My face flushed red, and in my shock, I found nothing to say back. I slowly packed up my open bag of chips, the rest of my lunch, and walked away.

Those words must have had a power, because from then on, I never returned to the lunchroom, always eating in a hallway, joining some foreign exchange students and kids from choir who also felt out of place.

I’ll also never forget the words of my father when I was 8 years old and saw the flashing-colored lights outside our front door window.

My father looked heartbroken as he motioned for me to join my brothers and sisters, who were huddled together in tears. He struggled through his own tears to speak. “Your oldest sister Denise is gone,” he said. “We just found her in the garage. She took her own life.”

She was 21 years old. It was Valentine’s Day.

It was a very young age to face death at all, much less one that sprang from hopelessness and depression. As a boy I couldn’t really understand the impact of his words, that moment. Knowingly or unknowingly, much of my life since has been spent trying to make sense of what it meant.

In my guilt and sorrow, I always wondered if maybe there was something I could have said to my sister, perhaps some words which may have saved her and made her want to live? I desperately wanted the impossible, to turn back time so I could hold her in my arms and say, “I love you.”

Then, about the time I turned 21, I had a sobering realization I was a lot like my sister. After receiving a series of hurtful words from others that I amplified in my own mind and heart, I got caught up in very dark, depressive thoughts, wondering if my life even mattered or was worth living.

There must be moments for everyone when difficult or harsh words leave wounds in our fragile minds and hearts. Over time, if unattended, they can fester or perhaps get buried under layers of masks as we try to distance ourselves from the tender pain. Even if hidden, however, the wounds remain.

And then, if we are lucky, there also may be magical moments when we encounter special people who touch us deeply with the power of healing words.

The undeniable power of these types of words became evident to me, in one of the most unexpected places—Philadelphia.

Sitting in the seminar room of the Springfield Country Club, surrounded by brilliant people and feeling inadequate myself, I listened to a man conducting the meeting who I had just become acquainted with—Steve Harrison.

I had been working on writing a book for more than five years, with very little progress.

I knew the message of the book was very important and had collected a lot of material for it, but somehow, I felt stuck, overwhelmed. And I didn’t know exactly why. Honestly, I wondered if I would ever complete the book at all.

Then I received a call from Joe (a member of Steve’s staff) telling me about a meeting two days later in Philadelphia that sounded like it might help me. I trusted my gut, rescheduled everything else, and went.

My first impression was the kindness of the staff. Rose greeted me, saying she would be my liaison with any coach whenever I needed it, and made me feel very welcome.

But as people began introducing themselves so articulately, describing their passions and their projects, the discomfort I kept submerged of my own sense of inadequacy began churning. I again wondered if this is where I should be, if I belonged here at all.

Then, almost as an aside to the main point of the meeting, Steve decided to take us through an exercise that confronted a very deep part of me.

Steve asked us to identify any belief we might have which was limiting us, and then to look at alternatives to it we might not yet be considering.

At first, I resisted. I wondered why we were doing this. Weren’t we supposed to be learning about how to write and promote books? What did this have to do with anything?

Then, as I allowed the question to sink in, I was surprised by my reaction.

Quiet tears came to my eyes. Part of why it was difficult for me to complete my book was because I was writing it in the first person, and I couldn’t get past the feeling that no one would really care to hear about me or my experiences.

Steve asked if anyone wanted to share what they discovered, and I squirmed in my seat. I was relieved to see other people raise their hands. The last thing I wanted to do was make my fear public.

Then, for whatever reason, right before the time ended, Steve called on me to share. Very hesitantly, I made the difficult choice to open my heart and share honestly what I felt. I said I did not think my story mattered.

Steve thanked me for sharing, and then he paused.

Despite my discomfort and very vulnerable feeling in that moment, or perhaps to honor it, Steve probed further. Like a surgeon opening a festering wound, he asked me a series of questions:

“Clint, may I ask, have you ever shared your story with anyone?”

As I thought about some of the people I had shared it with, I answered, “Yes.”

“And from their reaction, would you say they enjoyed it?” Steve asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you say they benefited from it? That it helped them in some way?”

“Yes.”

“Could you say that it changed their lives?”

I thought for a moment, but quickly realized the answer. “Yes,” I said.

“Would you agree, then, that it is a lie to believe that your story doesn’t matter, when the truth is you have a story, Clint, that changes people’s lives?”

The honest, but surprising answer to me was, “Yes.”

I sat down, bewildered. As the power and truth of his words sunk in, it felt almost like a bright light broke through, illuminated and warmed a section of my heart that had been dark and cold for a long time.

“I have a story that changes people’s lives?!”

I kept repeating it to myself, over and over again, sometimes as a question, and other times as a statement, a little in shock and a lot in awe.

If I had to pick one thing this program has done to help me make a Quantum Leap, it has been to show me the incredible power words can have to help create hope and healing, add perspective, and help persuade and inspire, both myself and others, to good.

This moment of only a few minutes and few words with Steve shifted my whole world and perspective of myself and what I was doing.