I recently received the following letter.

Dear Hesh,

This letter is being sent registered mail, return-receipt requested, because previous efforts to inform you of our decision have gone unheeded.

We are not heartless like Donald Trump, but we cannot think of any way to say it any more succinctly: You're fired. You are no longer wealthy, and as one of the premier wealth-advisory firms in Pittsburgh, it would just be unethical (and unprofitable) for us to continue carrying you as a client.

For the record, we want to remind you that for years we strongly recommended that you follow our contrarian approach. But you would not buck the crowd, i.e., you stayed with the dot.coms two years longer then all of our other clients.

We have enclosed a list of alternative advisors for you to consider. We would like to specifically recommend APW: Advisor to the Previously Wealthy. This firm is very sensitive to your need to maintain an aura of wealth. (You can still expect quality cappuccino in the waiting room; just bring enough quarters for the machine.)

The letter went on to detail SEC regulations and how I had 60 days to appeal their decision. It did not really matter. I had to come to grips with my new reality.

What next? I tried the new advisor. As I sat in the waiting room, I read his marketing brochure. I expected to read about the amount of money he had under advisement and how he had consistently beaten the S&P 500. I was wrong.

It told his life story. He was a former minister who had left his congregation because he was not making a difference. He wanted to be involved in their lives and work on issues that really mattered to them--the kind of issues they discussed in the intimacy of their own bedrooms. And that was the reason he became a wealth advisor.

After five years and a good amount of financial success, he realized that he still had not found his calling. The wealthy were really different; they are happier than the rest of us. He was not really needed.

He did not want to return to his congregation. Instead, he decided to focus on people like myself: the previously wealthy. We carry a lot of baggage, and he felt he could help us bare our souls.

As I entered his office, I was surprised. It was bare except for two simple chairs, and they were not even facing each other, they were back to back.
He asked me to sit, as he took the opposing chair. He suggested that I imagine a screen between us, like in a confessional. He said that the privacy and the lack of visual contact gave clients a desire to truly unburden themselves. (Even as an atheist, it did sound therapeutic).

I detailed the litany of my investment errors. As I listened to myself talk, I realized that I really was no different than most investors. Everyone talks about being a contrarian, but the truth is we all are programmed by society to follow the crowd.

I spoke, and he listened, saying nothing. When I finished, he calmly asked that we turn our chairs and face each other.

I expected to hear a fire and brimstone speech on the evils of living a lavish lifestyle, but I was wrong. He asked me only one question: had I told my mother?

"Of course not," I said. "She would be heartbroken; she would cry, offer to help me out, and then tell me about my dad and his financial collapse."

"So your dad faced the same problem?" He asked.

"Yes," I answered.

He continued," How did your dad solve the problem?"

"My mom," I offered, "came from a wealthy family, and they helped."

"Was your dad grateful?" He asked

"Yes, but slightly humiliated," I said lowering my head. "However, he got over it."

To my surprise he then asked. "Is your wife wealthy in her own right?"

"No," I answered. "I guess you could say on this issue I am a real contrarian."

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Then my son, the answer is simple: Do not be contrary; follow the path of your father."

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