A Full Life: The parable of the Mexican fisherman
An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The Mexican replied, “only a little while.”
The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish?
The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.
The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”
The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, and stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”
The American scoffed. “I have an MBA from Harvard, and can help you,” he said. “You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat.
With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, and eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middle-man, you could sell directly to the processor, eventually opening up your own cannery. You could control the product, processing, and distribution,” he said.
“Of course, you would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles, and eventually to New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise.”
The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”
To which the American replied, “Oh, 15 to 20 years or so.”
“But what then?” asked the Mexican.
The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time was right, you would announce an IPO, and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!”
“Millions – then what?”
The American said, “Then you could retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you could sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play guitar with your amigos.”
(Source: Most likely Heinrich Böll’s short story Anekdote zur Senkung der Arbeitsmoral)
What does full mean to you?
“Imagine a world where almost everyone wakes up inspired to go to work, feels trusted and valued during the day, then returns home feeling fulfilled, like they have contributed to something greater than themselves. I believe in this world.” – Simon Sinek
The most important lines in the fisherman’s story isn’t about ambition or money or work. It’s this:
“I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, and stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”
He doesn’t say he’s happy. He doesn’t say he’s successful. He says his life is full.
And what’s striking is that no one else declares that for him. He doesn’t measure it against anyone else’s standard. He doesn’t defend it. He simply states it as fact.
Whether you resonated with the fisherman’s story or not, that’s the real invitation in it: find your version of a full life.
Not someone else’s. Not the one you were told to want. Yours.
I keep coming back to a simple question: What could I do on repeat, day after day, without resenting my life? What rhythm could I live inside without constantly fantasizing about escape?
The fisherman's life, minus the actual fishing, sounds close to perfect to me. Time with family. Unrushed mornings. Honest work. Evenings that belong to him. I don't need his boat or his village. I'd just need a vocation I wouldn't mind toiling over for a few hours a day if it afforded me that kind of life.
For me, maybe that means working harder for a season to buy back more time later. Maybe it means resisting lifestyle creep and learning to live on less. Maybe it means nothing external has to change at all. That the real work is learning how to unplug after the workday ends and be fully present with my wife, my kids, and my friends.
The possibilities are infinite. Time isn’t.
I don’t want to waste another year stressing over things my coworkers won’t remember in six months, let alone six years. That doesn’t mean doing a bad job. It means remembering a truth most of us learn too late: the only people who will ever remember that you worked late are your family.
That idea reminds me of a story Toni Morrison once shared about her father. She talked about coming home one day and complaining about her job. He listened, quietly, without much sympathy. Then he put down his coffee and said, “Listen. You don’t live there. You live here. With your people. Go to work. Get your money. And come on home.”
What she heard in that moment stayed with her for the rest of her life:
Whatever the work is, do it well. Not for the boss, but for yourself. You make the job; it doesn't make you. Your real life is with your family. You are not the work you do; you are the person you are.
That’s the ticket.
I’m not saying quit your job tomorrow. I’m not saying abandon every entrepreneurial dream you’ve ever had. I’m saying maybe it’s worth sitting with the fisherman’s story a little longer before rushing to the next thing.
I obsessed over it for months before sitting down to write this book. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had direction. Not toward more money or another finish line, but toward fully living the life I already have.
For me, that means getting honest about my goals and dreams. Where did they come from? Are they actually mine? Or are they just ideas I absorbed through repetition and comparison?
I've learned that I can't convince anyone the story in their head isn't true. All I can do is offer a new one. One that's compelling enough to replace the old.
I remember the moment I realized most of my beliefs weren’t mine. I started pulling on the thread, asking myself why I believed what I believed. The answers were always the same: I’d heard it somewhere. Someone told me. I adopted it by default.
So I kept pulling.
Eventually, there wasn't much left. Just a handful of beliefs I couldn't discard. They were quieter, simpler, and harder to explain. But they were mine.
And that’s where this book really begins.