As a psychology professor, you occasionally find yourself in the role of a secret counselor — the confidant of public figures too prominent to be seen visiting a hospital. These men and women, well-known and well-respected, often hide their deepest struggles behind smiles and accolades. When the weight in their hearts becomes unbearable, they seek someone like me.
The cost of success no one talks about
One day, a famed industrialist walked into my office. He was an alumnus of our university, celebrated for his leadership from the moment he graduated. Within a few years, he had built a business empire from scratch. Admired for his calm demeanor, sharp decision-making, and unshakable composure, he had become a role model for ambitious students across the country.
But that day, he wasn’t composed. He was distraught. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I want to end my life.” The statement was jarring. How could someone so admired, so seemingly in control, feel so broken? “I can’t love,” he explained. “That’s the problem.”
The strange little pill that changed everything
He told me a story that sounded like something out of a fiction book. In his senior year, he had learned of a psychology professor who claimed to have invented a pill that enhanced perception, emotional detachment, and decision-making. It would sharpen his mind and ensure success in the competitive world outside. But the professor warned of a peculiar side effect: the complete inability to love.
Still, love seemed like a small price to pay. He asked if the pill would prevent him from feeling loved. The answer was no — only the ability to give love would vanish. He took the gamble. He wanted greatness, not emotional entanglements. He swallowed all five pills, one per day. And the results? Astonishing. His clarity, foresight, and decisiveness became legendary. His empire flourished. But so did the consequences.
When love disappears, life goes with it
The pill’s success came at a heavy cost. He became emotionally hollow. When his mother passed away, he felt nothing. His wife and children felt unloved. Even his subordinates saw him as an emotionless machine. Slowly, he began to realize: the richest joy in life isn’t found in achievement — it’s found in connection.
He watched volunteers, people far less “successful” than he, beam with genuine happiness simply because they cared for others. He began to envy their peace, their purpose. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to care. The side effect was too strong. Desperate, he sought me out. He knew I had once been a close student of the professor who gave him the pills, and he hoped I might possess the antidote.
Finding the real medicine for the human heart
His request seemed impossible. I had never heard of a drug that could shut off empathy. I searched medical databases and the professor’s old research. Finally, in a dusty library archive, I found the professor’s handwritten journals. And there it was: a description of the same “pill” and the side effect. But the twist? It was a placebo — just vitamins.
The professor believed in the power of belief. The pill never took his ability to love; he did. He chose to numb himself in pursuit of success. He had always had the freedom to love — he decided not to. So I gave him five new pills, also just vitamins, and warned him: “They may dull your precision and your edge. You might lose your place at the top.” He didn’t care. “I just want to love again,” he said.
What happened when he changed his heart
Three months later, he returned a changed man. He had begun expressing concern for those around him: comforting a grieving colleague, mentoring a colleague’s son, and learning the deep fulfillment that comes from giving.
He handed me a gift — a glass bottle containing the same five pills I had given him. He hadn’t taken a single one. Instead, he had them analyzed by a pharmacy professor, confirmed they were just vitamins, and realized the truth: the ability to love was never gone. It had only been buried beneath ambition.
His final words to me were: “The greatest joy in life comes from giving, not getting.” And as he drove off — this time without a chauffeur, giving the man a well-earned night off — I realized he hadn’t just rediscovered his heart. He had reclaimed his freedom.
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