🖤🖤🖤

 

I feel nothing, First name / friend.

 

Actually, that’s not quite right.

 

I feel something.

 

It’s flat.

 

A flatness so limp and pathetic it would put the first greasy pancake in the pan to shame.

 

(Does anyone actually eat that one???)

 

No one talks about Deflation.

 

How she comes creeping over from the corner of the room.

 

The same room that’s filled with 200 strangers who came to listen to You Speak.

 

No one talks about how Deflation kneels down beside the part of you that was brave enough to let her Star come out.

 

The part of you who was just so brilliant and brave.

 

No one talks about how Deflation quietly watches as all the Life and the Fire and Courage drains from your one hot cheek.

 

(The left always gets hotter than the right.)

 

Or the hours you spent walking around the park memorizing nearly 40 thousand words.

 

So, yeah. You might have got paid a few thousand dollars more than you ever have before for An Hour Of Your Time.

 

But when you divide it by the Park Hours and the many mornings Fear grabbed both shoulders and shook you awake at 3.33am instead of your usual 5.57am, turns out you’re chalking this one up as Valuable Learning Experience, too.

 

No one talks about how one of the stories you tell is about how you never really saw your dad growing up.

 

Just the beam of light under his closed office door.

 

And how you knew that thin sliver of light more than you ever really knew Him.

 

And sometimes you’d sit outside the bathroom and listen to him showering because it felt like a conversation.

 

And that it took a lot to write that. And write it well.

 

And the invisible cost that comes with being Transparent.

 

That you pay for ‘cos you chose to make Brave your Thing.

 

And how the Park Days end because the actual Day comes.

 

And you forgot to pack your deodorant in your carry-on.

 

And you’re wearing white.

 

And FUCK. You’re hairbrush, too.

 

And your hair didn’t agree with the pillow at the Airbnb and argued for the whole 4ish hours you did manage to sleep.

 

And you didn’t know you’d have to spend 27 minutes in the Uber with a Trump-shaped air freshener swaying in front of you, desperately trying to use the breathing you teach to calm your heart down.

 

Because she is hammering.

 

And, weirdly, this hammer is encrusted with diamond nails.

 

And the hammer encrusted with diamond nails is slamming up against the side of your skin you’ve never seen before.

 

And now you’re being introduced on stage and there’s no fucking WAY the audience can’t see the hammer.

 

And then time folds like an accordion and your talk is over.

 

And now Deflation is creeping over to let you know she’s in town and thinks she’ll actually stay for a while!

 

And a while is not a couple of hours.

 

It’s a fortnight.

 

(That’s 14 days if you’re American.)

 

Two whole weeks of feeling like the first pancake.

 

Because even though the audience couldn’t stop clapping.

 

And quite a few people lined up to talk to you afterwards like you were Someone Important.

 

And you gave one woman a spare copy of your book and she looked at you like you’d just paid off her student debt.

 

And you know that the talk you gave was not Your Average Talk.

 

That it was different.

 

That it meant something.

 

Because one man was brushing his eye quite a lot in the front row.

 

You know it was good!

 

Because you have this friend who really does not say anything she doesn’t mean.

 

And she’s the one who decided to tell you last week that, “Iona, you were born for this.”

 

Maybe?

 

But you’re really not sure if you want to feel that hammer again.

 

Or the pancake.

 

But whatever.

 

Weeks pass and the videographer sends you the footage.

 

And you watch it back, fast-forwarding past minute 7 when your mind blanked and you said OUT LOUD to the whole audience “I’ve forgotten what I want to say.”

 

Could have just paused, dude!

 

(Still can’t watch that part)

 

Turns out you learn something watching yourself back.

 

Turns out there’s something weird about your eyes.

 

Because they don’t focus on the hundreds of people who are sitting there.

 

Quiet, but leaning in.

 

Listening to every word you say.

 

And how special that is.

 

No.

 

Your eyes put their seeing to work spotting Your Tell.

 

The Tell you didn’t even know you had.

 

That for 43 straight minutes.

 

While you’re doing a really brave thing.

 

And doing it well.

 

All your eyes can see is your wedding ring.

 

And that your nerves are twisting it the Whole Fucking Time.

 

Like they’re screwing a jar of Vodka sauce open and closed over and over and over again just to make sure the lid seals tight.

 

And you were worried about the stupid hammer!

 

Ye.

 

No one talks about that part.

 

How fucking flat that feels.

 

That the Pressure can feel a lot like Deflation.

 

How the Brave Thing can feel a lot like the Terror Thing.

 

How Joy and Suffering are always swapping clothes.

 

I’ve swung around the sun enough with my work that I’m no longer shocked.

 

I’m not shocked anymore when right when my toe hits up against the lip of the thing I’ve been working so hard for.

 

When I Arrive.

 

The session is done.

 

And the “wow - this changed my life” messages are trickling in.

 

And people can’t wait to join My Thing.

 

And they’re paying me really good money.

 

I’m just not shocked anymore.

 

I even look for her now.

 

Like an old friend.

 

And that’s when Deflation creeps over from the corner of nowhere.

 

Kneels down beside me.

 

Pushes her spine right up against mine.

 

Sitting on either side of a paper thin wall.

 

A reflection of one another.

 

Like when a late summer lake cuts the dying sun perfectly in two.

 

And just as I’m leaning up against her wondering “Can I really talk about bravery for the rest of my life?”

 

“Do I want to spend next month walking around the park like I’m circling a very large drain talking to myself again?”

 

“Should I just not wear my ring on stage?”

 

“Can I top that breathwork session?”

 

“Have I got what it takes?”

 

“Is it wort….”

 

That’s when I stop myself.

 

Because I already know.

 

 

-

 

 

 

If you’d like a peak behind the scenes of how I build this imperfect, Brave, and beautiful Thing, you want to be there.

 

If you want to know where I made brilliant business-changing moves, while simultaneously throwing gobs of money down the actual toilet, you want to be there.

 

And if you want to understand some of the inner mucking about I do consistently to create the self-image needed to build a business I am equal parts frustrated, proud and joy-filled about, sign up for the waitlist here.

 

Financial Dirt will be donation-based.

 

My goal is raise enough money to cover an annual membership for a girl at my jiu-jitsu gym.

 

Oh, and tell your friends. 

 

If you forward this shit to a woman in your life who doesn't know Brave Thing exists but would probs get a lot of out it, I'd really appreciate it.

 

Intent is a spell,