Jimmy Carr tells this story on a podcast. He describes a man at the peak of his career — a multi-millionaire, one of the most successful people in his industry — who walked into a psychiatrist's office and said he was profoundly unhappy.
He had worked through his son's entire childhood. The boy barely knew him. There was money, fame, legacy — everything except the relationship that mattered most.
The psychiatrist helped him make a decision. He would step away. Completely.
You assume, at this point in the story, that it's some anonymous executive. Some cautionary tale about a banker or a CEO.
Then Carr says the name.
The man was John Lennon.
From 1975 to 1980, Lennon stopped making music. He baked bread. He walked Sean to school in Central Park. He read him stories. He was there — every day — for five years. He called himself a househusband and said it without apology.
In 1980, he returned to music. 'Double Fantasy' was released in November. On December 8, he was shot outside the Dakota.
He never got the chance to know if he'd made the right call. He already knew.
Carr's takeaway: even if Lennon had made great music in those five years, the gift he gave Sean was far greater.
What are you working through that you'll regret not being present for?
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