Two Masters

Last week, I was given the opportunity to be an adjunct professor teaching personal finance. One live class twice a week, one online. Part-time. I was so excited I accepted before I was even offered.

Then I called Lori to tell her the good news, and somewhere in the middle of explaining how great it was, I heard myself. And I knew I had to pass.

If the yes came that fast, why did I call Lori back and turn it down?

Why the Yes Felt So Good

I'll be honest about the pull, because it was strong.

The opportunity made me feel seen. It validated almost twenty years of work and a stack of credentials I'd earned the hard way. It kept me tied to teaching, a profession I care about deeply. And it kept me in front of young people talking about personal finance, which I'm genuinely passionate about. Every one of those is a real, good reason.

But none of them is the thing I left teaching to go do.

That's the danger. The opportunity wasn't tempting because it moved me toward my goal. It was tempting because it felt good, because it fed the part of me that wants to be recognized. I almost said yes to being validated and told myself it was an opportunity. I’m glad that I caught it, because the feeling isn't the problem. Letting the feeling steer is.

“It's Only a Few Hours”

It's only a couple of hours a week. Barely a dent. Why not do both?

So I asked myself a harder question: why did I leave teaching in the first place?

Not to go back into teaching. I left to get hands-on, actually helping people solve their financial problems, instead of standing at the front of a room talking about them. That was the whole point of the leap. And here I was, two months in, ready to spend my scarcest hours walking back toward the exact thing I'd just walked away from, because it asked nicely and made me feel important.

You cannot serve two masters. The old line is usually about money, but the mechanism is universal. Give your attention to two things, and you don't get two half-great results. You get two things: you're doing well enough to feel busy and not well enough to break through on either. The math of commitment is brutal and simple: greatness in one direction is built from everything you declined in every other direction.

Saying No to Good Things

Saying no to bad offers is easy. Anyone can turn down the thing that's clearly wrong.

The hard version, the one that actually determines whether you get anywhere, is saying no to genuinely good things. Worthy things. Things you'd be proud to do and that any reasonable person would take. The adjunct position is a good thing. Teaching that class would be meaningful work. And it's still the wrong yes right now, because “good” and “worthy” were never the test. The test is whether it moves you toward the one thing you've committed to.

The pull to keep every door open doesn't feel like a weakness. It feels like ambition. But every door open means you're not through any of them. That's not optionality. That's stalling.

Here's what makes the no bearable: it's not forever. I would still love to teach at Columbus State. And I will, someday, when it's an expression of what I've built rather than a detour away from building it. There will always be time for the good thing later. “Not now” is a complete answer, and a good thing offered at the wrong moment is still the wrong thing.

I turned the opportunity down. Then I got back to the work that I left to do.

What good thing do you need to say no to, so you can say yes to the thing that actually matters?

— Ricky