The dumbest decision I ever made (and the Nobel Prize that explains it)
Decision science, Family Guy, and why the “safe” choice is often the riskiest.
I know exactly when I ruined my life.
A touch overdramatic, yeah, but stick with me, because this story — about a single moment in Singapore 27 years ago — might also explain why you’re stuck in a job you hate, why you’re still living in a city that doesn’t set your soul on fire, or why you haven’t started that business or written that book or launched that podcast.
This was June, 1998. Closing Time stood at the top of the charts, and I stood at the entrance to Singapore’s immigration building, my hand on the door.
I was coming to the end of one of the most amazing years of my life, doing a job I absolutely loved, in a country that had quickly become home. The only thing that stood between me and keeping all that going was one door.
See, even though I’m a surgeon now, I never wanted to be one. Like actively, adamantly, deeply did not want to be a doctor. I wanted to be a rock star (because what little boy doesn’t want to be a rock star?) Or I wanted to be a linguist (because what little boy doesn’t want to be a linguist?)
