The Night I Dined with Power, and Learned the Cost of It

While I was running one of my companies, I flew out to Denver to meet with an investor. He was a high-powered attorney, one of the best in the nation, in his 80s and still working. He had also served as head counsel for one of our presidents (I can't say who) during a legal crisis.

I had the privilege of touring his home, nestled in one of the most exclusive and prestigious areas in Colorado. The view was breathtaking—arguably one of the best in the state. His home was a masterpiece, with stones imported from an ancient monument in Italy adorning his walls. It was the kind of home that made you pause and think, Wow, I would love to live here. I’d even trade places with him.

That evening, he invited me to dinner at his house. Over our meal, we exchanged stories—about our upbringings, our struggles, our defining moments. I shared my experience as a refugee and immigrant, the hunger and tenacity that shaped me, the inspiration that kept me moving forward. He shared the battles he fought in the legal industry—battles so intense, I felt like I was getting ulcers just listening. His resilience was admirable, but his experiences were not for the weak.

Then, he said something that hit me harder than I expected. Something I didn’t ask, but needed to hear:

“You know, if you ask me whether I would do this again, I don’t think I would. It was tough.”

That one comment shifted my entire perspective on where I put my time and energy. Here was a man who had achieved everything society tells us to strive for—success, prestige, wealth, influence. Yet, at the end of it all, he wasn’t sure he would choose the same path again.

The work he did had taken him away from his family. He had lived in a constant state of stress, handling high-level cases that consumed his life. He told me about young attorneys at his firm making $1 million in their first year, but he always reminded them: Remember what you’re sacrificing.

How often do we get caught up in the hamster wheel, so focused on moving fast that we don’t realize we’re actually standing still? The world moves past us, and we forget to breathe, to love ourselves, to make time for what truly matters.

Seed question.

Would you do it all over again? Why or why not?

And if the answer is no, what can you do—starting today—to turn it into a yes?