Start, Stay, or Leave

What if every major crossroad in your life—starting a new job, staying in a relationship, or walking away from it—could be distilled into three simple questions: Should I start? Should I stay? Or should I leave? In Start, Stay, or Leave: The Art of Decision Making, Trey Gowdy applies a lifetime of legal argument, courtroom thinking, and congressional introspection to teach you how to craft a life guided by intentional, conscious decisions rather than reaction or fear.

Gowdy contends that the quality of our lives is determined not by luck or circumstance but by the decisions we make continuously—often quietly, sometimes dramatically. Each act of starting, staying, or leaving determines how we build and define a well-lived life. But most people, he argues, make decisions passively, letting other people define success, pressure them into paths not their own, or paralyze them with the fear of failure.

Defining a Life on Your Own Terms

At its heart, the book’s message is profoundly personal: stop letting others define your path. Gowdy begins with a self-reflection from his own wedding day when a well-meaning pastor predicted he’d end up as governor of South Carolina. For decades, that seemingly harmless statement shaped Gowdy’s ambitions, career decisions, and self-worth. He chased titles instead of meaning, until realizing that the only standard that matters is the one you define for yourself. The book emerges from this awakening—an attempt to pass on lessons learned through both success and regret.

Three Questions that Guide All Decisions

Gowdy organizes his philosophy into three recurring questions that form the spine of this book: when to start, when to stay, and when to leave. Each represents a season of life. Starting demands courage and clarity; staying requires endurance and purpose; leaving calls for humility and self-awareness. Taken together, these questions help you design your own moral and emotional compass for decision making.

He explains that these decisions are cyclical rather than linear—every start leads to a stay, and every stay ultimately demands a consideration of when to leave. Like chapters in a courtroom case, each carries evidence and argument that shape your eventual verdict: the closing argument of your life.

Why Decisions Matter More Than Circumstances

The thread running through Start, Stay, or Leave is responsibility. Gowdy insists that while life gives us randomness, what we make of it depends on choices. The jobs we take, the towns we live in, and the people we love are products of decisions—not fate. Drawing from his transitions from prosecutor to congressman to television journalist, he demonstrates that every stage required deliberate departures and courageous starts. In this way, decisions act like invisible architecture shaping a life of both meaning and memory.

Lessons from the Courtroom and the Classroom

Using courtroom analogies—closing arguments, evidence, witnesses—Gowdy invites readers to treat life with the same rigor as a trial. Starting at the end forces clarity: where do you want the jury of your family, friends, and conscience to find you at your final verdict? Staying teaches commitment and character. Leaving, meanwhile, demands discernment to know when pursuit becomes self-harm. Like Daniel Kahneman’s focus on “thinking slow” or Annie Duke’s perspective on quitting from Quit, Gowdy bridges logic and emotion into a balanced method for life’s verdicts.

Why It Matters

At the book’s core, decision making becomes the art of conscious living—naming what success means for you, cultivating courage against fear, and learning to leave when seasons end. With humor, humility, and stories drawn from his years as a prosecutor and father, Gowdy urges readers to make choices that align their external success with internal peace. He concludes that life is a series of closing arguments, each built from the evidence of how you treat others, what you stand for, and how bravely you decide. In that way, Start, Stay, or Leave isn’t a manual for lawyers or leaders—it’s a reflection for anyone trying to write the final paragraph of their own story with integrity.

Trey Gowdy begins his model of decision making with an idea borrowed from criminal law: always start at the end. Just as a prosecutor writes the closing argument before the trial begins, you should imagine the final scene of your life before making crucial decisions. By clarifying what you want your legacy to be—what others say about you at your funeral, your retirement, or your centennial birthday—you gain insight into which decisions align with that picture and which distract from it.

Writing the Closing Argument

Gowdy’s story of Ricky Samuel, a federal witness murdered while cooperating with law enforcement, illustrates how deeply he values endings. In his first murder case, Gowdy learned that a powerful summation can shape justice itself. He wrote his closing argument first, then built his case backward to prove it. Life, he argues, works the same way: envision the outcome, then design the evidence. The questions echo in every decision—what do you want to accomplish, and how will you be remembered?

Picture Your Final Scene

To make this practical, Gowdy imagines his own funeral scene in poignant, humorous detail—his wife Terri teaching first grade in the morning and attending his service in the afternoon, guests laughing at stories rather than mourning. That picture guides his choices day to day. You can do the same: visualize your end and turn your goals into evidence. Your compassion, integrity, curiosity, and kindness become witness testimony in your closing argument.

Accomplishment Versus Activity

A critical distinction emerges: doing is not the same as accomplishing. Gowdy’s reflection on college majors—how he chose history because it required fewer courses—reveals that many decisions serve convenience rather than purpose. Accomplishment, he argues, must be defined by intent and foresight. Goals should unify your vocational, relational, and personal pursuits, not exist in isolation. In this way, starting at the end transforms daily tasks into evidence of a coherent life story.

Lessons from Frankie the Walmart Greeter

Gowdy’s reflection on Frankie, a joyful Walmart greeter who made strangers feel valued, reinforces this theme: success is measured not by fame but by kindness that outlives you. Her story captures what he calls “the living legacy”—proof that ordinary acts of humanity constitute your closing argument long before you’re gone. By imagining how people will remember you, you can start every new venture as if constructing evidence for that ultimate summation.

(In practice, Gowdy’s advice resembles Stephen Covey’s “begin with the end in mind” from The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, but he frames it with courtroom metaphor and spiritual reflection. Both stress that intentional vision precedes success, yet Gowdy makes it personal, anchoring the method in memory, emotion, and mortality.)

Once you imagine your ending, Gowdy challenges you to redefine success—not as a pyramid of titles or a ladder of promotions, but as the reflection you see in the mirror. Success, in his view, must be internally validated, measured by character rather than resume, love rather than legacy.

From Pyramids to Ladders to Mirrors

Gowdy recounts his early obsession with Judge Donald Russell, a South Carolina jurist for whom a courthouse was named. Russell’s impressive résumé shaped Gowdy’s belief that life is a pyramid—the goal is to climb higher and narrower until your uniqueness crowns the top. Later, he applied a similar “ladder” model, where each rung meant outperforming or outranking others. Both created exhaustion and insecurity. By midlife, he discovered the mirror model: success comes from liking the person you see looking back.

Success from Within

The turning point arrived when Gowdy declined to run for Speaker of the House in Congress—a position that would have elevated him to third in line to the presidency. Despite the prestige, his mirror told him the job would pull him from his family and his peace. Guided by his wife Terri’s grounded values, he learned that true success is independent of public acclaim. People who clean the Capitol lawn and those who legislate inside are equally dignified; only integrity distinguishes them.

Questions for Your Reflection

Gowdy offers reflective questions to define your mirror: When were you most fulfilled? Which achievements drained you? Whose opinion truly matters? His answers—his parents, wife, and close friends—illustrate that internal peace outweighs external validation. (In parallel, authors like Brené Brown and Viktor Frankl contend that authenticity and meaning depend on personal congruence, not external reward.)

Mirrors can evolve. In Gowdy’s story, the man who idolized hierarchy returned to humility, finding contentment in teaching law, golfing with friends, and being home with Terri. The mirror no longer reflected ambition; it reflected enoughness.

Ultimately, “looking in the mirror” becomes a spiritual act—recognizing that who you are matters more than what you do. For you, this means reframing success as character, gratitude, and self-respect. When your reflection feels honest, you can start, stay, or leave with confidence that each decision mirrors who you are becoming.

To tame fear and uncertainty when starting something new, Gowdy uses a deceptively simple question: “What’s the worst that could happen?” This mantra transforms risk from a foe into a manageable companion by forcing you to consider—and plan for—your worst scenario.

Risk Versus Recklessness

The principle came to life during a teenage dare. At seventeen, Gowdy asked a beautiful classmate, Terri Dillard (his future wife), to make his lunch for choir tour. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he reasoned. A polite rejection. Instead, she said yes, a simple choice that led to a lifelong marriage. By auditing potential consequences, he learned that fear shrinks under scrutiny. The worst-case scenario rarely materializes, and even when it does, preparedness makes it survivable.

Predicting Disaster

Gowdy distinguishes between logic and bravado. He’s no thrill-seeker; he made risky decisions like moving across the country for law school only after identifying safety nets. When you imagine the worst outcome and still see a path forward, you gain courage tempered by pragmatism. “Prepare for disaster and everything short of disaster becomes manageable,” he writes.

Choosing an Effective Mantra

Everyone needs a decision-making mantra: a phrase that reframes fear. Gowdy’s mantra—“What’s the worst that can happen?”—mirrors Stoic negative visualization practiced by philosophers like Seneca and modern thinkers such as Ryan Holiday. By rehearsing loss or embarrassment mentally, you reduce its sting. For others, mantras may be “Everything happens for a reason” or “Do not die wishing you’d tried.” The point isn’t otherworldly optimism—it’s realistic courage.

Starting anything new invites vulnerability and discomfort. Gowdy’s advice is to combine enthusiasm with careful planning: build safety nets for the worst, then leap. Comfort may seduce you into stagnation, but real growth demands accepting small risks. In short, decisions should balance logic and bravery: you can’t avoid fear, but you can make it your co-pilot instead of your jailer.

Dreams, for Gowdy, are neither foolish fantasies nor blind passions—they are directional signals to meaning. When deciding whether to start something new, he urges you to consult your dreams, but not obey them blindly. Logic must be their roommate, not their rival.

When Dreams Change

Gowdy’s own “dream job” was as a federal prosecutor representing the United States. For six years, he lived that calling until monotony and moral questioning intruded. Sentencing laws punished narcotics dealers more harshly than child pornographers—a moral imbalance that made him reevaluate justice itself. His dream evolved; he left federal court for state prosecution, where crimes hurt people directly. The move risked his career security but restored his purpose.

The Power of Pro-Con Lists

When balancing dreams and reality, Gowdy recommends becoming your own investigator. Gather facts objectively before judging them subjectively. He constructed detailed pros and cons lists—greater human impact on one side, financial insecurity on the other—to decide whether to run for circuit solicitor against an entrenched incumbent. Despite overwhelming cons and an 80–20 poll deficit, he acted on one overpowering pro: meaningful purpose. The result was victory—and vindication for trusting logic and dreams in tandem.

Lessons on Perspective

When discouragement hit—polls predicting his defeat—Gowdy sought counsel from political scientist Dave Woodard, whose advice reframed failure into progress. His polling had risen from 2 percent to 20 percent, not fallen. Perspective transformed despair into perseverance. The story reinforces that wise counsel grounds dreams in reason, sustaining motivation beyond emotion.

Consulting your dreams means articulating them clearly, testing them against evidence, and pursuing only those that align with your closing argument. Dreams provide vision; logic provides structure. Together, they compose what Gowdy calls “purposeful ambition”—the fusion of heart and head that defines a fulfilling life.

Decision making, like government, thrives on balance. Gowdy compares your thought process to the U.S. Constitution’s three branches: logic, emotion, and intuition. Each checks the excesses of the others to create mature, grounded decisions.

Fear as an Ally

For Gowdy, intuitive fear began as a dictator—controlling his childhood, his courtroom anxiety, and his aversion to solitude. Over time, he learned to demote fear to co-pilot. Fear now reminds him to prepare, not panic. In his words, “Fear makes us cautious; caution makes us wise.” When fear is interrogated rather than obeyed, it becomes intuition—a subtle guide, not a tyrant.

Logic: Probabilities Over Possibilities

Logic mitigates irrational fear. He tells of helping his sister overcome her dread of serial killer Ted Bundy attacking summer camp by assessing probabilities, not possibilities. The exercise mirrors cognitive-behavioral therapy: face exaggerated fears with factual reasoning. Doing so clarifies what truly merits caution.

Emotion: Compassion as Counterbalance

Gowdy studies his wife Terri as the perfect counterweight to fear. While he obsesses over mortality graphs, she writes cards to her students during the Covid pandemic. Her focus outward transforms fear into love. Compassion, he concludes, diminishes terror because empathy redirects attention toward others’ needs. Emotional intelligence becomes spiritual courage.

Practical Equilibrium

Logic keeps decisions grounded in facts; emotion infuses them with humanity; intuition warns against unseen danger. This triad ensures fairness in choices—like the three branches of governance ensuring justice. When you let logic drive, intuition navigate, and emotion provide music, you’ll make decisions that satisfy both head and heart.

(Compared to Daniel Goleman’s work on emotional intelligence and Jonathan Haidt’s studies in moral intuition, Gowdy’s metaphor humanizes the process: every decision is democratic. By holding internal “hearings” among logic, emotion, and gut, you legislate your own clarity.)

Starting brings excitement; staying brings wisdom. In this section, Gowdy reframes “staying put” not as stagnation but as loyalty and growth. Commitment, he writes, is the classroom of endurance—the slow accumulation of experience that shapes both career and character.

Bowling for Ballet

His story of accidentally enrolling in a college ballet class reveals this principle through humor. Expecting “BL” to mean bowling, Gowdy arrived to find tutus, not pins. The embarrassment could have driven him to drop out, but staying taught humility and resilience. He completed the class, made friends, and learned all five ballet positions—a small but symbolic victory showing that commitment transforms discomfort into discovery.

Experience as the Reward

Professionally, Gowdy translates this lesson into leadership. As a district attorney, he valued employees who demonstrated consistency over constant upward mobility. Staying in one role cultivates depth—reputation, reliability, and mastery—qualities impossible to develop through endless novelty. “Experience cannot be rushed,” he reminds readers.

The Gift of Stability

Through examples like Sheria Clarke, an investigator who declined a more glamorous assignment to maintain integrity and peace, he illustrates that staying aligns short-term duties with long-term legacy. Her steadfastness earned bipartisan respect—a rare commodity in Washington—and demonstrated that focusing on the entire film, not the snapshot, ensures real growth.

Staying is proactive, not passive. It means investing patiently where you are to build toward your future closing argument. As Gowdy puts it, “The people you journey with matter more than the road you take.” In our culture of change obsession, Staying to Build reminds us that loyalty and patience may be the most radical decisions of all.

Leaving, for Gowdy, is neither failure nor surrender—it’s wisdom. Every stage of life has a shelf life. When purpose turns to depletion, or integrity falters beneath pressure, departure may be the most moral decision you can make.

The Spiritual Toll of Prosecution

After decades prosecuting violent crimes, Gowdy felt spiritually empty. The constant confrontation with evil eroded his faith. Sitting in church each Sunday, he couldn't reconcile divine love with human cruelty. Recognizing that the job he once loved now drained his purpose, he decided to step away—and ultimately ran for Congress, a symbolic but honorable exit.

When Work Costs Too Much

Gowdy formalizes questions to assess this shelf life: Is your work taking more than it gives? Is your health suffering? Are loved ones bearing your stress? Does peace never arrive, even with success? If your answers lean toward yes, it’s time to leave. Leaving can protect your soul as much as your body.

Retiring a Dream

The hardest part isn’t leaving—it’s retiring a dream. Gowdy’s dream of courtroom justice had defined him since youth. To relinquish it felt like betrayal. Yet he reframes letting go as “forward movement wrapped in remembrance.” Dreams can evolve; some yield to new seasons. Leaving is acceptance that what once gave purpose now requires rest.

Through stories of serial murders for which closure never came and victims whose faith outlived his own, Gowdy concludes that peace lies beyond performance. Leaving is not weakness—it’s honoring the rhythm of your own humanity. It’s choosing renewal over resentment, and that, too, is part of the art of decision making.

In the closing chapter, Gowdy transforms all his lessons into a single existential reflection: When the final period comes at the end of your life sentence, what will be written on the other side? This metaphor—drawn from his courtroom language—becomes the emotional core of the book’s finale.

Life as Grammar

Gowdy compares stages of life to punctuation: adolescence (exclamation point), adulthood (question mark), parenting (semicolon), and death (period). You can’t edit the final punctuation, but you can influence the sentence before it. Every start, stay, and leave adds words and meaning to that story. Decisions, therefore, aren’t only functional—they’re literary; they author who you become.

Fear and Failure Revisited

He revisits his lifelong fear of failure, contrasting teenage hesitancy to run for student council with his eventual courage to run for Congress. Courage, he learned, isn’t the absence of fear but the refusal to surrender to it. Failure is not losing—it’s not venturing. Fear whispers; you listen, but don’t let it write your story.

Redefining Life’s Verdict

Drawing from the examples of Jesus, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Martin Luther King Jr., Gowdy argues that success cannot be measured by longevity or popularity but by significance. These men, all dying before forty, “lost” in worldly terms but triumphed in impact. Their closing arguments embodied principles that outlived them. You too can redefine victory as venturing, serving, and leaving meaning behind.

The other side of the period, Gowdy concludes, depends on whether you lived intentionally, listened to fear without obeying it, and made decisions consistent with truth. Live so that people remember your fairness, compassion, and humor. The verdict of a life well lived isn’t handed down—it’s written every day by the decisions you make.