I love writing Wealth & Fulfillment. Thank you for reading, commenting, sharing posts with others, and joining me on this journey.

I’m going to take a summer break during July and August.

Sometimes the best way for me to keep my writing fresh is to step away for a while, spend time with family, travel, read, reflect, and simply live the experiences that eventually find their way onto the page.

I’ll be back with new posts the day after Labor Day, Tuesday, September 8.

I already have a growing list of ideas, and I look forward to sharing them with you.

Enjoy your summer!

Until our next conversation,

David

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My children earn less than I did at their age. That trend is likely to continue.

My daughter is a human resource specialist, and my son is a teacher. Compared to how I lived in my 30s, they occupy smaller houses, vacation closer to home, fly coach rather than first class, drive Hondas instead of Lexuses, and send their children to public rather than private school.

The American Dream is built upon progress. Each generation is supposed to do better than the one before. Are my children moving backward?

Money was a big plus in my life. As a successful entrepreneur, I built a meaningful financial cushion for my family. When the economy turned sour or the market swooned and my income dropped, I knew we could survive tough times.

Money helped me build a better life. But my money-first focus came with a cost.

My relationships suffered. My first marriage ended. It took a crisis for me to wake up to my emotional struggles and I started seeing a therapist. He helped me learn to become more present, vulnerable and emotionally healthy. Much of what I write about in Wealth & Fulfillment traces back to that work.

I wonder if my ex-wife and kids sometimes felt like my business mattered more to me than they did. I wouldn’t blame them. Even when I was home in those days, my mind was often somewhere else, thinking about work.

I often felt lonely. Success can be strangely isolating. I cared deeply about my colleagues, and many cared about me. But I was the boss, the power dynamic was uneven, and there were parts of my life I could not share.

My inner life became lopsided. My spirituality withered. I spent enormous energy building business skills and financial success, and far too little learning how to be a better husband, father, and friend.

All of this leaves me wondering: Are my children making wiser choices because they saw the cost of my financial success?

When we become adults, most of us quietly audit our parents’ lives. We ask: What do I want to emulate? What do I want to do differently?

My children are bright. They saw how money benefited our family. The security. The opportunities. The ability to get help when life became hard.

But they also saw the cost. A distracted father. A failed marriage. Not enough joy and fun.

My children have chosen to live differently.

They work hard, but work does not consume them. They spend more time with their spouses and children. Their friendships seem deeper. There is more playfulness in their lives. I admire that.

I continue to believe that money matters. I never worried about whether I could provide for my family. Money gave me options. It helped me care for my physical and emotional health. It allowed me to be generous with family, friends, and community. Those are not small matters.

But once we have enough to meet our needs and many of our wants, maybe the question transforms from how much more can I accumulate to what kind of a life am I building?

I leave it to my children to decide whether they are moving forward or backward in terms of generational progress.

But from where I sit, they may be living richer lives with less money.

And I could not be prouder.

Until our next conversation.

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. What do you admire about the way your parents lived? What did you decide to do differently?

2. If your children copied the way you lived, how would you feel?

3. What is your definition of a successful life? What part does money play in this equation?

4. What did success cost you? Was the trade-off worth it? Knowing what you know now, would you have made different life choices when you were younger?

5. Consider having an honest conversation with your adult children and really listen to their answers. Ask them: What do you admire about how I have lived my life? What do you wish I had done differently?

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I see myself as a fiduciary for my children.

As a wealth manager for many years, my fiduciary duty meant that I had a legal and ethical responsibility to act in my client’s best interest. Maybe that sounds heartless when applied to family. I find it helpful as I grapple with the complex issues of money and adult children.

Like a lot of parents, I find myself wanting to make my kids’ lives easier, less stressful. More financially secure.

I have smart, capable kids who are married to smart, capable partners. They live within their means. They scrimp and save. They are doing the right things.

I also have more money than my wife Heidi and I will ever spend.

Why not give them some additional money, enough to reduce their stress, pursue their dreams, or create a greater sense of security? Pay off a mortgage. Provide a cushion for difficult times. Make life a little easier.

I would receive their gratitude and appreciation.
I would worry less.
I would feel like a hero.

But I don’t see my role that way.

Acting as a fiduciary–in a moral sense, not a legal one–means acting with care and concern for my children and doing not what feels gratifying to me, but what will serve them well over the long-term.

That distinction matters.

My children live in a rapidly evolving world that demands resourcefulness, resilience, and adaptability. They will need to develop their talents, sharpen their judgment, and build strong relationships.

I cannot give them these qualities. They cannot be taught; they are earned when life doesn’t go according to plan. We become resourceful when our goals outpace our means. We run into a dead end and figure out how to adapt. We build resilience by being knocked down and learning to get back up.

Too often what I have seen in my personal and professional experience is that giving money to adult children means denying them opportunities to grow the qualities that help build a life of wealth and fulfillment.

That’s the risk.

This is not a theoretical exercise for me. My daughter and her husband went through a difficult stretch this year. For months, one or the other was out of work. The financial anxiety they are experienced was understandable.

My heart ached for my daughter and her family. I made a choice not to supplement their income, beyond the modest yearly money gift I make to them. Not because I don’t care or can’t help. Giving the family additional money so that I feel better is not acting in their best interest. I believe that giving them money might make their lives worse over time.

I want them to learn how to cope in a challenging job market. To build their ability to network, interview, and negotiate. To have the hard conversations about what spending to cut and what matters most. To develop confidence in their capacity to handle uncertainty.

That doesn’t mean I did nothing. I made it clear they would never be hungry or homeless. I introduced them to people in my network. When asked–and only then–I offered guidance on job searches, networking, and compensation.

Most importantly, I shared my confidence that they would find their way through this.

I don’t want to downplay the risk of this choice I made. My children may feel I am being withholding. They may question my judgment. They may interpret my decision as harsh, or even worse, unloving.

That is hard. I really want my children to love me and appreciate me.

I still have doubts about whether I made the right decision. I might have been wrong. I take comfort in knowing that I made the best judgment I could with the information I had.

Still, the loss in choosing not to give is palpable. I don’t save the day and make their problems disappear. I don’t reap the rewards of gratitude. I don’t get relief from these worries about people I love dearly.

Instead, I am left with the hope that I am helping them grow.

And being a fiduciary means accepting that you may be misunderstood by the very person you are trying to help.

This is not about forcing hardship. There are absolutely times when financial support is the right decision. The challenge is considering when support builds strength, and when it quietly erodes it. There is no formula. Only judgment.

And sometimes, the most loving choice as a parent is the one that feels awful in the moment.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Ask yourself: Am I solving a problem, or removing a growth opportunity? Am I willing to risk your children being angry with you, if you think it’s in their best interest?

2. Consider what is the right decision for the next 20 years, not 20 days when a crisis arises.

3. Before there’s a financial crisis, talk to your children about your philosophy about giving or lending them money. Make sure you give them a chance to express their opinions and really listen. Acknowledge and seriously consider their input.

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I keep falling into the same trap. I read an upsetting news story and spiral into a world of worry about something totally outside of my control.

My news consumption is way down. I no longer watch TV news or listen to it on the radio. I do scan the Wall Street Journal, and sometimes the New York Times.

But even 20 minutes of consuming news can lead to hours of angst about a future that may never happen, over which I have no control, and that moves me away from living in the present.

True insanity! I keep repeating the same behavior, somehow expecting different results.

I try to cut myself off and live in a news-free cocoon. I can’t do it. It feels reckless. I somehow believe that if I pay attention to the news, I can protect my loved ones from a catastrophic threat. Possibly true, probably not. Still, I find it comforting to believe that maybe, just maybe, if I pay enough attention, I can keep my family safe and secure.

I needed another approach to help me get out of the news–worry–distraction trap. What I came up with is something I call the Alternate Story. Here’s how I used it recently to separate fact from fiction and identify the source of my anxiety.

The news is awash with stories about artificial intelligence (AI) and its potential to destroy white-collar jobs. My daughter works in a human resources and operational capacity for an Atlanta wealth management firm, exactly the type of job the pundits predict that AI will take over. My son is a high school math teacher for kids with learning differences. I would have thought his job was safe, and now I’m not so sure. I recently read that some experts predict AI will replace 30% of teachers.

Easy for me to go down rabbit holes like this. Suddenly I’m buried in fear. What is going to happen to my kids and my grandchildren?

The Alternate Story helps me climb out of my hole. It allows me to recognize that my fears flow from stories that my mind concocts about the future. I force myself to list what I know for sure, what I’m telling myself, and the feelings that result.

The Facts: AI is a revolutionary technology. Many jobs, including my children’s, may be at risk. As of today, my kids are thriving at work. They are integral members of the team, are developing professionally, and feel appreciated for their contributions. There is no indication their jobs are at risk.

My Story: Scary times are coming. In the next few years, AI may replace their jobs. What if they can’t find alternatives? Maybe there will be no jobs available to them in their fields! My wife Heidi and I will need to step in and support them, financially and emotionally.

My Feelings: anxious, frightened, sad, frustrated, despondent.

These feelings don’t come from the facts. They come from the story I create about those facts.

So I try a different story.

Positive Alternate Story: My children are bright, creative, hardworking, and resilient. If they lose their jobs to AI, they will find new ones. It may not be easy. They will figure it out.

My Feelings: hopeful and proud.

When I change the story, I change how I feel.

The challenge is that I don’t know what will happen. The first story is a negative prediction about the future; the second is a positive one. My mind can bounce between the two all day long.

So I try something else—a reality-based story.

Reality-Based Alternate Story: I don’t know what the future holds. Odds are it will be different from whatever I imagine now. Struggle is part of life, for me and for my kids. AI may replace their jobs, and it may not. Whatever happens, my children will do the best they can, and Heidi and I will support them. Not so much that we take away their struggles and opportunities to learn and grow. Just enough that they know they have a safety net beneath them.

My Feelings: grounded, accepting, calm.

That story feels different. Not because life will be easy. But because it’s true.

Why am I prone to imagining a world where I feel threatened?

Part of it is a desire to control the uncontrollable. I feel better pretending I can protect the people I love from heartache, misfortune, and struggle. I can’t.

Part of it is fear of confronting my mortality. Just this year, two close friends have been battling life-threatening cancer. None of us is guaranteed a future free of suffering.

Distracting myself with imaginary fears about AI is easier than sitting with what I don’t want to face. The Alternate Story helps me recognize that these are just the stories I create about the future. But it also brings me back to something simpler, and harder.

Every time I disappear into a story about what might happen in the future, I miss what is already here. This is my life. Right now. Here in the present.

And it’s more than enough, if I’m willing to stay here.

Until our next conversation,

David

Try the Alternate Story exercise

I’ve found a way to bring myself back to the present when my worries spiral. I wanted to offer you a way to try it yourself at the link below. Please know this is a completely private space for your personal reflections. Nothing you type here is stored, saved, or sent anywhere.

Open the Alternate Story Journal

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Identify the distraction
   What am I avoiding by telling myself this story?

2. Catch the spiral early
   If I start to feel anxious, ask: What are the actual facts here?

3. Preparation or avoidance
   Is my worry helping me prepare or avoid a difficult reality?

4. Name the feeling
   Am I afraid, angry, sad? Naming the feeling tends to lessen its grip.

5. Accept what can’t be controlled
   What would change if I accepted that I can’t protect the people I love from pain, sorrow, and heartache?

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I have a mathematical mind, so I can tell you my likelihood of living to be 100 years old. Two percent. My odds of dying in the next five years? Ten percent. I am 18 times more likely to die in the next 15 years than make it to the age of 100.

I think this way because I am terrified of wasting the precious life I have left.

On my deathbed, I don’t want regrets. I want to know I spent my time doing what brought me joy and meaning. I want to worry less about potential catastrophes that could happen in my 90s and focus more on capturing life-affirming opportunities today.

Easy to say. Hard to do.

The Forces Holding Me Back

Two forces are holding me back.

First, I have a litany of fears. I worry about my children’s future, rising healthcare costs, and the safety of the people I love. I can easily construct scenarios where things go badly and more money would have made a difference.

As my fears grow larger, my life grows smaller.

Second, imagining I will live to 100 feels good. It gives me another 30-plus years. Thinking about dying in the next five,10, or 15 years is sobering. I don’t like facing that reality.

Avoiding reality is never a good strategy.

A Vision of a Daily "Last Day"

I want to live each day knowing it might be my last. What does that look like?

Starting my days slowly and mindfully, with meditation and prayer. Taking care of my body so I have the energy to live fully. Learning what matters to me and letting go of what doesn’t. Spending time with my wife Heidi, my children and grandchildren, and the people I love most.

Having fun. Being silly, laughing, playing games, goofing off. I spent most of my adult life doing the adult thing so I have a fun deficit. Thank God for my grandchildren! They are teaching me the joy of doing what I want without worrying about how I look or what it will accomplish.

Being spontaneous. Blocks of unscheduled time where I am free to pause and ask, “What do I want to do right now?” And when the answer comes, listen. Maybe it’s a walk noticing the spring blooms. A nap on the couch with our fluffy dog Sophie at my feet. Calling friends just to say I love them. Writing the blog that is quietly asking to be written.

If I follow what my heart craves, I won’t die with a bucket full of regrets.

The Trap of Relevance

What’s getting in my way? Me. I am the problem.

I fill up my calendar. I’m afraid of not being relevant. I’m afraid of being friendless and alone. Those are primal fears for me. So I schedule lunches, coffees, and calls. I listen, help, advise. It gives me a taste of what I used to feel at work—smart, helpful, appreciated. It feeds my ego. It makes me feel worthwhile.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But if I’m not careful, I fill my life with good things for the wrong reasons. I become disconnected from myself. I give up the spontaneity I crave. I trade a walk for another meeting, rest for relevance, presence for productivity.

The rational arguments for change are easy for me. I’ve been making them for decades.

The challenge is emotional.

My inner kid still wants to feel safe, important, and valued. He worries that if I stop showing up, people will drift away. That if I spend too much of my money on fun or philanthropy, there won’t be enough to keep my family safe.

I can continue to let fear quietly shape my days, or I can begin to live differently. Even if I live to 100, I don’t have that much time left. And there is a very real chance I have far less.

Small Steps Toward Fewer Regrets

So I have to make different choices. Not all at once. Not perfectly. By taking small steps.

Leave some more space on my calendar. Say no a bit more often. Spend a little more freely. Give a little more now. Pause during the day and ask, “What do I want to do right now?” And listen.

I don’t need to get this exactly right.

But I do know this: If I want a life with fewer regrets, I can’t keep filling it the same way I always have.

And I’m the only one who can change that.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Ask yourself, “What am I doing out of fear and pretending the motive is responsibility or discipline?”

2. Choose presence over productivity once this week. Take the walk, enjoy the nap, or call a friend. Notice how you feel afterward.

3. Say no to one good opportunity because it’s not what your heart really wants.

4. Consider what will happen if you slow down, say no, or let go.

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“Gellers are kind, David. Always be kind to the awkward kid in class.”

My mother didn’t just teach me how to navigate the world; she taught me how to help heal a small piece of it. She had zero patience for a “woe is me” attitude. In her eyes, we were each responsible for our own choices and, more importantly, for how we treated the people around us.

As I’ve spent my career thinking about wealth, I’ve realized that the resources that matter most—integrity, persistence, and compassion—don’t come from a bank account. They are passed down through the stories and the quiet expectations of the people who love us.

Today, I’m reflecting on that non-financial inheritance. I’m thinking about the women who show us that kindness isn’t a weakness—it’s the ultimate success.

Happy Mother’s Day to the mothers and maternal figures who teach us how to be human. I hope you'll join me on the blog today to explore how we can pass this "inner wealth" to the next generation.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. What is the most valuable “non-financial” lesson your mother (or a maternal figure) taught you?

2. Is there a “woe is me” attitude or an old resentment you are ready to let go of this week?

3. How can you show kindness to the “awkward kid” in your professional or personal circle today?

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I always wanted to do something meaningful. I wanted to be relevant, for my life to matter. But I was confused about my relevance for a long time.

When I was the CEO of an Atlanta boutique wealth management firm, I definitely felt relevant. We had grown the firm from a startup to a valuable enterprise. I had the power to hire and fire. I was instrumental in the firm’s investment process. Clients reaped the rewards of our financial acumen, and my income grew along with our success.

Then I sold my business, and 28 months later, I retired. The trappings of relevance vanished. No longer did I feel powerful and important. No more critical decisions to make. No employees looking to me for leadership. No more fat paychecks.

I thought I would leave a big hole when I retired. I left a small, easy-to-step-over hole!

Did I still matter? Suddenly I felt unsteady, full of doubt. Should I return to work? I quickly realized that wasn’t the answer. But what was the answer? I was in my early sixties, healthy, and had spent my adult life honing my talents, sharpening my skills, and growing my wisdom. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.

I gave myself time to think through these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. Sitting with the uncertainty of not knowing what comes next was excruciating at times, but offered the hope of crafting a more joyous, meaningful life.

The ghosts of my past still haunted me. Childhood memories of being small and weak were annoyingly persistent. I spent much of my life trying to prove my value to myself. I craved recognition. I needed a steady diet of praise to feel good about myself.

When these personal doubts arise now, I remind myself that I am created in God’s image, just like you. We are all inherently valuable. Like all of us, I am perfect just the way I am, and full of flaws, too.

It took me a while, and it was not easy, but I began to realize that some of my ideas about relevance were obsolete. That little boy didn’t need to be tall or athletic to make important contributions. The legacy of my work was not merely measured in dollars amassed; I built a business that provided security for my family and the firm’s employees, and helped many clients through personal struggles.

At this new stage of life, I feel the satisfaction of my professional accomplishments, but my self-worth is bigger than that. I have found fresh perspective. I recognize that my identity should center on who I really am and what matters most to me, not performance or net worth. It’s time to let go of outdated dreams and desires. I am unearthing new ways to contribute to the people in my life and the world around me.

Over the past few years, I have learned that praise and power are fleeting. Nobody will remember me in 150 years. But perhaps the love I give to family and friends—and the positive impact I have on those around me—will create a virtuous cycle of love and hope that lasts for generations.

My cherished relationships matter most to me. I am spending more time with the people I love. Together, we amplify life’s joys and soften life’s unavoidable pain.

I also work hard to share my good fortune through my active philanthropy, through my faith community, through this Wealth & Fulfillment blog. I hope to assist others to connect with their values and wealth to help heal our broken world in their own unique way.

My desire for recognition has not disappeared. The difference is now I am doing a better job of not letting that desire distract me from what matters most.

What is holding you back from letting go of outdated dreams and desires?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Are you willing to take some time to consider what is missing from your life?

2. What outdated ambition is holding you back?

3. What armor are you still wearing from an earlier stage of life?

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I once heard about a man worth several hundred million dollars who hated that his estate would owe more than $100 million in taxes when he died. He viewed this as legalized theft, and he lamented that the money he worked so hard to earn would just vanish in the tidal wave of government spending.

He renounced his U.S. citizenship and moved to a tax haven, a country with no estate tax. He loved his adult children and grandchildren, and he assumed they shared his disdain for taxes and government spending. He imagined they would move with him to his tax-free paradise.

His family stayed put. No longer a U.S. citizen, his time in the country became limited. He could no longer see his children and grandchildren on a regular basis.

He owed no U.S. estate taxes whatsoever when he died, after spending less time with his family in the waning years of his life.

Why would anyone make this terrible trade? Even after potential estate taxes, the family had enough money to satisfy their material needs, wants, and wishes for generations.

Let me be clear. I endorse sensible tax reduction strategies. I max out my retirement plan contributions, fully fund my Health Savings Account (HSA) for future medical expenses, and make monthly contributions to 529 Plans for my grandchildren’s education. Heidi and I use our donor advised fund to leverage any tax benefits flowing from our contributions to good causes and charitable contributions.

Some complex tax avoidance strategies are questionable; they may or may not be legal. The Internal Revenue Service (IRS) may or may not challenge them, the courts may or may not uphold them. Neither white (unquestionably legal) nor black (definitely illegal), I think of them as gray. Most are time-consuming, complicated, and generate substantial professional fees. I avoided these strategies, for my clients and for myself. I had no desire to get into protracted battles with the IRS or end up in jail for tax fraud.

My philosophy: better to pay my taxes and live my life.

In some circles, especially among families with extraordinary fortunes, that notion is heresy. These clients and their advisors see themselves in a protracted battle with the IRS. Winning is all about reducing your taxes to the bare minimum, and maximizing your financial wealth.

Their quest to reduce taxes starts to feel like a holy mission.

I believe these people are confused. There are 613 commandments in the Hebrew bible; love the stranger is mentioned 36 times; saving taxes not once. Jesus told his followers, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s due.”

Sometimes I imagine the following eulogy delivered at a sparsely attended funeral for a man who passionately hated paying taxes. “He spent hours researching creative tax reduction strategies, kept meticulous records to justify numerous tax deductions, and hired accountants and attorneys who aggressively pursued his tax savings goals. His relentless efforts to reduce taxes left little time to travel, hang out with friends, or build loving relationships with family. His three children did not see much of their father, but upon his death received a substantial inheritance.”

A great life has little to do with saving taxes. Life is all about living in a manner that is aligned with your soul, your deepest and heartfelt desires.

I remind myself that I raised my family and built my business on the foundation of living in America. Had I lived somewhere else, my life would have been different, and possibly much worse. Taxes are, in part, my way of paying for that fortunate foundation. I hope it remains strong for my children and grandchildren long after I am gone.

My grandfather always quipped, “If you paid a lot of tax, it means you made a lot of money.” I try to remember that when I owe a big tax bill.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Do your tax strategies reflect your values or your desire to win?

2. Think of three ways that living in the U.S. has made a positive impact on your life.

3. If you knew that you had enough money to provide for yourself and your loved ones, would you feel differently about paying taxes?

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I’m a retired money manager, financially comfortable, and spend 4 to 6 hours a day building my wealth.

I am not trying to grow my net worth. I have enough money.

I am focused on growing the kind of wealth that doesn’t show up on a balance sheet.

I am in the last third of my life. I want to prepare to handle aging’s relentless losses. I want to choose my path forward from a wide range of options. I want to live an exceptional life. I don’t want limited choices because I have grown weak, confused, lonely, or out of touch.

That’s why I am working on building my physical capacity, growing wiser, nurturing important relationships, and staying vibrant in our ever-changing world.

Physical Capacity

I live my life in my body. I want to walk five miles a day when I visit New York City, go for bike rides with my children and grandchildren, and feel good when I wake up. That’s a tall order. I can’t stop the natural aging process, but I can slow it down with a robust strength, cardio, balance, and flexibility routine.

Exercising has always been hard for me, so I have added a lot of support in my fitness quest. I work with a trainer. He tells me to do an exercise that seems impossible. I grumble. I give it a shot and inevitably succeed. I get regular massages to soothe my aching muscles.

None of this is cheap. What better way to spend my money?

Growing Wisdom

I am not as smart as I used to be. My intellectual processing capacity has diminished. I can’t think as fast as I used to; it is harder for me to do math in my head.

I am becoming wiser. At 67, I have a plethora of life experiences that contain hidden nuggets of wisdom. To uncover those nuggets, I read insightful people on a broad range of topics and apply what I am learning to my prior life experiences.

Here’s an example. I repressed any feelings of sadness for decades, worrying that sadness would make me weak and vulnerable. I recently read that love and wisdom can grow out of sadness. It hit me like a sledgehammer! Pushing away my sadness during tough times isolated me from close friends and kept the wisdom hidden.

Today I am working on just being with my sadness, not pushing it away. Turns out that my friends see strength in sadness, offer their love and support, and our mutual connection deepens. Nobody thinks of me as a weak and vulnerable wimp.

I’m not surprised I repressed my sadness. Many men in my generation did the same. What’s surprising is how long it took me to internalize the cost.

Nurturing Relationships

My close relationships are my most valuable asset. I have many friendships filled with love, acceptance, vulnerability, and authentic communication.

To keep my relationships strong, I call people when too much time has passed since our last conversation. Sometimes my call comes at just the right moment. They are struggling and need to talk.

I frequently enjoy lunch or coffee with friends. Having a one-on-one conversation offers the time and space to talk about personal issues. Topics range from politics to sports to investments. When something is going on for me or my lunch partner, we are able to talk about it and support each other.

Staying Vibrant

The world is changing at a dizzying pace. I want people to value what I add to the conversation; not to listen politely to the old guy who used to be successful. The last thing I want is for my children or younger friends to groan inwardly when I pull out the same old story.

Most of my friends are roughly my age. I want to build closer friendships with people who are 20 to 30 years younger. I hope that being with bright, talented, caring people in their 30’s and 40’s will help me engage with the world as it is, and not as it used to be.

Life is short, precious, and unpredictable. I don’t know what is coming my way; I do know I want options as I choose how to live my life. I hope my continuing investments to build the wealth off my balance sheet will give me the options I crave.

How about you?…

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. What options for yourself do you want to preserve over the next 10 years, and what would it take to protect them?

2. Invest in one form of support you’ve been resisting. Maybe a trainer, therapist, or life coach will enable you to make more progress.

3. Focus awareness on one emotion you habitually push away. Don’t try to fix it. Don’t analyze it. Just notice what happens when you let it be present.

4. Consider what forms of wealth you are still actively growing–and which you have been neglecting.

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I’m often scared.

When I’m feeling frightened, I spend valuable time reading and thinking about my investments. I rationalize, telling myself I am just being responsible. I want to make sure my portfolio is positioned properly in a changing world.

I’m lying to myself—pretending this is prudence, when it’s really avoidance.

Why do I do it?

I am scared of economic realities such as our monstrous national debt, and of the deep political divisions that threaten the stability of our country.

Focusing on my investments is like giving myself a pacifier. It comforts me; it doesn’t nourish me.

Why don’t I stop? Because it is an effective way to distract myself from what is really bothering me.

I am reluctant to confront my own mortality. I am 67. The older I get, the faster the clock ticks. I am acutely aware each day is precious. I desperately want to spend my time wisely.

I fear my life is misaligned with my values and priorities. When I’m honest with myself, the problem isn’t that I lack knowledge of what matters most to me. My soul knows.

Implementing that inner wisdom is what’s challenging.

Years ago, thought leader George Kinder offered three questions to help people uncover the life they want. I find they help me tune in to my deepest yearnings.

1. The first question is deceptively simple.

If you had all the money you needed—today and for the rest of your life—how would you live? What would you do? What would you change?

For me, the answer is unsettling. I already have enough. More money would not change my life materially. Which raises a harder question: If money isn’t the constraint, what is?

2. The second question sharpens my focus.

Imagine your doctor tells you that you have five to ten years left to live. You won’t feel sick. You’ll die suddenly one day. Knowing that, how would you live? What would you do differently?

What I would do differently is spend less time preparing for imagined futures that may never arrive.

What I want to do instead is spend more time inhabiting the life I already have. More time deeply appreciating the moments that matter most to me. That means caring for my wife in ways big and small. I want to console my dearest friends in the tough times and celebrate our triumphs together. I want to encourage my children when they falter. I want to sing my favorite songs from Les Misérables or Ed Sheeran, get down on the floor with my grandchildren to play the games they love, deepen my faith through prayer and study.

Some of this may make me feel silly. What will people think? Maybe friends will misunderstand. Talking about my faith sometimes is met by silence or discomfort. Being true to myself is not always easy. But if not now—when?

3. The third question is the one I resist the most.

Imagine your doctor tells you he made a terrible mistake. You will die—peacefully and painlessly—in the next 24 hours. Looking back, what did you not get to do? Who did you not get to be?

This question strips away pretense. What remains is regret, longing, and truth. It reveals the cost of caution. The price of fear. The opportunities quietly passed over while waiting for a better time.

Sitting with these questions gives me more than answers. It gives me clarity. I can no longer pretend that shuffling my investment portfolio will quiet my fears. I cannot default to my comfort zone. I must do what my soul craves if I want to live an authentic life without waiting any longer.

I can’t go back to pretending. I’ll pay the cost.

Until our next conversation,

David

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For a long time, I thought good decision-making was primarily an intellectual exercise. Clarify the objective. Ask good questions. Gather information. Identify options. Weigh the pros and cons.

That sounds reasonable. It’s a good start. And it’s woefully insufficient.

I am an emotional, spiritual man. When I am emotionally off-kilter or disconnected from my soul, my decisions almost always end poorly—no matter how rational they appear on paper.

Early in my career, I wanted to be “successful.” I defined success intellectually as being in a prestigious, high-income profession. Becoming a high-powered lawyer fit that definition perfectly. I worked incredibly hard, graduated from a top law school, landed my dream job, and excelled. I was miserable. Twenty-two months later, I quit.

I’m an entrepreneur at heart; big law firms are not entrepreneurial. Being a lawyer didn’t mesh with my heart.

Over time, and with the guidance of a therapist, I learned to factor feelings into my decision-making. He taught me that connecting with my feelings was a good way to figure out what I really wanted. While I once considered feelings to be a nuisance and something to overcome, I came to recognize them as a source of wisdom.

Now I know that my best decisions happen when I am calm, centered, and connected. Here’s what that means.

Calm

When I am agitated, I make poor decisions. The more agitated I am, the worse my decisions become. My fears crowd out perspective. I focus on short-term relief rather than long-term wisdom.

I get worked up easily. I come from an anxious family. I live in a world saturated with catastrophic, fear-inducing messages. Health scares, political crisis, and interpersonal conflict are part of everyday life.

Now that I’ve developed more awareness of what I’m feeling, I’ve learned it’s far better for me to build the capacity to stay calm than to try to calm myself down once I’m already upset. Better—but not easy.

I’m slowly building what I think of as a calm reservoir.

How I do it:

• Limit exposure. Minimize time with people and content that push my buttons or spark my fears—especially around things I can’t control.

• Care for my body. Regular exercise, decent nutrition, and good sleep improve how I think and feel.

• Nurture my my soul. Silence, nature, and content that feed my spirit calm me in ways nothing else does—especially when these practices are built into my routine.

• Community. When I’m immersed in a community of kind people with shared values, my nervous system relaxes and my heart opens.

Centered

I have a limited amount of time, attention, and money.

Every time I say yes, it’s also a no to something else, often at the expense of my peace of mind. When I feel hurried and scattered, I make decisions I regret. I end the day depleted.

When I am centered, my decisions align with who I am and what matters most. I end the day peaceful and confident. The difference is striking.

To move from scattered to centered, I slow down. I pause. I breathe. I notice what’s happening in my body. I remind myself what matters most to me. I ask myself a simple question: What do I actually want to do?

I resist the urge to decide immediately. I need time—to process, to listen, to hear my inner voice. I’m learning to give myself that gift.

Connected

I am neither separate nor alone.

My life is a web of connections—to my wife, my family, my friends, and my community. In moments of awe, I feel connected to all living things, to the universe, to God.

When I feel connected, my perspective widens. I stop asking, What’s best for me right now? and start asking, What’s best for me as part of something larger?

I see myself as a steward of both my financial and intrinsic wealth. The crisis du jour loses its grip. My sense of time lengthens. I loosen my hold on what I have, and my kindness, compassion, and generosity grow.

Even in the best circumstances, making good life decisions is hard. It’s far harder in a fear-inducing, money-centric, and deeply divisive culture.

Staying calm under stress, recognizing the role that feelings play in decision-making, remaining centered on what matters, and staying connected to others takes consistent, mindful effort.

What’s the reward for that effort?

A more meaningful and joyful life.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Before responding to a request or making a decision, give yourself permission to pause. Have you given consideration to your feelings?

2. What helps you feel calm, centered, and connected—and why do you often neglect it?

3. Limit exposure to one person, habit, or stream of content that disrupts your calm.

4. Consider what decisions in life you may be making from fear rather than from clarity.

5. Choose a small, repeatable practice that helps you return to calm—walking, silence, prayer, movement—and treat it as essential.

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I’m lucky. My children are thriving—married to caring souls who fit them well, raising my adorable grandchildren, working in jobs they enjoy, and navigating life as best they can. They are independent adults running their own lives. Still, they know that Heidi and I are here as their safety net. I have told them repeatedly, “You will never be hungry or homeless.”

Yet even with all that love and good fortune, my relationship with my adult children is complicated.

It’s complicated because of my desire to protect them. Their lives are far from perfect. Sometimes, when we talk, I hear their worries, stress, frustrations, and tiredness. My heart aches. I’ve written before about how we often find ourselves only as happy as our unhappiest child, and it is a difficult place to be. What, if anything, do I do?

It’s complicated because I have unique expectations for my kids. As Heidi and I suffer the inevitable declines of aging, our independence will wane. I hope and expect the children will help with the parts of our life we can no longer manage on our own.

It’s complicated because our perspectives are different. My Grandma Lucy quipped: “Generations can only visit each other”. We were raised in very different environments. My kids are in the busy time of life, juggling jobs, children, and marriage. I am retired, no longer climbing the success ladder. They are in the first half of life; I’ve entered the last third of mine.

Bottom line: I want a close and loving relationship with Rachel and Daniel. I want to be an important part of their lives without infringing on their independence. I want them to live their best lives as I live mine. In that pursuit, here are four tenets I keep top of mind.

1. Acknowledge You Don’t Know What’s Best

When my children were young, it was my job to decide what was best for them. Not anymore. They are independent adults in charge of their own lives, with their own inner wisdom. I’m blind to some of their hopes and fears. Their choices should reflect their values, not mine.

Letting go of the belief I know what’s best for them is a challenge for me. Old habits die hard.

2. Be A Sounding Board

When my children open up, my job is to listen. To be curious. To ask them questions to help uncover their blind spots. To give advice only when asked.

When I feel an irresistible urge to give advice, I ask for permission to offer suggestions. I remind them they can tell me “no”. If they do choose to hear my ideas, they don’t have to follow them.

When I do this well, I give my kids the space to connect with their own wisdom.

3. Allow Them to Struggle

Watching my children struggle is far harder than navigating my own challenges. I feel a giant tug to save the day, to take away the source of their angst.

I do my best to resist that pull. Rescuing them denies them the knowledge that they can navigate life’s difficulties without me. My heartache is poor reason to rob them of their resilience.

4. Focus On My Own Life

When my children were young, I was a lead actor in their life play. Today, I’m a supporting actor. It’s a role that requires us to separate our own emotional well-being from their temporary struggles, ensuring we don't lose ourselves in their drama.

When my own life is full—when I focus on my health, my relationships, my spiritual work, and the purpose I feel called to live into—I stop trying to live my children’s lives for them.

And when I stop trying to live their lives, I’m more available to love them as they are.

A robust personal life is one of the most generous gifts I can give my kids. It frees them from the burden of being responsible for my fulfillment.

Why This Matters

Money, purpose, family, and legacy are intertwined. As a Dad, I want to offer support without overstepping. I want to be generous without creating dependence. I want deep connection without imposing on my children’s autonomy.

I don’t have all the answers. As I grapple with complicated questions, these four principles help me love my children deeply, accept who they are, and tend to my unfolding life.

I hope you find them useful.

Until our next conversation,

David

If you are currently navigating a season where your child is struggling, you may also find comfort in my previous post: As Happy as Your Unhappiest Child.

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Where are you still holding onto the belief that you know what’s best?

2. Consider if you are pursuing interests that give you purpose beyond your role as a parent. A fuller life for you is a lighter burden for your adult children.

3. Is your motivation about easing their struggle—or easing your discomfort?

4. Ask what they need before you offer anything. Consider their request carefully. Is it something you want to do? It’s ok to say “no”.

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Sometimes I struggle with how to spend my time. It’s easy to think about “should-do” tasks morning, noon, and night. It’s hard for me to get in touch with what I really want to be doing. Harder still to do what I want and let the “shoulds” fall by the wayside.

When I do take action on my heartfelt desires, my inner critic attacks me for wasting my time, wasting my money, wasting this precious gift of life.

I love driving a convertible. Been fantasizing about buying a luxury sports convertible for over a year. I have the money. The problem is I felt guilty every time I imagined buying the convertible.

I was caught in limbo: wanting the convertible and not giving myself permission to buy it.

Why was I torturing myself?

I grew up in a family with both spoken and unspoken rules about almost everything.

Always do your best, and doing your best meant working really hard. Use your gifts to make the world better. Be kind and compassionate. Protect and defend your siblings. They are your only lifetime relationship. Always save for a rainy day. Don’t waste money on frivolous things. Those family rules are ingrained deep in my psyche.

I am always grateful to be the son of Andy and Nancy Geller. I am proud of my parents and their rules are generally good ones.

At important decision points in my life, my impulse is to follow my childhood family rules, to do what I “should” do. When I act on that impulse, I don’t give myself the opportunity to consider and do what I want to do

I forfeit my freedom to choose how to live my life.

I purchased a plug-in hybrid Volvo sedan less than 3 years ago. Trading in a perfectly good environmentally friendly car for an all gas convertible seemed frivolous. When the sports car desire arose, I squelched it and told myself keeping the Volvo was the “right” thing to do.

The “shoulds” from my parents overrode my wants.

With the encouragement of my wife and friends, I eventually woke up to a sobering truth: time is short, and I don’t want to keep postponing joy. I have worked hard and acted responsibly my whole life. My soul craved more fun, more woo-hoo moments.

I bought a beautiful blue BMW convertible.

I love the thrill of driving with the top down. Even more, I love that I gave myself permission to do what I really wanted. That is the key. Allowing myself the space to discover what I want, and trusting my soul’s desire. It takes time and consistent effort. None of this is easy.

My inner voice, has a lot of wisdom to offer me. I just need to trust myself enough to sense into what it is telling me, and to trust its guidance.

What about you? Where in your life are you following the “shoulds” when your heart is quietly asking for something else?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. I imagine that your family also had spoken and unspoken rules. What were some of the most notable?

2. Give some thought to which of those childhood messages are helpful. Which ones need to be modified or just thrown out?

3. How might your life be different if you trusted your own inner voice more often?

4. Does anyone in your life encourage you to listen to your inner wisdom and ignore the “shoulds”? Consider getting more support from those people

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For most of my working life, I was a big fish in my little pond. My brother and I were the majority shareholders of our mid-size Atlanta wealth management firm. I set the firm’s direction, and worked with many of our largest clients. I relished leading the team, and being responsible for our clients and my colleagues.

I was good at my job. People appreciated my efforts and I received a steady diet of praise, respect, and gratitude.

In 2020, I sold the business. I went from being CEO of my own firm to being someone who reported to someone who reported to the CEO. I felt small. Nobody asked my opinion. Nobody sought my advice. Nobody stroked my ego.

I didn’t like it. I retired almost immediately after the last of the sale proceeds hit my account.

Retirement was a shock. For the first time in my adult life, the calendar was blank. I could do whatever I wanted. It was disorienting and exhilarating.

Then it became scary. Without all that praise, I questioned my personal value. Was I being lazy, wasting my time, talents, wisdom and treasure?

I felt the pull to go back to work or start a new venture. To be “big” again. Thankfully, I had promised myself to refrain from long term-commitments for at least a year. I really needed time to rest, explore, and see what my heart craved.

Early in my year of no commitments, a former colleague called for help in handling a challenging client. I started to engage, and then I stopped dead in my tracks. I was no longer responsible for the firm’s 400-plus clients or more than 30 employees. Not responsible for strategic decisions, potential threats, challenging clients.

I discovered the joy of feeling small.

Feeling small opened my eyes. My mind wandered. I opened up to new ideas that had nothing to do with my former business. I stopped seeing new acquaintances as potential clients, and started seeing them as potential friends. I no longer meditated with the hidden agenda of recharging my batteries in order to work harder; I now meditated and prayed to connect with my inner voice, my soul.

Much more satisfying.

I felt liberated as I loosened my grip on being the dynamic leader with the right answers. I didn’t have to be perfect. I could strike a balance, do my best, and be open to whatever came my way.

I started noticing the little things. Two friends laughing. A father playing with his toddler. Striking fall colors. My dog Sophie’s unabashed delight when I walked through the door.

I spent more time being with my friends–laughing, playing, talking about what matters most, which almost never involves financial discussions. Reminiscing about our history together. Sharing our hopes for the future. Expressing our love.

Now that I am not the boss, I no longer feel a compulsion to fix the problems. Instead I offer wholehearted listening with empathy and compassion. Giving friends and family the space to navigate their own path forward. Life is filled with joys and sorrows.

I am learning to be present.

Being small helps me connect. As the boss, a power dynamic separated me from my colleagues and from my clients. That limited the conversations. Hard for people on either side to express themselves honestly and fully. Now that I’m no longer “the Man”, that power dynamic is diminished. My relationships are more candid and vulnerable.

Most of all, this new mindset opened my eyes to a reality I had been ignoring for a long time. I am smaller than small, and so are you. We are one of 8 billion people on a small planet in a vast galaxy that is a tiny piece of an almost 14 billion year old universe. We are here for a brief moment, and soon forgotten.

Thank goodness!

We are way too small to fix the world’s problems.

Our job, as individuals in a vast universe, is to be grateful for the miracle of existence, to live with love, compassion, and joy, and to leave the world a little better off than we found it.

I can do that, and it’s all I can do.

How about you?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Imagine watching your funeral. How do you want family and friends to describe how you spent the time between today and your passing?

2. Block out some time on your calendar. When the time arrives, pause, take a few deep breaths, and ask yourself, “What do I want to do right now?” Don’t critique yourself, just do it. How does that feel?

3. When you peel away the veneer of business and professional success, what else makes you a valuable person?

4. Find a person in their 20’s or 30’s (child, grandchild, family friend), and share your wisdom about life, love, and meaning. What role did your business success play in your story?

5. If you had to spend a year not working, what would you do? How might you feel at the end of the year?

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I think quite a bit about the time I have left. I don’t want to fritter away my days. I want them filled with love, joy, meaning, fun, and—if I’m lucky—a deep sense of purpose. I want to dance at my grandchildren’s weddings. To do that, I have to live a long, healthy life. My grandchildren are 7, 4, and 1.

Building a rich and fulfilling life requires discipline. I am a disciplined person, and I struggle to do the things I need to do. My wife Heidi always tells me,

“If it’s hard for you, it’s really hard for most people.”

My solution is small steps. I add one thing to my routine that is helpful, and when I have internalized it, I add another. No rush. Progress is all that matters.

In my quest to build the life I desire, I contend with what I call realities to face and problems to solve. I want to be healthy. One challenge is high cholesterol and heart disease run in my family—that’s a reality to face. But it’s also a problem I can work on. I take medication, listen to my cardiologist, and work out with a trainer.

I used to criticize myself for needing that help. I now see it as an act of self-love.

Taking care of myself physically is comparatively easy. The harder challenge is managing my emotional and mental distractions. I’m easily pulled into social media rabbit holes that leave me anxious or outraged. Thankfully, my Jewish faith helps me return to center.

Each morning I feed my soul through meditation and prayer. Each week I read stories from the Hebrew Bible about flawed humans wrestling with real-life struggles—moving from slavery to freedom, anguish to hope, isolation to connection. These stories are thousands of years old, yet they feel relevant today.

On Friday nights, Heidi and I attend services and join in communal prayer. I love it. I feel connected to those around me, grateful for my blessings, and compassionate toward those who are suffering. I sense a divine light within each of us—and hope that together those lights might help heal a fractured world.

When I connect to that love within and around me, it’s easier to be generous with others and with myself. My angst softens. In its place, joy and contentment arise. I can relax and enjoy the moment.

Meaning doesn’t require a grand plan—just a willingness to notice, to show up, and to care. Meaning-making opportunities abound: telling a young father his children are adorable, encouraging a friend through a rough patch, or donating to a food pantry whose shelves are empty.

Purpose, though, is a tougher nut to crack. I define it as using your intrinsic wealth—your time, talents, wisdom, and character strengths—to do something you feel called to do. What makes your heart hurt? What might your gifts help to heal?

Purpose rests on a foundation of connection, courage, and strength. Connection reminds us we’re part of something larger—that every living being carries a sacred spark. Courage lets us step into uncharted territory and use our gifts in new ways. And strength helps us get back up after we stumble, learn from our mistakes, and begin again.

My own search for purpose is ongoing. This blog is part of it. My heart aches when I see good people who have achieved financial success yet still feel something is missing in their lives. I see others in need who would benefit from the wisdom, compassion, and generosity of those same people.

It hasn’t been easy. I hired a writing coach to help me become a better writer. The process has been both invigorating and humbling. I’ve learned that finding your voice—on the page or in life—requires discipline, vulnerability, and the willingness to start over when you lose your way.

I wake up each day trying to live the life I write about—one filled with purpose, connection, and joy. Some days I succeed. Some days I just begin again.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

1. Your path to an exceptional life will look different from mine. Ask yourself, what does an exceptional life mean to me at this stage?

2. Feed your soul daily. Set aside ten minutes for prayer, meditation, or reflection before turning to your phone or the news.

3. What makes your heart hurt—and how might your time, wisdom, or resources help?

4. Look for small moments of meaning. Each day, notice one opportunity to offer kindness, encouragement, or gratitude. Notice how that makes you feel.

5. Where in your life do you need more self-love?

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Being retired has been a joy and a jolt. A joy to celebrate a career that gave me so much, and to savor my free time and consider what comes next. A jolt to stop striving, to lost earned income, to no longer be part of a team.

I feel good about how far I’ve come in three years since retirement. I don’t think much about my former company. I have grown comfortable living off my investments. My days are filled with family and friends, growing spiritually, writing Wealth & Fulfillment, and living a healthy lifestyle.

Even with this progress, my transition is not complete. I struggle disconnecting from the chatter in my head–old success messages that once served me well. Messages like work harder than everyone else, don’t waste time letting your mind wander, avoid controversial positions that might upset clients, be vigilant against any potential threats, if it’s valuable then it must be costly.

My life has changed. Yet I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not working, I’m not responsible for employees, I’m not the largest shareholder of a $1 billion asset management firm.

I don’t have client-friends. I just have friends. I don’t need to prove myself and add value. I am worthy just the way I am.

These old beliefs, once helpful, have morphed into stumbling blocks in building my new life.

I don’t want to work hard. I want to spend time with loved ones, live a healthy life, and connect with the quiet voice inside of me.

I don’t want to focus incessantly. I want to let my mind wander and see what I discover.

I don’t want to be hypervigilant. I prefer to look for the abundant good in the world.

I don’t want to be indispensable. I want to be loved for who I am, not what I can do.

I don’t want to use money as a measuring stick. Much of what I value the most is free-- the love of friends and family, nature’s beauty and calming effect, the pleasure of sharing empathy and a smile with strangers.

My old messages are annoyingly sticky. They have been in my head for almost 40 years. I feel uneasy giving them up. Am I sure they no longer work for me? Will I be OK without them? It feels a bit like turning my back on an old friend. After all, they helped me become the man I am today.

I want to put them behind me with a loving heart. Acknowledge how much they helped me, cultivate gratitude for having them, and recognize they no longer serve me. I plan to buy a wooden box, decorate it, write each old message on its own piece of paper, and place the messages in the box. Invite some friends to join me as I bury the box–saying goodbye and offering thanks to my longtime companions.

I’ll replace them with new messages, aligned with my new life, with the life my soul desires. Here are the ones I am focusing on now.

Embrace My Faith

Build my life around the wisdom of the sages, practices to cultivate gratitude and connection, and acts of loving kindness to help people in need.

Value Quiet and Stillness

Connect with the wisdom inside of me.

Express My Love

Nurture my closest relationships; treat strangers with love, empathy and a smile.

Be Generous

Feel the joy of sharing my abundance.

Notice The Beauty

I am surrounded by so much ordinary beauty–the sun shining, a stranger’s smile, a toddler learning to walk, two friends having coffee.

Recognize My Value

I am created in the image of God, just like you.

My inner voice is powerful. It is with me all the time. I am learning that for me to build the life I want, sometimes my voice needs to change its tune.

Do you need to say goodbye to some old success messages, and welcome new ones into your life?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

• Think about the life you want to live going forward. How is it different from the life you wanted as a young adult?

• What success messages helped you become who you are today? Are any of them holding you back from the person you hope to become?

• What messages does your soul long to hear?

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I was the CEO of a wealth management firm for years. I understand how to build investment portfolios, interpret financial projections, and craft estate plans.

People are surprised that my wife, Heidi, and I have our own financial advisor. Why would I hire someone to do something I could do for myself, especially now that I am retired with plenty of time?

I have a financial advisor because I need one. If that is true for me, someone with more than 30 years of wealth management experience, it is almost certainly true for you.

Here’s why.

I am human. Managing my own money is different from managing other people’s money. I am more likely to make emotional decisions I will later regret.

I love my wife. I am more than a decade older than Heidi, who is not a financial person. When I pass, I want her to have a relationship with an advisor she trusts. An advisor who will help her think through important financial decisions with confidence.

I have better things to do. Superior wealth management takes time. I would rather outsource it to professionals and free up time to write my blog, spend time with friends, travel, and play with my grandchildren.

Easy for me to find an advisor, of course.

Finding the right advisor might be a challenge for you. To give you a better sense of what to look for, here is a brief description of the relationship with our advisor.

• Our advisor works with his company’s investment team and an outside consultant to build our globally diversified portfolio. He regularly rebalances our portfolio and captures tax losses.

• In turbulent markets, he proactively reminds us how our portfolio is designed to give us the money we need during a severe and long lasting market downturn.

• He prepares financial projections that guide our long-term decision making, utilizing complicated software and sometimes accessing an in-house expert when he has to model an unusual situation.

• Every three years, we review the estate plan to confirm it remains aligned with our values and desires.

• We periodically review our life, disability, and long-term care needs, and develop a risk-management plan to fill in any insurance gaps.

• His team helps us handle the daily details of our financial life such as funding our checking account each month so we can pay bills, and providing our accountant with year-to-date interest, dividends, and capital gains from our portfolio.

Unlike many of his competitors, our advisor understands what money is, and is not. He knows that money is a tool–not a metric for success, self-worth, or security. He understands the true power and the limits of our money. Money allows us to purchase the things and experiences money can buy–new cars, nice clothes, luxury vacations, college educations for grandchildren. Money can’t buy friends who love us, the self-confidence to overcome adversity, or a deep sense of purpose.

Our advisor reminds us that time is our most precious resource. We have plenty of money; we don’t know how much time we have left.

Instead of merely focusing on growing our net worth, he encourages us to use our money to grow closer with family and friends, to enhance our spiritual lives, to have more fun, and to give joyfully to family, friends, and charities.

He always has our back. He would never allow us to put our financial security at risk. He guards our precious time, helping us focus on what matters most. He helps us build a life at the intersection of joy, meaning, and fun.

You deserve nothing less.

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

• Send this blog to your financial advisor to start a candid conversation.

• What does your financial advisor need to know about you that you have not yet told him or her?

• If you don’t have an advisor, network with friends and colleagues to find two or three who might be a good fit. Interview them and choose one

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I have several close friends who are struggling. Some are battling life-threatening health issues. Others are struggling with family challenges: aging parents who need support and refuse to accept it, the sudden, tragic death of a sibling, political angst driving relatives apart.

My heart aches for my friends. I want to help them. Not at all sure what to do. They don’t need financial assistance. Words of comfort seem inadequate. Platitudes like “everything happens for a reason”, or “you will get through this” are insensitive and tone deaf.

I love my friends; I can’t just sit around doing nothing. I’ve discovered that not only are they grateful for the compassion, comfort, and support I offer, but I also receive immeasurable benefits that remind me of the inner wealth I possess.

I spend time with them. Instead of assuming what they want from me, I sometimes ask if they want to be hugged, heard, or helped. I use my talent of being a good listener. When they want to talk, I give them my undivided attention. Periodically I summarize both the content and the emotion of what I heard. I want them to know I am with them, body, heart, and soul.

As a wealth manager, I developed the skill to help people think through difficult decisions and figure out the right answer for them. I use that skill to help my friends:

• Accept what I call Realities To Face (RTF)

• Focus their time and attention on Problems To Solve (PTS)

• Allow themselves to feel their fear, anger, and sadness, with a loving and compassionate heart.

If they need professional assistance, I use my network to help them find the right person or company.

As I help my friends, they help me. Helping people I love is deeply rewarding. I can’t make their problems vanish; I can ease their burden, if only for a while.

They show me how life can be beautiful and meaningful, even when it is incredibly difficult. As a man who didn’t shed a tear for almost four decades, they show me the sweet side of sadness. Their courage in the face of pain and fear encourage me to embrace my life as it is instead of wishing it was different.

Their tough times help me to accept on a visceral level that I, too, will experience hard times. I comfort myself that we get through hard times with the love and support of our closest relationships, and with our internal reservoirs of strength.

I occasionally use my money to help friends. I may send a small gift, or invite them to spend time with Heidi and me at a home we rented for a few days. Mostly, my money just isn’t helpful. Money is only good at buying things money can buy, and what they need can’t be bought with money.

All this leaves me wondering why I reflexively think of money as the most valuable aspect of my true wealth, which includes not just my money but my inner wealth. Am I buying into the mistaken belief that life continually gets better as your financial wealth grows? I somehow forget Einstein’s quip:

Truth is, I feel safe, even invincible, knowing I have enough money to provide for my family. Of course, that is delusional as my friend’s struggles demonstrate.

When times are tough we often get knocked off our feet in a tidal wave of fear, despair, and sadness. That is just how life is. When the tidal wave passes, we have the chance to love each other.

How have you navigated the tough times? How have you helped loved ones navigate their own challenges?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

• Ask a struggling friend: Do you want to be hugged, heard, or helped?

• What forms of inner wealth do you rely on in hard times?

• Journal about a time when hardship revealed unexpected beauty or connection. Name three forms of your inner wealth that you could share today.

• Who in your life has shown you the sweet side of sadness?

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I bought $500 tickets to a hot Broadway musical.

My inner critic tortured me. The voice in my head shouted:

“This is ridiculous. You could have purchased deeply discounted tickets to any number of great Broadway musicals at the ticket broker in Times Square. Maybe even to the $500-a-ticket show!”

“Are you too lazy to wait in line for an hour to save hundreds of dollars?!!!”

That’s what I call my “value voice.” The internal dialogue that says, “You can spend a lot of money on something you want, but only if it is a good value.”

My value voice tortures me. I am working hard to lower its volume. So much of what my value voice says is crazy!

How so? Let’s start with there is no clear standard for value. So this internal voice isn’t expressing facts but gut feelings – what I imagine my parents would have told me.

Here are some facts. I am 66 years old. I have been a good steward of money for my whole adult life. My wife and I can afford the tickets. Purchasing them will not change our financial future. We really want to see the play. My eyesight is not perfect. I like sitting up close so I can see the actors’ facial expressions. We are only in New York for a few days. I don’t want to waste my time standing in line to save a few dollars that won’t impact my life.

Still, the value voice is relentless: “It’s not worth it.” Hard for me to make that mental chatter go away – and stay away.

Why? I’m not sure…

Maybe I subconsciously frame each transaction as having a winner and a loser. Winners get a good value, or better yet, a bargain. Losers pay too much and are separated from their money. I’m a money-savvy person. This is a game I should win.

Those thoughts are not factual. There are no winners or losers in the Broadway show ticket market. The price is just the price. Today the tickets are priced at $500. If the tickets to the show don’t sell, the price will come down. If they sell quickly, the price for the remaining tickets will go up.

Maybe I fear I’ll need the money someday, that my fortunes will turn, and I won’t have enough money to save myself or my family. I imagine myself swimming in a sea of regret, wishing I had been less extravagant.

Another fallacy. I can purchase the tickets today without impacting my life. If my financial situation turns south, I will make different spending decisions. I have always spent within my means. No reason to expect that will change.

But what if overnight my net worth plummets 50%, 70%, or more? Won’t I then regret purchasing the $500 tickets or spending my money in other wasteful ways?

My money is invested in a globally diversified portfolio. It won’t all vanish overnight. My wife and I own our house free and clear. We have no debt. We have sufficient insurance to protect us against an unexpected, catastrophic liability claim.

I once had a client who held onto his millions tightly, just in case someone he loved needed it. I encouraged him to set aside enough money to deal with foreseeable risks, and to enjoy the rest by spending it or giving it away. He refused. When I asked him why, he looked me squarely in the eye and said, “You never know what the future holds.”

He is right. None of us know what the future holds. That is just life. All we can do is take prudent steps to protect ourselves from foreseeable risks, trust that we will do our best to navigate whatever challenges come our way, and live life to the fullest as best we can.

I wonder if all my rationales for holding onto the money are a smoke screen. Maybe what I really fear the most is that part of me believes the money I die with constitutes a scorecard for my life. The more I leave behind, the more successful I was. My inner adult knows this is ridiculous. My scared inner child has his doubts.

My value voice is persistent for all of these reasons. I can’t make the voice go away completely. What I can do is choose to live my life fully, trust myself to provide for those I love, and give myself permission to purchase $500 tickets to a Broadway show that I really want to see.

Is your value voice holding you back from living your best life? Is it time to tune out that voice?

Until our next conversation,

David

Small Steps & Worthy Questions

• How would your spending decisions change if you trusted that you’ve prepared responsibly for the future? If you haven’t already, define the financial guardrails that protect your future (insurance, savings, no debt) so you can confidently spend within them.

• Take some time to consider how you personally decide when something is “worth it”? What experiences are you denying yourself because of old money habits or fears? Ask whether this purchase will materially affect the family’s long-term security? If not, give yourself permission to proceed.

• Look for opportunities where spending a bit more buys back your most precious resource: time.

• Choose one experience this month that will bring joy or connection and spend freely on it.

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To help us do that, I’m launching the Wealth & Fulfillment subscriber chat.

Think of this as a digital front porch where we can hang out as a community. I plan to share quotes that resonate with me, thoughts on recent events, or questions about the challenges we all face. It is a space for us to support one another and find a little more clarity together. You can jump into the discussion when the spirit moves you.

I hope you’ll join the conversations, particularly as we approach my next topic: “The Financial Advisor You Deserve.” I am eager to hear your thoughts and experiences on that subject in the chat.

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