Monica, 68, knew that artistic success doesn’t come easy. In addition to raw talent and grit, it takes the right resources at the right time: inspiring professors, dedicated practice space, and state-of-the-art (pardon the pun) facilities.

As someone with Russian heritage, I’ve never been partial to summer, beach days, or beachy books. I’m a fall girl: Days shorten, winds chill, and I joyfully anticipate the invigorating cold and snow.

Humans are subject to an insidious push and pull between comfort and discomfort. Like any species with the evolutionary persistence to survive for millions of years, we’ve survived largely by our ability to identify and avoid threats — toothsome predators in days long past, nebulous anxieties of moneylessness and failure today.

Due to the highly sensitive nature of my work, I cannot share details that haven’t been anonymized and veiled. So, I wrote a short story. It’s a work of realistic fiction, much like the numerous historical fiction books I consume.

In order to wrap our minds around a client’s purpose, wealth advisors must go below the surface, beyond the realm of technical issues such as alpha, beta, and standard deviations, into what matters most: the land of emotional intelligence — EQ.

I lay in a rescue toboggan — the emergency-red sled ski patrols use to transport injured skiers to safety — whizzing down a run ironically called Twister, pelted on all sides by cold, biting February snow, peering into a chasm of questions.

In this article, Andrea and Randy review some of the most common — and destructive — messages in our respective fields and put forth some tips on how to take back control.

If you’d seen me at six, in tears at the base of the rope-tow line, my parents ski-footed and taking the slow ride up to the top of Butternut Basin, you’d never think that protestful, bratty little girl would turn into a passionate skier.

My love of reading was built on a foundation of fiction. I have vivid memories of reading under a tree in Westchester with one of our family’s many dogs, devouring Gone with the Wind. This love would extend through my travels of early adulthood — to the otherworldly classics of French and Russian literature.

My father named our family’s first dog — a medium-sized, regal brown poodle — Cato. During Cato’s long life, many assumed the name “Cato” came from the Green Hornet’s sidekick, similarly named “Kato.” However, my father, never a TV watcher, insisted that he’d named the dog for some long-dead Ancient Roman senator.