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.

‘Metaverse’ future seems easy, but humans thrive on challenge
I accept others’ amateur media, but I expect myself to be a pro
Do you believe you’re free? Slavery by any other name is still slavery
I feel despair about evil tonight, but my cats offer some comfort
Dishonesty runs rampant when partisanship matters more than truth
Actions more important than words when judging what someone wants
The Alien Observer podcast heads to Planet Earth in weeks to come