For my friend, Thomas J. Hughes

It's been ten years, Tom.

May 28, 2015. Ten years to the day.

Today marks exactly ten years since Thomas J. Hughes left us.

Ten years ago today, I lost my best friend. The dear friend who talked with me about our dreams late into the night on campus, the genius who became one of the youngest Vice

Presidents at Moelis & Co. at just 28, the Tom whose eyes always sparkled with light—his life was cut short by cardiac arrest in his New York apartment, forever frozen at the age of 29.

We used to think that youth was our greatest asset.

I still remember his excitement when he called me the day he was promoted, the pride in his voice when he said, "I did it." But I also remember that in every meeting after that, the dark circles under his eyes grew heavier, and his smiles became more tired. His desk was a permanent fortress of takeout containers and coffee cups, his phone never stopped ringing, and his life was a constant refrain of "I'll rest once this project is done."

The "100-hour work week" on Wall Street isn't a legend; it was the reality for Tom and countless other young people like him. Conference calls at 2 AM, financial models still being revised at 4 AM, and running on just two or three hours of sleep for days on end—this was the price of that glamorous position.

He once told me he sometimes felt chest tightness, heart palpitations, and an unexplainable fatigue. We both dismissed it as just work stress, assuming his young body could handle it. Until the day his heart stopped beating for good.

Tom's death sent massive shockwaves through Wall Street. People started discussing "karoshi," or death from overwork, and questioning the industry culture that equates "working to death" with "success." But ten years have passed. How much has really changed? How many young people are still trading their health for a title, for validation, for a so-called "success"?

Today, with Tom's story, I want to once again remind everyone who is running on that same path:

No job is worth your life.

No success is more important than your health and your life.

Those signals—the chest tightness, the palpitations, the fatigue—are not minor issues you can just "push through." That promise you make to yourself, "I'll rest when the project is over," may be for a day that never comes.

It's been ten years, Tom.

I often think that if time could turn back, I would have been more resolute in dragging you to the hospital. I would have tried harder to convince you to slow down. I would have told you that nothing is more important than being alive.

But time doesn't flow backward. What I can do is tell your story to more people, hoping it can serve as an alarm bell, inspiring more people to stop, to take care of themselves, and to learn to say "no" before it's too late.

Your smile, your talent, your dreams—they are all forever captured at the age of 29. And we, the ones who are still living, have a responsibility to ensure your departure is not just a tragedy, but a warning that can save more lives.

Rest in peace in heaven, my friend. And may all who are still striving on their own paths guard their health and their lives as they chase their dreams.

Thomas J. Hughes (1985-2015)

Graduate of Yale University

One of the youngest Vice Presidents at Moelis & Co.

My forever friend