David McElroy

I was the only patient left in the clinic. The receptionist and a nurse had nothing to do, so we had a great conversation for about 15 minutes. We talked about dogs and cats. We talked about families and relationships. We talked about what was important in life.

Finally, one of the young women asked me what I do for a living. I joked that I still haven’t decided what to do when I grow up, but I explained the different career paths I’ve taken over the years.

“I know exactly what you need to do,” said one of them.

“You need to become a therapist,” said the second. The first said that’s what she was thinking, too. Each seemed surprised that the other had come up with the same thing, especially since neither had met me before.

They made some flattering comments about why they thought I would make an effective therapist. I told them I had once considered it, but that I was far too lazy to go back to school for the training.

“I don’t know why I know this, but I just know you’re really trustworthy,” one of them said. “You just told me something about myself that I had never realized until you said it. That’s worth something to a lot of people.”

I appreciated their comments and I walked out of the office with a smile on my face. As I drove away, I couldn’t help but think about how often I’ve had similar conversations. Why does this keep coming up?

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I’ve always thought I had plenty of time.

No matter what happened to me, I had plenty of time to change things. I had plenty of time to try again. Plenty of time to fix my mistakes.

When I became managing editor of a small daily newspaper while I was still just 21 years old, I thought I was way ahead of schedule. I had plenty of time and I was going to live up to my potential. I was going to do great things.

When I started my own newspaper company in my late 20s, I was pleased with myself. But then my company failed by the time I was 30. But I still had plenty of time.

When I became a political consultant a few years later, I thought I was finally on track. Surely this was where I would make my mark. I was going to be someone important.

Politics led to a high income, but nothing of importance. I wasted 20 years. I ended up divorced. I had nothing to show for my life yet. But I still had plenty of time.

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When I die, nobody is going to care what I did with my life.

They’re not going to care about the achievements I was once so proud of. They’re not going to remember the talent that once impressed me so much about myself. Nobody is going to know or care what my IQ was.

The only thing people will remember about me — if they remember anything at all — is how I’ve made them feel. The only way I’m going to matter to others is if I’ve somehow shown genuine love to them or helped them find meaning in their own lives.

I’ve recently realized that I’ve had it all wrong for a long time. I’ve been letting my ego get in the way of being the person I need to be. I understand how that happened — and I’ll tell you about that in a minute — but the bottom line is that I’ve been chasing the wrong things.

I’ve wanted to be a star. I’ve wanted to be important. I craved the feeling of mattering to others, so I’ve unconsciously pursued a kind of success that would matter only to the wounded heart of my hidden inner child.

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