The Good Guy's Dilemma: John's Story and the Path to Reclaiming His Life
Despite being a Catholic, I never considered becoming a priest. It’s just not my vocation.
Yet St. Josemaría Escrivá once wrote something that always stayed with me: “Live and work for God, with a spirit of love and service, with a priestly soul, even though you may not be a priest. Then all your actions will take on a genuine supernatural meaning which will keep your whole life united to the source of all graces.”
This idea of the priestly soul resonates with me deeply. In my consultations—though officially about tax, company formation, or relocation—we often end up talking about life, suffering, and hard decisions. Sometimes a man doesn’t need a tax plan—he needs a path forward. A direction. A blessing. Recently, a man named John spoke to me. He asked for advice. Not about tax. About his life.
Here is his story.
A Life Built on Duty—and Denial
John is in his mid-forties. He married young and had several children. His marriage ended after about 15 years when his wife left him for another man. That betrayal was a wound—one he bore silently. But he didn’t collapse. On the contrary, he rose. Already successful in business, he continued to build. After the divorce, he lived with a freedom he’d never known. He traveled, met women, dated freely for the first time in his life. For two years, John felt alive again. The trauma of his marriage slowly receded.
Then came Abby.
Abby was ten years younger. Beautiful. Magnetic. They never married, but soon they were living together. Three children followed. On the outside, a picture-perfect family: nice house, private school, lavish vacations, expensive cars. John paid for everything, willingly. He loved giving. He loved providing. But over the years, something shifted. Or perhaps it never truly settled right to begin with.
What began as an exciting new chapter slowly morphed into something else—something hollow. There were arguments—nasty ones. Abby attacked him viciously in front of the kids. There was no intimacy. John confided to me, with deep embarrassment and pain, that they’d hardly had sex since the birth of their first child. The conception of the next two felt like miracles, given how rare their physical connection had become. Abby began to gaslight him, accusing him of being the problem—of being impotent, of being undeserving of her affection. John, always trying to be rational, went to the doctor. His weight had climbed, his blood pressure was high. Maybe she was right? He started taking ED medication. It didn’t help. Abby still refused him.
And all the while, John kept paying—the mortgage, the car, the private schools, the designer gifts. She didn’t work. She didn’t ask him how he was doing. She didn’t want to know how much he earned. But she certainly knew how to spend it.
And that’s when he came to me. Not really for tax advice, though that's what he said. He came because he needed to talk to someone. To figure out what was happening to his life.
The Weight of the Good Guy
The more John spoke, the more I recognized a pattern I’ve seen too often. There’s a peculiar curse to being a good man in a world that doesn't reward it. Good guys—especially those raised with a sense of Christian duty—are often trapped by their own conscience. They don’t want to hurt anyone. They take on more than they should. They believe that sacrificing themselves is somehow noble.
But in John’s case, that sacrifice was beginning to look more like slow self-destruction.
He still loved his children. He still valued the structure of his home, the rhythm of the familiar. But he was quietly dying inside. His blood pressure wasn’t a fluke—it was a warning. His lack of intimacy wasn’t just about sex—it was about connection. He no longer felt desired, appreciated, or even seen.
What he needed was not a tax strategy. What he needed was a way forward. A different kind of plan. So I told him the truth.
What I Told John
When a man comes to you not just for advice, but because he’s silently screaming for help, you don’t sugarcoat it. You speak with clarity. With compassion. And without judgment.
You Are Not a Sinner for Wanting a Life
The first thing I told John was this: You are not bad for wanting more.
There is this quiet guilt in men like John. The unspoken belief that leaving would make them selfish. That because they are providers, they must provide—no matter the emotional cost. That because they fathered children, they must suffer indefinitely to be near them.
This is a lie.
You are not evil for wanting a life that makes you feel alive again. You are not a sinner for desiring a partner who actually desires you. You are not a failure for realizing that the arrangement you’re in is no longer sustainable.
He looked at me like no one had ever said that to him before. Maybe no one had.
You’re Not Trapped—You’re Conditioned
John’s paralysis wasn’t unique. I’ve seen it before—strong, competent men who freeze when it comes to their personal life. Why? Because they’ve been conditioned to always be the good guy. The provider. The rock. The last one to leave.
But staying for the sake of "not abandoning the family" often means abandoning yourself. Worse—it means teaching your children that this kind of silent suffering is what adulthood looks like.
Leaving a toxic relationship does not mean leaving your children. It means showing up for them as a whole man. As someone who has the courage to say: this isn’t working, and I’m going to change it.
Stop Paying for Your Own Misery
Next, I had to say something harder.
“You are financing your own emasculation.”
It’s a brutal thing to hear. But it’s true. Every luxury John funded, every expense he absorbed without gratitude—it was reinforcing the system that made him feel powerless.
It was time to draw boundaries, disentangle finances, protect assets. I encouraged him to consult a lawyer—not to start a war, but to reclaim his dignity. He owed his children support and presence. He did not owe Abby an unlimited line of credit and a lifetime of silence.
You don’t need to burn it all down. But you do need to stop pouring gasoline on it.
Your Body Is Not the Enemy—Your Life Is
John blamed himself for the lack of intimacy. He had put on weight. He had high blood pressure. He assumed he was broken.
But he wasn’t. His body was reacting to a broken life.
Chronic stress, emotional neglect, and spiritual isolation will do more damage than a bad diet ever could. What he needed was not more pills—but a different environment. A new chapter.
Maybe abroad. Maybe tax-free. Maybe just somewhere where the sun shines and no one knows his name. A place where he can eat better, sleep better, flirt a little. Rebuild. Regain his fire.
To remember what it’s like to be a man again—not just a wallet.
You Can Leave With Integrity
John’s biggest fear wasn’t financial. It was moral. What would his kids think? What would people say?
But children are not blind. They see the coldness. They feel the resentment. They absorb the silence. Staying isn’t protection—it’s performance.
I told him: Leave like a man. Not in anger. Not in panic. Sit down. Explain your decision. Set the terms. Reassure the children. Show them what honesty and courage look like.
You’re not abandoning them. You’re showing them a better way.
A Priestly Soul in a Secular Job
When I reflect on Escrivá’s call to live “with a priestly soul,” I think of moments like this. I am not a priest. But I try to serve—not just with spreadsheets and residency advice, but with truth.
To listen. To offer clarity. To bless someone’s exit when everyone else tells them to stay.
John didn’t need permission. But he needed to hear someone say: You’re allowed to go. You’re allowed to live.
Final Words for the Good Guys
If you’re reading this and John’s story feels uncomfortably close to home, then let me say to you what I said to him:
You are allowed to want more.
You are allowed to leave.
You are allowed to rebuild.
But do it with integrity. With discipline. With a plan. Start quietly. Set things up carefully. And then go.
Maybe your next chapter is in Panama. Maybe it’s Portugal. Maybe it’s just a flat in a smaller city where you can finally breathe. Maybe it’s solitude. Maybe it’s new love. But above all:
It should be yours.
Need Guidance?
If you're in a situation like John's and don't know how to start, I offer private consultations not only on tax and relocation—but also on life transitions. This isn't therapy. It's practical, discreet advice with your real goals in mind: freedom, peace, and the chance to be a man again.
A Final Note: Did John Leave?
I wish I could tell you how John is doing now.
We only had that one consultation. A long, honest conversation where everything was laid bare. He thanked me. He said he finally felt understood. But did he have the guts to leave? To act? To walk away from the comfort and the chaos?
To be honest: it’s unlikely.
Change like this doesn’t usually happen in a single moment. It takes time. Courage. Clarity. And above all, it takes action. Many men sit with the truth for years before doing anything about it. Some never do.
But if John does… if he breaks free, rebuilds, rediscovers who he is—I’ll make sure to report back.
Because stories like his matter. And the men behind them deserve to be seen.
