Dear Magicians,

I went back to Cleveland last week.

Strange.

The city looked different this time. Not because Cleveland changed—I had. 32 years will do that. I was there to speak at the Marketing AI CONference, but really I was there to confront something I’d been avoiding: the weight of all those missed opportunities.

The Blindness of Ambition

Here’s what nobody tells you about college: you can walk past beauty every single day and never see it.

I did.

For four years at Case Western, I passed the Cleveland Botanical Gardens on my way to the physics lab. Never went in. Not once. The admission was $2.50. I told myself I couldn’t afford it.

Nonsense.

I couldn’t afford to notice it. My mind was elsewhere—on quantum mechanics, on grades, on some imagined future where everything would finally make sense.

The Cleveland Museum of Art? Free admission. World-class collection. I went once during orientation. Never returned.

Think about that.

The Architecture of Regret

Regret has a structure. It’s not just sadness about the past—it’s information. Data about who you were, what you valued, what you missed.

Walking through campus with my son last week, I saw it clearly. The young physicist I’d been was so focused on escaping his present that he never actually lived in it. Financial pressures, academic stress, the constant anxiety of not being good enough—these things create a kind of tunnel vision.

You know this feeling.

We all do.

What Changes

My kids loved Cleveland.

They dragged me through the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Great Lakes Science Museum. Even those botanical gardens I’d ignored for years. My daughter found a chameleon from Madagascar. My son discovered a meditation garden tucked behind tropical plants.

Joy.

Simple joy at discovering something new.

When did I lose that? When did curiosity become a luxury I couldn’t afford?

The Paradox of Presence

Here’s the thing about mindfulness—and I know how that word lands for some of you. Bear with me.

Being present isn’t about meditation apps or breathing exercises. It’s about recognizing that your life is happening now, not after the next exam, not after tenure, not after you finally prove yourself.

Now.

The trajectory of my life—from nearly dropping out due to poverty, to scholarships, to Brown, Stanford, Caltech, to this moment—wasn’t linear. It couldn’t have been planned. But every missed opportunity taught me something about attention, about what matters, about the cost of always looking ahead.

The Experiment

Try this.

Tomorrow, take a different route to work. Stop at that coffee shop you always pass. Visit that museum on campus. Talk to someone outside your field.

Small moves.

The point isn’t to become a different person. It’s to become aware of the person you already are—the one making choices every day about what to notice and what to ignore.

What We’re Really Talking About

This isn’t really about Cleveland.

It’s about the stories we tell ourselves about scarcity. About time. About what we can afford to pay attention to.

I thought I was too busy to explore. Too poor. Too focused on survival.

Wrong.

I was afraid. Afraid that if I stopped moving, stopped striving, I’d fall behind. That fear cost me experiences I can never recover.

The Return

Standing in those botanical gardens with my family, I felt something shift.

Gratitude, maybe. Or just recognition.

The boy who rushed past this place every day was doing his best. He didn’t know what he was missing. How could he?

But I know now.

And you?

What are you walking past?

Until next time, have a M.A.G.I.C. Week,

Brian