7 Laws In Life
another writing experiment...
I was inspired to write the following article after seeing this image on X/twitter (find me @mdwalkerjones)
Murphy’s Law: The more you fear something, the more likely it is to occur.
Fear is a funny thing—it doesn’t just live in your mind; it finds ways to manifest itself in your reality. Murphy’s Law tells us that what we dread has a way of creeping into existence, almost as if the universe is tuned into our thoughts, feeding on the energy we give our fears. I’ve seen this play out in my life more times than I care to admit, but the most profound experience came during my cancer journey.
When I was first diagnosed, fear was my constant companion. It wasn’t just the fear of dying—it was the fear of losing my autonomy, my identity, and the future I had envisioned for myself. Every ache, every lab result, every scan became a potential sign of something worse. I obsessed over worst-case scenarios, replaying them in my mind like a broken record. I was terrified, and that terror felt like it was eating away at me faster than the cancer itself.
The more I focused on the fear, the more it grew. It wasn’t until I hit a breaking point—mentally and emotionally—that I realized something had to change. I remember sitting in my room late one night, overwhelmed and exhausted. It hit me like a lightning bolt: Fear isn’t helping me; it’s controlling me. Murphy’s Law wasn’t just a principle in that moment; it was a mirror showing me how I was sabotaging myself.
I began to experiment with shifting my focus. Instead of obsessing over what could go wrong, I started asking myself what could go right. I turned to mindfulness practices, affirmations, and journaling. I would write things like, “I am healing every day” and “My body is strong and resilient.” At first, it felt forced—almost silly. But over time, those words began to hold weight. The act of affirming what I wanted instead of fixating on what I feared was like rewiring my brain. Slowly but surely, the fear loosened its grip.
I also learned that fear thrives in isolation. When I started opening up to my family and close friends about my feelings, the burden lightened. Talking about my fears didn’t make them disappear, but it took away their power. The act of verbalizing them brought a sense of clarity, and sometimes even humor—like when a friend joked that if Murphy’s Law were true, we should start fearing lottery wins.
The most transformative realization, though, was understanding that fear is a teacher. It’s not inherently bad; it’s just a signal. Fear tells us what we care about, what we stand to lose, and where our vulnerabilities lie. By listening to it without letting it dictate my actions, I found a way to coexist with it. I wasn’t fearless—far from it—but I was learning to live despite the fear, not because of it.
Looking back, I see Murphy’s Law as both a warning and an invitation. Yes, fear can make things worse, but it’s also a call to action. It reminds us to face the unknown, to prepare for challenges, and to focus on what we can control. I still feel fear—I’m human—but now I see it as a guide rather than a curse. And every time I choose to act in spite of it, I feel a little stronger, a little freer.
Murphy’s Law may be inevitable, but our response to it is entirely within our power. And that’s where the magic happens.
Kidlin’s Law: If you write a problem down clearly and specifically, you’ve solved half of it.
This one is personal for me. Writing has always been a way of making sense of the chaos in my head. There’s something almost magical about putting pen to paper—it’s like dragging the mess out of your mind and trapping it where you can actually deal with it. When I was sick, I wrote every day. Not because I had a clear plan or any idea what I was doing, but because it felt like the only thing I could control.
I remember the first time I wrote: “I am healthy, I am strong.” It felt stupid. I mean, really stupid. My body was anything but strong. I’d just had three seizures, my hair was falling out, and the doctors were looking at me like I was already half gone. But something about those words stuck. I kept writing them, over and over, like I was carving them into reality.
What I didn’t realize then was how much power there is in getting specific. Writing down “I want to heal” is vague—it’s nice, sure, but it doesn’t give your brain anything to work with. When I started getting detailed—“My cells are regenerating, my energy is returning, my immune system is getting stronger every day”—that’s when things shifted.
I’ll be honest, it wasn’t all sunshine and breakthroughs. Some days I wrote stuff down just to get the negativity out of my system. “I’m scared.” “I don’t know if I can do this.” But even that had its place. Kidlin’s Law isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being clear. Writing forces you to confront your own thoughts, and half the battle is realizing what you’re actually afraid of or what you actually want.
There was this one day during treatment—I was at my lowest point, physically and mentally. I couldn’t even sit up in bed, let alone pretend to be positive. But I forced myself to pick up my journal and write anyway. The only thing I could get out was “Just make it to tomorrow.” That was it. Nothing profound, nothing inspirational. But it was honest, and in that moment, it was enough.
Looking back, I can see how writing saved me. It wasn’t just about the words—it was about the process. Taking the storm inside my head and giving it structure, shape, meaning. Kidlin’s Law is right: when you write it down, you’re already halfway there. It doesn’t solve the problem for you, but it gives you a starting point.
If you’re stuck, scared, or overwhelmed, my advice is simple: write it down. It doesn’t have to be pretty, or deep, or even make sense. Just get it out. Because once it’s on paper, it’s not this shapeless, impossible thing anymore. It’s real, and if it’s real, you can deal with it. Even if that means just making it to tomorrow.
Gilbert’s Law: When you take on a task, finding the best ways to achieve the desired result is always your responsibility.
Cancer teaches you this in the hardest way possible. No one is coming to save you.
I remember sitting in that sterile hospital room, listening to the doctors explain my treatment plan. Words like "chemotherapy" and "radiation" flew past me, but one sentence stuck: “You need to do everything you can to help your body fight this.”
What did that even mean?
For a long time, I waited for someone else to hand me the answers. The doctors, the specialists, the researchers. I wanted them to tell me exactly what to do, to guarantee I’d survive. But that’s not how it works. Cancer doesn’t care about guarantees.
I started reading everything I could—books, articles, studies. I changed my diet, learned about nutrition, experimented with meditation and visualization. I wrote affirmations, prayed, and did things that made no sense to anyone but me.
Some of it worked. Some of it didn’t. But what mattered was that I took ownership of the process.
If there’s one thing Gilbert’s Law teaches, it’s this: nobody will care about your life, your dreams, or your survival as much as you do. You can’t wait for someone else to figure it out.
The responsibility is yours. Always.
Wilson’s Law: If you prioritize knowledge and intelligence, the money will continue to come.
When I was going through cancer, money felt meaningless.
I wasn’t thinking about bills or savings or a future career. I was just trying to make it to the next day. But somewhere along the way, I realized that learning—about myself, my body, the disease—was a form of survival currency.
I dove deep into books about health, the mind-body connection, and even spirituality. I wasn’t doing it for money, or recognition, or any tangible reward. I did it because it gave me something to hold onto.
But here’s the thing: knowledge doesn’t just save your life—it creates opportunity. After I beat cancer, people started asking me for advice. About health, mindset, resilience. I never planned to monetize my experience, but doors opened because I prioritized learning when I had nothing else.
Knowledge compounds. It builds momentum. And eventually, it turns into abundance—whether that’s money, freedom, or simply the ability to help others.
Falkland’s Law: If you don’t have to make a decision about something, then don’t decide.
Cancer forces you to decide a lot of things very quickly. But not everything needs an answer right away.
When I was first diagnosed, people bombarded me with questions:
“Will you keep working?”
“What’s your five-year plan?”
“Are you going to freeze your sperm?”
It was overwhelming. I didn’t have the energy to think about those things, let alone make decisions about them.
One of the best lessons I learned during that time was to let go of the need for immediate answers. If something wasn’t urgent, I set it aside. I gave myself permission to focus on the present—on surviving the next round of chemo, on eating a meal without throwing up, on getting out of bed.
Falkland’s Law isn’t about procrastination. It’s about prioritization. When you’re in a life-or-death situation, you learn quickly what truly matters. And a lot of things you think are important can wait.
Parkinson’s Law: If more time is given to complete a task, it will likely consume that entire time.
I was terrible at this before cancer.
In college, I’d stretch assignments to the very last minute. If I had a month to write a paper, it would take me a month—even though the actual writing only required a few days.
But cancer didn’t give me the luxury of extra time. It gave me deadlines I couldn’t push. Chemo schedules, blood tests, surgery dates—everything was on a strict timeline.
And you know what? I got things done faster than I ever thought possible.
I started applying that same urgency to other areas of my life. Writing, music, my creative projects. I set shorter deadlines, and the results were incredible.
Parkinson’s Law showed me that time is a tool, not an excuse. Give yourself less of it, and you’ll surprise yourself with what you can accomplish.
Pareto Principle (80/20 Rule): 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes.
This principle became painfully clear during my recovery.
After chemo, my energy was limited. I couldn’t do everything I wanted to do—hell, I couldn’t even do half of it. I had to focus on the small things that made the biggest difference.
For me, that meant eating nutrient-dense foods, meditating for just ten minutes a day, and staying connected with the people I loved. Those were my 20%.
Everything else? It could wait.
The Pareto Principle isn’t just about productivity—it’s about survival. In the chaos of life, cancer or not, it’s the few meaningful things that carry you through. Focus on those, and let the rest go.