I found myself wandering the streets of Chicago this week in search of a place to eat. I was led to a restaurant by someone I’d never met. She lives in the same building as me, and we happened to be riding the elevator together. When I told her I’d just moved in and was exploring the neighborhood, she said, “Go to Pizano’s Pizza. It’s the best in Chicago—and it’s Oprah’s favorite.”
Now, I’m a Giordano’s loyalist, and pizza preference is like beauty—it’s subjective. It lives in the taste buds of the eater. (You’d think I could come up with something more creative than that, but here we are.)
I walked to Pizano’s, and it was exactly what I wanted: cool atmosphere, friendly hum, football highlights on the TV. I sat at the bar (my favorite spot when I’m solo) and found my place among the locals.
The woman to my right noticed me studying the menu.
“First time?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Get Mark’s Special stuffed pizza—individual serving. Best pizza in Chicago.”
She wasn’t bossy. She was absolute. For a moment, I wondered if the elevator lady, Oprah, and this woman were all in on some elaborate marketing scheme for Pizano’s, but even I’m not that conspiratorial.
I ordered the pizza and a glass of my favorite wine, The Prisoner by David Phinney. Another check in the pro column for this place.
While waiting, I started eavesdropping on a conversation between the man to my left and the bartender. It was clear they were friends, though I couldn’t tell whether they knew each other outside of the bar. The man mentioned he had just come from Sister Jean’s wake and was preparing for her funeral the next morning.
That caught my attention. Sister Jean is Chicago royalty.
For the uninitiated: Sister Jean Dolores Schmidt joined Loyola University in 1991 and became chaplain for the men’s basketball team in 1994. She inspired bobbleheads, a “Sister Jean Day,” and even received an honorary doctorate for her service. But her fame skyrocketed in 2018 when, at age 98, she became the breakout star of March Madness as Loyola made its Cinderella run to the Final Four. Her faith, humor, and sheer joy captured America’s heart. She passed away this week at the age of 106.
The man sipping his beer said something that made me freeze.
“She was asked to step back from her duties as chaplain a few months ago,” he said. “She used to go to all the games, but they told her to rest. She lost her community—and she lasted two months.”
It’s hard to know whether that was literally true, but it rang with emotional truth. Losing her community might have been what finally broke her.
In my keynotes, I often tell audiences that I have the answer to the meaning of life—and then I make them wait for it. It’s anticlimactic in its simplicity but profound in its truth: the Harvard Study of Adult Development, which followed people for over 85 years, found that those who lived the longest and happiest lives had one thing in common: connection. They had people. A tribe.
Human connection is the greatest medicine.
As I sat alone at that bar, I had a moment. I don’t know who that man was, but he clearly belonged to Sister Jean’s inner circle. And while we can’t know for sure whether losing her role hastened her death, it tracks. She had built her entire identity around being part of something bigger than herself.
Then I thought of my own life—the irony of sitting alone at a bar while writing last week about deleting contacts from my phone. Maybe, I wondered, I shouldn’t let them become ghosts in a digital graveyard. But then I remembered: it’s not about volume. It’s about quality.
I’ve come to believe that the meaning of life comes down to three things:
Someone to love. Something to do. Something to contribute.
In that moment, I raised my glass of red blend to the sky in salute to dear Sister Jean. Then I thought of my own tribe—the people I love and who love me back, the ones who check in, challenge me, and make life richer. Gratitude swelled.
The irony of being alone at the bar dissolved into an epiphany: I am profoundly connected. My community just wasn’t physically there—it was stitched into every text, call, memory, and heartbeat.
You might be wondering if the deep dish was as advertised. It was.
But the real takeaway wasn’t about pizza—it was about people.
Because when community is gone, so is the spark that keeps us alive.
Connection isn’t optional—it’s the whole point.
That’s the ultimate disruption: realizing that the secret to a meaningful life isn’t found in achievement or accolades—it’s found in belonging.
