When You Feel Too Small to Matter

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(A reflection for the What Matters series)

There are times when the world feels like it’s shifting too fast to steady—when institutions we trusted seem fragile, and good people quietly wonder whether anything they do still matters.

It’s easy to feel powerless. You can vote, write, speak, reach out and still watch the world tilt toward noise, anger, or indifference. Eventually, a familiar thought appears: I’m just one person. But that sentence has never told the whole story.

Change rarely begins with power. It begins with conscience. Every conversation grounded in honesty. Every moment of restraint when others rush to react. Every sentence that clarifies rather than inflames.

These are small acts, often unnoticed. But they are also the hinges on which history quietly turns.

You don’t have to fix everything. You only have to remain the kind of person who still believes clarity, kindness, and truth are worth defending—not through volume, but through example.

Influence isn’t always visible. But it is cumulative. The quiet work of integrity spreads in ways the loudest voices never see.

So write. Speak. Listen.

Hold to your values even when you doubt their reach. Because in a world that feels out of control, how we act and communicate may be the only kind of control that truly matters.

If this post caught your interest see these below

The Unseen Influence of Integrity

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We often think influence means visibility, followers, recognition, and measurable reach.
But the truth is, the most lasting influence rarely comes from those in the spotlight.

Integrity works quietly.
It’s the calm correction that never makes a headline, the private apology that heals more than it hurts, the choice to stay honest when no one would know otherwise.

You may never see the full effect of doing the right thing.
Still, each moment of decency builds something larger, a shared sense of trust that outlives our names or posts or positions.

What we model in silence becomes the example others follow without even realizing it.
The child who watches patiently. The friend who notices restraint. The colleague who remembers your fairness when it’s their turn to decide.

Integrity’s influence is cumulative, not performative.
It doesn’t ask to be noticed; it simply endures.

So keep choosing honesty when shortcuts tempt you.
Keep showing kindness when cynicism feels easier.
Keep believing that quiet integrity changes more than visible outrage ever could.

Because in the end, what we sustain through our character, even when unseen, becomes the real foundation on which everything else stands

Everything Comes Down to Small Moments

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When I think about What Matters, I always return to the truth that everything comes down to small moments.

Decisions are made in small moments. Even when we expect them to lead to big results, they begin with small steps, tiny shifts that slowly change our direction.

That’s what this book is about: slowing down enough to notice the moments that matter, the ones that quietly shape who we become.
What Matters is not about quick fixes or grand philosophies—it’s about presence, connection, and the choices that guide us through change.

Sometimes the smallest moments leave the biggest mark. Which ones have shaped your story?

We often look back and realize that the turning points in our lives weren’t the dramatic milestones we expected, but the simple choices made in quiet moments—a conversation, a decision to try, a pause before moving forward. Those are the moments that shift the course of a day, and eventually, the course of a life.

“The turning points in life often begin as quiet, ordinary moments that slowly change everything.”

This reflection is inspired by themes explored in my book What Matters, which looks more closely at how small moments shape who we become.

Why I Wrote What Matters

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This book’s title—What Matters: Reflections on Reinvention, Relationships, and Being Present in the Moment—marks a natural pause for me as the author of fifteen books. It’s a moment to look back and ask a deeper question: what have I really been writing about all along?

In many ways, my books have been a long-form attempt to answer that very question: what matters? The answers have changed over time, just as I’ve changed. But through it all, the writing has been rooted in a deep curiosity about identity, growth, and the people who shape our stories.

This reflection introduces the thinking behind my book What Matters, which explores these ideas more fully.

Most of my books have focused on the self—self-reflection, self-awareness, and personal responsibility. But over time, I’ve come to realize that relationships are inseparable from this work. They’re not just something we have; they’re part of who we become. Relationships open the door to reinvention. They teach us about boundaries, purpose, love, and resilience. They challenge our assumptions and offer us mirrors—sometimes flattering, sometimes not—of how we show up in the world.

Two of my earlier works—Embrace Life's Randomness and Why Life Stories Change—both wrestle with the tension between what happens to us and how we interpret it. They explore how we respond to uncertainty, whether we see ourselves as agents of change or passengers of fate, and how we create meaning from moments we never expected.

Those books raised questions I still think about:

• Can we live by a steady personal code even in a chaotic world?

• Are we defined more by what we choose—or by what we endure?

I wrote about things like the law of attraction not as prescriptions, but as ways to consider how attitude and attention might influence what shows up in our lives. I invited readers to notice how beliefs—about self, about purpose, about possibility—can shape not just outcomes, but experience.

At the heart of all these ideas is one truth: we grow by engaging, not retreating. By staying present in uncertainty. By reflecting on pain without letting it define us. By making the most of the good, the bad, the tragic, and the beautiful—because all of it matters.

Over time, I noticed that a short reflection I had quietly posted on my website began drawing more attention than nearly anything else I’d written. It wasn’t elaborate. It wasn’t even mine originally. But it struck a chord, and it stayed with people. I kept hearing from readers who said it gave them peace, clarity, or a new way of understanding their relationships. And honestly, it did the same for me.

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” — Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

That line captures the essence of reflection. We often think our life story is fixed—written in ink. But the truth is, every time we look back, we revise a little. We’re never the same person telling the story twice.

Our experiences change us. So do the people who enter our lives, the books we read, and the questions we begin to ask. In that sense, our identity is not static—it’s a living narrative, shaped by memory, perspective, and interpretation.

Over the years, I’ve told my own story many times. Sometimes in front of audiences. Sometimes across a table. Each time, the details shift slightly. I emphasize something new. I soften another part. And I realize, again, that growth isn’t about erasing who we were—it’s about understanding ourselves with more compassion.

Through it all, I’ve often returned to a simple truth: the people who enter our lives do so with purpose. Some arrive briefly, offering comfort, laughter, or guidance during a particular season. Others stay longer, helping us learn lessons that shape our resilience. And a few remain across a lifetime, leaving a mark that becomes part of who we are.

What matters most is not how long someone stays, but the imprint they leave—the clarity, the strength, or the joy they bring in that moment. Sometimes their presence is obvious; sometimes it’s only in hindsight that we recognize how deeply we were changed.

When I think about my own story, I realize that every relationship has been both a mirror and a teacher. People show us who we are, and sometimes who we are becoming. They remind us that growth isn’t something we do alone. We are shaped—quietly, profoundly—by connection.

That’s why this book is framed around reflection, presence, and reinvention. Because in the end, the people and moments that matter most are not measured by time, but by the meaning they create