If you were to look at my bio from five years ago, you would see a monument to External Indifferents. You would see a man who had visited nearly 1,000 university campuses. You would see titles like “Principal,” “Executive,” and “Consultant.” You would see a roadmap of a life spent in motion — airports, boardrooms, and cabinet meetings.

It was a document carefully curated to prove to the market that I was relevant. It was a comprehensive list of my Resume Virtues.

But lately, in the quiet moments that come after the travel stops, I’ve been meditating on a different list. The list that gets read aloud when the strategic plans turn to dust, and the lights go out for the last time.

The Eulogy Virtues.

These are the traits that have nothing to do with enrollment yields or prestige. Were you just? Did you practice temperance? Did you possess the courage to be kind? The tragedy of the modern executive career is that we spend forty years investing every ounce of our energy into the first list, hoping it will somehow translate into the second. It doesn’t. I learned the hard way that you cannot buy a legacy with a job title. You have to build it, and you make it by focusing on the only thing you truly control: your character.

The Slave to “The Mission”

David Brooks distinguishes between “Adam I” (the careerist) and “Adam II” (the servant). The Stoics would frame this differently: The difference between chasing Fame (Doxa) and pursuing Virtue (Arete).

In Higher Education, the chase for Fame disguises itself as “The Mission.” We tell ourselves we are doing noble work. This makes it easy to rationalize the vice of neglect.

• Missed dinner with the family? It’s for the client.
• Living out of a suitcase? It’s for the university’s survival.
• Exhausted? It’s the price of leadership.

The industry is designed to give you constant, high-fidelity feedback on things that are ultimately outside your control. Did you land the contract? Did you solve the enrollment cliff? It is addictive. I spent decades chasing that dopamine hit. I measured my self-worth by the prestige of the institutions asking for my advice.

But the Eulogy Virtues? There is no accreditation review for kindness. Nature does not give you a consulting fee for being patient with your spouse when you are jet-lagged. Because there is no external reward, we let these virtues atrophy. We forget the core Stoic truth: Character is a muscle, not a default setting. If you do not exercise it, it withers.

The Monday Morning Test (Memento Mori)

Visiting so many campuses taught me a hard lesson about the indifference of time.

I would walk through halls lined with oil paintings of past Presidents and Deans—men and women who gave their entire lives to those institutions. And yet, to the current students walking past them, they were just wallpaper.

As Marcus Aurelius wrote: “Alexander the Great and his mule driver both died and the same thing happened to both.”

I realized that if I died on a Friday, the industry would move on by Monday. The machinery of academia has endured for centuries; it does not stop for individuals. My professional relationships were largely transactional. They were based on what we could do for each other in that fiscal year.

But to my family? To my closest friends? To the people I often gave my “leftover” energy to? I was irreplaceable. We live our lives completely backward. We offer our best hours and sharpest focus to the people to whom we are replaceable. Then, we bring our exhaustion and distraction home to the people to whom we are irreplaceable. This is not just a mistake; it is an injustice.

The Stoic Pivot

Changing this dynamic doesn’t mean you stop working. A Stoic still serves their community. It just means you change your Operating System.

For me, the shift required three disciplines:

1. The Discipline of Presence (Efficiency is the Enemy). As a consultant, I worshipped efficiency. I optimized timelines. But you cannot be efficient with humans. Love is inherently inefficient. It requires meandering discussions and wasting time together. I stopped trying to optimize my relationships. I stopped looking at the agenda and started looking at faces. I realized that attention (Prosochē) is the rarest and purest form of generosity.

2. The Discipline of Identity (The Actor vs. The Role). Epictetus taught that life is a play; we are merely the actors. One day, you will have to hand over the costume. The “Senior Vice President” title will disappear from your email signature. When that day comes, who are you? If your identity is tied to your Resume Virtues, you will be annihilated. If your identity is tied to your Eulogy Virtues, you will be invincible. I started investing in the equity of my character — mentoring without billing hours, and listening without solving.

3. The Discipline of Limits (Defining “Enough”). The Resume Virtues are driven by the unquenchable desire for “More.” The Eulogy Virtues are driven by the wisdom of “Enough.” Seneca said, “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, who is poor.” When you realize you have enough, you stop viewing your peers as competitors. You gain the freedom to be generous.

The Final Audit

I am proud of the work I did. But I am no longer confused about its value. When I attend funerals now, I listen closely. I have never heard a eulogy that mentioned the deceased’s ability to turn around an enrollment deficit. I have never heard a tearful tribute to someone’s strategic planning capabilities.

What remains?

• He made me feel like I was the only person in the room.
• She helped me when I had nothing to offer her.
• He remained calm when the world was going crazy.

We are all writing our eulogies every single day, one interaction at a time. The ink is wet. The page is open. And death is smiling at us all. Stop polishing the resume. All it buys you is a better seat at a funeral where no one cries. Start building the legacy.

About the Author

I am a #1 international best-selling author and coach obsessed with helping you live with clarity and purpose. My work blends psychology, leadership, and heartfelt storytelling to help you slow down and reclaim your focus. Whether I am writing books like The Magic of a Moment and Embracing Retirement, or speaking on stage, my goal is the same: to help you design a life that reflects who you truly want to become. Join me as we learn to notice the moments, choose intentional action, and step into the life we were meant to live.

Connect with me and discover more at garyfretwell.com.

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