This week, two different strangers thanked me for being honest.
The first conversation happened inside the furniture store where my wife and I rent space. Two stalls down, I saw a woman I hadn’t yet met, and introduced myself. Eventually, after sharing her tricks of the furniture trade, she asked what I used to do. I told her I was a psychiatrist. She shared that her parents were doctors, and her parents had always told her that psychiatrists were the craziest of the specialties. From the experience that is my life, I told her this was likely. We laughed, then returned to a discussion of what’s selling and what’s not. As I turned to walk back to my booth, she said, “Hey, I appreciate you being honest with me about your journey. It was good meeting you.” I told her I felt the same.
The second interaction occurred in a woman’s living room. There we stood—we’d already loaded the midcentury desk I’d purchased from her on Facebook Marketplace into my truck—looking at two other pieces she was interested in selling. These dressers were beautiful, circa fifties and sixties, and precisely what I love to work on. The woman asked, “Do you want them? Feel free to make an offer.”
I opened up the drawers, identified the stamp of the manufacturers, did some quick math, then offered her $200. I told her I expected to sell them for a total of $800, but in earning that return, I’d be investing ten hours of work.
She laughed, beside herself at being able to sell them for as much as $200, and said, “Sounds great to me… and thanks for being honest.”
Never before, as far back as I remember, can I remember being thanked for my honesty. Many times in my life I’ve been thanked for being nice but not for being honest. As I drove from the woman’s house, I reflected on the two compliments, enjoying how much better the more recent acknowledgment feels.
Since I’ve left medicine, this week has been one of the most enjoyable. I’m not selling much furniture, nor is my book a bestseller, but it’s been a good week. And I believe honesty, along with risk, is responsible.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
