Be Careful Whose Advice You Buy

It was late September, 1999, and the Phoenix heat pressed against my skin as I slid into my Jeep Cherokee, which had recently lost its AC. Every commute to downtown felt like a slow roast. As I wiped sweat from my brow, I found myself wondering, for the hundredth time, if I made the right choice moving so far from home.

I had moved to Arizona earlier that year, leaving behind my family, my morning coffee chats with my dad, and everything that felt familiar. I was working for Pilgrim Mutual Funds by day and going to school at night, trying to carve out a future for myself. But the road ahead felt uncertain.

Every morning, I endured a brutal commute to downtown Phoenix, making each drive feel like a test of endurance. With every mile, I questioned if I had made the right decision moving so far from home. I had been in the Navy, left my job as a mutual fund accountant back east, and now here I was, stuck in another job with no room for advancement unless I earned my degree. I was working hard, but I felt like I was running in place.

At the same time, something else was happening, something that made staying in Arizona more appealing. My relationship with Jocelyn was blossoming. We were in that exciting early stage where every moment together felt meaningful, and the future seemed full of possibility. Even though I was feeling lost professionally, my personal life was taking root in a way I hadn’t expected.

One morning, while getting ready for work, I flipped through the channels and landed on MTV. That’s when I saw it, the music video for Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen). It wasn’t like anything else on MTV. There was no singing, no band, just a calm voice delivering advice over a slow, reflective beat. The visuals were simple, almost like a slideshow from a family reunion. But the words, those hit me sideways.

“Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it.”

I sat there, completely absorbed. The speech, originally a column by Chicago Tribune writer Mary Schmich, had been set to music by Baz Luhrmann, transforming it into something strangely hypnotic. It didn’t feel like a song, it felt like a friend giving me the exact advice I needed at the exact moment I needed it.

The line about the race being long, and in the end only being run against yourself, struck me deeply. I had been measuring my progress against some invisible standard, comparing where I was to where I thought I should be. But in that moment, I realized that this was my journey. I didn’t have to have it all figured out right away.

There was another line in there too, something about being kind to your knees, that you’d miss them when they were gone. At the time, I laughed. It seemed like a throwaway line. But now, years later, after everything I’ve been through with MS, that piece of advice has a different kind of weight. It’s funny how advice that seems irrelevant at one stage of life can suddenly feel deeply personal when you least expect it.

That morning, I left the house feeling different. My problems weren’t magically solved, but my perspective had shifted. I had been so focused on what I was missing that I wasn’t appreciating what I was building, a life in Arizona, a relationship with Jocelyn, a future that, while uncertain, was still mine to shape.

Looking back, I realize that advice doesn’t always make sense in the moment. But when the time is right, it clicks. And sometimes, the right words at the right time can change everything.