5 Years Later — “Life Lessons From a Monk Who Sold His Ferrari”
A few years ago, I read a book called Life Lessons from the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari. At the time, it struck me as a collection of neat aphorisms — short, memorable phrases that seemed almost too simple to be taken seriously. Recently, I picked it up again. Reading it years later was like holding a mirror to my own growth. Time had added caveats, asterisks, and nuance to many of its lines. What once felt like truths now felt like (sometimes clichéed) starting points — ideas that needed to be tested, bent, and sometimes contradicted by experience. Still, there was wisdom here, and much of it had aged well. What follows is not a faithful summary of the whole book, but a distillation of the lessons that still resonate with me, shaped by the years I’ve spent living between the lines.
We walk this planet for such a short time. Years blur into decades, and the question that matters most is not how long we live, but how deeply. The little things — the ones we overlook — often turn out to be the big things. A life well-lived is not the result of one grand gesture, but of a thousand quiet decisions made with care, courage, and kindness.
It begins with something simple: be kind to strangers. Not because the act will be remembered, but because it shapes who you become. Over a lifetime, these small, unseen kindnesses add up to something extraordinary. They are the brushstrokes that make the portrait of a meaningful life.
Perspective, too, is a choice. When difficulties appear, we can meet them with the question: Is there a wiser, more enlightened way to see this? Often, the shift is subtle — but enough to turn a burden into a lesson, or a failure into a seed for something new.
Discipline is the quiet backbone of this way of living. It’s the habit of doing what you know is right, even when comfort tempts you elsewhere. Self-discipline lets you rise early, begin your day intentionally, and work on what matters rather than what clamors for attention. The first half-hour of the day — the “Platinum 30” — can determine its entire rhythm. Protect it.
Guard your time with the same vigilance. Learning to say no gracefully is not selfishness; it’s the only way to say yes to what truly matters. Sometimes that means taking a weekly sabbatical — one day ringfenced for joy, reflection, and simple pleasures. Other times, it means knowing which tasks to leave undone entirely.
Your body is the vehicle for your life’s work. Care for it, and it will carry you further. Just as important is caring for your inner landscape — finding moments of silence, journaling to clarify your thoughts, and stepping into nature to reset your soul’s compass. Even a brief pause can shift the quality of your days.
And then, there is laughter — not the polite kind, but the deep, unguarded kind that shakes something loose inside you. Risk-taking, too, has its place. The regrets that linger longest are often the chances we didn’t take, the “third bases” we never reached because we kept one foot on second.
A meaningful life isn’t one free from labels like “good” or “bad,” but one that resists labeling altogether. It accepts events as they are. It focuses on what is worthy — not because everything else is unimportant, but because attention is finite.
Gratitude cements the good. A handwritten thank-you note, an expressed appreciation — these ripple far beyond the moment. And so does constant learning. Always carry a book. Ideas are seeds, and the right one at the right moment can change the course of your life.
When problems arise, write them down. Naming them clearly is half the work of solving them. Then act. Knowledge without action is potential left to rot. Life doesn’t wait, and the weeks slip into months before you notice. Awareness is the first step to change, but action is what makes it real.
Remember that your time is finite — brutally so. Count the full moons you may have left. Number the summers, the dinners with your parents, the walks with your oldest friends. Let the mathematics of mortality bring clarity to how you spend your hours.
Find guides for the road ahead — living or dead — and learn from them. Ask for help when you need it. Seek the deeper meaning in your work and the joy of serving others. Curate your influences with care: the books you read, the people you spend time with, the spaces you inhabit. All of them shape you.
Forgive often. As Twain wrote, forgiveness is “the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that crushed it.” And remember to serve — volunteer, connect with those less fortunate, and let their stories remind you of your own abundance.
Your life story is not fixed. Rewrite it if you must. Plant something. Take photographs. Decompress before stepping through your front door so you can arrive whole to the people who matter most. Keep words that inspire you close at hand.
Live fully so you can die happy. That doesn’t mean a life without mistakes, or one without restlessness, but one spent awake — aware of the moments as they pass, and grateful for them. When the time comes to go, the world should cry, and you should rejoice.
