Life Events

With the anniversary of Jonathan’s death approaching, I’m sharing the remembrance I delivered at his memorial service.
As I speak, I hold both Jonathan and my sister Tory, who passed away this past August, close to my heart. They shared a deep bond, one that distance and time could never weaken. I take comfort in imagining them together again, side by side, watching over us with love.
Jonathan was born at home, as was tradition in 1960s England,

I recently came across another piece of Jonathan’s early writing that I thought his readers might enjoy.
He wrote “The Fear” when he was just 14 years old. It has nothing to do with money or personal finance, but it offers another glimpse of Jonathan long before he became the writer so many of us came to know.
Here it is, exactly as he wrote it.
THE FEAR
He crouched, his shoulders hunched, waiting for the order.

As I reflect on the past year, I realize grief doesn’t follow a straight path. It comes in waves. Some days bring sadness, others gratitude, and often the two arrive together.
When my sister Tory died suddenly, there was no opportunity for one last conversation, no chance to say goodbye or tell her one final time that I loved her. Instead, I faced one of the hardest moments of my life, telling my mother that the daughter she adored was gone.

Looking back in the archives, I came across Jonathan’s No Regrets article. In it, he wrote “I’ve known enough bad times to have perspective”. I think there are both good and bad perspectives to be gleaned from such times. The important thing is to grab the good ones in order to move forward. For example, many HumbleDollar contributors write that they came from poor families, and from that experience, came the desire and drive to get more out of life.

While researching Jonathan’s early years, I came across this article he wrote as a teenager for Saga, the magazine at Bryanston School in England. Years later, Jonathan would say this was his “entrée to becoming a journalist.”
Reading it today, I was struck by something unexpected. Although he was still a teenager, I could already hear the voice that millions of readers would later come to know. He wasn’t simply writing about a school pipe organ.

My dad’s brother passed away two years ago. I liked him, but I didn’t really know him well; the last time I’d seen him was at my mum’s funeral, about a year before his own. I’d kept my distance from that side of the family; ours was really just a wedding-and-funeral relationship. My uncle was a character. A dodgy character.
Here’s one example of his pedigree. Unbelievable as it sounds, back in the 60s and early 70s,

More than forty years after we first met, Mrs. Dolezal sent me a letter shortly before she passed away.
By then I had long since finished school, built a business with my twin brother, retired, and settled into a comfortable life. The years between us had quietly slipped away.
As I read her letter, one passage stopped me in my tracks.
“You are like a son for me. I shall never forget the kindness and strength you showed me after the devastating shock of my husband’s death… You were a young man at the time but you took on a heroic task… I shall never forget what you did for me and my children.”

Yesterday I spent the day reading “Money and Me” in basically one sitting. I kept thinking I should do something else beside read,  I found myself saying  – “just a few more chapters” –  and before I knew it I had finished the book. That is definitely not to brag, but to shine a light once more on what a special, insightful person Jonathan was. I felt like he was talking to me in ways I wish someone had when I was starting out and navigating adulthood,

Several years ago I listened to Requiem: The Story of One Sky by Dimash Qudaibergen, an internationally acclaimed singer from Kazakhstan whose music often explores themes of peace, compassion, and our shared humanity. The song is a plea for peace in a world too often divided by conflict. (I encourage you to listen to it on YouTube.) At the conclusion of the song appeared a quote from Pope Francis:
“Dialogue, understanding and the widespread promotion of a culture of tolerance,

A $300 a week drug habit.
Over a year, it’s more than $15,000.
Over a decade, it’s well into six figures.
Over a lifetime, the total can be staggering.
After my sister died from a fentanyl overdose last year, I found out the cost of her addiction.
Then I realized I was measuring the wrong loss.
Some struggles arrive suddenly. Others quietly settle into a family and remain there for decades.
My sister struggled with addiction from her teenage years onward.

In April 2025, I watched the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral for the umpteenth time. I found tears rolling down my cheeks as one of the characters read the poem “Funeral Blues,” written by W.H. Auden, at the memorial service for his partner. What sparked the tears? The poem tells of the emotional devastation of losing a loved one. But for me, it highlighted my distress at knowing that all that brings me happiness—Elaine,

There are people who pass through our lives briefly, yet leave marks that time never erases. I briefly mentioned him in last week’s article, but his story deserves its own telling.
He was a teacher named Richard Hunter, though to nearly everyone at Bryanston School in Dorset, England, he was simply known as “Bunty.”
I arrived at boarding school at the age of ten. To some boys it may have been an adventure, but for others,

Jonathan’s book, Money and Me, will be available on Amazon on May 26, with preorders open now.   (Click here to preorder.)
The book includes Jonathan’s reflections after his cancer diagnosis, along with his lifelong insights on money, financial management and living wisely.
Jonathan is missed by many. One meaningful way to honor him is by buying his book, and sharing it with those seeking financial freedom.
If for some reason the above link doesn’t work,

During a recent trip to the Philippines, I found myself watching the people who keep everything moving. From construction workers under the heat of the midday sun, laborers doing jobs that most would quietly avoid, jeepney drivers bringing people from A to B while barely making a profit. After that visit, I sat down and wrote a poem about their struggles. This is my attempt to turn that reflection into something more.
What I saw stayed with me.

Three funerals in four weeks. A friend taken by bowel cancer. Another by a stroke. A third, most heartbreakingly of all, by his own hand. It’s got me thinking about life. The big questions no longer feel abstract; they feel like they’re sitting across the table, waiting.
So. Do you have any regrets about the choices you made in your younger years?
As the song goes, I have a few. Not spending more time with my daughters while they were growing up.