Many things have been said about what happened, but I don't know

Pete Best, the once-drummer of The Beatles, spoke with the quiet humility of one who has walked through both triumph and sorrow: “Many things have been said about what happened, but I don’t know either. Maybe someday. One thing I’m sure of is that all the things that have happened to me, good and bad, happy and sad, have made me what I am today.” His words are not merely the musings of a man reflecting on fortune’s turn, but the distilled wisdom of one who has endured the loss of glory yet found strength in acceptance.

The ancients would have seen in his words the philosophy of fate. The Greeks called it moira, the portion given to each life by the unseen hand of destiny. One may not always understand the why of things—why one is cast down or another raised up—but wisdom lies in accepting that both joy and sorrow, both gain and loss, are teachers. Best confesses he does not know the full truth of his departure from greatness, but he recognizes the deeper truth: every event, whether blessing or wound, is part of the shaping of his soul.

There is great power in his admission: “I don’t know either.” For many are destroyed by their need for explanations, their hunger to untangle every mystery of life. Best reminds us that one can live without all the answers. The need for clarity fades; the need for meaning endures. He found meaning not in solving the riddle of “what happened,” but in acknowledging that the riddle itself formed him. It is the humility of one who no longer fights against fate, but allows fate to carve him into who he is.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, who wrote in his Meditations that every event—pleasant or grievous—was sent by nature for the good of the whole. Even betrayal, even loss, was to be accepted as part of the divine tapestry. Or recall Job, whose story told of devastating trials he could not comprehend. Though he questioned the heavens, in the end, he found peace not in explanations, but in endurance. Best’s words echo this same timeless lesson: it is not always for us to know, but always for us to endure and to grow.

His phrase, “all the things that have happened to me… have made me what I am today,” is both lament and triumph. For though the world may remember him as the one who lost his place in The Beatles, he remembers himself as one who was refined by both happiness and sadness. Every heartbreak gave him depth; every joy gave him light. He stands as living proof that identity is not forged by success alone, but by the blending of both wounds and victories.

The wisdom here is one of balance. If we crave only the good and reject the bad, we become shallow. If we cling only to happiness and curse sorrow, we remain fragile. But if we embrace them both as parts of the same journey, then we become whole, resilient, unshaken by the tides of fortune. Pete Best’s journey, though marked by disappointment, became a parable of how the loss of one dream can give rise to the birth of another self.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: do not curse the sorrows that befall you, nor worship only the joys. Let both shape you. Trust that every twist of the path—whether glorious or crushing—has its place in the forming of your spirit. Do not demand every answer from life, for some mysteries remain hidden. Instead, learn to say as Pete Best said: “All that has happened to me has made me what I am today.” In this there is peace, in this there is strength, and in this there is the freedom to walk forward, unburdened by regret.

So live with this wisdom: accept the good and bad, the happy and sad, as the tools by which you are carved into who you are meant to be. Let them make you deeper, wiser, stronger. For even when paradise seems lost, even when the world forgets you, life itself is still sculpting you into something enduring. And that, more than fame or applause, is the true triumph of the human soul.