I have a hard time sharing vulnerable things until I've perfected exactly how I want to say it.

It’s the part of me that yearns to be seen and understood. It worries that I'll say something wrong, that doesn't truly represent how I feel, that might hurt someone, that might hurt me, or that will cause me to be abandoned.

So I keep it to myself and rehearse and rehearse and rehearse until I feel like I can safely express it without hurting anyone (not possible it turns out!)

One solution I’ve been practicing: I ask for permission to "say it imperfectly".

I’ll say something like, “hey, I want to talk about this, but I don’t know exactly how to say it. Is it okay if I say it imperfectly?”

It’s the verbal version of writing a “shitty first draft”.

The results have been incredible. The conversation starts to feel more like an experiment we're running together. Like I get to try the words on for size and see if they fit.

And the other person gets to be my partner in helping me more accurately name my experience. They know to not take my words as absolute truth, but as more of a suggestion.

This has been especially helpful when I’m in conflict with someone. My conflict avoidance kicks in and I try to find the perfect words to fix the situation. By asking for permission to “say it imperfectly”, it takes all the pressure off, and allows me to have an open conversation with the other person.

It's so freeing to get to speak to someone openly without worrying about it being held as truth.

I put so much value on “honesty” but it’s hard to be honest when you haven’t yet been able to sort through the noise in your head. This approach lets me be honest about that mess, without knowing exactly what my opinion is yet.

Try it out. If you want to get something off your chest and you're worried about saying it wrong, ask if you can "say it imperfectly".

Let me know how it goes.

When I find myself dwelling on the past or the future, it’s always because I think I need to do something to feel like I’m enough.

“I need to achieve this goal…”

“I need to fix this conflict…”

“I need to change this thing about myself…”

Only then will I be enough. Only then will I be okay.

I find myself writing and rewriting the stories of my past and future in my mind. My ego labors to find the perfect narrative that will make me believe I was, and will be, enough.

But I’ve learned the hard way that I cannot think my way into enoughness.

There’s no story that will make me feel like I am enough. If there were, that would mean that enoughness comes from outside of me, from the perception of others. How can enoughness come from others? You can never be enough to everyone.

In this way, all stories, even the “good” ones, reinforce the belief that we are not enough.

So what is one to do?

What I’ve learned is that I don’t have to create enoughness. It’s already there. I just have to clear the fog enough for it to emerge.

The way to do that is through presence.

When I’m fully present in the moment, all stories disappear, including the story that “I am not enough”.

And in that space, enoughness emerges.

Enoughness isn’t a story.

Enoughness is the absence of stories.

When the stories disappear, you become your body, your mind, your heart, your sensations. You just are. No narrative needed.

I have always been enough, I just haven’t always seen it.

Enoughness and presence are the same thing.

Enoughness is here.

My friend Ben took the train up from Manhattan to spend the day hiking in the Hudson Valley together.

“We have a choice to make”, I told him as he settled into my car. “We can do a long, more epic hike and have to walk fast, or we can do a short, simple hike and take our time.”

Ben didn’t have a preference. “I’m good with whatever!”, he said.

What a jerk. Making me decide. (Ben is the most not jerk person ever).

I thought about it for a moment and a phrase popped into my mind. It’s one that’s been popping into my mind a lot lately.

“Let’s default to spaciousness”.

“I love that”, Ben said smiling.

As we embarked on our hike, our decision was quickly validated. The sense that there was no rush. The freedom to stop as we please. The deep conversations that emerged in hidden, off-trail nooks that surely would have been missed had we been moving faster. We both expressed our gratitude for the spaciousness.

This has become a new rule I’ve been lightly following:

Default to spaciousness.

“Should I keep all five tasks on my get-to list or choose three I can do comfortably and calmly today?”1

Default to spaciousness. Choose three.

“Should I add a few more questions to this interview? I have so much I want to ask!”

Default to spaciousness. Go with fewer questions.

“Should I take on this additional project even though I know it would overwhelm me?”

Default to spaciousness. Say no, even though the project excites me.

My default has always been to fill up any blank space I have in my life with more.

More projects, more work, more socialization, more content, more epic hikes, more plans. My wife, Alison, would always joke that my worst nightmare was being alone with my own thoughts. Empty space was a problem.

I’ve learned to love empty space. And I’ve started to design my life with a great deal of it. I build open, unstructured time into my work day. I take long walks in the woods multiple times a week. I haven’t been committing to a regular publishing cadence, I just publish these articles when they feel ready.

Sometimes I feel old patterns returning. I notice my urge to fill in that space.

This rule helps me to say no.

When in doubt, default to spaciousness.

I wake up feeling unrested, a weight on my chest.

I stare at the ceiling, brain in a fog.

My breath is shallow, but I’m not paying attention to it. I’m already in my head.

I think about the work waiting for me and feel a subtle urge to cry.

I use a meditation app to calm down. I go for a run in the park. I take my time in the peaceful womb of the shower. I feel a little better.

I pour myself a coffee, sit down at my desk, and get to work. 

My todo list is long and disorganized. I change the dates on tasks I intended to do yesterday and the day before.

My email inbox has a new list of bolded subject lines waiting for me to reply. I read through them, but don’t reply yet. I’ll come back to those later.

Self-doubt creeps in. 

“You see? You’re not cut out for this. You’re way behind. Everyone is going to realize you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. You’re going to let everyone down.” 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP”, I scream in silence. I hit play on an upbeat electronic track to get into flow. I lean in, my shoulders tighten, my pupils dilate. “I’ll work my way out of this.”

First the biggest, most urgent task. I really should have done this sooner. I’ll work on it for an hour. It takes three. Then small tasks. I get distracted by social media. Soon, my block of calls will start. Five hours of feeling busy but getting nothing done.

The work day is coming to an end. I said I would stop working at 7 but I just want to respond to a few more emails. Maybe then I’ll feel okay.

Slowly the voice would quiet. The tension would dissipate. I put a solid dent in the pile. For the moment, I feel like I’m enough. 

Close the laptop. It’s 8pm, no time to cook a proper dinner. Order in or eat out. 

My brain, body, and heart are fried. I’m still thinking about work. I got a lot done but the to-do list still looms. I’m tempted to check email, to validate I’m still needed, to distract me from the weight slowly returning to my chest.

Time to numb. TV maybe? Video games? How about a relaxing beer or joint? Anything to separate from work. Anything to not be reminded that I am still not enough. 

It’s 11pm. I’m spent. My brain numb. My body exhausted. 

I read two pages of the book I’ve been reading two pages at a time, and nod off.

I wake up feeling unrested, a weight on my chest.

This is a short post, or what I call a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into something bigger. I publish seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

I stood at the babbling waterfall, stuck in deliberation.

“Is this the best place to do my meditation?”, I wondered.

It was a beautiful spot. The light glistened through the leaves. The birds softly chirped. There was even a perfectly angled rock where I could rest my bony butt.

But I couldn’t bring myself to sit.

“What if there’s a better spot up ahead?”, a voice in my head asked nervously. It was the optimizer in me, working hard to make sure I made the right decision.

Another voice replied. My inner critic.

“You can’t even make this small, insignificant decision?! Embarrassing.”

“I know”, said the optimizer. “Okay, I’ll just meditate here. Wait, no, I’ll keep walking. SHIT!”

My critic scoffed. “Isn’t the whole point of meditation to surrender? And here you are, optimizing your sit spot.”

“I’ll surrender once I start meditating. I just have to find the right spot!”, the optimizer replied.

“This is worse than the time you couldn’t decide which restaurant to go to. Remember that? Alison got hangry and you got in a fight. Shameful! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST MAKE A DECISION?!”

Minutes went by. Back and forth the voices went, in a deepening spiral of worry, and shame.

Suddenly, another voice entered the chat. This voice was caring, curious, and nonjudgmental. We’ll call it “Self”.1

“What are you worried about happening if you make the wrong decision?”, Self asked.

I took a deep breath and felt into the tension in my body.

“I’m afraid that we’ll regret it”, the optimizer replied.

“Do we have any regrets about decisions we’ve made in the past?”, Self asked calmly.

I gave it some thought. I’ve definitely made mistakes. Heck, I’ve even blundered.

And yes, sometimes there’s regret in the moment. “SHIT! I should not have made that move!”, I’ll say as Alison grins and swallows up my Shesh Besh piece.2

But the regret is always short-lived. Medium-lived at most. Never long-lived.

Even for big mistakes! I’ve made decisions that have lost me millions of dollars. I’ve lost friends. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself.

But I genuinely do not have regrets because, over time, the mistakes just become part of my story. Time seems to soften all regrets.

“No”, the optimizer replied. “We have no regrets”.

“Well then”, said Self. “What makes you worried about making the wrong decision now?”

I realized in that moment that decisions only feel hard when I’m avoiding the pain of a future regret.

Discovering that I have no regrets released all the pressure around the decision. Mistakes are nothing to be afraid of. It’s all part of my unfolding story.

The optimizer calmed. The critic calmed. The Self stayed.

I sat my bony butt down and began my meditation.

If you know you know.

And if you know, you’re one of us.

If you want to know, you’ll need to become one of us.

In fact, in the simple act of gaining this knowing, you become one of us. 

But if too many people know, it stops being an effective way to identify “us”.

So we guard the knowing with phrases like “IYKYK”, which also means, “We’re not going to tell you, you have to figure it out.”

And when too many people figure it out, we abandon the knowing and create new ones.

Because we all yearn to belong.

And to belong, you have to know.

Prompts for reflection:

1. What does your community know that those outside of the community don’t?

2. How is “knowing” preventing people from accessing your community?

3. Where are the opportunities to add more “knowing” to your community?

This is a short post, or what I call a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into something bigger. I publish seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

I recently discovered the wizard behind the curtain, pulling the strings of my life.

It’s been the belief that “I am not enough”.

The story goes, “If I _________, then I’ll be enough.”

If I get that person to stop being mad…

If I win this round of backgammon…

If I had more friends in town…

If I make the right decision about what to eat for breakfast…

If I’m seen as a “good guy”…

If I had enough money to buy that house…

If I judge that person…

If I judge myself…

If I could just stop having these damn thoughts…

Everywhere I look, the lack of enoughness has been there, driving me.

After doing a lot of work on myself, I’ve finally reached moments where I’ve felt like I am enough, just as I am.

Often it’s when I’m in nature, deep in meditation, through breathwork, or after a particularly revealing therapy or coaching session.

Sometimes, I can close my eyes and tune into enoughness when it feels needed. It’s a guiding energy that helps me know when I’m tapping into clean fuel.

When I do, the stories fade away. They no longer need to protect me.

But it’s overwhelming. I’m not used to feeling like I’m enough. I’ve been crying during most of my meditation sessions because my mind and body scream at me to do something.

Think, fix, solve, move… BECOME enough.

But enoughness doesn’t require doing. It’s already there. It just needs space to emerge.

So I stay still. The energy explodes in my chest and comes out as tears.

It’s a good cry. It’s a true cry. It feels like life.

Prompts

Reflect on these questions in private, or you’re welcome to share in the comments:

1. What has your experience been with enoughness?

2. Do you feel like you’re enough?

3. Do you ever cry when sitting in stillness? What do you think it means?

4. What stories are you telling yourself about what it takes to be enough?

5. How would it feel to believe you’re already enough?

This is a short post, or what I call a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into something bigger. I publish seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

You don’t need to ask anyone at Reading Rhythms if they like books. They do. You can bring up a book to anyone there, and feel confident they’ll be eager to engage in that conversation.  

The attendees at HomeDadCon know what it’s like to be a stay-at-home dad. No one you meet will make you justify your existence or challenge your masculinity.

Everyone you meet in Chief will understand the trials and triumphs of being a female executive. They’ll have a baseline understanding of your experience before you even say a word.

This is a community’s “baseline of belonging”.

It’s the questions that don’t need to be asked.

It’s the explanations that don’t need to be made.

It’s the worries that can be left at home.

Because in this space, everyone else is like you, to some degree.

You can dive straight into deeper conversation, with much of the small talk already out of the way.

You get a baseline of feeling seen and understood, automatically.

This is the magic of community.

Community design practice: Identify your baseline of belonging

Take 15 minutes and write down ten (or more) questions that members don’t have to ask when in your community. 

• What explanations don’t they have to give? What worries can they leave at home?

• When designing a new community, this will help you determine if you’re onto something.

• With an existing community, it will help you better see and communicate the value of your community to members. Try using it as your website copy!

Try it out, let me know what you learn.

Bonus points if you share in the comments so we can all learn together!

For most of my life, my actions have been powered by what my friend calls “dirty fuel". 

My parents believed I was special so I worked to prove them right.

My bullies made me feel powerless so I worked to prove them wrong.

My family didn’t have much money so I worked to never feel poor.

Pride, pain, and fear became my motivation to succeed.

The story that “I am not enough” became my dirty fuel.

Dirty fuel can be extremely effective. It brought me to incredible heights and helped me positively impact thousands of people.

But, like the dirty fuel we carve from the earth and burn into the air, it leaves scars.

My craving for success, for reputation, for money, to be liked, to avoid conflict… it brought suffering to myself and people around me.

So, I embarked on a journey to empty my tank of dirty fuel. With the help of coaches, therapy, and a variety of practices (I share them here), I started to see and undo the story that “I am not enough”.

The dirty fuel started to empty.

Then, something scary happened…

I lost all my motivation.

What’s the point of doing anything when you’re already enough, amiright?

This terrified me. I’m a high achiever. I’m very used to being motivated, to doing.

I went to the Zen Mountain Monastery in search of an answer. I spent the weekend meditating and at the end of the retreat, I got the chance to ask the teacher, Shoan Ankele, a question.

“What do you do when you find yourself in a place of peace and self-acceptance?”, I asked. “What’s the point of doing anything?”

She smirked, having heard this one before. “Bodhisattva”, she said. “To end the suffering of all beings”.

I didn’t know it at the time, but she was describing “clean fuel”.

Clean fuel is love and wonder. It’s abundant and it leaves no scars.

I know I’m tapping into clean fuel when I feel a calling to be in service to others.

I didn’t have to search for clean fuel. It was already in me. I just needed to create the space in my tank, then wait for it to emerge.

Slowly (very slowly), opportunities started coming to me. New projects, new relationships, new experiences.

Each time, I could choose to welcome it into my life, or let it pass by.

If I found I was motivated by enoughness, I welcomed it in.

If I found I was motivated by fear of not being enough, I let it pass.

Slowly, my life started to fill up with work, people, and experiences rooted in a place of love and wonder, instead of fear and worry.

Slowly, I started to be powered by clean fuel.

This is a short post, or what I call a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into essays, models, and books. I publish seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

Alison (my wife) lives a life that some would call “ordinary”.

She’s a middle school teacher. She loves routines. She orders the same thing at restaurants. She’s on her third watch of Pretty Little Liars. She doesn’t feel drawn to risk or change. She can mostly do the same thing every day and be happy.

I, on the other hand, have been terrified of being ordinary. My parents told me I was special and darn it, I was going to prove them right. I took big risks, built companies, avoided routines, moved around, and tried everything as long as it wasn’t “ordinary”.

And yet, I have loved Alison more than anything or anyone else in the world since we met 18 years ago. How can I, someone terrified of living an ordinary life, love and commit to someone I perceived to be living that life?

Well if you know Alison, then you know.

She is universally loved by the people around her. She brings her full heart into her work and has claimed the title of “favorite teacher” for countless students. When you talk, she listens deeply. She knows who she is. She’s content with who she is. She rarely gets swept up in anxiety (unless I put something in the wrong place in the kitchen). She’s fiercely loyal. 

She is extraordinary.

It’s not because of what she does for work or how she spends her day but because of her state of being, her love for what she does, and her attention to the people around her. 

Everything I hoped would make me extraordinary (success, reputation, being liked, being seen as smart, being the “good guy”, etc) hasn’t worked.

Even when I acquired these things, it had an adverse effect because it was rooted in the story that being enough required outside validation.

Externally, I’ve lived an extraordinary life.

Internally, I’ve been as ordinary as it gets. 

Here’s my new definition of an extraordinary life: 

To fully accept oneself as enough, to show up to life with your full attention, and to bring love into even the most “ordinary” work, relationships, and experiences. 

My life today looks pretty ordinary. I wake up, meditate, get our kids ready, drop them at daycare, go to the gym, work, cook dinner, play, read or watch TV with Alison, then go to bed.

And yet, I’m more present, I’m discovering new depth in my relationships, and I’m finally feeling like I’m enough.

I’m finding the courage to be ordinary.

Only then will it be possible to be extraordinary. 

This is a short post, or what I’m calling a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into essays, models, and books. I’ll be publishing seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

Return on Investment (ROI) is a fundamental rule of business.

You need more money back than you put in.

Violate this rule and your business will die.

Where we invest our time also has a Return on Energy (ROE).

You need more energy back than you put in.

It’s a fundamental rule of our minds, hearts, and bodies.

Violate this rule and your passion will die.

Often, we force ourselves to stay committed to things that have been sucking us dry.

We do it because it makes us feel safe (financially, emotionally, physically).

We do it because of fear of change, of failure, or of the unknown.

We do it because we made a commitment and we intend to see it through.

This is true in business and relationships.

When we stay committed to the things that drain us we become empty.

Alternatively, commit to actions and people with a positive ROE and there are no bounds to how much you can pour in without burning or hollowing out.

Practice: Take 15 minutes today to write down all of your big commitments then rate each one 1-10 on the question, “What is the Return on Energy?”

See if anything shifts.

This is a short post, or what I’m calling a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into essays, models, and books. I’ll be publishing seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

When we talk about “solving loneliness” it’s tempting to look at it as a monolith, where everyone’s loneliness is the same.

But loneliness comes in all different flavors.

An elderly person experiences a different flavor of loneliness than a teenager.

A new mother experiences a different flavor than a mother of five. 

A white person experiences a different flavor than a black person who experiences a different flavor than an indigenous person. 

Women experience a different flavor than men. 

CEOs experience a different flavor than middle managers.

Urbanites experience a different flavor than those in a rural community. 

Solving someone’s loneliness requires attention to the unique elements of that individual’s environment, wants, needs, identity, history, stage of life, and culture.

Startups working to “solve loneliness” with a single solution will unfortunately fall short.

If every one of us chose one other person to bring our attention, love, and care to, global loneliness would fade overnight.

That’s the only true scalable solution.

This is a short post, or what I’m calling a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into essays, models, and books. I’ll be publishing seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.

When in conversation, I will often find myself lost in thought.

Instead of listening, I’m thinking about what I will say next, about something else happening in my life, about the tea I made this morning but forgot to drink…AGAIN.

Conversations feel a lot like meditation in this way.

What if we looked at conversation as a form of meditation? Let’s call it “conversational meditation”.

In meditation, we practice staying present with our breath, our body, or a mantra. When a thought comes up, we’re instructed to gently notice it and, without judgment, bring our attention back to our breath.

We can do the same in conversation. We can practice staying present with another person, with their energy, with their eye contact, and with their words. 

When we find our thoughts drifting we can gently notice it and, without judgment, bring our attention back to the person speaking.

Boring conversations will become something to celebrate. What great practice!

Drifted too far and lost the thread of conversation? Simply tell your meditation partner, “I’m sorry, my mind drifted, but I am paying attention now.”

The intention isn’t to avoid drifting entirely. Even the most experienced meditators still have thoughts. The intention is to build the muscle of awareness and nonjudgement so that you can have more meaningful conversations.

Conversations are the atomic unit of relationships. They’re worth the practice.

Your turn: Today, try approaching each conversation as a form of meditation. If you feel inspired, please come back and share in the comments or reply to this email to let me know how it goes.

This is a short post, or what I’m calling a “Seed”. Seeds are simple ideas and reflections that may grow into essays, models, and books. I’ll be publishing seeds fairly frequently, as often as they sprout.

You can update your subscription here if you prefer not to receive Seeds, but still want to receive my long-form Essays.