Everyone You Know Deserves to Be Remembered

It’s said that over a lifetime, we meet no more than 4,000 people—of whom only about 400 become truly familiar, and fewer than 40 stay vividly in our minds.

So the fact that I’ve met you, grown familiar with you, and remember you—it’s not trivial. It’s rare.

Humans are social beings. As Marx put it, “The essence of man is the totality of social relations.” Relationships give our lives meaning; pure individualism, stripped of connection, is hollow.

That’s why solitary confinement is among the cruelest punishments: it severs all relational ties. Total isolation isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s existentially terrifying.

So cherish every relationship around you.

One of writing’s greatest gifts is the chance—to quietly, deliberately—record the stories of those familiar people. To preserve the relationships themselves.

Every person who knows you well has shaped your life, whether by lifting you up or pushing you down. Either way, gratitude is appropriate. Their presence—flawed, inconsistent, human—helps you understand yourself more deeply.

Lately, I’ve been rereading old notes about people I’ve written about years ago. Rereading those stories, I’m struck anew: they’re not just memories—they’re irreplaceable assets.

I believe every familiar person deserves to be recorded—not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’ve become part of you.

Filtering Bad Advice with the “By What Authority?” Mindset

We’re constantly offered advice—from parents, friends, colleagues, even strangers. Some is sound. Most isn’t. And that’s not because the givers are ill-intentioned. In fact, most people offering advice do care—and genuinely want what’s best for you, at least in that moment.

But without a clear filter, we get overwhelmed—or worse, misled.

Two common pitfalls:

Familiarity bias: With people we know well—especially family—we see their flaws so clearly that we dismiss their wisdom outright. Example: automatically tuning out parental advice because “they’re not experts,” while ignoring that they may have decades of lived experience in areas where your peers have none.
Emotional hijacking: We accept advice not because it’s wise, but because it feels good—like when a friend validates your anger and urges rash action (“Dump him!”), giving instant emotional relief but zero long-term value.

So how do we cut through the noise? Try the “By what authority?” mindset.

Before accepting any advice—whether from your mother, your partner, or your barista—ask bluntly: By what authority does this person speak on this matter? Are they an expert? Have they succeeded here before? Do they have relevant, proven results?

If the answer is “none”—then the advice is likely noise. Let it pass through one ear and out the other.

I once applied this to my own marriage pressure. When my mom repeated anxious warnings from her friends, I asked her directly: “What’s the track record of the people giving that advice? Are their marriages stable? Are their families thriving?” She paused—and stopped pushing.

Our attention and energy are finite. This simple question saves both. And it’s humbling: before offering advice ourselves, we should ask “By what authority?” first.

In my experience, truly wise people—seasoned elders, domain experts, thoughtful practitioners, founders who’ve built real things—tend to speak sparingly. When they do, it’s usually worth hearing.

Doing What’s Right and Simple

For a while, “hard but right” was everywhere—a mantra for grit, sacrifice, noble struggle. But taken literally, it easily becomes an excuse: “Of course I’m failing—I’m doing something hard and right.”

I once had a curriculum designer who kept invoking this phrase to justify convoluted plans. I bristled. Does “hard” mean needlessly complex? Does “right” equal self-congratulatory idealism?

I prefer a different framing: Do what’s right and simple.

“Right” is strategic—it means aligned with long-term value, not short-term gain. Reading, for example, compounds quietly over decades. That makes it right.

“Simple” is tactical—it means finding the easiest sustainable path to that long-term outcome. For reading, that might mean “one page before bed, no exceptions.” For writing? A daily 10-minute journal—no rules, no polish. I call it “Start writing = benefit gained.” No friction. No guilt. Just showing up.

Note the order: First, choose what’s right. Then, engineer simplicity around it. Sun Tzu wrote, “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war.” Same logic.

Take entrepreneurship: If you believe (based on evidence and reflection) that building something of your own offers deeper growth, greater freedom, and stronger returns than salaried work—and if your temperament suits it—then entrepreneurship is right for you.

Then pursue simplicity: Start with the leanest possible product. Serve the narrowest audience. Optimize each step for clarity and execution—not cleverness. Iterate relentlessly on that simple model. Let complexity emerge only when it serves purpose—not pride.

“Right and simple” isn’t naive. It’s pragmatic. It’s kinder to humans. And for most of us, it’s the only path that reliably works.

A Few Principles for Selling Courses (That Apply to Any Offering)

These aren’t just for educators—they’re universal truths about human decision-making:

Selling a course means selling yourself. So know yourself—deeply, honestly, continually.
People don’t buy courses. They buy hope: the expectation of change, growth, or relief. The course is merely the vehicle.
At the moment of purchase, two thoughts compete in the buyer’s mind: “This solves my problem” and “This unlocks my future.” Your messaging must address both.
There’s no such thing as a “product.” What people buy is a solution to a problem they feel.
Trust—and purchase—rests on three pillars: recognition (“You get me”), differentiation (“You’re not like the rest”), and demonstrated ability (“You’ve done this before”).
Five forces drive persuasion: competence, credibility, vision, relevance, and insight.
Every course has a core value proposition. Can you state—in one clear sentence—what changes for the customer after working with you?
A great teacher is, by nature, a great salesperson—not because they’re slick, but because they communicate conviction and care.
Forget scripts. Forget “techniques.” Ask instead: What would I say to this parent if I were speaking from my heart—not to sell, but to help?
Drop the role. You’re not “selling a course.” You’re offering a lifeline. Or a key. Or a compass.

“When a person dies, it’s like water vanishing into water.”

Yesterday, over lunch, a friend and I talked about death—an awkward, tender subject.

It began with his family member’s sudden illness and hospitalization. In that context, life felt startlingly fragile.

He shared a line that stopped me cold: “When a person dies, it’s like water vanishing into water.”

It’s from Jorge Luis Borges—the Argentine literary giant.

From this angle, life isn’t a flame to be guarded, but a ripple on water’s surface—brief, beautiful, destined to dissolve back into the whole. Not erased. Rejoined.

That image doesn’t erase grief—but it softens fear. It adds quiet romance to mortality. Even, sometimes, a gentle anticipation.

Life Is Like Building with Blocks

Imagine your life as a game of blocks. Every hour, you receive one new block. Live to 80? You’ll collect roughly 700,000 blocks.

Yet no two towers look alike. Some rise tall and precise—pyramids built by focus: one field, one craft, one relentless point of mastery. These are the artisans, the scientists, the lifelong specialists.

Others design gardens—thoughtful, varied, harmonious. They place each block with intention, balancing color, texture, light.

Most of us, though? We stack hurriedly—or scatter blocks across the floor—never quite finishing anything.

If what we leave behind is a small gift to the universe, I hope mine is beautiful.