advantage.

But Columbia came out of the gate fighting. They took the doubles point, putting UVA on the back foot from the outset. And an hour into the match, Virginia had lost the first set on five of the six singles courts. Something special would need to happen for them to find a way to win. You could feel the tension in the stands—it was as if we all could sense the incredible mountain the team would have to climb to keep their title chances alive.

But then, that something happened. The player on court four, a sophomore from South Korea, found another gear. He played inspired tennis and won the second set. And you could immediately feel the domino effect. The player on court three fist pumped at his teammate and then lifted his own play—stringing together four consecutive games to take his second set. The screams of “come-on” and “let’s go” began to reverberate across every court. The fans were on their feet.

I was focused on the coaches. I leaned in—wanting to hear what magic words they were imparting to the players in this moment. I expected footwork, serve placement, or even strategy. What I heard was something like: “remember who you are” and “remember who this team is.”

At first, I assumed they were calling on the players to remember past players, past glories, and even familiar moments. Then I realized they were talking about something deeper. Sure, to remember the work—the long days of training that carried them to this moment. But I also think they were alluding to all the memories built off the court—in the locker room, joking over pizza, the quiet moments when no one was watching. They were being called to remember not what they were doing, but who they were.

At deuce, 3-1 down, and returning serve, Dietrich couldn’t tap out. No one could hit the ball for him. What he called upon in that moment was something he had built with his teammates throughout the season—a belief that surfaced exactly when he needed it most—because he hadn’t built it alone.

A skeptic could argue that Texas and all the other teams that have competed at this level have culture too. That the actual variable was Dietrich hitting a forehand winner on that deciding deuce point. Fair. The question isn’t whether he could hit the shot. He has hit it ten thousand times. The question is what allowed him to execute it in that moment.

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We recently sold our house. As part of the transaction, our agent organized a routine walk-through inspection. It was meant to be a checkbox exercise.

As we progressed through the house, swapping stories about kids and life, my wife began to point out some of the items we planned to take with us—certain light fixtures, a coat rack, a large antique mirror that has been with us for over twenty years, a pot rack, and a few other sentimental things.

I wasn’t really paying attention—my mind occupied by the practicalities of the transaction. But I did notice that our agent’s demeanor had shifted. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He was pale. When our eyes met, his look communicated something like, “oh shit.”

“Everything okay?” I asked.

My wife turned her attention to us. Our agent took a cautious step back and began to stammer. He explained that, in Virginia, anything attached to a wall, or the ceiling, was considered household property and included in the sale. Unless the buyers agreed otherwise, those items would have to stay.

The oxygen was sucked from the room. My wife shot me a glance that said, “I’ll deal with you later.” I offered a sheepish smile—obviously I had messed up by not reading the fine print. I hoped the agent might offer me a lifeline, but he was too busy looking longingly at the fireplace—no doubt wishing he could disapparate.

My wife began to parse the meaning of attached. She led the agent across the room to examine certain hooks and washers. And he received an impromptu education on the multitude of definitions of the word attached.

The light fixtures and the coat rack were solidly fixed to the wall and clearly attached. But an antique pot rack, passed down through three generations of women in her family, hung from a ceiling by another hook and therefore, apparently—and mercifully—was not considered attached.

My wife handled the situation with grace, though I could tell it was not easy. I briefly considered interjecting that the items could be replaced or even repeating that line about how the things we own end up owning us. But in a rare moment of awareness, I checked myself and decided that such comments, particularly at this moment, would not be especially helpful. So, I said little, flashed another smile, and shrank into the background.

As I watched my wife trying to salvage the part of our life I had inadvertently sold, I was struck by how quickly attachment triggered an emotional response in both of us. Over the next few days, I found myself thinking a lot about attachment. Not just to objects, but all the various forms of attachment: to places, people, plans, expectations, and identities.

Clearly, both my wife and I were attached to these items, albeit for different reasons. And that attachment caused an emotional reaction in both of us. My attachment was to the economic value and my reaction was to fight to retain that value. My motivation was simple: save face and “fix” the situation. For my wife, the emotions actually increased her clarity. She also wanted to fight—not so much for the items themselves but for the memories they held—and reacted with something more like calm determination.

It was a bit surreal. Items that we had used and walked past hundreds of times over the past few years and never really noticed, now carried metaphysical weight. Reopening negotiations carried real risk—the real estate market was slowing, and we had been lucky to find a buyer. My instinct was to check our disquiet, chalk it up to a lesson learned, and move on.

We retreated to a local café to talk through the situation. I was primed with my arguments—intending to reason her into equanimity. We took our coffees and pastries to our usual table in the corner. There was a long silence as each of us waited for the other to begin. Eventually, I leaned forward, elbows on the table, ready to impart my wisdom. But her look in that moment made me pause. It was a look I had become more aware of throughout our marriage. It was not angry, disrespectful, or even antagonistic—it was a look that said she had something important to say.

That pause has not come easily to me during our twenty-five years together. Knowing this, my wife grabbed it and calmly reminded me, once again, that value cannot always be measured through the lens of pure economics.

She explained that of course the light fixtures and the coat rack, and even the mirror, could be replaced. If not in their exact form, something close. For a moment I thought we were going to agree and move on, but then she pivoted. She said those new items might be as pleasing aesthetically, maybe even more practical and better quality, but they would lack one essential thing: they wouldn’t carry the memories.

The coat rack wasn’t just a forgotten piece of metal picked up in an antique market in Provence. At our old farm, it lived by the main door, next to the olive jug that held our walking sticks. Our daughters had hung their jackets on it for years. To her, that piece of metal was a reminder of the walks we took as a family in the hills of Provence during our daughters’ most formative years. When she looks at it now—in our current home in a different country—she doesn’t see a functional piece of furniture; she sees something alive.

I took a moment to let this sink in. Of course, she was right—my analytical, problem-solving approach had missed a deeper layer. Again. The truth was that I too felt the same connection, but maybe due to willful blindness or self-preservation, I had pushed it down.

Seeking to lighten the mood, we then shared a laugh about the day we found the giant mirror in question. We had only just moved to London. Our firstborn was eight weeks old. We were overwhelmed. Me in a new job. Her as a new mother. And far from the comfort of family and friends.

Throughout our marriage, we have accumulated the most meaningful items we own in the same way—both of us sensing, often irrationally, that we had to have them. That is what happened with the mirror. We both spotted it at the same time and immediately decided to buy it. It wasn’t practical. We couldn’t really afford it and barely had enough dishes and silverware, much less a table to eat on, but for some reason, we thought it was a good idea to buy a mirror big enough to cover the main wall of our tiny flat.

That story made us both realize what our reactions during the inspection were really about. It was never about the specific items. It was the sudden recognition that a home is not made a “home” by what we attach to the walls. Instead, it unfolds from the life lived inside it—the daily moments that seem so unremarkable while they are happening but become loaded with meaning in hindsight. And of course, these memories are worth fighting for.

We eventually arrived at an agreement. We were allowed to keep the mirror, a small wall light, the pot rack, and one of the light fixtures. But not the coat rack.

It is not ideal. Of course, it is not the end of the world. We are okay. And we will carry those memories with us. But it does sting.

Were we too attached to these items? Should we have mustered some sort of Buddhist sense of non-attachment? Maybe such a posture would have saved us some heartache. But life involves loss, and therefore pain. Remaining completely unattached to everything doesn’t seem all that helpful. Attachment is an essential part of a full life, even when it hurts.

This is what my wife intuitively recognized in the items and why she fought so hard to keep them—not to reclaim the objects themselves but to cling to the memories. It was an important reminder. The transactional rationalist in me can always buy another coat rack. But I cannot buy back the memories.

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I never thought I had it in me to write a book. Finishing it has only deepened my respect for the writers whose words have moved, taught, and sustained me. I am grateful for their dedication and courage.

I began writing exactly a year ago. A screenplay that I had been working on for the better part of 18 months had stalled. I was flailing and not really sure what to do next. Twenty years in finance had taught me to expect constant forward movement. If I wasn’t moving forward, then it meant that I was moving backwards. And that is how it felt. I had left the world of investing a few years earlier to become a writer and thus far, I had very little to show for it.

This book emerged from that space and ultimately seeks to answer the question: “what constitutes a life well lived?”

I am no expert on this question. And when I began writing, I had no idea where it was all going. My goal was simple: to write everyday. That’s it. Soon I found myself writing about stories and experiences that had shaped me—and to make connections to my own life and to the patterns I have observed in others. I don’t want to push the image too far, but at times, I was not even sure where the words and ideas were coming from.

Here is what I wrote about the experience in the conclusion:

When I started writing I had my daughters in mind. The idea was to create a sort of guidebook providing a few signposts along their journey of life. To highlight what I have learned and the mistakes I have made. It was meant to be the sort of guide for life I wish I had been given as I set off to conquer the world. A guide that would have prevented all the flailing and failing I experienced for years and years.

What I discovered, to my surprise, is that the book wasn’t ultimately for anyone else. It was not meant for my daughters, nor my friends, nor for the strangers that might find their way to these pages. It was written for me. I needed to cultivate more of these character traits in my own life. I needed to wrestle with the why and the how in order to make sense of my own experience. It was, ultimately, an act of selfishness. And through it, I discovered my own purpose: to share my experiences in case they might resonate with others.

I have come to see that I am not alone in my search for an answer to the question of how to live well. What I have written is not the answer, but an answer. A map if you will. Ultimately, I would conclude that the book was written for readers who, like me, have begun to suspect that contentment is not something we ultimately achieve, but something discovered while on the path. Maybe it will resonate.

If so, the book is available here: For What It's Worth: In Search of a Good Life (USA) and For What It's Worth: In Search of a Good Life (UK)

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In the past few months, I have shifted my exercise routine to include a walk, a few times a week, through a neighborhood that was once an old farm and is now a housing development. It’s a strange contrast: the area around the old farmhouse is still quite beautiful, surrounded by rolling fields and magnificent hardwood trees, while the newer houses sit among thin, fast-growing evergreens—a feeble attempt to quickly imitate what was there before.

I chose to walk in this place for convenience, rather than beauty. And on most days, I moved through it with a grudging acceptance mixed with a heavy dose of judgment—at the owners of the original farm for selling, and at the builders for building there at all. I tried to counter my negative bias by focusing on the beauty that remained. But until recently, I had failed.

On this day, near the end of my loop, the chatter and judgment suddenly stopped. My attention was mysteriously captured by a grove of Loblolly pines. Despite passing them for months, I felt that I was now seeing them for the first time. They seemed fresh and alive. I noticed the twisting curves of their trunks, shaped by years of wind whipping down from the mountains. I noticed how the limbs majestically stretched toward the sky, providing a much-needed respite for the birds during what was an unusually harsh winter. In short, I noticed their beauty.

For some reason, my mind immediately jumped to the films of cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki. Specifically, his skill of using natural light to tell the story. In order to execute his craft flawlessly, Lubezki must possess something more than mastery of technique and equipment. He needs an ability to see—to truly notice what is right in front of him.

Think about the opening of The Tree of Life. A young girl gazes first out of the window and then outside at the wonder of the “ordinary” world all around her—the sky, a field of sunflowers, a herd of cattle. Through his ability to notice, Lubezki allows the vision of the writer and director to unfold in multiple layers. At the end of the montage, when we finally see the tree, its beauty is enhanced almost spiritually by the soft play of light through the limbs.

Today, attention is often described as something to be harnessed for productivity and achievement. “Energy flows where attention goes” gets repeated as if it were a law of physics. And in my experience, there is something to it: when I can focus my attention toward a specific endeavor, outcomes improve. But attention merely as a tool for productivity has never fully resonated.

When I allow myself to notice more—even Loblolly pines in a housing development—it seems like the blinders are removed. I suddenly notice more beauty all around, even in the simplest of things. And that realization led me to ask how much of life I am actually missing through the narrowing of my focus—either because I am too distracted by my internal monologue, or simply because of my tunnel vision.

In The Creative Act, Rick Rubin writes, “Awareness is not a state you force… it’s something you actively allow.” I love that description. It seems so easy, but in my experience, it can be difficult to implement mainly because it requires behavioral change. Such change, for me, often leads to tension, frustration, and ultimately giving up before the desired outcome has had time to take hold. But Rubin is suggesting something quite manageable and sustainable. What we might call a detached noticing—simply letting what we are seeing reveal itself before we rush to define it, grab it, or even interpret it.

I wrote about meditation in an earlier essay. One of the biggest benefits for me has been an increased ability to notice my own thoughts, emotions, fears, and anxieties. They haven’t dissolved into some blissful transcendence. But their ability to hijack my awareness has certainly decreased. Yet, as my walk revealed, the process is uneven. I have become better at noticing when my attention has drifted, but I still frequently move through life as if half-asleep. But maybe that is okay.

Perfection was never the goal. My goal is more modest: to simply notice more—maybe five percent more. Certainly, I want to continue to notice what has hijacked my attention, especially when I narrow awareness down to complaints, judgments, plans, rehearsals, and fears and call that “reality.” But this experience has motivated me to go further and notice more beauty, more insights, and more connections.

For months, I moved past those pines with my attention rooted in what I thought was wrong with this place. Now I realize how much I missed—and not just in that neighborhood. The power of awareness actually widens my reality—and when it does, the world suddenly expands without really changing.

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On a recent trip to London, I found myself walking through Hyde Park alone and at night. As the ever-present sounds of the city faded and darkness enveloped me, I welcomed the quiet. But at some point, I realized that I was in the middle of the park, completely alone, and in a section without any lights—far removed from “civilization.” Suddenly, the quiet was no longer welcome and a strange, rare feeling swept over me: fear.

It didn’t take long to realize that my idea of a night walk through the park was not so brilliant after all. A sensation, more like a creeping anxiety than a debilitating fear, took hold. All my senses were heightened. I became aware of the wind, the darkness, the thumping of my heart, and, in the distance, the steady hum of London traffic.

As I processed my situation, a squirrel, or maybe it was a fox, dashed through the leaves to my right. I was startled back to reality and quickly scanned for lights. I determined the most direct route toward safety and set off.

My reaction might seem completely normal, even easy—I recognized a threatening situation and acted. But in the moment, it didn’t feel easy. The only way out was forward. Yet my legs suddenly felt like lead. I was in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, surrounded by millions of people, but completely alone. I was afraid, but I had to move anyway.

Maybe as a way to cope or simply to distract myself, I began to think about other instances in my life when I had been afraid. For some reason, my experiences on the tennis court sprang to mind—especially those moments in big matches when there seemed to be a lot on the line.

Tennis is one of those rare sports where nearly everything rides on the individual player’s shoulders. Alone on the court, the player must settle their nerves, trust their training, and execute. It is a lonely and difficult place, which may be why commentators often describe the great players as fearless. But I don’t think that’s the right description. It is not fearlessness that sets them apart but their ability to act. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to move despite it.

The fear I felt in Hyde Park was obviously not the same as the fear I felt in tennis. The source was similar, but a playing a sport is thankfully less existential. Still, both involved confronting an uncertainty that I could not fully manage.

If I had found myself walking alone in the park during the day, I would not have felt any fear. The ability to “see” makes all the difference—providing at least the illusion of control. But that night, I could only see about ten feet in front of me. I had no way of knowing what lay ahead. I was subject to circumstances beyond my control, and that was unsettling.

When I played on the junior circuit and at university, the players who really shone were those who leaned into the big moments. I dreaded them, but these players seemed to thrive on them. They were best in the big moments and played with an enviable freedom. It was a lesson that has stayed with me.

Whenever I have pushed through my own fears, whether in life or on the court, even in small ways, growth has occurred. It was rarely easy, and it didn’t always result in a “win.” Inevitably, there was a moment of panic—when I wanted to turn back and take the easier path. Certainly, that night in Hyde Park, my instinct was to sprint with all my might for the lights.

But in that moment, when I remembered the other times when I had pushed through my fear, something shifted. It was barely noticeable—a sudden clarity. A clarity that allowed me to exhale and gather my wits. Then, despite my fear and anxiety, I was able to take a small step. And another. And before long I was moving resolutely in the direction of my goal.

Maybe movement is the first step toward overcoming our fears. In my experience, navigating difficult situations has not been made possible through talent, strength, or intellect alone, but the willingness to move forward despite my fear.

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A few years ago, I met someone who would probably be called a psychic. I have historically distrusted claims of special ‘powers’ of sight, yet she proved uncannily accurate, including her comments about the chronic pain in my neck. She linked it to resentment, called me stiff-necked and inflexible, and advised me to let go. To relax. To be more flexible.

Outside of the odd bit of stretching before I played a game of tennis or went for a run, I never thought much about flexibility. And I certainly didn’t think of it as a ‘way of being’ to be intentionally cultivated. Sure, I had heard certain people described as ‘flexible,’ but in my mind, that was an intrinsic state—some people were predisposed to be flexible while others, like me, were inflexible. It was certainly not something to be pursued or even opposed.

Despite this woman’s surprising insights in multiple areas of my life, I forgot her words within days. But recently, I found myself thinking about them again; specifically, her counsel to be more flexible. And as these things often do, the trigger arose from the most mundane of places: my daily coffee routine.

Routine is the operative word. I was a purist, not a capsule-popping, machine-loving, drown-it-in-milk-and-sugar type. My coffee was a ritual: organic beans, hand-ground; a cloth filter; a hand-blown carafe; filtered water heated to exactly 96 degrees; a three-minute pour-over—the aroma filling the entire kitchen. Most mornings, it was the ritual—not the caffeine—that pulled me out of bed.

But the strangest thing happened about six weeks ago. The ritual stayed the same, yet suddenly, after thirty years, the coffee tasted bitter—flat and metallic, like it was burnt. I could barely stomach it. I tried to problem-solve. I adjusted ratios, the water temperature, and the beans. But nothing worked. Literally overnight, my daily ritual was completely upended.

I did some research and discovered that this spontaneous aversion was not unusual. It had something to do with taste buds evolving with age, and years of drinking too much coffee. Apparently, there was nothing I could do. A physiological shift that couldn’t be reversed or mitigated.

Calling it an ‘existential’ problem might seem extreme, but that is how it felt. It was not just the caffeine I needed and loved. It was the entire process and how it grounded me: using my special mug, sitting in my favorite chair, and letting my mind wander first thing in the morning. It was a meditation. An essential start to the day. Coffee had been my constant companion for most of my life, or at least the ritual was, and now it was gone.

I mourned. I sulked. I complained. Eventually, I bit the bullet and committed what to me was the eighth deadly sin: I added a splash of oat milk. And the result? I loved it. I had to slow myself down so as not to drink it too quickly. I thought to myself—how could I have been so blind for so long? My inflexibility and preconceived biases had prevented me from seeing an alternative that was even more enjoyable.

I began to notice other small but meaningful examples in adjacent areas of life—examples where my inflexibility was causing unnecessary tension. And I made adjustments. For example, where I used to pile obligation after obligation, I began to introduce intentional gaps in my daily schedule. I took different routes on my daily commute. I adjusted my exercise routine. They were small, unremarkable, almost imperceptible shifts, but the result was interesting.

I have now come to approach my routines, habits, and rituals the way painters such as Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, or Pablo Picasso evolved over time. They knew the rules. They were experts in form and craft. But when they allowed themselves to be less rigid, to paint outside the lines, something new began to emerge. They did not abandon their craft altogether; they simply loosened their grip on a certain style once it no longer served.

When that woman first suggested that I should be more flexible, I resisted—mainly because I assumed such a shift would require a big change. Maybe it was just an excuse. Or laziness. Or inflexibility. Whatever the reason, it was my loss.

Years later, the neck pain is still there, and at times I still feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. But I am more flexible. I smile more, sleep better, and am calmer—more at ease. I am not quite ready to let go completely and ‘go with the flow,’ but I am far more open to it than I was. All it required was more awareness: noticing which way the wind was blowing and adjusting my sail, even slightly.

I got my mornings back with one small act of flexibility: oat milk in coffee. Who knew?

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Warren Buffett once remarked, “inactivity strikes us as intelligent behavior.” It is a remarkable statement from one of the most successful investors of all time. Charlie Munger, Buffett’s right-hand man, put it more bluntly: “People are too fidgety. They want to do something all the time. They don’t want to just sit on their asses and do nothing.”

Most of us believe that investing success requires ceaseless activity, a view reinforced by recent shows like Industry. But this fixation on constant motion is not limited to finance. Across business, the arts, education, and even the nonprofit world, the modern formula equates success with visible and continuous movement.

What Buffett calls “inactivity” might be what many of us call “boredom”: a pause in stimulation that produces discomfort because it lacks momentum. Boredom is not apathy or depression, but a distinct mental state—an unpleasant lack of stimulation that creates a craving for relief. We treat it as a problem to be solved or avoided. Yet, according to one of the most successful businessmen in history, inactivity is not a flaw—it is a discipline to be cultivated.

From a young age, I was enamored by Buffett and Munger not just as investors but as thinkers. One tangible principle that stood out and reinforced this idea of conscious inactivity was Buffett’s suggestion that investors imagine they have a lifetime limit of twenty investments. Over an average career, that works out to about one decision every two-and-a-half years. Contrast this with today’s environment, where many investors make twenty decisions before lunch.

In practice, this approach is nearly impossible to enact in conventional money management. I have seen it work only among the independently wealthy or those managing family offices. It is also uncomfortable, and often impractical, in most professional settings.

And yet, this pattern—long stretches of inactivity—especially among overachievers, appears with surprising consistency. One of my favorite examples is Daniel Day-Lewis, widely considered one of the greatest actors of all time. Over a fifty-five-year career, he has appeared in just twenty films.

Today, we treat boredom—or inactivity—as something to be avoided at all costs. Even when we “rest,” we rarely stop “doing.” We allow ourselves a holiday, but we bring a stack of books and often remain “connected” through our phones. Even our downtime has an agenda. If we go for a walk, it needs to count as exercise. If we slow down, we listen to a podcast, so that we are still “learning.”

For me, the inability to embrace boredom emerges from the discomfort it yields—both internal and external. Even if I can allow myself to be unproductive, I don’t want others to perceive me as such. But I have come to see that this discomfort, or maybe even fear, is detrimental. The great 17th-century mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal once wrote that all of humanity’s problems stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room. That state of non-doing is uncomfortable largely because of what it produces: our thoughts.

In 2014, a paper published in Science described an experiment in which participants were left alone in a room for fifteen minutes with nothing to do. A surprising number—particularly men—chose to administer small electric shocks to themselves rather than sit with their thoughts.

I was struck recently by a podcast in which Novak Djokovic said, “being bored is good.” He described how after a morning full of activity, his ten-year-old son announced that he was bored. Djokovic responded by telling his son that boredom was okay and that it did not need to be solved immediately with a screen or a book—it was important to learn how to sit with his thoughts. His comment was revealing. Not because it was novel, but because it was ancient.

Djokovic was echoing a truth articulated by everyone from Aristotle and the Stoics to Pascal, Montaigne, and more recently Schopenhauer, Camus, and Arendt: boredom—or inactivity—is not something to avoid, or even tolerate; rather, it is essential to human flourishing.

Like Buffett, Djokovic was pointing toward intentional non-doing as a skill to be cultivated. A state that can lead to greater creativity and awareness. If one of humanity’s enduring mandates is to “know thyself,” then periods of inactivity are not optional—they are required.

At first glance, this idea feels like an excuse for laziness. On reflection, I’ve come to see that intentional inactivity requires quite a bit of effort. It is not passivity, but what might be called disciplined stillness.

Buffett and Munger’s inactivity was not doing nothing. It was an active cultivation of clarity. By setting aside urgency and tolerating under-stimulation, they were able to see the big picture. And this broad view allowed them to make a handful of significant decisions that drove most of Berkshire Hathaway’s success—over six decades, the company’s fortunes were driven by ten major investments. One every six years. As Munger put it, “The big money is not in the buying and selling, but in the waiting.”

One of the most successful entrepreneurs I’ve known once told me that during the decade of his greatest professional success, he made only four major decisions. And all four were made during the summer months he spent on his boat—outside the office, away from employees and advisors—often while “just sitting and staring at the sky.”

Perhaps had I applied Buffett’s advice when I worked in finance, I would have been a better investor. Either way, I think it’s worth an experiment: fifteen minutes a week with no agenda, no phone, no escape. Maybe nothing happens. Or maybe clarity emerges.

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In the last week, I have watched two documentary films: one about Sean “Diddy” Combs and the other about the actor, Eddie Murphy. The contrast between these two men was stark. Both have achieved incredible success. And yet Combs’ life, at least to me, seemed completely hollow—a tragedy. While Murphy’s life seemed like a triumph.

I have always been fascinated by the question: what constitutes a “good” life. By good, I typically meant successful—defined as having wealth, reputation, and relevance. And certainly, both of these men qualify on those metrics. For years, I assumed there were two basic paths to achievement: luck, or the sort of effort that tried to manufacture that luck.

Thankfully, my definition of success has evolved. It seems to me that a truly successful life can include wealth, reputation, and relevance, but it certainly will include something more, something we might call contentment. More than just happiness—a way of being that replaces striving with sufficiency.

As I reflected on the lives of these two men, the idea of a third path arose: authenticity. I don’t mean the traditional definition of authenticity which is usually summarized as being true to oneself. Of course, it is that, but I believe it is also living lives of outward purpose. And by outward purpose, I mean that authenticity expresses itself externally—relationships, responsibilities, contributions—which then anchors our identity in something larger.

The light bulb moment for me was a comment Murphy made in the documentary about how he achieved his phenomenal success. He said that he was never one of those people frantically rowing a boat toward achievement. Rather, he simply cruised through his life as if on a sailboat, and from time to time, he would adjust the sail in order to allow the breeze to carry him.

I couldn’t shake that image. He wasn’t saying that there was no effort—he adjusted the sail from time to time, but it was what might be called coordinated effort. Or effort with ease. The boat was already moving. He just had to be aware enough to recognize the breeze. It was an enviable approach to life, but how, in practice, does one get to a place where we can allow the breeze to carry us? It seems too easy. Too convenient. Slightly irresponsible. A pipedream from someone out of touch with real life.

And as I began to think about it more, other individuals who I have admired—Warren Buffett, Chris Martin, and Jamie Oliver—popped into my head. These individuals share the same authenticity I recognized in Murphy. Effort combined with awareness and an outward orientation. Suddenly, a pattern emerged: self-awareness giving rise to a stable identity; a stable identity leading to goals which are grounded and sustainable; and sustainable goals breaking the shackles of ego-driven striving and opening the door to contentment.

Through that framework, authenticity becomes not merely a character trait to cultivate, but a reliable indicator of the trajectory of life. How? One way is that it improves our decision-making in the same way a seasoned sailor reads the wind—we develop a stable inner compass that allows us to recognize when to lean into the breeze and when to hold back.

When asked why he thought his life did not implode like so many of his peers, Murphy attributed it to both loving himself and having a clear sense of purpose from a young age. In other words, self-awareness. And the outward focus of his purpose was key: to bring joy to people. His purpose was not to become famous, wealthy, or beloved; that simply happened as a natural result of pursuing his purpose.

Combs also possesses incredible talent. And by all accounts, he too was self-aware as a kid. But the purpose he set for himself was to become wealthy, famous, and relevant. These were inward-facing goals. Goals that did not anchor him to anything stable or relational, and left his identity entirely dependent on ever-expanding achievement, no matter the cost.

Using only the traditional definition of authenticity, one might argue both men were “authentic.” I don’t think that argument holds. When I study people who embody holistic success, the common characteristic is authenticity giving form through outward purpose. A person can “be themselves” while also being completely self-absorbed, aimless, and full of misaligned goals. In other words, inauthentic.

If our focus is to acquire certain outcomes, our identities will naturally be shaped to fit those pursuits. And success will require continual reinforcement. However, when our focus is to express our identities through aligned action—to be authentic—outcomes happen as a natural side effect of that aligned behavior. Ultimately, as the Murphy documentary reveals, it leads to lives of meaning that supersede external achievement.

In my own life, I have experienced tangible benefits from embracing my own version of authenticity. For example, when I first began to write, I was hyperaware of the reactions of any potential readers, especially those who know me well. That hyperawareness reduced the authenticity of my writing; it became performative rather than sincere. About eight months ago, I decided to reframe my goal. I would write in order to grow personally and without worrying about potential reactions—good or bad. The result: the output, impact, and flow of my writing has increased exponentially.

I have a friend who is the assistant tennis coach of one of the top university tennis programs in the U.S. In the past few years, he has shepherded three players to the pro tour, including one currently in the top 30. He has fielded multiple offers to coach full-time on the tour. But he has resisted. Why? His self-awareness led him to two main goals: to help these young men become excellent tennis players and good human beings, and to be a great husband and father. To join the tour would mean leaving his current sphere of influence, tying himself to only one player, and traveling over forty weeks a year. A lifestyle incongruous with both goals.

That is not to say that, by being authentic, we are guaranteed to obtain material wealth and recognition. And obviously, material success can arise through other means. But if we are talking about a more holistic success defined by contentment, I do think authenticity is the key. There is a reason why people like Warren Buffett, Chris Martin, and Jamie Oliver say that they would be investing, singing, and cooking even if they never achieved fame or recognition.

If authenticity is the engine of a meaningful life, then the natural question is how to cultivate it. First, spend some time cultivating self-awareness. Second, look for where your talents might be used outwardly. Third, cultivate coherence. And then, remember Murphy’s analogy and get on the sailboat and ride. When an opportunity appears on the horizon, adjust the sail to catch the breeze.

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As a kid, I can remember times when the adults in my life would stare at me wistfully, usually after I had made some daft decision, and say, “If only I had known then what I know now.” I wasn’t quite sure if they were insulting me or merely pining over their lost youth—or both—but I did implicitly understand that they believed the young lacked a certain type of wisdom.

We are obsessed with acquiring knowledge. The idea being if, and when, we acquire enough of it, we will finally figure out how to live our best lives. There is more information at our fingertips than at any other time in history, but I am not sure that translates into more wisdom.

The famed investor Charlie Munger once quipped, “All I want to know is where I’m going to die so I’ll never go there.” Munger, known for his no-nonsense wisdom, captures the irony of our situation: we have a lot of knowledge, but that knowledge doesn’t necessarily yield wisdom.

I recently went on a walk with a new acquaintance. We spent our time recounting our biographies, as often happens when you’re getting to know someone. It was fascinating to notice what each of us emphasized and what we left out. As we spoke, it became clear that we had both arrived at this moment almost in spite of all our planning and efforts.

Details such as where we went to school, our GPAs, family circumstances, and even our successes were strangely irrelevant. What stood out were the unplanned, unexpected moments that led us down paths we could never have anticipated. This idea is hardly new. Countless books, TV shows, and films have explored it. I call it the Sliding Doors effect, after the 1998 film: those moments that shift the direction of our lives without warning.

And yet, despite knowing this pattern, most of us spend hours worrying, planning, fretting, and accumulating more knowledge in an attempt to answer, “How should we live?” I am certainly guilty of this impulse. In my own life, I confront my fear of the unknown with obsessive planning, anticipation, and strategy—my incessant activity providing me with the illusion of control. It is only recently that I realized most of the truly meaningful moments in my life were not planned, anticipated, or strategized. They simply happened.

“Letting go” has become a cliché, and that is unfortunate. Most of us know people who live their lives with an enviable freedom. I often resent the ease with which they seemingly sail through life, and I have come to recognize that my resentment stems from the realization that their lives are, in fact, enviable. Much of the beauty of life lies in its unplanned unfolding: those rare, surprising moments that take our breath away. And unlike me, these individuals don’t miss those moments because they are too wrapped up in their heads.

Rick Rubin, in The Creative Act, meditates brilliantly on the importance of letting go a bit more. In one place he says, “Most variables are completely out of our control. The only ones we can control are doing our best work, sharing it, starting the next, and not looking back.” It is this balance that I am trying to cultivate: to lean into what I can control—my effort, time management, daily habits, and even my ability to recognize opportunities—while creating more space for the unexpected.

So, am I saying that we should all throw out our plans and let life unfold entirely on its own? For some, that might be a healthy corrective at least for a time. However, for most of us, the lesson is more subtle: to loosen the reins slightly and notice what arises when we actually “let go.”

As I practice this approach in my own life, I have noticed real benefits. I wake up more rested. The perpetual tension in my shoulders has nearly disappeared. I have more time for the people in my life. I am more attuned to what is happening around me. Unsurprisingly, as I have reduced the time spent in my head, I have found space. But what has been surprising is how that space has yielded more clarity, calm, productivity, and an effortless sense of flow.

Maybe this is the wisdom the adults from my youth were lamenting: the ability to pause the endless quest for more knowledge and observe life as it unfolds. To stop worrying about what lies outside our control. And to see beauty in the unfolding. Then again, maybe they were insulting me.

In any case, it might be an enlightening exercise to consider how much of your own trajectory was unplanned or unexpected. And then, as you consider the future, rather than bracing, loosen your grip, if only a bit. Not irresponsibly, but with awareness and humility. You never know where it might lead.

This past summer, my family and I returned to Provence five years after selling our beloved olive farm. It was meant to be a holiday, but I suspected that we were all seeking either closure or confirmation.

The last time I had set foot here I was a different person — dividing my time between London and Provence, working in finance, and thoroughly embracing all the trappings of that life. Now, I live in a small town in America and write in obscurity. It’s a shift that still surprises me. And during these past five years, much of the scaffolding of life that by my age should have been secure, had slowly unraveled. On top of the emotions surrounding this “homecoming”, I was also feeling fragile, anxious, and uncertain.

We rented a house on “the other side of the mountain” – in a part of Provence where we had not spent much time. This was the “posh” Provence. The Provence of the movies. The Provence of Peter Mayle. Beautiful, with its quaint villages and manicured fields, and this time of year, heaving with tourists.

I had just finished the 1^st draft of my book and was looking forward to some time to decompress. I was determined to let go of schedules and obligations. No plans. No agendas. No quick re-reads of the draft. I would just allow every day to emerge with its own unique rhythm.

On our second day, we decided to go exploring. We needed to get away from the crowds. With uncharacteristic boldness, we threw out the maps, cranked up the music, and just followed the road – a long, winding road – that took us into a wild and uncharted landscape we had no idea existed.

At some point, we ended up in Sault, near the summit of Mount Ventoux. This is the Tour de France part of Provence where amateur cyclists abound. We stopped to stretch our legs and noticed a market in the village center. It was clearly intended for tourists and since we were now, in fact, tourists, we decided to take a look.

There were maybe ten stalls – most hawking antiques that had seen better days. I quickly lost interest and wandered over to a bench at the edge of the square. As I passed the last stall, I immediately felt an unmistakable pull. A force that literally made me stop dead in my tracks. It was not an audible voice that said, “stop!”, but it was close. Really close. I tried to ignore the sensation, but it only grew louder.

I glanced over at the table. It was littered with “tat” – a random collection of things once cherished and now forgotten. But amidst the chaos, my eye was drawn to two small statuettes. And when I say “drawn”, I mean it. It was like they had some supernatural glow that made them stand out from the rest. One was the Budai, or the Laughing Buddha, and the other was a Buddha in Abhaya Mudra.

I vaguely recognized the mudra, but I could not recall its meaning. And I had absolutely no context for the “laughing buddha”. It reminded me of something I once saw in a Chinese restaurant in a strip mall. Why I felt drawn to these two statues was beyond me. Neither was particularly stunning or memorable. In fact, they were both caked with dust and their features worn with age. But the sensation was unmistakable. I knew they were meant for me.

I bought them. And as the woman behind the table handed them over, with what I could have sworn was a wink and a smile, the sensation was immediate: immense calm and utter joy. I was astonished. Beyond astonished, almost terrified by the intensity and suddenness of it all.

At that moment, I somehow knew, without a shadow of doubt, that these statues contained a specific message. A message meant for me. A message for this very moment. Nothing, and I mean nothing, like this had ever happened in my life. It was what the mystics of old might call an experience of the divine.

When we returned to our house, I discovered that the Budai represents joy, abundance, childlike play, and contentment. And in his sack he brings sufficiency while carrying away troubles. The Abhaya Mudra means fearlessness and protection. Taken together their message was something like, “Relax. Let go of your fear and worry. Everything will be fine. Laugh, sing, and play because you are protected.”

The trip ended up being one of the most significant we had ever taken as a family. We were all engaged, relaxed, light, and happy. It was a gift. And I am certain that my “finding” the Two Buddhas on Mount Ventoux had something to do with at least my own rhythm during that week. I went from being anxious and uncertain to being seen, heard, and protected. It was a monumental experience.

The statues now sit on my desk and stare at me as I write. I can’t say that my anxiety and uncertainty have completely dissipated. But whenever I see them and recall this experience, my shoulders immediately drop, my breath slows, and for a moment I feel what some might call contentment.

Some believe icons such as these contain real power and maybe they do. However, for me, their power rests in their message. A message of hope. A message of faith. A message that courage and contentment go hand-in-hand. A message that support is ever-present and often arrives in the unlikeliest of places.