Will

by Will Smith

Some stories just bounce off us; we don’t get it, we don’t feel it, it doesn’t mean anything to us. But some stories penetrate; they get past our defenses and plunge into our secret spaces, bypassing our brains and inducing physical reactions: tears, chills, laughter, gasps. They light us up, creating ecstatic pleasure; they inspire us; they make us want to strive. Great stories illuminate truth, and ultimately make us want to see the movie again and again and again.

The hero’s journey became my road map to creating riveting characters and centering them in universally resonant stories, films that transcend language, age, race, religion, culture, nationality, education, economic status. Joseph Campbell/ Christopher Vogler had codified the story elements of universal struggle, transformation, and rebirth as one’s greatest self—to me, this was cinematic gold, and the key to global human wish-fulfillment. The movie star represents the warrior in the life-or-death battle against the brutality of the human condition. It is the path of the caterpillar becoming a butterfly; it is the story of Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, Moses, Arjuna; it is the story of Cassius Clay becoming Muhammad Ali; it is the universal arc of transformation; it is the story of Santiago in The Alchemist.

When you’re famous, everybody has an idea. Everybody has a new business, a demo, or a better way that you should be doing things. It’s even more extreme with friends and family because they feel entitled, and you feel obligated. So I listened patiently to Omarr’s pitch.

There are very few things in entertainment that are more combustible than a hit movie combined with a hit record. Think about Whitney Houston’s The Bodyguard and “I Will Always Love You”; Prince’s “Purple Rain”; Rocky and “Eye of the Tiger”; Saturday Night Fever; Foot-loose; Grease … Y’all get it. The alchemy of the story and the soundtrack together is like a self-perpetuating tornado sucking all the cash out of the weekend. The symbiotic relationship between movie, song, and music video was a perfect promotional storm. The song works as massive radio promotion for the movie that is essentially free. The music video acts like a trailer for the movie, and the movie sends fans to buy the album and request the song and video.

“What do you mean?” I said, “I love our children as much as you do. I was actually surprised that you put yourself third. That doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s like the airlines: You have to put your mask on first before attempting to assist others. Of course I will take care of all of y’all, but by taking care of me.”

I have spoken over the years to many artists, musicians, innovators, athletes, thinkers, poets, entrepreneurs, big dreamers from all walks of life, and there is a secret conversation that always seems to arise: How can we fully pursue and realize our visions while at the same time cultivating love, a thriving family, and fulfilling relationships? And here’s the harsh reality for everyone who loves a dreamer: Everything comes second to the dream. The attainment of my dream became an act of survival. In my darkest nights, my dream saved my life—it was my light, my food. My vision of brighter days sustained me. It was my whole purpose. I saw my hopes as the ticket to a better life—to joy, fulfilment, security, safety. I saw the realization of my dream as my only road to love and happiness. Failure equaled death. My belief was, When I get to the top of this mountain, I will never be scared again. I will never be sad again. I’ll never be abused or disrespected or unloved. Everything worth living for is at the top of this mountain. And there is nothing I am unwilling to leave or to lose to get there. And anyone who opposes or impedes my progress is my enemy. But here’s the dichotomy: My wife was my vision; my family was my vision. My picture encompassed joy, fulfillment, and prosperity for all of us. It’s my vision, but it’s not selfish because I’m doing it for everyone around me. (Spoiler alert: it’s a little bit more complicated than a dichotomy.)

There are rare individuals among us who just know who they are, they know what they are, and they are crystal clear about what they are here to do—Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mandela, and even budding change agents like Malala Yousafzai and Greta Thunberg. Each accepted their divine duties and are willing to suffer for what is right and to benefit others. There’s an intoxicating power in their conviction—they are calm, they are decisive, and they are loving, even in the midst of conflict and the worst of storms. Just being in their presence inspires your heart toward higher purpose. You want to follow them; you want to serve them; you want to fight alongside them. Muhammad Ali, at the height of his fame and fortune—and in the prime years of his athletic capabilities—gave up everything to oppose the war in Vietnam. He refused induction into the US Army on religious grounds as a conscientious objector, and in 1967, Ali was convicted of “draft evasion” and sentenced to five years in prison. His passport was seized; he was heavily fined; and he was punished with a three-year ban from boxing. I ain’t draft dodging. I ain’t burning no flag. I ain’t running to Canada. I’m staying right here. You want to send me to jail? Fine, you go right ahead. I’ve been in jail for four hundred years. I could be there for four or five more, but I ain’t going no ten thousand miles to help murder and kill other poor people. If I want to die, I’ll die right here, right no...

His position was: dreams are built on discipline; discipline is built on habits; habits are built on training. And training takes place in every single second and every situation of your life: how you wash the dishes; how you drive a car; how you present a report at school or at work. You either do your best all the time or you don’t; if the behavior has not been trained and practiced, then the switch will not be there when you need it. “Training is for the purpose of habituating reactions to extreme circumstances,” Darrell said. “When situations get hot, you can’t rely on yo’ thinkin’ mind. You must have habituated reflexive responses that kick in without the necessity of thought. Never de-train your killer instincts.”

As I look back on my life, I see funny stories, beautiful experiences, tragic losses, magnificent victories—all held together by a handful of pivotal moments, critical choices that completely altered the trajectory of my journey. In that ring with Michael Bentt, a switch got flipped that would take a decade to get unflipped. The warrior within me took complete command of everything in my life. I stood up off the stool, looked at Bentt, and said, “Good shot. Let’s work.”

In the face of grievous injustice, profound prejudice, and financial devastation, he never wavered from the convictions of his principles. He was the greatest fighter of all time yet would always say, “My religion is love.” Everybody wanted to be a part of honoring him. I had experienced the magnetism of fame, I knew well the allure of celebrity, the attraction of money, but this was my first dose of the power of purpose and the radiance of service.

“Madiba”—as he’s known among his closest friends and family—grabbed my hand and walked me around his home. We must have held hands for a full ten minutes. Men didn’t hold hands like this where I grew up; the show of affection was overwhelming.

Purpose and desire can seem similar, but they are very different, sometimes even opposing forces. Desire is personal, narrow, and pointed, and tends toward self-preservation, self-gratification, and short-term gains and pleasures. Purpose is wider, broader, a longer-term vision encompassing the benefit of others—something outside of yourself you’re willing to fight for. There have been many times in my life where I was acting from a place of desire but I’d fully convinced myself that it was purpose. Desire is what you want; purpose is the flowering of what you are. Desire tends to weaken over time, whereas purpose strengthens the more you lean into it. Desire can be depleting because it’s insatiable; purpose is empowering—it’s a stronger engine. Purpose has a way of contextualizing life’s unavoidable sufferings and making them meaningful and worthwhile. As Viktor Frankl wrote, “In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” A noble aim engenders positive feelings. When we pursue what we believe to be a profound and valuable goal, it stirs the best parts of ourselves and others.

Madiba was gone. This was one of the greatest moments of regret in my entire life. How could I not have taken him up on his offer? Over the years, I’ve done deep soul-searching around that question. He held me in the purest affection and highest regard. It was scary to me. He saw something in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself. I think subconsciously I didn’t want to spend extended time with him for fear that I wouldn’t live up to his impression of me. Maybe I thought he’d ask me to do something or change something about my life that I’d be unable or unwilling to change. Madiba thought I was special—I didn’t want to prove him wrong. He has since appeared to me multiple times in dreams, always wearing that same knowing smile—his energy seems to communicate, I’m still here whenever you are ready.

I am a dreamer, and a builder. I picture grand visions, and then I build the systems to make them real in the world. That is my love language. I want to help the people I love build extraordinary lives for themselves. But it demands that they be willing to grind and sacrifice and most importantly, they have to trust me. And if they don’t, it registers as a complete rejection of my love. The team started referring to themselves as “the Lifers.” They were ride-or-die. It’s impossible to build something that is of a higher quality than the quality of the people around you. There’s a strange and perturbing success paradox. When you have nothing, you suffer the fear and pain of grinding to achieve your goals. But when you have everything, you suffer the brutal recurring nightmare of losing it all.

So, Will, to what do you attribute your meteoric success?” “Well, I consider myself to be fairly average in talent. Where I believe I excel is in my unflinching, unyielding discipline and work ethic. While the other guy is eating, I’m working. While the other guy is sleeping, I’m working. While the other guy is making love … well … I’m making love, too, but I’m working really hard at it.” Reporters used to love that response, and while I was “joking,” the reality of the math was very simple to me: If I could wake up and start an hour earlier than everyone else, and stay an hour later than everyone else, and work through my lunch break, I would be gaining fifteen extra hours every week on the competition. That works out to 780 more productive hours in a year than the next guy—that’s the equivalent of one month. If you give me a one-month start on anybody, they’ll never catch me. And if they need their weekends and vacations, so they can get their beauty rest and recover and maintain their little punk-ass “work-life balance,” then they will always be looking at my taillights.

Yes, dear reader, it’s obvious today. But I was functioning at the time on a very different operating system. My mind-set was: You fight how you train. I felt like Jada and my family needed me to think like that. They needed me to cultivate and maintain a winner’s mind. They needed me to never de-train my warrior instincts. I am a Black man in Hollywood—in order to sustain my position, I can’t get caught slipping, not even once. I had to be perfect at all times. It took me years to realize that Jada wasn’t actually playing Monopoly. She was bonding and connecting and enjoying family time. Apparently, I was the only person who was actually playing Monopoly. I have since upgraded my software and developed a new axiom: Never get caught playing Monopoly.

I couldn’t even bring myself to say the final words. “Uhhmm, check …?” I said. “You know goddamn well that ain’t no check. What is that?” “Checkmate?” “Why you puttin’ a question on it? Say it!” “Checkmate.” “Yup, good game.” Daddio shook my hand, grabbed his cigarette and his drink, and went inside. We never played chess again. For years, I thought it was because he was a sore loser. But as I got to understand him better, I saw that he wanted my final memory of playing chess with my father to be perfect. He wanted my mind to be programmed to winning and to savor victory. His training of me on the chessboard was complete; it was a mythological rite of passage, and he didn’t want to tarnish it.

I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t ultimately direct the film, but I had long ago learned the power and importance of exploration. General meetings with world-class artists had become standard operating procedure. The meeting was awful. Gabriele didn’t want to use the translator; he was trying to speak English, but he didn’t speak English. JL and I didn’t even try to speak Italian, because we don’t speak Italian. But Gabriele’s artistic passion culminated in two game-changing moves: one, he gave us an Italian film, Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves, which won the Academy Award for most outstanding foreign language film in 1950, and through the translator, said, “This is the movie I want to make.” And then, he got me: he said, “If you don’t choose me to direct this film, please don’t choose an American filmmaker, because Americans don’t understand the beauty of the American dream.” Gabriele was in.

I was unstoppable. It was the greatest streak of smash hits of any movie actor in Hollywood history. I became the highest-grossing film actor ever. And I still wasn’t even forty years old. The problem was, I’d conflated being successful with being loved and being happy. These are three separate things. And since I’d conflated them, I ended up suffering from an even more insidious version of the “subtle sickness,” which I can best describe as “more, more, more, more.” If I am more successful, I’ll be happier, and people will love me more. I was trying to fill an internal emotional hole with external, material achievements. Ultimately, this kind of obsession is insatiable. The more you get, the more you want, all the time never quite scratching the itch. You end up with a mind consumed by what it doesn’t have and what it didn’t get, and in a spiraling inability to enjoy what it has. I Am Legend had opened to the biggest December opening ever. When JL called to give me the weekend grosses, he was uncharacteristically ecstatic. “The three-day was $77,211,321 in 3,600 theaters. That’s over $21,000 per venue. Nobody’s ever done that, ever.” I was quiet for a moment and then I recognized a subtle dissatisfaction. “Why do you think we missed eighty?” I asked. “What?” JL said. “I’m sayin’, do you think it was the ending? I feel like if we had made the adjustment to the final moment, you know, if we could have made it feel more like Gladiator at the end ….” “Are you fuckin’ serious ...

My way of problem-solving was to prioritize. I would decide which problems on the list were most pressing and focus on those—but what I missed was that everybody’s list was different.

Jada and I never pressured the kids into show business. It was true that fame and fortune made Jada uncomfortable—she felt ambivalent about her kids being celebrities. But part of my vision for Her Lake was that it would be a creative campus, an artists’ haven. I wanted to shorten the distance between anyone having an idea and being able to create art. I built a music studio; there were video cameras and editing bays; there were sketch pads in every room, painting supplies and pencils everywhere; and eventually, even our living room became the studio for Jada’s Red Table Talk. The fact is, the kids simply grew up in it, so there was nothing to pressure. I grew up working in Daddio’s shop. It struck me as normal that kids do what their parents do. My father sold ice, so I bagged it. Similarly, for Trey, Jaden, and Willow, there was nothing unusual about being on a film set or in a recording studio. It’s the family business—it was their normal experience. So no, I did not push my kids into show business because I was an insane, overbearing father. It was only after they decided to be in show business that I became an insane, overbearing father.

My mind-set at the time was that there is no reason to do anything unless you are prepared to take a shot at being the best on earth. My belief was, you should always be aiming at the pinnacle, always striving for the very top of the mountain. Nothing should be done half-heartedly.

I would have never said this out loud, but a truthful answer to “Does it matter to you how I feel?” would have sounded something like this: Not exactly, sweetheart—feelings are seventh on my list. 1. Food 2. Shelter 3. Security 4. Intelligence 5. Strength 6. Productivity First and foremost, I care that you eat … every day. Second, I care that you have somewhere to live; third, I care that you’re safe. Fourth, I care that you are intelligent, and your mind is trained to solve the problems of your life. Fifth, I care that you’re strong, because the world is hard. And sixth, I care that you’re productive—I want you to contribute to the human family. And I believe that if you have all of those things, they will add up to you feeling great. I believe that if I take care of one through six, number seven will take care of itself. This is not something I just apply to you: I don’t even care how I feel. Many of my feelings have been enemies to my dreams and to our prosperity. I don’t feel like running five miles at 5:00 a.m.; I don’t feel like working eighty hours a week; I don’t feel like getting booed onstage, and feces thrown, and M-80s hurled at my head. And I know that if I worry about how I feel, I won’t be able to feed, clothe, house, and protect my family. When I determine a right action for our survival and prosperity, it doesn’t matter to me that I don’t feel like doing it. If it’s obviously an action of supreme benefit, then to hell with my feelings. When people are too ...

While my feelings about feelings have evolved and elevated, I still struggle to this day when extreme emotion arises in myself or others. Feelings are extremely valuable tools for maneuvering and manifesting in the world. They are like fire—they can be used to cook and heat and cleanse. But when extreme emotions go unchecked, my experience has been that they will incinerate your dreams. Unfortunately, at the time, I was neither wise enough nor articulate enough to prevent the many gruesome wildfires that were about to consume my life. Willow’s act of protest kicked off a period in our family that I refer to as “the Mutiny.” The pressure had been building for years; I was trying to head it off; but it was all about to unravel.

I started noticing feelings everywhere. I’d be sitting in a business meeting, and someone would say, “It’s nothing personal … it’s just business.” And I realized, Oh, shit, there’s no such thing as “just business”—everything is personal. People get furious, excited, frustrated, hopeful, hopeless, disappointed, fearful, embarrassed, all in the confines of “business” meetings. Everybody is caught up in their feelings, making all their decisions all the time based only on how they feel. Even my aversion to extreme feelings … is based on how I feel about feelings. I felt like Christopher Columbus who had discovered this “new” place where people was already at (sorry about that preposition, Mom-Mom). All of politics, all of religion, all of sports, culture, marketing, eating, shopping, sex—everything is centered on how people feel. Then the truth hit me like a 90 mph fastball: Nobody gives a shit about anything except how they feel. Feeling good is the most important thing to everyone, everywhere, at all times. We are choosing our words, actions, and behaviors in order to achieve a feeling that we deem positive. There’s nothing more important than feeling how we want to feel. And people determine whether or not you love them by how well they feel you honor their feelings. This has been a precarious conundrum in most of my adult relationships. I have always been less concerned about someone’s immediate feelings than I have been about their overall well-being. People in my life h...

I could feel my family turning away from me, questioning my leadership and even my love. Trey asked me at dinner one night, “Dad, what do you worship?” Sheree had recently rediscovered the church; she’d found comfort and transformation in Christ—it was beautiful to watch, and it was real. And while I was happy that she had kindled a new faith and direction, I deeply resented that she began questioning and judging my choices and my decisions in my life. In the Black community, when someone discovers faith as an adult and begins to point out your transgressions and detail your only path to salvation, we call that “holy-rollin’.” And there are very few things more incensing than one of your ex–sin partners pointing out your current sins.

As I watched, I kept imagining myself injured and helpless and Jaden climbing through the wilderness, trying to get to civilization to save me. The scenario stuck in my mind—a coming-of-age story about a young man trying to save his father. The idea morphed into a movie—it would also be about a father learning to trust and depend on his son. It would be a metaphor, a means to healing their relationship.

After Earth was set one millennium in the future, after humankind had rendered the planet uninhabitable. Father and son crash-land in the most dangerous place in the universe: Earth. The interiors of the film had been shot in Philly, and the exteriors would be captured in Moab, Utah, and Costa Rica. Jaden’s character, Kitai, would have to make his way through jungles, rivers, plains, canyons, and volcanic streams in order to save his injured father. I was determined to create a joyful and loving environment for Jaden on set. Costa Rica was hot (slangily and temperature-wise). I had giant, air-conditioned tents set up at every location so Jaden could chill between shots—ping-pong tables, food, music, somewhere he could take a nap. “What the fuck is this tent shit?” Darrell said, pulling me to the side. “It’s hot, D, I just want him to be comfortable.” “Comfortable? You gon’ make this little nigga soft. Your character is the top general in the universe. How he supposed to save your ass comin’ out of a fuckin’ tent? Let his ass wait in the sun like everybody else.” Darrell had been my mentor, my coach, and confidant for a decade now. He had prodded and pounded and propelled me into my wildest dreams. He knew how to build winners; he had been there with Sugar Ray versus Marvin Hagler; he knew how to design soldiers. I’m not sure why I didn’t just tell him what I was going through and what I was doing; I was probably embarrassed, or maybe I just concluded that he wouldn’t under...

We never discussed it, but I sensed he felt betrayed, misled, and he lost his trust in my leadership. Jaden likes to win, and he doesn’t mind a little suffering to secure a victory. (This is also an inherent parenting problem—there is no “one size fits all.” They all need different things.) I’ve read enough to know that a critical stage of a boy becoming a man is the moment of individuation from his father, that instant when you realize your father is not Superman. He’s a flawed human. That moment when you make the scary decision to separate from him and live and die by your own hand. Just like Daddio on the chessboard, as a father it’s what you hope for. But at fifteen years old, when Jaden asked about being an emancipated minor, my heart shattered. He ultimately decided against it, but it sucks when you hurt your kids. Back then, I made the troubling conclusion that questing with empathy was an oxymoron, and you could either worry about how people feel, or you could win. But you had to pick one.

We had concluded that no one can make a person happy. You can make a person smile; you can compose a moment that helps a person to feel good; you can deliver a joke that makes a person laugh; you can create an environment where a person feels safe. We can and must be helpful and kind and loving, but whether a person is happy or not is utterly out of your control. Every person must wage a solitary internal war for their own contentment.

To place the responsibility for your happiness on anybody other than yourself is a recipe for misery.

I had achieved everything I’d ever dreamed: career, family, businesses, health, megastardom, a house with a name. In fact, it was better than I had dreamed it. More money, more fame, more property, more success. And I did everything the right way. I had reached the mountaintop—then discovered that the clouds had hidden an even higher peak, and then I’d scaled that one. Short of raising jokas from the dead, what else do y’all want me to do? I did it as big and as bold and as brightly as anyone had ever done it. Or probably ever will do it. What the fuck is everybody so upset about? How is it even possible that my life is falling apart… again! What am I missing? Is it just me, or does everybody who’s going through a breakup or difficult times during a relationship call their exes? I guess it somehow brings relief to talk to somebody who hates you less than they used to. They’ve processed their disappointment and disgust, refracted it through distance and time, subtracted the 12 to 15 percent they now see was their fault (it’s actually closer to 50 percent), resulting in the “good times” being bronzed in their memories and a pleasant nostalgic twinge when your number pops up on their caller ID. (And not to forget: They hate their current man now, so you don’t look so bad.)

I stand up and head back out on deck. They’re still in the same spots, just floatin’ and yappin’. I couldn’t understand what they were doing. I was jittery, I was pacing, checking the time on my phone. And then I caught myself: I noticed the turbulence of my thoughts and feelings, which stood in stark contradistinction to my surroundings, and I thought, Oh shit, this is crackhead behavior. I could not sit still. My mind was agitated—I needed an activity, a target, a mission, an activity, an adventure. Something, anything, to do. I caught eyes with Roscoe, peeking over the curvature of yet another mango—this one’s bigger than his head. He was just looking at me sweetly, as if to say, “You know you look crazy, right?” It all slowly drifted into focus: Am I an addict? I don’t do drugs, I don’t really drink, I’m not hooked on sex like some ghetto hyena. But I did not know how to stop, or be still, or be quiet, or alone. I’m addicted to the approval of others, and to secure their approval, I became addicted to winning. And to guarantee and sustain my stream of massive victories, I became addicted to working, to grinding, and obsessively pursuing perfection. But there was a deeper issue at play. I saw downtime as the enemy, a place where you lose things. When I had left space between Melanie and me, she had cheated. Daddio saw the space between tasks at the shop as laziness. Darrell never wanted me to sit down in the gym—he saw downtime as the crack where the pleasure principle ...

Memory is not a flawless recording of what actually happened. It’s not a video of your experience. It’s not even a photograph. It is your psychological, artistic rendering. It is more like an abstract impressionist painting of what happened than it is a pure, unfiltered depiction. And it’s not fixed—the painting morphs, it fades or expands over time. Sometimes you add colors to a memory that weren’t there a year ago, or five years ago, or even collapse multiple memories and paint them into one. The problem is that most of us trust our memories implicitly. Our memories are the basis for our perception of reality. We then commit to these conclusions, unlocking the requisite emotions and the corresponding actions and behaviors. We move into the world clinging to our flawed assumptions, unleashing upon ourselves the cosmic consequences of wrong ideas. I trust the memory that I nearly drowned—in fact, I’m fully committed to the truth of that story. Water is dangerous, and it tried to kill me when I was little. So, when my brother and sisters are playing in the ocean, I’m by myself halfway up the beach. As an adult, I don’t let my kids go in the ocean by themselves. The fear and anxiety take hold in my mind and then constrict my ability to be able to enjoy the beauty of 70 percent of the earth’s surface.

When I left Trinidad, I was clear about one thing: I knew I was missing something—something about life, something about relationships, perhaps even something about me. I just didn’t know what it was. But I was no longer fully defending my old belief systems. I was open to the idea that maybe fight-camp mentality, in the domestic realm, isn’t quite the optimal relating paradigm. I didn’t yet know what the new ideas were, but I was certain there would have to be some.

I hate it when people send me Instagram quotes that are supposed to be deep. They always come with a little fancy border, and the background’s always mauve, and in some woke-ass, illegible, calligraphy font—and when they truly wanna get you, they add a picture of a really, really old Asian man. Silence is the root of everything made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. I make noise for a living. I was so confused, I texted back, “WTF?????????” My phone rang immediately. It was my boy Antoine. “Man, don’t be sendin’ me your little pseudo-inspirational Buddha-babble,” I said. “If you gon’ send me quotes, send me lyrics from Talib Kweli.” “I just got back from India,” he said, cracking up, knowing he had no business sending me that Rumi bullshit. “That is no excuse,” I said. “What were you doin’ in India?” “I did a thing called ‘Vipassana.’ It’s a ten-day silent retreat—no television, no phone, no talking. It was wild. You have to do it.” “No talking for ten days? What’s it called again?” “Vipassana—it means ‘to see things as they really are.’” Antoine and I hadn’t spoken in over a year, but I guess he just needed somebody to talk to. It’s weird how people can feel when you’re seeking—higher curiosity seems to emit energy at a different frequency. As soon as you truly open to something different, it’s like a cosmic shout into an energetic mega-phone: YO! Where y’all at? You see I’m strugglin’ over here? “Yeah, man, I’m not sure I’m ready for India,” I said. “But I do like th...

By day nine, I noticed that my dreams were becoming more vivid, and creative ideas were flowing. I started filling up notebook after notebook with rhymes and songs and thoughts and opinions and movies and poetry. I also started reading about meditation and became intrigued with the idea of “watching my mind.” It was my introduction to words like “self-observation,” “self-investigation,” “consciousness,” and “awareness.” I tasted a tiny, fleeting moment of what I would later come to recognize as “peace.” It didn’t last too long, but it was a scent that I would learn to follow.

Day twelve, I gave meditation another shot. I read Chödrön’s How to Meditate: A Practical Guide to Making Friends with Your Mind. I like making friends, I thought. I began trying to listen to and observe what was going on in my head, and a painful realization washed across me: I wasn’t enjoying being with myself. In fact, I wanted to get away from myself as fast as I could. And it dawned on me, If I don’t want to be with me, why the fuck would anybody else wanna be with me?

“What would make you happy? I’m not talking about ‘Will Smith,’ because he comes with a lot of baggage. But you—if you could be master of the universe, and you could snap your fingers and have any life you wanted, what would it look like?” That was a really heavy question.

The Google search alone had me feeling exposed and vulnerable, so when she walked in carrying a silver-spangled Moroccan camel saddlebag, with indeterminate fur, and her first question was “What would make you happy?” I was instantly off balance. What does she mean by that? What makes her think I’m not happy? (Apart from the whole, “Can you come and help me because I’m not happy” thing.) To me, it was blasphemous to even imagine something other than the life I’d created. My imagination is usually a white-water-rapids ride of possibilities and potential. But for some reason, this question led me into an area of my inner world that had danger signs all over it, yellow police tape everywhere I looked. The answer would have to be extracted from the place where only the “bad kids” go, the murky, swampy, shadow regions of my psyche. I don’t even let myself think from inside that neighborhood, so I’m damn sure not going to speak from there. I mean, what if I rip down all the boards and barriers and barricades, and whatever demon is in there takes over? What if I can’t put it back? What if I like it being out? But I approached the dark place. I wanted to see what was in there. I ducked under the first layer of yellow tape. What is she really asking me? What life would I create if I didn’t give a fuck? And then the shadow spoke: “I would have a harem.”

“You know harems are not just for sex,” Michaela said. “Harems are convened for inspiration. You need a doctor, you need a painter, an architect, a couple lawyers, a musician, a poet. And not just Americans—you should be hearing multiple languages. Your harem should be made up of the most brilliant, unique, and powerful women from around the world. Your responsibility will be resources, and devotion to their individual growth and blossoming. And in return, they will feed you and shower you with their feminine gifts and send you into the world, full and inspired.”

And somehow, the demons within me that had seemed too dark and evil to even consider, didn’t seem so scary in the light of Michaela’s acceptance.

“I don’t want a harem,” I said. “Of course you don’t,” Michaela responded. “But why did you think you did?” “I guess I felt if I had enough women, I’d always be able to find at least one of them who liked me.” “As long as you do things for the approval of a woman,” Michaela said, “you will never be free. That is a descending hell. And I’ll tell you—when a woman sees that she can bend you, she loses trust in you. We need you to be solid; we need your ‘yes’ to be a yes, and your ‘no’ to be a no. As long as you are twisting and contorting and selling yourself out for the affection of others, you will always be untrustworthy.”

I am so good, I am so nice and resourceful, you don’t have to worry; I’m harmless, you can trust me. I’ll take care of your every need. Uncle Fluffy was born as my strategic childhood persona. If I was funny enough, sweet enough, harmless enough, entertaining enough, then I wouldn’t be hurt, my mother would be safe, and my family would be happy—no one would ever leave me. Fluffy wants to be approved of. It’s the only safety he can conceive. As an adult, he became my armor and my shield. I was strangling my truth in the hopes of feeling safe, gaining approval, and being loved.

“I want you to have an experience of yourself minus the need to be approved of,” Michaela said. “Who are you really? What does your heart truly want? What are your deepest values and authentic goals? The problem with Uncle Fluffy is that you are never free to make a pure decision, one that is honest and true for you. You are always forced by Fluffy to compromise and to do the thing that gets the most approval, likes, or sales. Will’s creativity is thwarted by Fluffy’s need for approval. What are Will’s feelings, Will’s opinions, Will’s needs, Will’s ideas?” I could see her point that as a child I had crafted a certain identity—that I had decided that there was a specific way that I had to be to survive and thrive in my environment. I could also see that the behavior was often in conflict with the truth of what I was actually thinking and feeling.

But Uncle Fluffy did some beautiful things. He built Her Lake. He let Willow stop whipping her hair when she was done. He begged Jeff and JL to move to LA. He doubled Sheree’s child support when Trey moved in with Will. He auditioned at Quincy Jones’s house when Will was too scared and he wanted to leave. Uncle Fluffy was swayed by his admiration for Muhammad Ali to make a movie that Will was too afraid to make. “Uncle Fluffy has been a wonderful friend,” Michaela said. “He just needs to work for you, not the other way around.” Uncle Fluffy was created based on a lie, designed on the false premise that something was wrong with me, that I was a coward. His job was to perpetually apologize for my shortcomi...

Fluffy was further complicated by his shadow counterpart, whom Michaela named “the General.” When Fluffs had exhausted his reserves of charm and magnanimity, and yet was still unsuccessful in his attempts to secure adoration, he summoned the General. The General’s job was to get the flag to the top of the hill by any means necessary, and to covertly (and not so covertly) punish those who dared to dissent, even myself. Basically, when I had suppressed my real needs so thoroughly for so long, and still didn’t get the adoration and approval I’d sought, my anguish would express itself as the General. Because Uncle Fluffy is masking my true feelings (which I’m not even in touch with), when the General shows up, people are shocked and confused. It was sweetness, sweetness, sweetness, and then sour, sour, sourness. “These personas weave a universe in which you are trapped,” Michaela said, “a spiderweb of demands, obligations, and expectations. And if you dare to step outside of t...

Michaela and I worked together over the next few years. Her curriculum centered on the idea of becoming a Freestanding Man. Essentially, a Freestanding Man is self-aware, self-reliant, self-motivated, self-confident, and utterly unswayed by people’s approval or disapproval. He knows who he is, he knows what he wants. And because of this, he surrenders his considerable gifts into the service of others. “You have to sensitize to your own inner landscape and map out the terrain of who you really are, your true desires and true needs,” Michaela said. “When someone asks how you feel, don’t just throw out a Fluffy answer—think about it. Narrate your feelings, at least intern...

“As you break out of the narrow boundaries of ‘Will Smith,’” Michaela said, “let’s really examine all the beliefs and constructs and paradigms that you’ve bound yourself to. There’s a thing I’ve heard you say a few times: ‘Ninety-nine percent is the same as zero.’”

But Michaela’s most important initiative came when she found out that I couldn’t swim. “Not on my watch,” she said, in one of the only times I managed to surprise her. When I’d told her I wanted a harem she didn’t flinch—but me not being able to swim sent her to feverishly texting my publicist, Meredith O’Sullivan-Wasson, who is friends with the four-time Olympic gold medalist in swimming Janet Evans. “You are going to develop a relationship with the ocean, the Big She,” Michaela said. “The ocean is the ultimate woman, a magnificent feminine environment. If you can understand her, you’ll understand us all. The ocean holds all the chaotic glory of Mother Nature, and no amount of power or intellect will ever be able to control or manipulate her. She doesn’t care how you’re feeling, or how you want her to be. All of the things that happen in a woman’s psyche and body are analogous to the ocean. The beauty, the storms, the nourishment, the danger, the moods and weather patterns, birth and death. The Big She will not be conquered or subdued; your only hope to truly enjoy her is to love her, respect her, and surrender. “I really like this for you because you will be forced to have a beginner’s mind. You’ll have to navigate her moods and emotions, and you’ll have to know when to bow out.”