The Question That Took Fifty Years to Answer

 

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”
— William Bruce Cameron

 

“Make sure you understand the instrument of measure.”

 

My 10th-grade English teacher said it like it was obvious.

 

We were just getting started for the year—new books, new assignments, new expectations. It was one of those classes everyone wanted. She was known as a great teacher, the kind students talked about after they moved on.

 

I remember sitting at my desk, reading Beowulf, actually enjoying it—drawn into the rhythm of the language, the weight of the story.

 

And then she asked it again.

 

“What is the instrument of measure?”

 

Students answered. Heads nodded. Pens moved.

 

And I sat there, frustrated.

 

Not confused in a passing way—
stuck.

 

I understood the story.

 

I just didn’t understand what she was asking.

 

The Moment I Didn’t Understand

She would walk by my desk, lightly tap it, and say it again—almost like a prompt, like she expected something to come back.

 

“What is the instrument of measure?”

 

And every time, I drew a blank.

 

What does she mean?
Why can’t I figure this out?

 

I didn’t raise my hand.

 

Not because I didn’t care.

 

Because I didn’t want to expose that I didn’t understand something everyone else seemed to grasp.

 

So I did something subtle, but lasting.

 

I stopped participating.

 

I even let it look like I didn’t understand the material—just so I wouldn’t have to enter the conversation I couldn’t follow.

 

Over time, I began to pull back from more advanced literature.

 

Not dramatically.

 

Quietly.

 

But it was a shift.

 

And underneath it was a feeling I didn’t have language for at the time:

 

Maybe I’m just not built for this.

 

A Question That Stayed

Tenth grade ended.

 

The class ended.

 

Life moved forward the way it does—one year stacking on top of the next.

 

But every now and then, that phrase would come back:

 

Instrument of measure.

 

Not urgently.
Not insistently.

 

Just… there.

 

A question I had never answered.

 

Building a Life Without It

Like most people, I had a direction.

 

I used to think of it as my mission statement.

 

Find a girl.
Have a great marriage.
Raise children.
Educate them.
Help them stand on their own.
Reach retirement.
Enjoy it.

 

It was clear.
It was responsible.
It was meaningful.

 

And for a long time, it worked.

 

But I never asked:

 

By what measure will I know if I did it well?

 

Not whether I achieved the steps.

 

But whether I lived them the right way.

 

Writing Changed the Question

Years later, I began writing.

 

At first, it was personal—trying to understand my own experiences, capture moments that felt worth remembering.

 

Eventually, that led me into writing children’s books.

 

And that’s where something shifted.

 

Children don’t respond to effort.

 

They don’t care how long something took.
They don’t care what you meant.

 

They respond to one thing:

 

Does it connect?

 

So I wrote.

 

And rewrote.

 

And rewrote again.

 

And somewhere in that process, I started asking a different question:

 

What am I aiming at?

 

The Realization

At some point, after enough drafts, I changed the question again:

 

Would a child love this?

 

Not “Is it good?”
Not “Is it publishable?”
Not “Will someone approve of it?”

 

Just:

 

Would a child love this?

 

And once I started measuring my writing that way, everything changed.

 

It became simpler.
Clearer.
More honest.

 

Because I wasn’t writing toward approval anymore.

 

I was writing toward connection.

 

And then, without warning, something clicked.

 

Fifty Years Later

I was sitting with a draft in front of me, asking that same question—

 

Would a child love this?

 

—and for the first time in fifty years, I understood what my teacher had been asking.

 

That was the instrument of measure.

 

I actually smiled.

 

It felt strange—solving something that had sat unresolved for that long.

 

Later that day, I told my son.

 

“You know what happened to me today?” I said.

 

“I finally got it.”

 

What She Meant

She wasn’t asking about English.

 

She was asking about perspective.

 

About how you decide if something matters.

 

About what standard you use—often without realizing it—to guide what you create, what you pursue, and how you live.

 

Everyone has one.

 

Some people measure by achievement.
Some by recognition.
Some by comfort.
Some by security.

 

And once you choose it—intentionally or not—it begins shaping everything.

 

The Quiet Risk

If your instrument of measure is misaligned,

you can succeed at the wrong things.

 

You can:

 

reach your goals
complete your plans
build the life you intended

 

…and still feel like something is missing.

 

Not because you failed.

 

But because you were measuring something that didn’t fully matter to you.

 

What Changed for Me

The shift wasn’t dramatic.

 

It was small.

 

From:

 

Did I achieve it?

 

To:

 

Did it create something meaningful?

 

That change didn’t just affect my writing.

 

It changed how I saw:

 

my work
my time
my relationships
my choices

 

It changed the kinds of deposits I was making.

 

It took me fifty years to understand a question I first heard in tenth grade.

 

Not because it was complicated.

 

But because I hadn’t lived enough life to answer it.

 

Your life is already being measured.

 

The question is:

 

What are you using to measure it?

 

Because whatever you choose—
that is what your life will quietly become.

 

What to Bank from This

• Metrics shape lives. What you choose to measure quietly becomes what you build.
• Aim determines return. Your standard directs your time, your energy, and your future.
• Not all wins are wealth. Approval may rise quickly; meaning is what compounds.
• You can succeed at the wrong thing. A misaligned measure can build a life that looks right but feels off.
• Clarity is capital. When you know what counts, your choices begin to align.

 

Financial Reflection: Measuring the Right Return

In investing, what you measure determines how you behave.

 

If you measure short-term movement, you react.
If you measure long-term value, you stay disciplined.

 

Your life works the same way.

 

If your measure is external—money, status, recognition—you will constantly adjust to signals that don’t fully reflect what matters to you.

 

But when your measure is internal—connection, meaning, presence—you begin investing in things that compound differently:

 

relationships
trust
fulfillment
identity

 

These are long-term assets.

 

They don’t move quickly.
But they build something far more stable.

 

The greatest risk isn’t losing ground.

 

It’s measuring the wrong return.

 

Closing Reflection

Some questions don’t leave you.

 

They stay—quietly—until you’re ready to understand them.

 

And when you finally do,

they don’t just change how you think—

 

they change what you aim at.

— ✦ —