Story 2: The Years That Taught Me to Plan

Several years ago, I jotted down a quote:

There are three kinds of people:

1. Those who make things happen.

2. Those who watch things happen.

3. And those who say, “What the hell just happened?”

I'll tell you what the hell just happened. People who make things happen always have a plan—a real one. Not just scribbles on paper (I had a drawer full of those), but a clear, deliberate roadmap that they follow.

People who only watch things happen sometimes have a plan, sometimes not. If they do, they either never act on it, or they act on a bad one and stall out.

And the people who say, “What the hell just happened?” have no plan at all—and often no understanding of why they even need one. 

My own understanding of why planning matters grew slowly, then all at once. It started in college. High school was easy for me; I barely studied and still sailed through. College was still manageable, but the increasing complexity of the coursework pushed me to start planning my approach. It worked.

Then came medical school—a punch to the face. The volume of work was intense, but that wasn’t the only lesson. I started noticing my classmates’ lifestyles. Many of them had new cars, beach houses, expensive watches, and apartments close to campus. Meanwhile, I was driving a twelve-year-old car, living in a different state with my mother, and spending summers doing construction work.

I wasn’t jealous—not exactly. I didn’t want their perks; I wanted what their parents had. Because none of those luxuries belonged to my classmates. Their parents’ success bought those privileges. What I wanted was my own financial security.

Throughout college and medical school, my mother and I lived paycheck to paycheck—her paycheck. My summer construction jobs helped, but not by much. We had food and a place to live, but the margin for error was razor thin. From the outside, no one would have guessed it. But we felt it. My mother carried the burden of knowing that one unexpected expense could send everything spinning.

It was during those years that I made a private commitment: I would build a life where my mother no longer had to worry.

So I started planning—really planning.

Some plans were outrageous. I once took a break from cramming for an exam to sketch my dream house: indoor racquetball court, indoor and outdoor pools, a garage big enough for a fleet of cars, a game room, acres of land. Pure fantasy. But it was the seed of something real.

I also drew up practical plans—ones that would actually move the needle. When I became a resident and finally earned a paycheck, I would live below my means, pay myself first, and invest 20% of my income. Then I would stick to it. Year after year.

And I did.

Every year, I evaluated the plan, adjusted it, and kept going. Gradually, I saw the results stacking up. The power of planning—consistent, deliberate planning—became unmistakable.

I never built the dream house with the racquetball court and twin pools. But I achieved the one goal that mattered most: security. And the simple plan that started in those lean years—live below my means, invest consistently—still guides my life today, in a more refined form.

Planning didn’t just help me get ahead. It changed the trajectory of my life. It made me one of the people who make things happen.