What the Glitter Couldn't Give Me

When I sold my company for over a billion dollars, I took a picture of the check. I called the banker. And I felt nothing.

I thought that was supposed to be my private celebratory moment — the culmination of twenty-five years of building businesses, going bankrupt three times, starting again with a five-thousand-dollar credit card advance and a stubborn refusal to be told what to do. And it never happened. The elation simply never arrived.

Instead, a sadness crept in. I cried every night for three weeks — probably the longest I have ever wept. I was scared of boredom, of losing relevance, of drifting without purpose. I had lost all meaning. And in that utter loneliness, I couldn't even articulate what was happening inside me. I kept saying nobody understands. But the truth was, I didn't understand it — so how could anyone else?

THE MAGPIE AND THE GLITTER

To understand how I arrived at that emptiness, you have to understand the fear that drove me there.

When you're an immigrant, you're scared. I moved from Kenya to England at fifteen, and within forty-eight hours I was knocking on doors looking for work. When I landed in Canada, same thing — forty-eight hours, pounding the pavement. There was always this money anxiety humming underneath everything. I chose to become an actuary because it was the highest-paid profession I could find. But a high-paying job is also fear — you're always scared of being fired, of having to behave. And I didn't like being told what to do.

So I became an entrepreneur. And for years, I was like a magpie chasing glitter — following the shiny thing, the short-term high, the deal that sparkled. Every time I followed the glitter, it would come tumbling down. I went bankrupt three times before I finally built something that lasted. What changed wasn't luck. It was learning to focus on inputs rather than outcomes — and to notice the warning signs of following too much glitter too often.

The company I built, Kenexa, grew to over two thousand employees across twenty countries. We had a founding principle: our calling is to serve the people. And a more unusual one — you're allowed to laugh your way through a problem. Because I believe the most powerful force on the planet is probably laughter. Not the mean kind. The internal, loving kind — the laughter that creates a ripple you can't quite see but always feel.

THREE BOXES AND MY CLOTHES

After the sale, after the weeping, something unexpected began. My daughter suggested I move into the city. Within five days, I'd found a condo. And then, in a strange rush of clarity, I began shedding everything.

I sold the Ferrari. The second home. Within four weeks, I moved with literally three boxes and my clothes. And here's the thing that still strikes me — I had crossed oceans four times in my life without a second thought, but I was anxious about moving fifteen miles with all my possessions. The more stuff I owned, the more it owned me. I just hadn't been able to see it.

Through the years, I'd collected about fifty trophies and awards. I threw them all away. Every single one. Except a Lifetime Achievement Award — I kept that because the person who sponsored me was a dear friend. It took up half a box.

Three years later, I said, this is stupid, and threw it in the trash.

Then my university called about an alumni award. I told them I didn't want it. They insisted. I said: melt it and make next year's award. To this day, I refuse to accept it. Because I know the part of my ego that would whisper, You're great because you got that. I've been down that path. It's a really slippery slope.

Accept love, always. Never adulation. That distinction has become one of the most important in my life.

THE WARMTH OF NOT KNOWING

Somewhere in the middle of all this unraveling, I stumbled onto something I didn't expect. The pathway to joy, for me, turned out to be three words: I don't know.

Every time I say "I don't know," there is this warm feeling inside me. It opens something. I become a child again — tell me, show me, I'm curious. That curiosity leads to learning, and learning leads to laughter, and laughter leads to joy. It's the opposite of what we're taught. We spend our lives trying to know more, to have the answer. But certainty closes the system. Uncertainty is where everything interesting lives.

I used to think I was a legend. Then I realized I was a legend in my own mind. The older I get, the faster that realization hits — the faster I can see the emptiness of the glitter for what it is.

THE FIELD AND THE DRUG DEALER'S CHILDREN

Growing up in Mombasa, the neighborhood drug dealer was, by every measure I could see, a wonderful father. How do you hold that? How can someone be a wonderful father and deal in drugs? You always run into these oxymorons in life. And they teach you that there's never a simple I — it's always way more complex than that.

Rumi wrote about a field beyond the world of good and bad, right and wrong. I think the journey — the real one, underneath all the companies and the glitter and the trophies — is the discovery of that field.

BEING HELD

When I was thirteen or fourteen, growing up in Kenya, my classmates would "send me to Coventry" — the whole class would simply stop speaking to me. You face utter loneliness when your peer group refuses to acknowledge your existence. By fourteen, I had decided I would never marry, never have children. I made my peace with it.

Then, at seventeen, Shirin fell in love with me. That was a true heart-opener. And it has been ever since — nearly fifty years now.

When people ask me about falling — falling into the unknown, into grief, into the places where the ground disappears — I don't think the answer is finding the bottom. It's being aware that you're held.

I'm held by my faith. I'm held by Shirin and my family. I'm held by my friends. I could talk about everything I want to — but it all boils down to this: I'm held.

Being unconditionally loved is the unconditional gift. And when you know that, you can keep exploring the edges, because there's always a lifeline.

Someone recently asked me my perception of death. I said: it's a transition and a release of an ill-fitting suit. A few weeks ago, I had a terrible case of vertigo — thought I might actually die. And I accepted it, and fell asleep with a smile on my face. I'm ready. Now, would I handle Shirin's death or my children's death with that same grace? I don't know. That might be a different floor entirely. But the not-knowing, even about that, is honest. And honesty, I've learned, is its own form of holding.

INNER PLAY

I used to call it inner work — the praying, the meditating, the contemplating, the self-exploration. Something you do every day, maybe every hour. But a friend recently reframed it for me as inner play, and something unlocked. Because when you're doing it — really doing it — you're dancing in joy. When I was younger, I was very serious about inner work. It's still difficult, and it's still intense. But it's not serious anymore.

Joy is the only currency you can't bank. You've got to earn it every day.

If I had three wishes for the world, they would be simple. Laugh twice as many times as you're currently laughing. Play for at least an hour a day — we were created to play. And whatever your pathway to stillness is — contemplation, prayer, meditation — discover it.

If you do those three things, the world will be a better place. Laugh. Play. Stillness. Do twice as much of all three, if possible.