Ken Phillips was my best friend. We’d known each oth-er for 30 years. I knew he’d be thrilled for me when I called to tell him I was taking a great new job. It meant moving from Chicago to Philadelphia. A big change for my wife and me. I couldn’t wait to share the good news.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Ken said. I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth. “You interview for a job in another city, and you don’t even tell me about it?”
I tried to explain how it was a startup that would help large donors make grants to help in many of the world’s poorest places. It had strong support behind it, but I’d been sworn to secrecy. The backers didn’t want to be overwhelmed by requests for donations. “Like you couldn’t tell me?” he asked. “I thought our friendship meant more to you than that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Sure, Ken and I had had some great conversations over the years. Watched each other’s kids grow up. Even taken a couple of vacations together. But things change. Ken was a psychiatrist, for Pete’s sake. How was he not getting this?
I’m a doer, focused on taking action, not talking about feelings. I had my hands full with work, family and now an exciting new job opportunity. Friends hadn’t been a huge priority, not the way they were for Ken obviously.
“We’ll still talk,” I