January 18, 2026 — Now for a good-sized portion of wisdom from my brilliant father, Herbert Stein:
In early October 1966, I was wildly misdiagnosed and mis-medicated by my student health service at Yale Law School. To address serious suicidal ideation and anxiety, I was prescribed two super-strong medications. As I recall, they were Trilafon and Mellaril. I immediately became insanely suicidal and anxious.
I took a leave of absence and went back to Silver Spring, Maryland, to live with my parents and my sister. I was not working and was restless and miserable.
I had a girlfriend named Alexandra Denman, then a sophomore at Vassar College. We wanted to fly to Nassau to get in some sun and warmth.
I asked my father and mother if they would pay for Alex and me to go on the trip. I asked them to make it an early birthday gift.
My father said he could do it, but did not want to. Instead, he said, I should get a job and pay for it myself.
Pop said I would feel better about myself if I were doing something productive and remunerative instead of sponging off my parents. That made sense.
In about an hour of looking in the “help wanted” section of the Washington Post, I had a job at the Bureau of National Affairs. It was a private entity that gathered data on the economy from the Departments of Commerce and Labor and reported them out in daily newsletters, written by me, age 22. The job paid about $120 per week. My office was a desk in a small room without air conditioning. My boss was a heavy smoker. I loved my job. I felt needed and proud of myself. The very first day saw me taking the taxi to 14th St. and Constitution Avenue, N.W. Then back to my smoky office in Foggy Bottom. Then to my manual Remington typewriter. And then about 700 words. And then the same thing that afternoon.
I had to use the men’s room when I got back to the BNA. While I was in there, I felt euphoric. I was doing useful work. I was earning a buck. When Alex and I went to Nassau a few months later, we had a fabulous time. That was a major turning point in my life. Ever since, I have worshiped at the shrine of labor. I still do it.
I am 81 and work every day, whether it pays or not. I begged my late son, Tommy, to work. He didn’t. He would still be alive if he had.
Work is a sovereign cure for almost every mental ailment. Tommy was convinced that he need not labor. It was a catastrophe.
Dear friends: Even if you are rich, you need to work for your own self-esteem and self-discipline.
Please pay attention.
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