by Jim Harmer
Make your underdog goal.
“The new year lies before you like a spotless tract of snow; be careful how you tread, for every mark will show.”
—Author unknown
I hate this chapter. I am well aware of the fact that mentioning right up front that even the author doesn’t like the chapter is not a smart way to grab readers’ attention, but I already messed up the foreword and dedication, so I think by now you know that I’m kind of a mess.
It’s the truth, though. I hate this chapter. I’ve written it, read it, rewritten it, deleted it four different times, and cried over my keyboard nearly every time. Yes, me. A grown man in tears over his own writing. I don’t want to talk about this at all, but I believe part of my life happened for a reason that many people could learn from, so I feel obligated to share it.
This chapter of the story starts earlier in my life—much earlier. I have five older brothers. I’m the youngest. Like every youngest brother, one of your older brothers is always your hero. Mine was Sam.
Sam was on the football team. All the girls wanted him. He was popular because of his peculiar talent to bring a level of fun and enthusiasm to anything he did, unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. Creativity and excitement radiated out of him and people ate it up. He used that talent for good and befriended people from every walk of life.
He once made a 10-foot-tall T-rex, suspended in the tall entryway of our family home. It was made entirely of toilet paper rolls, which he spent a year saving. He thought it was a great idea to take our old Ford minivan four-wheeling, and got it high-centered on a rock. He sneaked into the house and begged me and another brother to help him push it out of the canyon so my parents wouldn’t know. He lined his truck bed with plastic and spent all afternoon boiling pots of water to put in it so he could create a mobile hot tub in the bed of his truck.
When Sam was a teenager, one of the girls in the neighborhood, who was about to turn 16, confided in him that she felt lonely and that people didn’t like her. When Sam found out, he got all of the teenage boys in the neighborhood to dress up in suits and ties and individually deliver a rose to her at her front door. He didn’t want anything from her. He wasn’t trying to date her. He just wanted her to feel good about herself, and he wasn’t afraid of going to great lengths to achieve it.
My memories of growing up center mostly around things I did with Sam—despite being several years younger. We played Ninja Turtles in the backyard, hunted invisible enemy insurgents through the mangroves near our home on the beach in Fort Kam, Hawaii, and threw the football in the backyard for uncountable hours. Yet it was playing catch with a baseball that I remember the most. He wanted to be the pitcher, so I’d play catcher, and on more than a few occasions I remember catching his fastball until my fingers literally started bleeding. I didn’t want to let on that I was in pain because then he’d stop playing with me.
Sam was the best I’ve ever met at implementing the principles in this book. From a very young age, he was eager to take things on and he worked constantly to improve at everything he did. As his skills at so many things improved, he felt no fear to take on bigger and tougher challenges. When he played the piano at church, he wasn’t afraid to mix a Billy Joel song in the bass line. A normal person would be afraid that people would notice his subtle joke, or that trying to pull it off would make him stumble in front of everyone. Not him. He’d go for it.
A normal college professor would simply teach a lesson. Sam harnessed the talents of his PR students into taking on massive service projects to bring awareness to charities, and he invited many of his students to lunch at his home with his family so he could mentor them. A normal person would not put things on his bucket list like “Get in a bar fight” or “Stow away on a train.” Sam grew enough confidence that he didn’t have to play the small game anymore. If it seemed interesting, he would go after it without fear.
We grew up, and life began to happen. His body wasn’t perfect, as medical depression hit him in his thirties. His marriage fell apart and he was separated from his wife. It was the Fourth of July. Early in the morning, Sam took off on his Harley, unable to bear the day. At lunchtime, I was busy building a treehouse in the backyard with my boys.
At that same moment, in a city only two hours away, my dear brother was driving around town to find a tattoo parlor. Evil Knievel was famous for jumping the canyon in Twin Falls, and Sam thought it’d be hilarious if, when people found his dead body, he had an Evil Knievel tattoo on his forehead. He was in the deepest depression and could not think straight. My brother was planning his end.
He wouldn’t answer his phone all day, but I got a text from him. “I’m sorry for not being a better brother. I love you.”
Around 9 p.m., Sam drove his motorcycle to the parking lot, walked to the middle of the I.B. Perrine Bridge in Twin Falls and stared at death 486 meters below. He stripped naked and stood up on the railing.
The phone rang and we all knew something was very wrong. A family member answered: “Are you Sam Harmer’s brother? He committed suicide in Twin Falls.” It was over. Then, another minute later, a second call. He had attempted suicide. All of us wondered what that meant, exactly. A minute later, a third call.
A police officer was in the perfect location right at that exact moment that Sam got on the railing. The officer commanded him to get down. Sam said he didn’t want to cause any trouble. He just wanted an end. But he eventually stepped down. He was alive and in the emergency room.
Everyone with the last name Harmer was already piling into cars and speeding to Twin Falls. We hit 100 mph at one point.
We waited in the emergency room for what seemed to be an hour before we got to see him. There was a printed photo on the wall of a rustic, old wooden cattle fence in the mountains that is forever burned into my mind.
Sam was heavily drugged in addition to his extreme emotional distress. He barely seemed human on that long car ride to the treatment clinic back in Boise.
With time, counseling, and medication, Sam stabilized. He met and married a wonderful woman, who we all fell in love with, and continued with his life. He taught college courses at Boise State University as an adjunct professor and life soldiered on.
He loved his wife, his seven kids, and his job. I realized how far he’d come one night when a few members of our family went out to dinner with him and he was almost like his old self. We were at the Cracker Barrel and he seemed almost identical to the real Sam I’d always known. I remarked to my wife that Sam seemed so comfortable with us and happy. Finally, my brother was starting to come back.
Little did I know that Sam had a note on his phone, right there in his pocket while we ate, detailing his plans for suicide. The note had just begun, and over the next few months he filled in the details as he thought it through.
Sam came to family dinners, spent time with his wife and kids, went to work, made vacation plans for the future, and worked with his attorney on future custody arrangements. He made plans for the future at the very time he was making plans for the end.
Friday, August 4, 2017. I like to enjoy the perks of being an internet entrepreneur, and my favorite perk is setting my own schedule. So on a Friday morning when I should have been working, I hooked the trailer up to the truck and the whole family piled in for some fun in the desert. We spent the morning dirt biking. Cole, my 7-year-old, tipped over a few times and I spent much of the morning wiping tears and being a cheerleader. We all love dirt biking as a family, so it was an excellent day with perfect weather.
As I carved dusty turns through the desert, my dear brother was four miles away, preparing to die.
It was 2 p.m. As we got in the truck to come home, I got a text from Sam. Emily read it to me while I started driving down the bumpy dirt road: “Hey brothers, a friend at work was just diagnosed with cancer. He has only one month left. Got me thinking how I’ve been meaning to apologize … for being a shitty brother ;) I mean it though. I’ve been through some intense life eve
nts over the past seven years and I’m seeing more clearly now how I’ve acted … On top of all of it, I was about three years into a worsening depression, as you know. Not making excuses, just explaining. I’m sorry for being distant all these years. I really do love you and always have of course. Just realizing I need to fix a few things in my life so I can move on. No need for emotional phone calls. LOL. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Sam.”
I told Emily, “Wow. That’s really great. I hope he’ll start feeling more like himself. Last time we went out with him he was really happy.” Probably right as I said those words, he got out of his Uber and walked to the back of the parking lot at the hospital. There was a small grassy area.
It was 3:33 p.m. It took me a few minutes to figure out what to say to Sam. As I drove, I dictated a reply that Emily tapped out on my phone. “Life throws some curveballs. I’m glad you’re in a better spot now. I’d love to do more with you. A little disappointed that we can’t have more emotional phone calls too. ;-)” We went through a few revisions of the text to get it just right. I wanted to let him know that I loved him without sounding too emotional since Sam hates being stressed.
We got home and got the baby to sleep and I took a nap. I had slept only five minutes when I woke to a phone call. I would normally not have answered, but I saw it was one of my brothers. I was still waking up but wanted to sound awake when I answered, so I said, “Hey man. What’s up?” in my most chipper voice.
He replied in a very calm, even tone: “Sam’s dead … ”
I understood the words, but had to clarify the meaning. “Where is he? Is he okay?”
“ … He’s dead.”
“Wait, you mean it’s already over? He’s dead?”
“He’s dead. He’s at the emergency room in Boise.”
Everyone with the last name Harmer flew into cars. 100 mph. I broke down at one point in the car, but mostly I didn’t feel anything. I just couldn’t be sure yet. I still felt great like I had that morning and my emotions hadn’t quite caught up with the situation. I felt a little guilty talking to Emily in the car because I wasn’t feeling sad and I knew I should. It still felt like a normal day, but I knew it wasn’t.
I parked at the hospital in nearly the same space where I’d parked a year earlier when my third child, a daughter, was born. I got out of the car and started running toward the ER doors. Trying to hurry, I was annoyed by the many police cars and yellow crime tape surrounding an area near the parking lot. I ran, weaving through the maze when I suddenly stopped in my tracks as I realized that the police cars and the yellow tape were there for Sam.
I looked over, and there he was. Fortunately, I was at a distance, but there he was. I lost control. “Why would he do something like that?” I felt anger more than anything. The sense of waste was overpowering. The police officers asked me a few questions.
“He’s been battling depression for years. Yes, he attempted suicide once in the past but that was years ago.” I could only laugh when they asked if he had any enemies.
None of you will understand the pain we all felt over the ensuing days unless you’ve felt that same pain yourself—the pain that causes people to howl as they cry.
It was over. Sam was over, and nothing was going to go back and change it.
In writing this book, I have carefully researched the current recommendations from groups such as the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention so that I can tell this story as I lived it, but more importantly in a way that would not at all sensationalize suicide or cause harm to others. Consequently, I intentionally omitted details here that could put others at risk.
Sam didn’t die from any single trauma. Many factors contributed to his death: mental illness that was only partially treated, chronic pain and medications from a recent surgery, struggles in his personal life, his unwillingness to open up to others about how he was feeling, and stress.
More than anything else, Sam’s death pained me for its waste. There were so many options available to him. This could have been treated. Those at risk of suicide can call the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800.273.TALK. That’s 1.800.273.8255. Sam knew that, and did not reach out for help as he should have. Help was so close to him.
The solution was so simple. His brain had convinced him that he would never have a happy day ever again. Anyone who has been through difficulties knows that’s not true. It was simply a problem within him that didn’t allow his mind to understand that, and he could have so easily received help in the emergency room by walking in and saying, “I need help. I have no will to live.” He could have called the suicide hotline. He could have told anyone who could have helped him make those decisions.
After his death, a group of Sam’s friends and former students took his bucket list, which he called his “to-do list,” and committed to finishing it for him. They have plowed farms in a tractor, bought a round for the bar, presented an oversized check to a charity, written books, and more. This tribute to my brother shows how his life touched me, but his life reached many others. I finally feel I can tell his story in a positive way. I can just enjoy who he was without the pain of how it ended.
About six months before his death, Sam posted on Facebook, “I’m curious to know what my friends believe about the meaning of life. I know this is a heavy subject for Facebook, but I’m genuinely curious what my friends believe deep down on a personal level.
“ … After my midlife crisis, of sorts, I’ve spent the past eight years of my life searching for God and some meaning in life and I’ve mostly come up short … At the same time, I don’t judge those who believe in God, in fact I envy them! Life was certainly easier for me when I was a believer … I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night suddenly concerned about my existence and my place in the universe! This lack of faith has been terrifying for me the past few years, honestly. I’ve felt very alone and purposeless at times, spiritually.”
I didn’t feel like I could respond, or maybe I didn’t feel like I should since he had lost his faith years ago and didn’t like talking about it. Sam already knew what I believed. If I’m to be perfectly honest, I believe Sam struggled to find a purpose because he had ruled out any belief in the one being who gives life purpose. That’s my belief, but it’s not the point.
The point, and the reason it is necessary to tell this story, is this: We all need to stop setting goals in hopes of stumbling upon some kind of purpose in our lives. Go right ahead and change your college major 20 times, and I promise you’ll still feel like you haven’t found your “calling.”
Your Career and Your Goals Are Not Your Calling
Calling? If you frame the career question that way, would anyone become a plumber? “Why yes, God put me on this green earth so that I could shoot human excrement through plastic pipes!” A handyman? An accountant? A mailman? A banker? Nope. We reject those because there’s no way that’s your calling in life, right? Surely that couldn’t be it.
Certainly we were called to become operatic singers who delight audiences with the beauty of music, politicians who clean up corruption, or founders of nonprofits who save children in Africa, right? If we frame our life’s work by viewing it as a calling, we all too often think only the most outwardly noble goals are suitable. Yet what would the world look like without plumbing, accounting, or mail delivery?
I wish Sam could know how his goals fit into the bigger picture. The value in achieving a goal is not the thing conquered, but the muscle you have grown in conquering it.
No goal will complete you.
Climb Everest, invent flying cars, have 40 kids, go to Harvard, become a senator—I don’t care. You’ll work yourself ragged and never find happiness.
That’s a lesson I’m only beginning to understand. Just a couple of years ago, I was telling a friend about my business—the business I have spent years working to build and was so proud of. Somehow, I found myself saying something I didn’t know I felt. I said, “Yeah, it’s great, but I’m not sure how
long I can keep doing this. I mean, is my whole career going to just be about sharing an endless stream of photography tips?”
The words struck me as they escaped my lips, and I knew I’d never be able to take them back. I realized something was bubbling up inside me. I wanted to take a big leap and find a new challenge. When I really thought about it, I could see that I was falling into the same trap as someone in college trying to find their “calling.” The topic of my work didn’t have to be meaningful.
I should have realized that the work was meaningful because it stretched me to learn.
Yet I did feel that I wanted a new challenge. I was ready to sell my business. It took two years of hard work to turn the business completely passive. It was hard to see many of the things I built change to make it investable at a lower level, but I made the move. Eventually, the business did sell and Improve Photography is now an excellent and active site in great hands that are continuing to make it a great resource for photographers around the world.
My next challenge was Income School, which I was running as a separate business with my friend Ricky. The site was taking off, but at the time was still far below what my photography site had become. Making the decision to take on a new business was one of the best moves of my career. Income School has now become a staple in the internet marketing industry, and we have expanded with employees and multiple large websites about RVs, hunting, pets, and other topics in our portfolio. Plus, our YouTube channel (Income School) has absolutely blossomed.
That was the change I made in my career when I learned how short life was, but there is another change I’m only beginning to understand. I’ve been running scared ever since that day when I had to lay off my employees.