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.

Moral priorities: ‘If we free the slaves, who will pick the cotton?’
Girl to mom after parents fight: ‘Mom, is this what love will be?’
Illegal bribes mean a politician is corrupt, but the legal things he does are just as immoral
If you accept that you’re a fool, being wrong is a lot less scary
Nothing new here: Russell Brand pushing same old socialist idiocy
THE McELROY ZOO: Meet Lucy, the dog who used to live on a chain
Love & Hope — Episode 2:
Maybe it’s easier to do hard things when nobody says they’re difficult
In a cold and disconnected world, it’s very simple to fake happiness