You're Already Rich and Don't Know It
He'd been an amazing baseball player until a sports injury took everything. Then came the drinking, the cigarettes, the lottery tickets — always chasing the big win. Then lung cancer put him in a hospital bed, and a little boy walked through the door carrying his name, a checkerboard, and the fortune he'd been stepping over his whole life.
The French Fries Were Cold — What I Did Next Changed Everything
DoorDash ruined the party. Cold food, sugar on the fries instead of salt, and a kid in tears on the couch. I could have said "I paid for it, not my fault." Instead I got dressed, grabbed my keys, and showed my kids what the Law of Responsibility actually looks like.
She Opened His Eyes. The 4 LAWS Changed the Verdict.
The psychologist told the judge he had no conscience. Then a letter arrived — from the one person nobody expected to hear from.
She Believed in the 4 LAWS. Then She Spoke Them to a Man in Prison.
She came from a family that loved hard and fought harder. Then she learned a different way to see — and when she looked at a man behind bars, she saw something no psychologist could find.
The Superpower That Ruined the Game:
"My superpower is that I can make everyone friendly when they come near me." The kid stared at me. "You can't use that power." "Why not?" "It would ruin the game." He was right. And after 35 years as a clinical psychologist, I can tell you exactly how that power works.
When God Speaks in a Traffic Jam
It was 2005. I was stuck in traffic on a highway in New England, at one of the lowest points of my life.
I had just spent years developing a new treatment for oppositional defiant children — and it worked. Leaders in the field had tested it and recommended it. But there was a piece missing that I couldn't solve: I could treat the defiance, but I couldn't restore the parent-child trust. Not without months and months of sessions. The bond that had been broken between parent and child — I couldn't find a fast way to rebuild it.
Then came a life crisis that took everything from me. I lost it all. I was just getting back on my feet, barely standing, driving through traffic, and I wasn't praying so much as I was broken open.
Then something happened that I still struggle to put into words — not because it's vague, but because it's so vivid that language feels small next to it.
How I Told Cancer It Was Chronic, Not Terminal
When the doctor said the word "cancer," everything stopped.
Not dramatically, like in the movies. More like the sound got turned off. I could see his mouth moving, see the charts, see the concern in his eyes. But my mind had already left the room and was doing what minds do when the floor drops out — scrambling for something solid to hold onto.
Then came the details. High-risk. Aggressive. The kind of diagnosis where doctors choose their words carefully and make sure your spouse is in the room.