Imagine energies, somewhere beyond our comprehension – not quite what we call heaven – starting at level one. At this initial stage, your energy signs a fascinating contract: a life of perfect happiness. No pain, no suffering, everything handed to you on a silver platter. Think of it like a video game character descending into a pre-programmed existence. If you meet an untimely end, you’re forced to replay the level. But a natural passing allows you to ascend – now at level two. The terms and conditions, as you might expect, become incrementally more challenging with each level. It’s not hard to imagine that life at level 98,234 would present significantly greater hurdles than someone’s journey at level 2,762.

It’s almost eerie how these hypothetical “contracts” seem to play out in the real world. I remember at the McDonald Conference for Leaders of Character back in 2016, our group of university students was posed a compelling question towards the end of the opening plenary:

What cards do you think you were dealt?

We physically arranged ourselves along a spectrum of 1 to 10 in the room, representing our perceived starting points. One student, a clear 10, had grown up with an inheritance, on a country club, seemingly without any external obstacles. At the opposite end, a 1 described a childhood with seven siblings and an addicted mother, resorting to eating lipstick tubes to satiate her hunger. I placed myself somewhere in the middle, a 5.

The follow-up question was unexpected but even more insightful:

How do you think you did with the cards you were dealt?

The shift in the room was palpable. The student who started at a 1 had moved to a 10, now a Rhodes Scholar attending top universities on full scholarships. It was a powerful testament to maximizing opportunity. Conversely, the 10 had perhaps slid down the scale – had he truly made the most of the immense advantages he was given? I personally adjusted my own assessment to a 6 or 7; I felt I’d played my hand reasonably well, though perhaps not to its absolute full potential.


These contracts, if they exist, feel incredibly specific. I imagine mine outlining every detail: a precise timeline of schooling, jobs, relationships, injuries, significant life events, even casual conversations. My moments of joy and my times of sorrow, all mapped out.

The itinerary of my entire life, pre-ordained, and the energy that inhabited this body after signing on the dotted line is, presumably, fully aware of the script. I picture a control room with multiple screens mirroring my eyes, my thoughts, my feelings. They can observe, they can witness, but they cannot directly intervene, cannot act through me. There’s only been one instance where I distinctly heard a voice say STOP that I knew originated outside of myself. This energy isn’t what I’d define as God, nor some conventional higher power.

Does the idea of a constant observer bring you a sense of peace? If you knew someone else was “along for the ride,” would it alter your behavior? Would you try to make the journey more enjoyable for them? Is this perhaps what happens when we consciously pull ourselves back from the brink of an escalating situation – a form of self-correction for the benefit of our unseen companion?

When we have the present moment as a clean slate, an opportunity to act as if the past never happened, why do we insist on lugging around these heavy suitcases? Why bother with the baggage at all? Perhaps it’s the unsettling comfort of familiarity – we know the contents, even if we don’t particularly like what’s inside. So, the question remains: why bother? Why not just leave it behind, discard it entirely?

My psychiatrist once explained that medication doesn’t fundamentally change who I am, but rather equips me to become the person I aspire to be. The agency, the choice to architect my own personality, remains mine. Now that I’m on medication, those old excuses feel hollow. If I genuinely desire to be something, I have the capacity to work towards it. We all do, deep down. Once we’ve systematically dismantled all our justifications, what’s left? Facing the music - shoulders back, a semblance of a smile, and simply proceeding. With nothing truly to lose, why do we so often convince ourselves that there is?