An open letter to my students: Are you a dog or a wolf?
Dear Students,
One cold, windy night, a hungry wolf prowled the outskirts of a farm, searching for its next meal. In the fenced-in yard, it spotted a dog—plump, well-fed, lounging without a care in the world.
The distant cousins struck up a conversation from opposite sides of the fence.
The dog, tail wagging, boasted about how great his life was: “Regular meals. A warm fire to sleep beside. Long naps. Belly rubs. You should try it.”
The wolf was tempted. He imagined trading in the cold wind for a full belly and soft bed.
Then he saw the collar on the dog’s neck.
“Sit. Stay. Roll over. Good boy.”
The wolf hesitated. Then, with a quiet nod goodbye, he turned and disappeared into the woods—hungry, but free.
This story, passed down through generations remains relevant.
Of course, this isn’t really a story about a dog and a wolf. It’s a parable about a trade-off that is yours to make.
The dog accepts comfort and safety in exchange for obedience. The wolf chooses risk and sovereignty.
You’re standing at the same crossroads. And here’s the twist: for most of human history, this choice didn’t exist. If your family farmed, you farmed. If your father was a blacksmith, you learned to forge. If you were a woman, your “choices” were even more limited. Agency was rare. Autonomy was reserved for the powerful few.
And if you’re one of my students—know this: I like you. You’re smart. Funny on occasion. You show up on time, mostly. But I’m worried.
Too many of you aren’t thinking deeply. You aren’t curious. You don’t make things. You’re consuming—and being consumed.
The world is shifting. You have options your ancestors couldn’t dream of. Generative AI is no joke. You can go it alone now—build a business, make art, learn anything, create something from nothing. You can be a solopreneur with fifty AI agents working while you sleep. You can learn new skills, earn across borders, live in one country and think like a global citizen.
But you have to choose. Deliberately. I can’t help you if you are not interested in helping yourselves.
Let’s be clear: the dog’s life isn’t bad. Predictability, approval, financial stability—they have their place. But every bit of comfort has a cost. Maybe it’s the 55-hour weeks at a job you don’t care about. Maybe it’s the mortgage that locks you in. Maybe it’s the quiet ache of living a life you never really chose.
That’s the collar. Attached to a gilded leash.
The wolf, on the other hand, answers to no one. No boss. No schedule. No sleeping crate. But the wolf pays too. His meals aren’t guaranteed. His nights are cold. He howls, and sometimes no one hears.
Still, he’s free.
But freedom often runs on a tight budget. If you choose the wolf’s life, be ready to live lean—at least for a while. You might trade DoorDash for rice and beans, and Netflix for a library card. That’s not failure—it’s the price of sovereignty. Learn to want less, and you’ll need less permission.
If you choose the dog’s life, don’t complain about the leash. And if you choose the wolf’s, don’t whine about the hunger.
Most people don’t choose the dog’s life—they inherit it. It’s what’s modeled by parents, professors, and society at large. Play it safe. Get the degree. Land the job. Follow the steps. It’s not malicious—it’s just what people know. And it’s driven by something deeper than culture: biology.
Humans are wired to seek safety. We overvalue what we have and fear what we might lose. That bias will push you toward comfort, even if it’s suffocating. And if you always avoid risk, you’ll avoid growth. You might wake up one day with a life that looks great on paper—but feels like a cage.
As a behavioral economist, I’ve spent my career studying why people follow norms—and what happens when they break them. The most remarkable ideas, relationships, and lives come not from compliance, but from audacity. The comic on stage, the artist in their studio, the entrepreneur with a crazy idea—they all live closer to the wolf.
And when people look back on their lives, what do they regret? Not the leaps that didn’t land. The ones they didn’t take. The wolf’s wounds heal. The dog’s regrets fester.
The danger isn’t just making the wrong choice. It’s not choosing at all. Drift is powerful. One day you’re taking a job “just for a year,” and a decade later, you’re still there—leashed by inertia.
If you want proof that it’s never too late, look at Rick Rubin. Early in his career, he co-founded Def Jam out of a dorm room at NYU. Major labels came calling. He took the meetings, played the game. Money, power, recognition—all of it was on the table. But the more entrenched he became, the more he felt the leash tighten. So he walked away.
Rubin left New York, left the music industry’s core, and moved into a house in the Malbu hills—barefoot, bearded, and creatively unleashed. He built Shangri-La, his own studio and sanctuary. From there, he produced genre-defining albums with everyone from Johnny Cash to the Red Hot Chili Peppers to Jay-Z—on his terms.
If you want the steady job and white picket fence, fine. Wear the collar proudly. But don’t pretend you’re wild.
If you want to roam—if you want to live on your own terms—understand the price. Then pay it. Gladly.
The choice is yours.
Onwards!
Peter McGraw
PS My last open letter to my students addressed another important question: Are you the hero in the story of your life?