One Life: Which Story Is True?

One Life: Which Story is True?

Here are some facts about my life up until age 22

1949 age 5: To think for myself. My mother taught me this, even if it meant disagreeing with her.

1950 age 6: Although I felt some guilt about it, most often I didn’t do my school homework unless it was interesting to me. My mother left this choice up to me.

1951 age 7: Saw people as “good people” and “bad people.” I was moralistic, always thinking and reacting in terms of right and wrong, good and bad, and trying to be “a good boy.” Only in my early 20s did I begin to question this idea and it took many years for me to begin to step outside of this paradigm and live inside the new one indicated by Rumi when he said, “Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there is a field.”

1952 age 8: After a frightening playground accident, I decided to never fight again (unless it was a matter of my or my family’s life or death). Until this decision, I was rather pugnacious, often getting into fights with other boys.

1954 age 10: Discovering that my father had a mental illness, I thought of our family as “rather special,” like in the storybooks.

1954 age 10: Noticing that my father seemed dead to the adventures of life, I promised myself to try to keep the little boy inside me alive even when I became his age.

1955 age 11: Decided that I belonged to humanity and to the world. I didn’t belong to my family, nor to my school (I had no school spirit), nor to my country. Outside of my love for humanity and for reciprocity, I let go of any sense of obligation or duty.

1956 age 12: Noticing that my parents, with three children, had no free money or free time, I decided to never have children.

1956 age 12: Started trying to discover my future career. I knew the importance of choosing something that you loved doing.

1958 age 14: Noticing that I could always find something I disagreed with about some specific way of life (for example, being a Christian), I decided to eclectically build my life philosophy. I would explore many different ways of understanding life and use what made sense, discarding the rest.

1958 age 14: After reading Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, I broke my habit of arguing with everyone and started making more friends.

1958 age 14: Discovering “The Foundation for Economic Education,” I became a Libertarian. While modifying my political philosophy somewhat over the years (for example, to take account of the “problem of the commons”), I still see a Libertarian approach to government to be the most supportive of human safety, progress, and mutually beneficial relationships.

1959 age 15: Discovered that happiness was the ultimate purpose of life.

1963 age 19: Decided it was okay to have sex before (or even outside of) marriage. I also discovered that masturbation was healthy and I let go of my guilt about doing that.

1963 age 19: Reading Ayn Rand’s The Virtue of Selfishness and later taking some of her philosophy courses in New York City, I established a new level of life understanding, some of which I transcended later.

1964 age 20: Decided to try to live forever (I even asked a medical doctor about the possibility of a body transplant: my brain into another body).

1965 age 21: I decided to give up on trying to learn foreign languages. Previously I had studied Latin, Norwegian, and German.

1965 age 21: Decided to quit college (it was so boring). I joined the Marine Corps Reserve to avoid the military draft and going to Vietnam.

"Just the facts, Ma'am" (courtesy of Sergeant Joe Friday in the 1950's TV series called Dragnet)

Most of what’s written above could be considered a factual recounting of events from my life. But facts alone don’t make a life. What truly shapes our experience is the story we tell ourselves about those facts.

Below are two stories—each built on roughly the same set of facts. Which one is true?

In a way, both are. The facts themselves—once separated from the narrative—are likely accurate, at least as far as my memory goes.

Now consider the facts of your own life. What stories have you created—consciously or unconsciously—that you treat as if they’re the absolute truth? Do your stories resemble the tone of the first account that follows? Or do they lean more toward the perspective offered in the second?

The Field Beyond Right and Wrong

They say some people are born under a lucky star. If that’s true, then I must have been born under a collapsing one, black-hole dense and joy-averse. I’m twenty-two now, and still wading through the wreckage of a life that seems hellbent on reminding me that no field exists beyond rightdoing and wrongdoing—only a foggy no-man’s-land where good intentions go to die.

I’ve always had the uncanny ability to feel bad even when nothing was wrong. Like happiness was a balloon I couldn’t keep tethered. My childhood, such as it was, taught me to think, yes—but never how to stop. Never how to feel safe inside my own head.

I was five when my mother taught me to think for myself. Most kids learned colors and numbers. I learned to question everything, even her. Especially her. It was empowering, sure. But it also meant I had no unquestionable authority to lean on. No warm, soft truths to curl up with. I was five and already doubting bedtime stories.

At six, she gave me permission to skip homework if I found it boring. That sounds like freedom, doesn’t it? But for me, it was like floating without gravity. I longed for structure, boundaries, the comfort of someone telling me, “This matters.” But no one did. So I didn't. The guilt for not caring came later, sticky and hard to shake.

By seven, I was a pint-sized philosopher with a moral ledger. Everyone was a hero or a villain. I judged fast, forgave slow, and saw the world as black and white. I thought being good would make me safe. That if I was righteous enough, I’d be untouchable. Turns out, life doesn’t grade on moral effort.

Then came eight. The playground accident. One moment of chaos. A boy fell hard after I pushed him, and he stopped moving. Everyone screamed. I froze. A teacher ran in, called for help. They said he wasn't breathing. For what felt like forever, no one said a word to me. Then someone whispered, "He might be dead."

I thought, "I'm only eight and I've already killed someone. My life is over."

Turns out, he was only unconscious. He woke up ten minutes later. But no one rushed to tell me that. The damage had been done. I was blamed, punished, feared. Something broke in me that day. I made a vow: no more fighting. Not unless it meant life or death. And even then, I'd think twice. I didn’t become peaceful. I became invisible.

At ten, I discovered the truth about my father. Mental illness. Not the cartoon kind you see in movies. The quiet, soul-leaking kind. He wasn’t cruel. He was... absent. Distant. Like a lamp with a burnt-out bulb. That year, I made a vow: I wouldn’t become him. I’d keep the inner child alive. Spoiler: it’s hard to keep a child alive when your world keeps aging you faster than time.

That same year, I noticed my father's deadness to wonder, and my mother’s fatigue. We weren’t a family; we were a survival unit. We kept each other from going under, but barely. My imagination became my hideout. I pretended we were special. Like storybook characters. But even fairy tales have monsters.

Eleven. I broke ties in my head. With school, with family, even with my country. I decided I belonged to humanity, not to anyone in particular. But humanity never called back. No postcards. No warm embraces. Just distant ideals that meant nothing on a cold bus bench or a cafeteria table.

At twelve, I noticed something else: we were always broke. My parents didn’t have free time, free money, or freedom of any kind. I made another vow: no children. No repeats. I wouldn’t chain anyone to me the way life had shackled them. I started hunting for a career that didn’t sound like a prison sentence. I never found it.

Fourteen was a paradox. That’s the year I read Dale Carnegie and stopped arguing with everyone. But it was also the year I read Ayn Rand and learned how to weaponize debate. That year, I started building my life philosophy like a junkyard robot: spare parts from everywhere, loyalty to nothing.

I called myself a Libertarian. I believed in choice, freedom, autonomy. But what did it buy me? More thinking. More fragmentation. I discovered that happiness was supposed to be the goal, but it always felt just out of reach—like a door I didn’t have the key for.

At nineteen, I said yes to my body. Sex, masturbation, guilt-free living. I shed shame like an old skin. But underneath was just more confusion. I kept peeling, hoping for something solid. I took philosophy classes in New York, trying to find a bedrock. I found ideas. None of them fed me.

I wanted to live forever. Not metaphorically. I asked a doctor if a brain transplant was possible. He laughed. I didn’t. Death felt like betrayal. How dare life end after everything we endure? How dare it offer so little and then take even that away?

At twenty, I started telling people I didn’t believe in endings. Not because I was hopeful—because I was terrified. Every mirror showed me time passing. Every choice felt permanent, heavy. I envied people who could glide through decisions. I got stuck in every one.

Then twenty-one. I gave up on languages. I had tried Latin, Norwegian, German. Each new alphabet felt like a wall. I couldn’t climb anymore. I dropped out of college, too. The boredom was a lead weight on my chest. I didn’t want to be drafted, so I joined the Marine Corps Reserve. That’s what life felt like by then: a series of moves to avoid the worst. Never to reach the best.

Now I’m twenty-two. People say that’s young. But I feel ancient. I’ve lived so many little lives already, and none of them felt like home. I wake up each morning with a breath full of maybe and a heart full of not again. I’m not suicidal, not quite. Just exhausted.

I carry these philosophies, like ghosts in my backpack. Rand. Rumi. Carnegie. Ideas that once glowed like beacons. Now they flicker like dying candles. I’ve learned to speak in paradoxes. To smile while grieving. To nod when I’m lost. It’s a kind of fluency. A despondent kind.

Sometimes I imagine that field Rumi talked about. The one beyond rightdoing and wrongdoing. I picture it as a vast, empty meadow with wind-blown grass and no signs. No judgments. No consequences. But I never get there. I always wake up just before I step in.

Maybe that field doesn’t exist. Maybe it was just a metaphor to soothe people like me—people who feel the weight of every choice, the sting of every contradiction. Maybe life isn’t meant to be solved, just endured. And maybe I’m not broken. Maybe I’m just...tired.

I don’t know. But I’ll keep walking. Not toward the field, necessarily. Just forward. That’s all I have left.

The Golden Thread of Wonder

Some people spend their lives searching for signs that they matter. I never had to. From as early as I can remember, I felt guided, chosen even, like the universe had woven me a golden thread to follow. Now, at twenty-two, I look back in awe. My life’s been one improbable blessing after another, wrapped in strange disguises. It’s as if every twist and turn was crafted with a hidden gift tucked inside.

I was five when my mother told me to think for myself—even if it meant disagreeing with her. What kind of mother does that? A brilliant one. She gave me my mind as a playground. Every question became an adventure, every doubt a treasure map. I wasn’t just allowed to think. I was expected to. That kind of trust... it shapes you forever.

At six, she told me I didn’t have to do my homework if I didn’t find it interesting. Can you imagine? Most kids are chained to the grind. I got to follow curiosity like it was a compass. Guilt tried to sneak in, but wonder always won. I learned early that life wasn’t meant to be endured—it was meant to be explored.

At seven, I divided the world into good and bad, heroes and villains. I was trying to make sense of it all, to find order in the chaos. And for a while, that helped. I tried so hard to be good. Only later would I learn from Rumi: beyond rightdoing and wrongdoing, there’s a field. That field wasn’t a place I had to reach. It was always inside me, waiting for me to notice.

And then I was eight. A playground accident. I pushed a boy, he fell, and for ten heart-pounding minutes, we thought he was dead. I thought, "I’m only eight, and I’ve killed someone. My life is over."

But he wasn’t dead. He woke up. And I woke up too—to the power of intention, to the weight of every action. That moment didn’t crush me. It gave me reverence. From that day on, I vowed to protect life, to choose peace. It was the moment I realized how precious a single heartbeat is.

At ten, I found out my father had a mental illness. But I didn’t see him as broken. I saw him as mythical. He became a mystery I could never fully solve, a character out of some deeper story. I felt our family was special, like we lived between the pages of a novel only we could read.

That same year, I made myself a promise: no matter what happened, I’d keep the boy inside me alive. My father seemed to have lost his spark, but I swore I would keep mine blazing. And I did. Every time I saw clouds, I chased the silver lining.

Eleven. I felt bigger than my family, my school, even my country. I wasn’t running away from them—I was running toward something bigger. Humanity. The whole world. I felt at home in every face, every culture, every contradiction. My loyalty was to kindness, to reciprocity, to something timeless.

At twelve, I noticed how little time and money my parents had. I didn’t feel deprived. I felt determined. I decided not to have children so I could live freely, love broadly, and give my energy to the world. I also began dreaming about what I might become. Not what job I’d settle for, but what calling might find me.

Fourteen was the year of voices. Dale Carnegie taught me how to open hearts. Ayn Rand taught me how to defend boundaries. I didn’t see these as contradictions, but companions. I began building a philosophy like a mosaic—pieces from everywhere, shimmering in the sunlight of my own awareness.

I discovered Libertarianism through the Foundation for Economic Education. Freedom sang to me. Responsibility thrilled me. I began to see the beauty of a society where people were free to build what they believed in. And that same year, I realized: happiness wasn’t a goal. It was a side effect of loving life.

At nineteen, I embraced my body. My joy. My desires. I let go of shame like it was a worn-out coat. I read Rand's "The Virtue of Selfishness" and it gave me courage—not to be cruel, but to be clear. To know where I ended and others began. I took philosophy classes in New York and walked the same streets as the thinkers I admired. It felt like stepping into destiny.

I even asked a doctor if a brain transplant was possible. Not out of fear—out of fascination. Could consciousness live on? Could we stretch time? I wanted to be here for as long as I could, soaking up every drop.

At twenty, I told people I didn’t believe in endings. Because I didn’t. Life isn’t a line; it’s a spiral. Every season returns with new wisdom. Every choice circles back with deeper meaning. I felt the passing of time, yes, but also its abundance. I saw decisions not as limits but as launchpads.

At twenty-one, I let go of languages that no longer sang to me. Latin, Norwegian, German—they were part of my path, but not my passion. I left college too. Not out of despair, but delight. I wanted more than the curriculum could offer. I joined the Marine Corps Reserve to protect freedom, but in my way, on my terms.

Now I’m twenty-two. And I feel enchanted. Every memory glows. Even the hard parts shine with hidden mercy. I don’t carry philosophies like burdens. I wear them like amulets. Rumi, Rand, Carnegie—they’re all fellow travelers, and I walk with them lightly.

I don’t feel ancient. I feel like I’ve just begun. Like life is a party that only now is starting to get interesting. Every breath feels like an invitation. Every morning feels like a door swinging wide open.

I dream often of Rumi’s field. The one beyond rightdoing and wrongdoing. I don’t think of it as a place to escape to. I think I live there already. It’s the space between reaction and response. Between fear and wonder. It’s where I meet the world as it is, and love it anyway.

Some people call it luck. I call it grace. And I carry it with me like a lantern, lighting up even the darkest corners of my past. I don’t know what’s next. But I do know this: I was born with a golden thread. And every step I take, it gleams beneath my feet.

External Problem Bias

Since 1987, I’ve been a life and lifestyle coach, helping thousands of clients resolve countless issues. In my experience, more than 95% of the problems clients bring to me are framed as external ones. For instance, someone might ask, “How can I get my husband to give up his girlfriend and work on our relationship?” rather than exploring the internal challenge, such as, “How can I stay resourceful and feel good about myself and my relationship, even if my husband is having an affair he may not end?”

At least 95% of my coaching focuses on internal issues—the ones that create suffering. Much of this work involves helping clients distinguish the stories they’re telling themselves (which result in both suffering and powerlessness) from the actual facts of their situation.

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