Hey,
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So I found myself trying to eat a chicken thigh neatly as the maid poured me a glass of wine.
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I was 24 and had just arrived in New York to write a film script and had been invited to a dinner party.
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This was meant to be my introduction to high society before I started working on the film… a bonus to the job, so to speak.
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I was jet-lagged and I could barely follow the dinner conversation:
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“Oh, remember Andy… those nights were just beyond…” Deborah was reminiscing about Andy. (Andy Warhol, duh.)
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“You know, I could make a call and get this sorted for you,” a suave-looking British gentleman addressed Deborah. Apparently, Deborah had a certain problem that could be fixed by a certain African president.
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“Funny you should mention…” Another person at the table seemed to know this particular African president, and in fact, he was ready to also introduce Deborah to someone heading a certain ministry of a certain Middle Eastern country. “He usually gets things done.”
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“How did you get here?” A lady next to me asked. “I’m writing a script for this guy,” I pointed to the producer of the film - a rather eccentric man, who had brought me to the party.
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“And you?”
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“Oh, I’m just in between films and staying with Celine,” she pointed to the A-list French lady.
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“Right, and she’s friends with… with… well, the hostess?” 
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The lady was surprised I couldn’t remember the hostess’ name. She had just been featured on the cover of Time, and her husband was on the editorial staff of one of the most iconic magazines in the US.
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I could barely keep up…
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But: this was going to be a great start for my career as a playwright - I was officially entering high society 🥂.
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Well…
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That was just for 24 hours…
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Until I realised my job might’ve entailed much more than just writing…
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So, I had to politely decline the job…
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And exchange the promise of New York’s high society for my aunt’s sofa in the suburbs of Boston, watching cartoons with my little cousins (none of them had been featured on the cover of Time, however fabulous they were) 🛋️.
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In that stark contrast of two lives, I realised exactly what I wanted (and what I didn’t):
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I wasn’t going to work for anybody else and put myself in positions where I didn’t have freedom or autonomy. 
I had to start a business…
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Fast-forward 14 years:
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I’m eating a chicken thigh again, neatly, at a table of expats in Phnom Penh, the Cambodian capital.
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Messy. Chaotic. Drenched with heat and humidity. 
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‘Don’t you regret quitting the arts?’ This film-maker from New York, visiting her sister, asked me. ‘Not a tiny bit.’

In fact, I never felt like I quit - instead, I saw it as pivoting. 

I built freedom for myself, and I teach others how to build it for themselves. 


It may not be as glamorous as being featured on the cover of Time or as creative as writing a film script but…
And as Deborah’s bestie, Andy Warhol, once put it:
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"Being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art. Making money is art and working is art, and good business is the best art” 🎨.
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A question for you: what was that one pivotal moment in your life that helped you realise what you truly wanted? Feel free to respond to this email!
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Best, 
Darius