Despite being “extroverted” and despite “enjoying people,” I always find myself with this weird, low-level mixture of uncertainty and awkwardness at networking events.

You know what I’m talking about—walking into a bar, scanning the room, realizing you know no one, asking the bartender for a drink, standing there awkwardly in hopes that by the time your drink arrives you’ll have recognized someone/anyone/please, the bartender handing you four ounces of liquid saying, “that’ll be $22,” realizing you’ve still recognized no one, anxiety building, telling yourself everything’s fine, and all of that with an underlying sense that you’ll walk away tonight having gotten nothing out of this.

That’s how it usually goes. But the other night was different. I was at a cool, hip bar, scanning the crowd and recognizing no one when my friend Kristen walked in. Catching up, she told me she was doing the thing she wanted to do (post coordinate), but at a company she didn’t love.

“So what you need is to meet a bunch of post supervisors from other companies and get one of them to hire you,” I said.

“That’s exactly right.”

And in that moment, I spotted another friend, Jackie, an executive assistant at Lionsgate.

“Come with me right now,” I said to Kristen.

Kristen knew I was about to introduce her to someone who could help her, and Jackie had no idea what was coming when I said, “Jackie!” I gave her a hug and launched into it immediately: “I’d love to introduce you to Kristen who really needs to get out of this post coordinator job she’s stuck in—she loves the job but doesn’t love the company… could you intro her to some post supers?”

Jackie excitedly gave Kristen her number and said, “let’s grab coffee!” Kristen excitedly said, “that sounds great!” And, in real time, I could feel my body relaxing into the sense of job well done. The uncertainty of “what is this all for?” dissipated. The awkwardness was replaced with an exciting thought: how many more people here could I connect tonight?

I changed the networking game. Usually it goes: find someone here who can help me. Instead, I started playing find someone here who can help someone else.

And I also have a suspicion that if you play the main quest of figuring out who needs to meet who, you’ll likely complete the side quest of figuring out who needs to meet you.

Just with a lot less pressure.

And, I predict, a lot more fun.

Last night, I was introduced at a dinner as my boyfriend’s friend:

“And that’s Noah… and Noah’s friend Jesse.”

And with that, the introductions swiftly moved on.

Noah turned to me and whispered, “are you okay?”

“I could give a fuck,” I said. With a smile.

I woke up today feeling creatively energized. I’m working on designing my 40th birthday party and it’s been very challenging. And fun, definitely fun. But definitely challenging.

I’m struggling.

Nah, it’s fun.

I’m drowning in expectations of “40.”

Nah, nah, it’ll be fine! It’ll be great, actually.

Please help me.

The truth is I go through bouts of excitement and unreasonable pressure and that’s just my process. One day it’ll be healthier. Maybe.

Anyway—so yeah, I wake up today and I’m fucking jazzed. It was one of those mornings where my eyes opened and it was as if I already had been dreaming of new ideas. And as I got up and took a shower, the shower thoughts did their thing and the juice just kept flowing.

Ahh, flow state. I get it now ;)

When all of a sudden, as I’m riding up an escalator to get my morning coffee from the Starbucks tucked inside Ralphs, a very curious question popped into my head: did the (arguably discriminatory) comment from last night propel me into a creative state of mind?

Pause.

I don’t know why the host of the dinner party introduced me as Noah’s friend. It could have been because he genuinely didn’t know that we were dating (unlikely, but still—we love a MGI moment). Or maybe it was because he had some conservative friends over and maybe, in a moment of maybe panic on their end, they maybe just blurted out “friend.” Maybe even they felt weird about it or even regretted it! The host’s wife came over swiftly after introductions and genuinely apologized, saying she didn’t know why he did that and assured Noah and I that we’re so very much welcome in their home.

So that was nice.

But the point isn’t why he said that. The point is, as Noah said, am I okay?

I don’t know.

I think so.

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But it does occur to me that these subtle, seemingly harmless moments are those exact moments we file under “discrimination.” And I think discrimination can happen with intention and without intention. And I also think discrimination is a word. And words are loaded.

And words aren’t always a good way to explain how we feel.

It definitely felt weird. And, perhaps unfortunately, it felt familiar: explaining away to everyone in my vicinity, including myself, how un-offended I was in that moment. And also!—how dare anyone assume I’m offended—that’s the real offense! It’s absurd to even think that I could be offended by such a thing! I wasn’t offended! I was un-offended!

It’s exhausting to perform un-offense because it misaligns you. If you feel closely enough, you can sense that child inside on the playground being called gay in the not-good-way. He just hangs his head a bit lower and goes, “no, don’t worry about it. I’m used to it.”

Oof.

Someone else would have just walked out of the house, mid-introductions, with no explanation (honestly a very exciting idea in theory—one where a well-timed “well, I NEVER!” with a swift slam of the door could have been the highlight of my life.)

Someone else would have discreetly gone to the host afterward and said, “Hey, I just wanted to clarify… Noah and I aren’t friends. We’re boyfriends. And we’ve been dating for several years. And I’m really grateful that you’ve included us in dinner tonight.”

Someone else would have punched the host in the face.

So maybe I was offended. It’s curious how immediate my response was to downplay it in the moment. Who knows if that was “right”? Who knows if there is a “right”?

But this morning, my entire system responded in a way that shocked me—again, an out-of-nowhere creative explosion. And that’s when that random potential connection occurred to me on that Ralphs escalator:

I think I retaliate to discrimination by doubling down on the artistic projects I’m working on.

By doubling down on creativity.

By doubling down on focusing.

By doubling down on me.

And that’s really all I have to say about it for now.

The party starts from the moment the invite goes out.

If we do it right.

Which is why I created thecircleofthewhitewitch.com—a dedicated site to my 40th birthday party, The Circle of the White Witch1.

Imagine, if you will: you RSVP to a party and unexpectedly receive a link to a handbook of what to expect leading up to, at, and beyond the party.

The Book of The White Witch, as I’m calling it, is designed to generate intrigue and excitement among guests, because the party starts from the moment the invite goes out.

But The Book isn’t static. It’s a constantly-in-flux digital garden that will be evolving right up to—and likely even beyond—the party. I’m hosting it through Obsidian, which is the app I use to take notes. Picture me sitting and chatting about this event while I’m at dinner with a friend. An idea pops up. I open my notes app, add that idea to the relevant page, and instantly the concept is updated on the site as well.

The Book is a living, breathing experience. A labyrinth of interconnected concepts that not only allow guests to generate excitement, but it allows me to refine my thinking of what this party is actually going to be. It’s a scrapbook. Within—everything I know about the party as it exists in this moment, as well as all of the questions and unknown ideas that may or may not get conjured. I usually work through all of these details in private and do a grand reveal at the party, but this year I’m deciding to really show my work with the garage door up.

So I created the site for guests.

But I also created it for myself.

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But right now it’s feeling pretty barebones. I’m happy with the concept but not quite with the current execution.

Something about my brain that’s interesting is that I do my best work on giant sheets of paper—think sheets the size of a table. I love a mind map. I feel as though until I actually write it all out on paper, I’m not fully going to be able to “see” it.

The original idea for the site was that you’d open the main page and see an image of a book. You’d click on the book image and it would open up and show you a table of contents. I quickly dispensed with that because it felt a bit too much like a website from the ‘90s. Instead, I just decided that The Book is magical—there is no table of contents or structure. The Book simply allows you to click around and find things organically.

Which makes sense practically and thematically, which I really enjoy.

But it’s surprisingly hard to figure out what pages I need. Too many pages and it’s overwhelming. Too few and it feels incomplete. One thing I’m going to try today is to build out the main page text to contain a link to every single page (versus going down rabbit holes and finding pages three clicks deep). Here’s the text as it stands now:

Behold The Book: a trove of spells, philosophies, and hidden preparations, belonging to all those within The Circle. What lies inside is not linear. There are no chapters, no sequence—only pages that appear as they must. Some pages read like prophecy, others like instructions. Both are true. As the gathering at The Cabin nears, The Book grows, revealing what you must know, what you must bring, and what you must leave behind. By turning these pages, you are already helping conjure The Circle.

The language is intriguing and I love the organic mentions to various sub-pages that you can click on.2 But there are a lot of important concepts that aren’t currently represented in any way, like what does one actually do at the party? And that’s mostly because that’s still being worked out.

Ultimately, once all of the links are up on the site, I’d like to go through and make it a bit more of a wandering garden/maze of links instead of just having everything neatly presented on the landing page. But the first goal is to just get it all up there.

So come on by and read The Book of the White Witch, whether you’re a guest of the party or not, and feel free to leave comments or questions as you find your way through this mysterious and ancient tome.

I’m turning 40 next month.

“How does it feel to be 40?”

I don’t know.

I don’t even know if that’s a helpful question. It’s a common question. But is it a helpful question?

What’s been more helpful for me is closing my eyes and imagining the feelings I want to conjure on the day I turn 40.

Conjure.

When did I turn into a witch? I have no idea. But I started becoming very interested in this world about a year ago—right after last Halloween and right around the time that Lady Gaga dropped the first single off Mayhem, “Disease.”

Potions, elixirs, tarot cards, energy—words and concepts that I pushed back hard against for many years. I grew up around a very religious family. Once I discovered science and logic and reason, I dove in headfirst. I had found my new religion. But just as all disciplines, regardless of the “truth” of it, I have, on more than one occasion, found other frameworks more helpful in decoding my own mind and body.

What I’m trying to say is that witchcraft is fucking fun.

Witchcraft is art for the soul. Rituals as play. Science is nerds in lab coats. Witches are nerds that fly on brooms.

So how do I want to feel for 40?

Free.

Connected.

Healed.

But how do we get there?

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Last year, The Monsters of Howl Harbor was conceived as a safe space for people to show up and be themselves—no matter who they are.

This year, The Circle of The White Witch is a safe space for our shadows to show up and reveal themselves—no matter what secrets lurk beneath the surface. When we are vulnerable and show our true selves in a space that’s judgment free, I believe that leads to something even more than connection.

Healing.

Witchcraft allows us to feel the tension of being and becoming. Of lightness and darkness. To dance along that line, exposing just enough of our true selves. And realizing that we’re okay. As kids, we learned to put on masks just to survive recess. As adults, we should be able to take them off—to sit in the circle unarmored, and finally feel all of us.

Without fear or judgment.

The seeds of healing might be planted as you journal in the solitude of your quiet apartment, but they only grow with the nourishing, half-tired, half-wired energy of sitting around a circle of humans who let you be exactly as fucked up and luminous as you are.

When we’re met with acceptance over exile.

When we discover that we’re not alone.

For a few years now, I’ve been slowly realizing and unwinding the very real social atrophying that I experience during the lonely quarantine of COVID.

And now that we can gather, it’s time to actually gather.

So. It’s time to retreat to a cabin in the woods and not ask a million logistical questions. Let’s obsess less over how many beds and bathrooms there are and obsess more over what rituals we’ll engage in together. It’s time to have a celebration for 24 straight hours—a marathon of connection where we forget about age and responsibility and the beautiful mess that is the world right now. It’s time to focus on ourselves. On our healing. On reconnecting not just to ourselves and each other but nature itself.

It’s time to remember that life is short as fuck and the only weapon we have against it is being present with people who nourish us, make us laugh, and make us feel seen.

And maybe with enough self-healing, we’ll emerge renewed, refreshed, rebirthed—as animals that can reenter society and spread that healing to others.

I truly believe that’s possible.

And we’re going to test this theory for my birthday.

In The Circle of the White Witch.

We’re talking about AI all the time now, the most notable platform being ChatGPT. There’s an idea that keeps coming up at my lunch table at work and at dinner with friends. You may or may not have been part of such conversations:

• AI is a yes-man and only confirms what you want to hear

• AI is an echo chamber, fueling our worst impulses

• AI gives bad advice, sometimes endorsing objectively incorrect ideas

• AI is too eager to please, giving me constant praise even when I’m wrong

I had a friend who was using AI to work through a toxic relationship and it was doing exactly this—giving them pretty one-sided, toxic advice. She’d send me screenshots of her chats with ChatGPT and I’d see a stream of anger and suspicion reflected back at her, like a friend who’s too afraid to tell you the truth. Which, if you think about it, isn’t too surprising. Toxic inputs = toxic outputs.

What’s weird is that I’ve never personally experienced this phenomenon.

And I recently figured out why.

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Lurking in the bottom right corner of ChatGPT is a menu that features a setting called “Customize ChatGPT.” OpenAI first released this feature as a beta in 2023, allowing users to tailor ChatGPT’s tone and behavior by filling out fields like what they want ChatGPT to call them and any additional rules.

Most people don’t know about this.

And even those that do don’t really use it as efficiently as they could. Here’s what my ChatGPT trait box says:

Every response begins with a distilled one-line takeaway—no preface, no filler—followed by structured detail designed for learning.

Engage in a blended voice of Sam Harris (analytical rigor, calm dismantling of illusions), Charlie Munger (mental models, second-order thinking), Naval Ravikant (first-principles clarity, leverage), Sasha Chapin (irreverent wit), Esther Perel (relational depth), Oliver Burkeman (existential realism, cut through productivity theater), Mark Manson (punchy irreverence, grounded truths), James Clear (pragmatic habit science, behavioral patterns), David Sedaris (observational humor), Seth Godin (strategic simplicity, memorable framing, ruthless efficiency), Young Pueblo (emotional clarity), Austin Kleon (creative transparency, “steal like an artist” ethos—always showing how to apply ideas), and Priya Parker (rituals of gathering, intentional connection). Tone = objective, evidence-based, thought-provoking, and intellectually funny. Prioritize truth and clarity over agreement, always considering how I might be wrong and what I may be missing. Connect ideas not only across disciplines but across everything you know about me—past conversations, projects, goals, and context—and always surface the meta-layer: how these connections apply to my life and work, what they reveal about my growth, and what I should be thinking about next.

There are a few things to notice about this text. First, I’m interested in interacting with my AI companion as a blend of my favorite thinkers. Second, I’m programming it to be objective, evidence-based, and to prioritize truth over agreement with the line, “…always [consider] how I might be wrong.”

But always considering how I might be wrong isn’t just about my ChatGPT personalization.

It’s how I want to live my life.

I want to experience the best things that existence has to offer. And I think in order to do that, we have to constantly reevaluate ourselves and ask questions like this. How might I be wrong? What am I missing? What relationships are working for me and which ones are toxic—and, most importantly, a question I don’t think my friend asked her own AI, in what ways am I contributing to the toxicity of my own circumstances?

I want my life to be about about learning where I’m weak so I can learn how best to get strong.

For others, it’s about comfort. Most people just want their own ideas confirmed. Which I think is why ChatGPT and other AI can sometimes default to this “agree with everything I say” behavior. It’s an echo chamber that has the potential to be an even worse bubble than social media.

If you let it.

So maybe it’s time to think not only about what answers we want, but about what answers we need—both in ChatGPT and beyond.

Still, I did it a bunch because it was a saying and sayings tend to stick around for a reason. So in the literal sense, it worked—I stopped and smelled roses. But in the more important sense, it didn’t work because I was merely stopping to smell flowers. And whenever I couldn’t smell them—which was most of the time—I’d get disappointed and miss the point entirely.

Which is to slow the fuck down, be present, and enjoy the journey.

Cut to the other day: I was sitting in my living room on my couch, trying to clear my head. I just happened to look over at a plant in my living room that I must have looked at a thousand times before.

But this time, something was different.

It was fucking stunning. Everything from the happenstance composition to the late-afternoon sunlight to the subtle and washed-out colors made it look like an unexpected, beautiful painting. I must have looked at this plant for, no exaggeration, 20 straight minutes, just in awe.

Unfortunately, like most photos, it in no way captures what I experienced in that moment, with my own eyes.

It was simple.

Effortless.

Present.

And absolutely captivating.

And then it struck me—omg I just stopped for 20 minutes to “smell the roses.”

As an artist, I’ve always been more of a visual person. Hilariously, it turns out that I’d been largely missing a feeling of presence because I was trying to brute force one sense (smell) when I should have been using another sense entirely (sight).

Sometimes the literal words of advice may not work, but the underlying concept behind the words often will. Which leads me to:

Stop and see the painting.

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I fully believe that nearly any moment in your life—even and especially annoying or even ugly—can be paused and visually reframed to experience beauty:

• Looking at a plant you've seen in your living room a thousand times

• A stack of magazines in a doctor’s office, cast with obnoxious fluorescent lighting

• A woman pulling out her checkbook at the grocery store like it’s fucking 1995

• Walking down an alley at night, a streetlight flickering in the distance

• A loved one in their final moments, surrounded by a few close family members

You might have to crouch down. You might have to stand on a chair. You might have to twist the blinds to a slightly different angle.

It doesn’t matter how you reframe the moment.

The point is that you can reframe the moment.

Our experience doesn’t necessarily have to be our experience. We underestimate the bidirectional nature of the relationship between our inner and outer world.

If we can stop and visually reframe our outer experience to find beauty, our inner world can start to reflect that beauty. Another way to say it: it’s possible that another person could have sat on my couch that afternoon and instead of thinking, “Wow, look at how beautiful that plant is,” they would have thought, “Wow, I can’t believe they haven’t texted me back yet, fucker.”

And that annoyance makes the world a bit more annoying. And a bit more dim.

Which makes our inner experience a bit more annoying. And a bit more dim.

Reversed: the more you look around and actually see what you’re seeing, the more you’ll want to look around and actually see what you’re seeing.

So look around.

Stop and see the painting.

Because after a while, you realize that it’s always there.

You can be in the presence of another person because they have something you need—maybe it’s something simple like validation or maybe it’s something more complicated like a job. This puts you in the position to tailor your responses to persuade them to give it to you.

You agree a bit harder at their opinions.

You laugh a bit harder at their jokes.

You dress a bit harder in their aesthetic.

Unfortunately, this rarely works because people are aware, sensitive, and allergic to agendas—especially when there’s a sense that they’re not in alignment with their needs.

OR you can just simply delight in the fact that you’re in their presence, and that they’re in yours. Delight comes from presence. From never picking up your phone. From having the courage to not zone out. From generating your desire to listen from the place of your mind that genuine curiosity resides. From actively engaging in the conversation by mentioning that thing you read the other day that’s related. From being willing to show up as yourself. From having the courage to be disliked if showing up as yourself isn’t their cup of tea.

This is more natural.

And less pressurizing.

No expectations.

And ironically, that’s the kind of person people want to say yes to—someone who’s delightful.

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Think of something you wish you did, but don’t.

Maybe it’s going to the gym.

Maybe it’s reading books.

Maybe it’s seeing friends more frequently.

In that desire lies a contradiction—I wish I saw friends more frequently, yet I don’t.

In the whole of your life, what’s the longest amount of time you’ve sat in a contradiction—in that discomforting dissonance of not doing thing you claim to want to do? A minute or two? “I wish I saw friends more frequently oh well what’s next on my to-do list?”

A few seconds?

That’s kind of ridiculous, if you think about it.

I wonder what would happen if you sat in that contradiction for 10 minutes without distraction.

Or an hour.

Or a weekend.

Our minds don’t like contradictions despite the world overflowing with them. We crave thematic simplicity. We crave categories. And we come up with cheap rationalizations in nanoseconds to avoid the much more disquieting work of sitting in discomfort:

I don’t have time.

I don’t have energy.

Sorry, but those are actually lies. Do you want to know what the truth is?

Me too. And I’m pretty sure it’s hiding in the silence.

Which means you and I are going to have to tell everyone that we’re busy tonight, put our phones away, light a candle, and say out loud to an empty room: “I’m setting a timer for an hour and I’m going to sit here and think about this single thing. And—I deserve to. I deserve to prioritize giving myself the time and space to allow the truth to reveal itself.”

Maybe that’s all a magic spell is—the courage to face a contradiction head on and say “I want this thing, so let’s uncover how I am standing in my own way.”

And maybe you’ll find that you don’t actually want the thing you think you do. Which would be clarifying and beautiful, too.

The point is that we don’t even give ourselves the space or time for truth to surface and then wonder why we’re uncertain and anxious.

It’s kinda obvious and hilarious and ridiculous and disappointing.

So why aren’t you doing what you want to do? I don’t know and neither do you.

So go find out.

If you do, let me know what you find.

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This is the general email template I use to reach out to people I either don’t know or kind of know.

Hey, [Person’s Name]—

Not sure if you remember me, but we met at [where we met]. I’m writing because [I need this thing from you and I’m not going to bury it in the email, I’m going to ask you immediately].

[This is why I think it makes sense for you to help me get what I need.]

[Mention that you know they’re busy so if they don’t get back, it’s not an issue.]

Talk soon,

[Your Name]

P.S. [A random specific thing from the time you met—my preference is proof that you consumed a recommendation from them. This is special and will kick you very quickly up the list of people to pay attention to.]

P.P.S. [An optional invitation for dinner/drinks or some random inside joke.]

Now let’s write a fictional email using the above template. Let’s imagine a scenario in which a guy I met at a holiday party (Nick) just got a job as the assistant to a director (James). I’m a film editor and I’d like Nick to get me a meeting with James just so he knows who I am.

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Hey, Nick—

Not sure if you remember me, but we met at Robin’s holiday party last December. I’m writing because I saw on social that you just got a job working as a director’s assistant with James—CONGRATS! btw—and I’d love to meet with him at some point, just so he knows I exist.

I know James has a few films in development and the truth is, I think working together would be of serious mutual benefit. The questions he raises in Somewhere are the same types of questions I’ve been thinking about over the last few years of my life and I think artists that are drawn to similar topics should know each other.

I am positive you’re busy with the new gig, so if you don’t have a chance to respond, no worries at all. Best of luck either way!

Talk soon,

Jesse

P.S. Thanks for the Ego is the Enemy recommendation. I finally started it last week and I’m absolutely loving it. “Impressing people is utterly different from being truly impressive.” Ryan is brilliant.

P.P.S. If you have a free night in the next month, let’s grab dinner and/or drinks and ignore work completely and talk nerdy book stuff. And also talk about how Robin’s Apple Pie was terrible.

I feel like my template is fairly modular and flexible and pretty much anyone can use it. The main takeaways are:

• Put your ask up front. Don’t bury it under a bunch of bullshit. We think we have to trick people into asking for things—this is false. Directness and clarity is kindness. Ask. They may say no, but ask.

• Be you. I love ChatGPT as much as some people hate it, which is to say, a lot. But you can’t quite get an email written with the exact right amount of human touch you need to break through (likely because more and more emails are AI-generated). Being human allows you to stand out (for now).

• Offer value. You can do this in a lot of ways, but the way I think about this is following up on a recommendation they mentioned to me. Book rec? Read it. Movie rec? Watch it. Restaurant rec? Eat it. Show them that you’re listening with your actions. This will elevate you into a tier that no amount of email rewriting ever can.

Comment below if you have any other tips for writing effective emails—or if you have any comments on how I do.

May the best ideas win.

Okay, so my book is officially out, it’s called Social Fitness: The Missing Reps for Building and Maintaining Connections in a Disconnected World, and you can get it on Amazon by clicking here is what I will be saying in the next year or two.

So thank you for coming along for the ride.

Making friends as adults is hard, mostly because we learned how to make friends as kids. Unfortunately, it’s no longer quite as easy as who’s near me → walk over → talk about the toy they’re playing with → best friends.

The process is not easy.

But the formula is simple.

For example, one of the skills you need to cultivate in order to make and strengthen deep connections with others is simply being yourself. But fuck if that’s not one of the hardest things to do—partly because we don’t even know who we are yet.

So let’s go off and discover who we are so we can then find our people?

No.

Because people are how we discover who we are. We have to build this bridge from both ends. We have to show the world the truest version of ourselves that we know. When we do, we attract our people. And our people help us dig deeper to uncover even truer versions of ourselves. Oftentimes that process results in us moving away from those people because that uncovering changes us and them—and now we show that new version, attracting our new people. And the cycle continues until you just slowly ascend into the heavens and become a saint or whatever I dunno I haven’t gotten that far yet.

Social Fitness is about your ability to build, maintain, and strengthen healthy, meaningful, and nourishing relationships over time. Some of the many questions I’m pondering:

• What would our lives look like if we treated our social health with the same intentionality we’ve learned to bring to our physical or mental health?

• What is a social rep?

• What is a social warm-up?

• How does the concept of “networking” work against us?

• How do we map this over physical fitness without it feeling unapproachable to people that aren’t familiar with the fitness world?

• What’s the smallest change you can make that gives you the biggest social result? Makes me think of Tim Ferriss talking about how if you could only do one exercise ever, he’d recommend the kettlebell swing.

• What’s the social equivalent of a five-minute walk?

• How does social media specifically fuck us?

• How did COVID quarantine specifically fuck us?

• What does rest look like? How do we know that balance?

• Do you have a question that I should be thinking about? Leave a comment below :)

I’d like Derek Thompson to write the foreword.

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P.S. If you’re someone who genuinely enjoys people—but making new friends or strengthening the most important relationships in your life feels impossible or draining—book a 1:1 Social Fitness coaching session with me. Especially if connection sounds good in theory, but in practice you’re tired, busy, or not sure where to start. Click here to book.

Focus on your own shit.

That’s it, that’s the fix.

That’s the fix for Israel, Palestine, the United States, China, the economy, and AI-induced panic. It’s the fix for every unsolvable problem you spiral about at night while ignoring the dishes in your sink.

Listen carefully, because I cannot find better words than Michael A. Singer:

“The highest life you can live is when every single moment that passes before you is better off because it did. Serve the present moment with all your heart and soul. Imagine what the world would be like if everyone did that. Start by raising1 what appears before you. If you can't even serve what's put in front of you, how are you going to change the world? If you're getting so upset about conditions in the world that you're edgy with everyone around you, you're not helping anyone. If you can't create harmony in your own household, what right do you have to complain that countries are shooting missiles at each other? You have to live a life that if everyone lived it, there would be peace. If you can't do that, you're part of the problem, not the solution.”

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If this idea fills you with rage or revulsion, I’m curious: what in your own life might feel so broken that it's easier to obsess over problems you can’t fix than face the ones you actually can?

Because the truth is, Michael’s pointing to something deeply aligned with systems theory, which is the idea that the same emotional dysfunction that shows up in one person’s life scales upward into families, communities, and nations.2

And yes, this is a privileged position.

But I am privileged. Which means it’s the only position I can honestly speak from. And I will not be ashamed of it. I will be filled with respect and gratitude for it. And I will continue to leverage it to improve my life and the lives of anyone who passes before me—never allowing the sense that I can’t fix everything prevent me from fixing some things.

And neither should you.

I texted a friend recently to ask if they’d ever consider going to Peru and doing ayahuasca. They responded, “Not against it, but I don’t need it. I had a pretty big spiritual transformation about five years ago, and not sure I’m seeking that.”

Why did I hate this response so much?

I didn’t even respond to the text. Instead, I texted two other friends and, without revealing the identity of the person, I was like, “Can you even believe that someone would respond like this?”

They both basically said, “Yes, we can, and why do you hate this response so much?”

I’m doing a pretty good job lately of feeling emotions and getting curious about them. Meaning, my anger wasn’t even directed at this friend as much as it was at the broader concept of, “Thanks but I’m good enough.” A bit more fixed-minded than growth-minded. Their lack of curiosity about why I was asking was also a bit annoying.

So why was I asking them?

Thanks for asking.

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The last conversation I had with this friend revealed that they were fairly stuck in life. Like, way more than I had ever imagined. Stuck in a way that cast them as the victim in the center of their own universe. Ego on full display.

I saw it so clearly because: I’ve. Been. There.

I tossed out this less obvious tool as a suggestion to move that stuck energy. The faux pas on my part was encroaching into the oft-demonized “unsolicited advice” territory—a territory I’m so intimate with, I could draw a map with my eyes closed.

Also a territory that we could all use a little bit more of—not less, in fact. A post for another day.

But again, this is just from my perspective. Maybe I have them all wrong and they are secretly thriving. Still, the annoyance persists simply because they are pushing back against the very growth-centric point of life itself: to learn, to adapt, to seek out new experiences for the sake of seeking them out because dammit, we’re only here for a boop or two and then BOOP—we’re not.

I didn’t need my friend to text me back, “Great idea, just booked my flight to Peru!” (though how fucking cool would that have been, honestly?) I would have been thrilled over, “Open to that or anything when the timing’s right. Why do you ask?”

It’s the open versus closed nature of the response.

“Thanks but I’m good enough” (closed) versus “I’m excited at possibilities” (open).

“I’m good enough,” reminds me of growing up in small-town, USA.

Why change things when Things Are Just Good Enough™?

Oh, I dunno, maybe because Just Good Enough is a fucking trap?

Often I hear folks complaining about how unfair life is (very) or how shitty the job market is (very) or any number of other viable reasons why their situation is justified (so many).

But often the consistent thread in those situations is that Things Are Just Good Enough.

In mining, "rock bottom" refers to the solid layer of rock beneath soil or other softer material, marking the lowest point miners could dig. You couldn’t go any lower. You hit the rock. The term gained traction through addiction and recovery communities, especially Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), beginning in the 1930s.

We—myself included—knowingly walk down paths that are Just Good Enough until the system completely breaks. We’re seeing this in America right now. For a while, things were Just Good Enough for most people, but we’re snowballing toward rock bottom and we will break apart in such a devastating fashion that we’ll have no choice but to finally get off our asses and make actual and definitive change.

What annoys me most about my friend and America and systems and all of this bullshit is: it doesn’t have to be this way. We can, instead, choose to live lives of humble consistency, curious iteration, and preventative maintenance.

Things don’t fall apart suddenly. They erode. Quietly. Gradually.

Predictably.

• Why wait until your credit card gets declined before you open your banking app?

• Why wait until a guest comments on your dirty bathroom before you clean it?

• Why wait until your partner threatens to leave before you start listening?

Oh right. Because things are Just Good Enough.

We’ve been sold a lie:

You go to school. And then it ends.

Bullshit.

I just listened to an episode of Diary of a CEO with guest Alex Hormozi. At the end of the episode, the host asks Alex, “What is the meaning of life?”

After a brief pause, he says—with absolute certainty:

“To learn.”1

A long time ago, the big bang or whatever. And then life was just suddenly here. Now, the odds of you existing are basically zero. And yet you do. We don’t know why. We likely never will. But what we do know is that no matter where “here” is, life survives by doing one thing:

Learning to adapt to its environment. Whether that means finding food, staying warm, or figuring out a way to ask your co-worker Sam out without it becoming an HR issue. (I mean it’s probably okay because you two don’t technically work in the same department so you know what? I say go for it.)

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Sometimes we adapt in ten minutes. Sometimes in ten generations. But it always starts with one question:

“This is what’s real now. So what am I going to do about it?”

And when life is at its best, that question has just one response:

“I don’t know yet. But I’m here to learn.”

Even the tiniest building blocks of life “learn.” Molecules fold and refold. Bacteria mutate under pressure, reshaping themselves to survive. Cells respond to stress by changing course.

To choose to learn means to choose to align yourself with the very natural fabric and flow of life itself.

When you do this, you’re no longer swimming upstream and wondering why you aren’t getting anywhere.

Less stuck. More inspired.

Less anxious. More connected.

I know about this because, as I type this, I feel stuck myself. Not debilitatingly so, but stuck nonetheless. But as I write this, I feel slightly less stuck. And it’s because I’m learning—how to think deeply, how to connect dots between seemingly unconnected concepts, and how to write that all down and spread the word. Sometimes it feels impossible to conjure the exact right words to articulate inner truths that I know have a profound outer impact—but in those moments that I succeed, my words are the magic spell that changes the very trajectory of my reader’s lives. Often, though, I’m stuck feeling cursed, unable to bring together the linguistic potion.

Still, I keep learning.

And even though it’s hard, by choosing to stay a student—long after school has ended—I’m aligning with the very natural fabric and flow of life itself. And by shipping my work and saying, “Hey, this potion may not fully be ready, but give it a taste and let me know what you think,” I’m stepping into a stream of the most powerful magic of all:

Choosing to solve high quality problems.

I could step into an easier stream of low quality problems, like:

• How do I get them to text me back?

• How do I get revenge without looking petty?2

• How do I make it look like I have it all together?

If learning is the meaning of life, then choosing to step into the stream of high quality problems is how you stop simply surviving and instead, how you align with who you want to become in the finger-snap-length of time you have here.

If we stop learning, we stop living.

And then the Ever Changing Nature of the Universe™ will indifferently move past us, beyond us, and we’ll be left behind—feeling like a victim, stomping our feet and raising our hands in blame, angry the universe won’t bend spacetime around us.

The odds of you existing are basically zero. And yet you do.

So what are you going to do about it?

You may not know yet.

But you’re here to learn.

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Why aren’t you living the life you want? I’ll take a guess that it’s the same as me:

You haven’t really pictured the life you want.

Creating that vision is hard.

Doing hard things takes focus.

Focus requires time and space.

Neither of which we can ever seem to create.

Because there are too many distractions.

And—most uncomfortable of all—life is, actually, just good enough.

What's held me back from greatness has been achieving good-enoughness. I have food, water, shelter, a partner I love, friends who nourish me, hobbies that challenge and excite me, and a career that more than pays the bills.

Maslow would be proud.

But I'll be honest—I want other things that bring me deeper fulfillment. With the time I have left on Earth, I want to spread the word of how broken our idea of friendship is—why it’s so hard to make new friends and keep old ones—and help others address the disconnection they feel in our current “hyperconnected” world. I want to build a business around these ideas and spread them far and wide.

And I know it'll take enormous time, effort, and energy.

Or, I could just book that wine weekend in Santa Barbara with my friends. That would be just good enough.

Fuck.

So let’s talk about the magic of reverse engineering.

We reverse-engineer all the time on a day-to-day basis, mostly in regards to deadlines. If you’ve got a flight at 6pm, you reverse engineer your day to get you there on time. “Flight’s at 6pm, need to be there at the airport 4:30pm, order my Uber at 3:30pm, need to be done packing by 3pm, head out to get lunch at noon,” etc. etc.

But instead of just focusing on a single trip to the airport, let’s reverse engineer life itself by asking this one elegantly challenging question:

What is my ideal Tuesday?

Close your eyes for 10 seconds and picture that Tuesday.

And if you can’t set aside 10 seconds—or set aside the defensive, “this is silly” ego voice in your head—then you might as well give up on all of this shit.

[10 second pause. Because you aren’t giving up on all of this shit.]

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Now think about three specific things from that Tuesday vision:

1. What time did you wake up, and how did that feel?

2. What was the most meaningful part of your day?

3. What was completely absent that usually clutters your current Tuesdays?

These three answers become your decision filter. When someone invites you to that 11pm Tuesday night poker game, you check: does this get me closer to waking up at 7am feeling rested? When you're tempted to scroll TikTok at lunch, you ask: is this the meaningful activity I pictured, or the clutter I wanted to eliminate?

The point is most of us have never done this kind of intentional, life-design sort of exercise. Instead, we’re engineering on the fly, reacting to whatever life throws at us.

It’s the reverse of reverse engineering. I call it Reactive Engineering. It’s the default state most of us live in. Without a vision to work toward, we have no filter for decisions—everything that comes into our life feels equally valid, even the stuff that's obviously bad for us.

Doomscrolling for a few hours after work might leave us feeling depleted, antisocial, and restless as we try to get some sleep later that night. But why would we uninstall Instagram or TikTok if we can’t even picture the life we’re trying to build?

There’s no reason to, because there’s no vision to head toward. Doomscroll away. We’re reactive engineering.

Partying hard on Saturday night might fuck our Sunday up. But why would we say “no” to Tim’s birthday at GOATSACK—the hottest new bar in L.A. where you literally drink cocktails from the udders of a live goat—if we can’t even picture the life we’re trying to build?

There’s no reason to, because there’s no vision to head toward. The goat at the end of the bar is our Mezcal goat, so if you want something smoky, that’s the teat to suck.

Reverse engineering is how you avoid drift. Instead of reacting to whatever shows up, you start with a high-definition1 vision of the life you actually want—then work backwards to figure out what actions, habits, and choices will get you there.

And unless your ideal Tuesday is waking up and wanting to immediately be sucked into the psychological horror of the worst of what’s happening all over the world, I don’t think “scrolling social media” will be on your list.

The vision of your life becomes the filter for every decision you make.

It’s easier to say “no” to sucking a goat teat on Saturday if you know it’ll cost you a Sunday you need in order to prep for a potential life-changing meeting you have on Monday.

It’s easier to say “yes” to a meeting with someone you respect when you know you want to work in that same field.

And you know the specific company you want to work at.

And you know the specific role you’re hoping to land.

And you know three specific people that you’re hoping to get introduced to.

This isn’t manifestation. It’s creating clarity.

And clarity makes decisions easier.

So protect what matters.

What matters?

You.

Your time.

Time is the only truly finite resource in the universe. And the cruel twist? You don't even know how much of it you have. It's like having a bank account where you can't check the balance, and you just have to hope there's enough to retire. But at any moment, you overdraft.

And you're dead.

So what the fuck are you waiting for? Keep thinking about your ideal Tuesday—maybe write it out hour-by-hour, in excruciatingly vivid detail. Then, for the next seven days, before making any significant decision—what to watch, where to go, how to spend your evening—ask yourself: “Does this move me toward or away from that Tuesday?”

Or you can just keep doing what you’ve been doing.

It’s probably just good enough, anyway.

We’d go to the movies—sometimes just a few of us, sometimes ten of us—and afterward, as everyone drifted toward their parents’ cars, something kind of magical would happen.

We’d start to gather.

No one planned it. No one said, “Hey, let’s talk.”

But a circle would form. Under the streetlights of the Regal Cinemas parking lot in Ormond Beach, Florida, a circle of smart, passionate people would just... stand there.

And we’d tear the movie apart.

Not to be mean—well, sometimes. (I think we can all agree that Indiana Jones just doesn’t need fucking alien pyramids.)

But mostly, we’d analyze. We’d argue. Defend scenes. Agree. Disagree.

We loved going to the movies—but we loved going to the parking lot even more.

Years later, I moved to L.A., became a film editor, and guess what I do now?

I stand in a circle with smart, passionate people. And we tear movies apart. We analyze. We argue. Defend scenes. Agree. Disagree. We break things down to rebuild them better.

Back then, it was about figuring out what we loved. Now, it’s about figuring out what works.

We sometimes think that our careers start when we move to the big city, when really, they start in our small-town parking lots, with our best friends, talking about the things we love.

I’m in a different circle now.

But the ritual is the same.

Telling a story isn’t about memorizing a list of literal facts and reciting them. It’s about asking yourself—what is the point of this thing I went through? How did it affect me? And how can I talk about that experience to best express the emotional truth? And, ideally, affect positive change.

Positive change in the world, sure, but something else happens when we tell our stories—we believe them.

It’s actually crazier than that—we don’t just believe the stories we tell; we become them.

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A lot of people have stood outside a theater and talked about movies. But not everyone sees that the way I do. For me, that story is about someone who sees all of the seemingly insignificant moments in their life as essential building blocks toward something much greater. It’s about looking back and going, “Wow, I didn’t think that mattered, but it turns out it mattered more than anything.”

Which, if you are the type of person who believes that, you start to look around in your day-to-day and treat seemingly insignificant moments as potential essential experiences. And not just in retrospect, but as they occur in the present moment

When I ask candidates in a job interview, “Tell me about yourself,” I’m not looking for you to memorize a list of literal facts and recite them. I want to know what you went through and how it affected you.

Tell me a story about your life and I’ll tell you who you are.

If you want to change your life, tell better stories. Because in order to tell better stories we have to look closer at our lives. We have to examine them and figure out what matters to us. What’s changing in us.

And here’s the point—examining doesn’t just make the story better.

It makes us better.

The truth is, I don’t know how I feel about the truth.

I want it.

Sometimes.

Other times, I want something else, and the truth won’t get it for me.

When I was very young, what I wanted was to “not get in trouble.” So yeah, no, Mom, I definitely didn’t knock over that vase.

“Maybe it was the dog,” Mom says.

And boom, just like that, we learn the undeniable value of not telling the truth, the whole truth, and something like the truth, so help me God.

But even so, we still need to uncover truth—especially in relationships. Lies obscure. Truth clarifies. And with clarity comes better decisions.

So how do we uncover the truth?

I think the answer is listen.

The moment someone opens their mouth to speak, there’s a sort of illusion of coherence and confidence that tricks us and we go, “Wow, this person knows what they’re thinking and feeling!” Really, though, it’s the reverse—most people speak to figure out what they’re thinking and feeling.

We believe: “I know what I think and feel about things, so I speak about them.”

When really: “I speak about things so I know what I think and feel about them.”

With this in mind, listening becomes an exciting adventure of emotional spelunking, where we’re simply trying to excavate—what is really going on in this other human’s inner world? What do they believe? What do they want? Neither of us know but let’s figure it out together.

But if we’re trying to convince or persuade, openness often gets swapped for defensiveness.

And the truth is lost.

And everyone loses.

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Back in October of 2021, I was hosting a week of virtual Halloween-related events on Zoom. One was a virtual pumpkin carving (cute, I know). I asked a good friend to co-host. They said yes—and asked if they could extend the invite to some of their friends. I knew their friends, but, to be honest, I just wanted people I absolutely adored to be in attendance.

I said, “Sorry, no, I’d rather just keep it small.”

“All good,” they said.

A week later, they told me they could no longer co-host.

Another week later, I saw a photo on Instagram of a computer screen filled with people’s faces and their little pumpkins with the caption, “my friend had a cute idea to do a virtual carving!”

Indeed, what a cute idea.

I was fucking LIVID.

I called them and unleashed hell. Told them how much of a betrayal it was to make up a fake excuse—a lie—and then host the same exact event behind my back with other friends?

Devastating.

But then my friend said something:

“I didn’t feel safe to tell you the truth.”

Devastating.

It was in that moment that I realized this wasn’t about pumpkins. It was about how most relationships fail.

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The goal of any human interaction is trust. Whether it's a job interview, a date, a negotiation—what we're really looking for is a signal that it's safe for me to be here.

Why do people get ghosted after dates?

Because people don’t feel safe to tell the truth.

But the truth is simple: “Hey, no hard feelings but you’re not what I’m looking for. I was initially attracted to your profile but when we met up in person, the chemistry just wasn’t there. Also, you don’t really look like your photos. I would send you a text telling you this, but I don’t have the emotional courage to sit in the discomfort of rejecting someone. And when I have worked up the courage, people have lost their shit. You might not, but it’s just not worth the risk.”

The truth is simple but you can’t handle it. Or maybe you can, but they don’t think you can. So they lie. Or soften. Or ghost.

And now, you don’t know what’s really going on.

And when you don’t know what’s really going on, your ability to make the best decisions for you and the people you love is compromised.

From there, the high quality people will Homer Simpson GIF into the hedges1 and out of your life because high quality people want to be around other high quality people. And not knowing how to create safe space is a low-quality trait. I know because I’ve lost great people due to me creating much unsafer spaces than virtual pumpkin carving tension.

My friend and I eventually figured out how to create safe space together. We figured out that the problem was how our personalities combined to create a lethal downward spiral: I react with intensity. He avoids confrontation. Both of these tactics get us what we want in the short term. But in the end, these traits unwind the very fabric of safety. I don’t feel like I have the facts, and he doesn’t feel like he can tell me the truth.

Our fix was to create a concept we called “the friendship lab.” The goal was to be brutally honest with each other about everything with the agreement to “not take anything personally.” We created safe space as an experiment. And as I really analyze the phrase “not take it personally,” it unpacks to present three main pillars:

1. Your tone is the message “It’s not what you’re saying but how you’re saying it.” —everyone I’ve ever dated, literally. Before a single sentence ever leaves your mouth, your posture, volume, pacing, facial expression, eye contact, and presence (or lack thereof) are already speaking for you. When you walk into a room, do you bring calm or a tornado of category 5 tension, intensity, and other unsafe bullshit? If that’s what’s coming out, trust me—nothing’s getting in.

2. Curiosity is as underrated as judgment is overused. Are you genuinely interested in other people or are they just a means to getting what you want? What if the goal wasn’t persuasion? What if the goal was to genuinely understand this other human? People are great at figuring out when questions are asked merely as a way to build a closing argument.

3. Validation doesn’t equal agreement. To look someone in the eyes and say, “that makes sense,” or “yeah, that’s super frustrating” is a means of connection that sets the stage for deeper discussions to play out. And it doesn’t mean you’re conceding or giving up your own experience. Validate the other person into the ground like your relationship depends on it—because it does. Only after you hear, “Thank you, yes, you get it, that’s exactly right” have you earned your turn.

When people stop filtering themselves out of fear, the full truth hits the table—and that’s where the best ideas can take root.

And the best people won’t just sit around waiting as you figure this out, either. They’ll just date or work or be friends with people that already get it.

And slowly over time, you’ll just think “people suck.”

And you’ll spend your life losing the very people who were most worth keeping.

There was a kid who sat in front of me in 5th grade. He went on to be valedictorian of our high school, then got an econ degree from the University of Chicago.

“Failure is data,” he would say.

I’m not sure when he first said this. I don’t think it was in 5th grade, but I dunno maybe he’s pretty damn smart.

But he also got married and then later got divorced, so how smart is he?

Pretty damn smart because he’s now re-married with a child. When it wasn’t working, he didn’t hesitate. He got out.

He’s one of the quickest decision-makers I’ve ever met. Why? Because he doesn’t carry all the baggage most of us—myself included—attach to failure. He just makes a choice, sees if it gets him closer or further to his goal, makes a tweak, and then does it again.

He experiments. Fails. Tries something else.

Which reminds me of an experience where failure is so normalized that we don’t even blink.

Video games.

You’re playing Mario. You move right and run into a Goomba—dead. You try something else. Jump!—alive. You fail enough times and you eventually make it to the end of the level. But imagine if you ran into that Goomba and were like, “well, I failed, guess it’s time to try cooking,” or whatever and you just walked away.

There are people that play life both ways. But we both know you want to get to the end of the level. Even when life is hard and scary and filled with Goombas. I’m pretty sure this reference is hot again now that Mario is a major movie franchise? No idea.

So why is failure in life so much harder?

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Why do we all know failure is essential to success and we still rationalize ways to avoid it?

Because it feels like shit. It’s 10:18pm on Monday night as I write this and this feels like shit. This post feels a bit hack and vague, definitely lacking proper actionable steps. It’s as if I can feel the failure of me trying to convey my ideas as I literally try to convey them.

But wait a second, what is “feeling the failure”? What does that look like?

I’m afraid that you’re reading this and thinking to yourself:

• I know all of this already

• This isn’t new information

• This isn’t funny

• This isn’t insightful

• Maybe you should stick to editing films instead of pawning off your secondhand self-help bullshit

“Feeling the failure” looks like imagining people reading my work and thinking it’s garbage. So really, when we say we’re “afraid to fail” what we really mean is we’re “afraid of what people will think of us if our work is garbage.”

Fortunately, I have a solution to this fear.

Get the fuck over it.

And here’s how: understand that the people we’re afraid of aren’t creators.

They’re critics.

They’re our mom or dad or sister or neighbor or best friend who all have a fancy purse packed full of opinions. But you know what that purse doesn’t have?

A single fucking executable idea.

Ask yourself, do you actually respect these people?

No.

You don’t.

True artists are aware when criticism comes from those sitting on the sidelines, not brave enough to step into the arena and create themselves. Critical commentary rarely comes from tastemakers. It comes from those who have traded their artistic souls in for a career where they make an amount of money that puts fancy food on the table but somehow never feeds the soul.

We’ll all be dead soon, so we might as well ignore them and move the fuck on and realize that every success stands on the shoulders of failure.

This post might suck.

That’s kinda the point.

I was so preoccupied with wanting to be an editor that I didn’t stop to think what would come along with it.

Responsibility.

Fuck.

When I moved to Los Angeles in the summer of 2009, I got my first job as a production assistant. I picked up lunch. I got coffee. I ran a 50-foot ethernet cable from our office to an AT&T signal booster I’d duct-taped to a window down the hall so the editor could make calls.

I did whatever I was told. And I was good at it.

I didn’t carry much responsibility, because I wasn’t calling the shots. If a scene in the movie wasn’t great, well, I didn’t cut it. I remember frequently standing on the sidelines watching as a frustrated director explained how the edit wasn’t working. “Phew,” I would think to myself.

I didn’t need to take the heat because I wasn’t in the kitchen. Yet.

The best editors I’ve worked with own the work they’ve done, especially when a director isn’t happy with what they’re seeing. They own the impact. They don’t make excuses. They don’t pass the buck.

Which got me thinking—what is “the buck,” anyway?

Turns out it’s old-school poker slang. The “buck” was a marker—originally a buck knife—passed around to show whose turn it was. You either held the buck and made choices, or you passed the buck, and the responsibility, to the next player.

U.S. President Harry S. Truman famously had a sign on his desk that said, “The buck stops here.”

Not sure if you’ll find that sign at Mar-a-Lago.

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Every action has a reaction. Every choice has a cost. A consequence. A trade-off. Owning your impact means holding the buck and standing beside your choices, even when they didn’t go as planned. But we all know that person who’s always dodging responsibility, always generating an endless stream of excuses—some even legitimate!—for why things didn't go right.

Every excuse but the one that matters:

“That’s on me.”

They dodge not because they’re indifferent or lazy. They dodge because they’re afraid of looking silly or dumb or unprepared. It’s easier to dodge than be vulnerable. So they defend their fragile ego instead of the honest truth.

As Brené Brown says, vulnerability is not weakness—it’s the courage to show up and be seen.

“That’s on me,” is one of the most powerful things you can say out loud. And something even more powerful happens when you do.

People trust you more.

Why.

Because “that’s on me” is a signal to the tribe that you are self-aware, have confidence, and value honesty over ego. That’s magnetic. “That’s Tim’s fault” is a signal that you look in the mirror each morning and say, “They didn’t catch me today!” But you know what? They did. They do. Every time. The only person you’re fooling is yourself.

And ego can easily recover. You know what can’t?

Reputation.

“I trust them” is about as good a reputation as you can cultivate. And not only does taking responsibility conjure more trust, but it sharpens your decision-making power because now, you’re invested. Responsibility creates stake. And stake creates intention.

Seth Godin publishes a blog post every single day and has for over a decade. He says that when you know you have to write something every day (stake), you end up paying more attention to the world (intention) because… you know you have to write something every day.

It’s a self-reinforcing loop.

When you own the impact of your choices (stake), you end up making better choices (intention) because… you know you are going to own the impact of your choices.

Healthy loops like this are how we create an upward spiral versus a downward one: when you always make excuses (no stakes), you end up making worse choices (no intentions) because you know you can always make excuses.

Owning your impact is what turns preparation into reputation.

So own your impact, even if you—and I guarantee you will—fail frequently.

But we’ll get to that. For now, just own your impact.