Life really seems to come down to the decisions we make. And we humans have to make SO many decisions.

Just today I made decisions about what to wear, whether to run in the woods or go to the gym, which coffee shop to go to, what to write about, what tasks to do, which emails to respond to, what to say in each email, whether I should test balloon a new project, what to eat for lunch… and it’s not even noon.

And, in the background, I’m contemplating bigger decisions, like the direction I want to take my coaching practice, who my ideal clients are, if I should hire a coach for myself right now, how to stabilize my income… (yes, a lot of business and money questions swirling in my mind right now).

Decisions, decisions, decisions… They never seem to end!

So how we make decisions seems like a pretty important skill to develop. And yet, when are we taught how to make decisions? If you’re like me, never? We get vague one-liners like “listen to your gut!” or “follow your intuition!” with no guidance on what any of that means.

So today I thought I’d share the process that I’ve learned to tap into my intuition and make more conscious, empowered decisions.

Here’s a decision-making process that you can start to practice today:

1. Determine if it’s a Complicated or Complex Problem 🌀

The first step is to determine if the problem you’re working on is complicated or complex. This framing comes from the Cynefin framework.

Complicated problems have an objective right answer.

Examples:

• Coding a website (it either works or it doesn’t)

• Solving a math equasion (there’s only one right answer)

• Doing taxes (you’ve either done it correctly or not)

Complex problems do not have an objective right answer. There are many paths you can take, and all of them have trade-offs. There are many many variables at play that make it impossible to know exactly what will happen.

Examples:

• Deciding to hire or fire someone

• Knowing when a product is ready to ship

• Deciding to stay at your job or leave

Where we often get stuck is that we try to find an objective, 100% right answer, in a complex situation. Our brain thinks and thinks and thinks, hoping you’ll land on this “AH HAH!” moment where you know for sure it’s the right choice. But in complex situations, there is no “right” choice. There’s just the choice you make, and how it ripples out into the world.

So first things first: Accept that there is no objectively right answer. No matter what you do, there will be trade-offs, most of which you cannot yet see until you take action.

2. Do a “Parts Town Hall” 🏛️

When we have a complex decision to make, what happens is all of these different voices start speaking up in our minds. We can call these voices “parts”, borrowing from IFS.

For example, as a CEO, I sometimes had to make the difficult decision of whether or not to let someone go. Many parts would get activated:

• The part of me that’s compassionate and doesn’t want to hurt them

• The part of me that’s business-minded and wants to make a pragmatic decision

• The hopeful part of me that still believes they can turn it around.

• The cynical part of me thinks the writing is on the wall.

• The inner critic that thinks I should have made this decision months ago.

All of these parts spoke up at once, making my mind a very loud, chaotic place to be.

Where we get stuck is when we think that one of these voices has to be right, and the others wrong. But, as we already stated, in complex decisions, there is no right or wrong. Each part holds some truth.

So, instead, what we want to do is turn toward these parts one at a time and just listen, nonjudgmentally, to what they have to share. As you turn toward a part, you can journal on:

• Where and how this part shows up in your body.

• What this part’s job is.

• What this part is afraid of happening if you make the wrong decision.

Once your parts feel heard and seen, and your mind quiets, you’ll find that you have a greater capacity to be with the decision. Sometimes the answer becomes clear. Sometimes new options might emerge. Sometimes you realize that the decision doesn’t even have to be made yet, that the urgency was in your head.

If the decision still isn’t clear, however, then a helpful next step is to…

3. Design small experiments  🧪

This is a great opportunity to explore small experiments you can run to bring motion back to the situation. Break down the bigger decision into smaller pieces that you can test to gain new perspectives.

Let’s say I still didn’t know if firing the employee was the right choice or not. Some small experiments I could run:

• Talk to the employee directly about my concerns.

• Put the employee on a performance improvement plan.

• Talk to three people in similar roles at other companies as comparison points.

• Try moving the employee into a new role.

• Do nothing and see if the answer becomes clearer in a month.

If you’re thinking about leaving your job to become a creator, you might interview a few creators or kick off a small side project.

If you’re thinking about raising money, you might choose to take a few meetings with investors to see how it feels.

If you’re deciding on a product pivot, you might set up customer interviews or design a landing page with the new direction to see how it feels.

As you run experiments, continue to notice when parts of you get activated, and turn toward them. Notice the fear. Let yourself feel it. Clarity always awaits on the other side of letting yourself be with the parts, and feel the emotions, you’ve been avoiding.

But lately I’ve been finding that there’s more to it. Much more.

There are at least three fields of belonging that I’m seeing clearly now:

1. Belonging to self

2. Belonging to each other

3. Belonging to universe / oneness / God1

Each field is connected and feeds the others. Each field is critical for us to fulfill our need for belonging. We’ve been trying to solve the loneliness epidemic by focusing on the field of belonging to each other. But if we try to solve loneliness with just one field, we fall short. Missing one leads to the collapse of the others.

Belonging to Self

I’ve spent most of my life trying to find belonging in community. I made it my entire career. I built a community of tens of thousands of community builders and wrote a book about it. And yet, I was deeply alone. Why?

What I’ve learned is that I was trying to find belonging outside of myself when I didn’t yet have it within.

Within myself, I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t worthy of love and connection. I believed I was broken. My ever-present inner critic would constantly remind me of all the reasons I’m not enough, and all the reasons I would never be accepted by others.

In response, I’d do one of two things: Get down on myself and drop into depression, or take action and try to fix the problem by winning more acceptance. Both just served to reinforce the belief that I was not yet enough, that I needed the acceptance of others in order to accept myself.

True belonging does not require you to be anything other than who you are. It was only once I went inward, turned toward the parts of me that believed I wasn’t enough, and welcomed and accepted them, that I started to experience belonging within. I started to feel secure in myself, comfortable in my own skin, without needing anyone else to validate it.

Once I did, the way I connected with others and the form of belonging I found in community was totally transformed. I stopped looking to others to accept me in the ways I could not accept myself. I showed up to relationships more fully myself, warts and all, and trusted that meaningful relationships would emerge.

Belonging to Each Other

I could learn to belong within but it was only once I started to show up in community as my more authentic self that my sense of belonging deepened.

There’s something immeasurably powerful about showing up as your true self in community, revealing even your deepest fears and shame, and still being loved and accepted.

Belonging isn’t about being accepted for being the same as others. That’s assimilation. Belonging is being accepted for your differences. It’s being loved in your darkness.

I think this is the form of social connection many of us are missing today. Bowling Alone pointed to the decline of social clubs and civic involvement as evidence of our growing loneliness and disconnection. And yes, our social clubs and civic contributions are an important piece of the “portfolio of connection” we need to feel socially fulfilled. But we need more than casual clubs and friendships.

I’m pointing to the quality of being held in “unconditional relationship” as Daniel Thorson has eloquently put it. It’s a form of being together that I think we have largely lost. Some still find it in recovery groups, healing circles, and religious spaces, but many don’t have access to spaces or relationships like this anymore.

I try to bring this presence to all of my interactions today, even with strangers, or neighbors, or friends. We don’t have to be in a healing circle to hold each other in unconditional relationship, but those spaces are where we learn and experience this way of being together.2 Once I learned it, I realized I could bring it to every interaction.

To me, this is a critical component of belonging, and is required if we’re to solve for our loneliness.

I’m only scratching the surface of the field of belonging to each other here. This field is vast, intricate, and has infinite depth. It’s every kind of social identity. Its culture and movements. It’s lineage and ancestry. It’s all that connects humans to each other.

All of these ways of relating to each other are important components to a well-rounded sense of belonging.

Belonging to Universe / Oneness / God

Belonging to self and belonging to others are both critical and yet, I’ve found that I can belong to self, and belong to others, and still feel lonely without the third field of belonging—that which goes by many names: universe, creator, God, essence, presence, Tao, Buddha nature, spirit… anything that points to the “beyond”.

We might call this form of loneliness “existential loneliness”. It’s the voice that asks, “What is the point of all of this? What is the meaning of life? How am I meant to show up in this life? Why do I suffer?” It’s the loneliness of feeling like you’re alone with these questions. It’s the loneliness of believing that you even have a separate self that needs to belong or that there’s anything other than the one universal community through which everything is inextricably connected.

We might look at this form of belonging as “secure attachment to the universe/God”, another beautiful framing I learned from Daniel Thorson. We might call it seeing our “true nature”. We might call it “faith”.

It’s the belonging of feeling unconditionally held by something greater. Of a trust in an unfolding far beyond what we can comprehend. It’s seeing yourself and nature as one and the same.

For some, they might find that this is the only form of belonging they need, even at the cost of harm to self or to each other. To me, that’s wrong. To give ourselves over to that which is greater than ourselves at the expense of ourselves and each other is in conflict with life itself. There’s a reason that every major spiritual practice also holds a code of ethics, guiding us in how to treat each other and ourselves.

We need all three fields of belonging. They are inextricably tied to each other, dancing together, feeding each other.

When I started to find a sense of belonging with that which is beyond, I found my sense of belonging to self and to others transformed yet again. It’s the safety net I can fall on when I’m struggling in the other fields of belonging — the moments where I feel disconnected from myself or others. I live with greater trust that all is unfolding exactly as it’s meant to, and that we are all inextricably and infinitely connected.

I’d love to hear how this lands for you.

• Does this way of looking at belonging make sense to you? Does it feel true? What’s missing?

• What opens up for you when you expand the fields of belonging beyond just our connection to each other?

• For those of you committed to creating belonging in the world, how does this change how you approach your work?

If you feel called, I’d love it if you replied or commented with your reflections.

”

More good things…

• Blomma just launched, a new AI coaching platform aiming to make career coaching accessible to all. I joined their coach advisory committee to help shape the product around conscious coaching. I’ve been using AI as a self coaching tool, and have seen both the possibilities and limitations. No clue where this is all going.

• I loved this simple challenge from to reach out to 100 people in 100 days. I bet a whole lot of magic will emerge if you try this. Thinking about trying it myself.

• I did this 👇 a couple times this week and it was incredible. I already meditate every day but that feels a bit like I’m trying to do nothing, rather than actually doing nothing.

I read that post right before arriving to the library and finding that it didn’t open for 20 minutes. Perfect! So I walked to the pond next door and did nothing. It was spacious and lovely. Those are turtles across the way. They were also doing nothing.

That’s all for today!

You’re the most enough ever,
David

P.S. Aaron Weiss inspired that sendoff. Check out his eel.

It’s 9:37am on a cloudy day in San Francisco, my wife and one-year-old just left for daycare and work. My tea is still steaming as my screen comes to life, a mess of tabs and tasks left open from the day before. I check my calendar, another day full of meetings. I sigh and grit my teeth, pulling up my to-do list to see what I need to squeeze in between Zooms today.

I feel the ever-present sensation of panic in my chest, but I avoid it and put my focus on work. There’s a sadness behind my eyes I can’t quite place. I’m exhausted, but I’ve been hiding that exhaustion away from myself for so long. “This isn’t it”, a voice whispers in my mind. “This CAN’T be it. I have to make a change. I have to leave.” The realization doesn’t even make it through a full cycle of breath before the voice speaks up:

“But what about money?”

Money has always been a prickly subject in my life. My parents, both immigrants, came to the U.S. with little. To get by, they regularly hustled multiple jobs and side gigs, finding creative ways to save a buck. They were scrappy. What we had, given where they started, was massively impressive.

That said, while we always had what we needed, there were things I wanted that we just couldn’t afford. Nicer toys, brand name clothing, the more expensive camps or sports programs that my friends went to. When I looked around, it just felt like everyone had more than us. I wanted what they had. I wanted more. I feel some shame admitting that now, but there it is.

I made a commitment to myself early as a child that I would be the one to change things for our family. And I believed it with all my heart! I just knew that one day, I’d be wealthy. And when I was bullied or cut out, one way I’d regain a sense of empowerment was to remind myself that one day I’d be really rich and successful, and they wouldn’t. That’ll show them!

This made money about more than just financial security. It became about pride. About proving I’m not a loser, not a victim, and someone who could provide for my family abundantly.

So by the time I graduated from college, I was already putting a lot of pressure on myself to make big money in my career. I threw myself into tech early because we were living during the rise of Mark Zuckerberg, and startups seemed like the most likely path to make big money, while also becoming a big deal CEO and having lots of impact.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. After 15 years of starting companies and working at early-stage startups, I never got my big break. A couple of close calls; If the breeze had blown another way, I’d have life-changing money in the bank right now, but the universe had other plans. The acquisition, my biggest business success, was primarily an equity deal that, maybe, will one day turn into something, but it’s not something I could count on.

So, fast forward back to me, sitting at my desk in San Francisco, tea steaming, contemplating stepping down from my company. I was feeling frustrated and ashamed that I hadn’t made a lot of money yet, annoyed at the grip money still held on my life. I was fearful that, with growing responsibilities as a new father, I wouldn’t be able to take the same entrepreneurial risks anymore. And on top of all that, we were planning to move back to N.Y. and expecting our second child soon. Leaving a well-paying job, with all the expenses and uncertainty on the horizon, seemed like an objectively bad idea.

And yet, I wasn’t happy. I was running on empty. I knew I had to change. Back and forth I went in my mind, wanting to make a change, but terrified of what the financial consequences might be.

The embarrassing truth was, I had no idea if we could afford it or not. I hadn’t run the numbers. I was avoiding the task of creating a spreadsheet mapping out our finances. It felt hard, tedious, and I wasn’t sure I’d like what I found.

Eventually, I just put my head down, and we made the damn spreadsheet.

We covered the basics: How much do we have in savings? What would it look like if we cut back for a while? What is our runway if we make no money for a year? How much does our family need to be okay?

Finally, we could see the numbers and realized that holy shit… we can do this! It will be hard. We’ll have to cut back. But we can do this. We can buy our freedom, both take a year-long sabbatical to heal, rest, and reorient toward this next chapter in our lives.

Once I saw that, I felt a huge relief. A sense of possibility. A lot of the tension I had been holding left my body.

It didn’t last long.

Once money was no longer clouding my awareness, the deeper fears started to emerge. Who am I if not the leader of CMX? I had spent my whole career building this identity. Without it, I wasn't sure what was left. Would I be abandoning the people who had trusted me: My team, community, and the industry? And underneath both of those, there was the simple terror of not knowing what comes next. What if I don’t figure it out?

Images start flashing…

Financial ruin, losing our home, being broke. Public shame and embarrassment amongst my peers. Alison leaving because I couldn’t provide for our family. Hating myself because I couldn’t accomplish the thing I believed would make me feel like I’m enough.

These were the fears actually keeping me stuck. Money was just the surface-level excuse I could use to avoid having to look at them.

I wish I could say I worked through all of those fears before taking the leap. I did not. Ultimately, my vesting deadline became a forcing function to make a decision, and despite all the fears, I took the leap.

Was it the right decision? I have no idea. In complex decisions like this, we don’t get the benefit of knowing how things would have turned out if we took a different path. It’s been four years since I stepped down, and life has unfolded in difficult, surprising, and miraculous ways.

What I do know is that work is giving me SO much more life now. And the panic, while still there, is much quieter.

Money is still a point of stress for me today. I’m writing this in a moment where money feels tight. We just bought that house, and I’m trying to make enough as a full-time coach to provide for our family’s needs (which, in Westchester, is very expensive).

And so the money stories still return. The fears. The flashing images of financial ruin, shame, and relational catastrophe.

This time around, though, I’ve learned how to notice the parts of me that are holding these fears and turn toward them instead of running away into work, or weed, or TV, or social distraction. I’ve learned how to let myself feel the fear and shame, and let it move through my body. I’ve learned how to listen to these parts without letting them grab the wheel.

And I have the spreadsheet! It’s still going, reminding these parts that the worst-case scenarios they’re terrified of aren’t likely to happen.

I don’t think these parts will ever disappear entirely, nor do I want them to. They keep me aware of my financial situation, focused on what’s important, and make sure I’m not taking risks I can’t handle.

But I don’t want them deciding what I do with my life. That decision belongs to a knowing deeper than my fears. And my spreadsheet. Together, we’re unstoppable.

Reflection prompts:

• What is my money reality? (make the damn spreadsheet!)

• What are my earliest money memories? What stories about money were formed?

• What am I protecting myself from having to face by blaming money?

If you’re ready to make a change to how you work or are considering a transition in your career, here’s how I work with clients. Let’s talk!

What I’m Reading

A Project Will Save You by (no relation, just a big fan): For those overwhelmed with the state of the job markets, it might be time to start a project.

Too young to retire, too old to get hired by : On the confusing smoothie of retirement, porfolio carriers, hobbies, and what the hell is happening with work.

How Not To Know by : this one’s a preorder, but after his first banger “The Good Enough Job”, I just know my friend Simone’s book is going to arrive at the perfect time for all of us navigating uncertainty in this moment.

Thanks for reading!

Until next time…

You’re already enough.

Warmly,
Spinks

Today we’re trying something new on the ol’ newsletter: an interview!

Today’s guest is a wonderful human you may have spotted around Substack: Alex McCann. Alex writes the newsletter “Still Wandering”, is the Founder of Rumbo, an AI career-coaching app, and has gone viral with a few of his essays, namely, “The death of the corporate job”.

His writing has gotten so much traction because he’s pointing to a struggle that a whole lot of people are experiencing right now: Corporate jobs, a mainstay of Western Society since the industrial revolution, aren’t working for us the way they used to.

Maybe it’s the mass AI layoffs, housing unaffordability, the “crisis of meaning” that haunts millennials’ dreams at night, or maybe it’s the metacrisis as a whole… but something is shifting. Many are finding an unshakable feeling of emptiness and disconnection in their work. And with job markets being so volatile, they’re wondering if this is even a “safe” path anymore.

A few weeks ago, Alex and I had a wonderful conversation, which he published on his newsletter here. You can view this conversation as part II, going deeper into some of these themes of work, meaning, impact, suffering, and enoughness.

Pro tip: when you read Alex’s words, read them in his beautiful British accent, which makes him sound much more intelligent than me and my Lawng Island tongue.

Awlright…let’s get into it!

David: Hey Alex! Welcome to my neck of the internet. Thanks for agreeing to come over and continue the conversation.

I’d love to start with your recent article, which broke down five subgroups of meaninglessness in work: Distance from impact, values contradiction, interchangeability, manufactured necessity, and lack of authorship.

It was SO good. My question after reading it: Is it inevitable that meaninglessness emerges in corporations as they scale?

Alex: I think yes.

To be honest, all of the subgroups get ticked by a lot of corporate work, as I understand it. But I think “lack of authorship” is the big one.

I’ve probably had 300–400 conversations with people suffering from career uncertainty. Maybe half are people in corporate jobs. And it’s always the first thing they say: “I don’t know what’s happening to the work I’m doing. I don’t see it. It gets passed on.”

So I think there’s something fundamentally human about needing to feel useful and seeing the impact of your work.

David: So, what direction do we take this? Does corporate work need to change to become more meaningful? Or is it a lost cause, and people are starting to look elsewhere?

Alex: I think it’s both, and it depends on where you sit.

Some corporate work can be made more meaningful. Shorter feedback loops so people see the impact of their work, smaller teams, more autonomy. But for a lot of roles, the structure itself makes meaning difficult. If your job exists to create a report that feeds into another report that informs a decision you’ll never see the outcome of, no amount of company culture work is going to solve that.

What I’m seeing in hundreds of conversations is that people are starting to take the question more seriously. They’re asking, “What problem do I want to work on?” rather than, “What company do I want to work for?”

It doesn’t mean everyone’s quitting to start a business. But they’re thinking more carefully about alignment between who they are and what they spend their time doing. And for a long time, they weren’t asking that question at all.

David: When we last spoke, we discussed how many of us choose our work from a wound rather than a scar. We turn to work thinking it might heal our traumas, but it just causes all sorts of issues, because it becomes a way of avoiding the actual work of healing.

I’m curious, how did that land for you? Where do you notice that showing up in your life?

Alex: Yeah, it was spot on the money.

So, earlier in my career, my mindset around money was completely different. My mindset around impact was completely different. I think I even said to my coach, Charlie, at that time, “I have to be a millionaire by the age of 30.” That was one of the first things I said.

And that’s characteristic of my relationship with money up until that point. And I think that would be one of the wounds that a lot of my decision to take this entrepreneurial path comes from.

It’s weird because I’ve grown up really comfortable. Not otherworldly wealthy, but never had to worry. And I don’t know where it came from necessarily, but I always remember having anxiety around money.

Since then, it’s developed into: what happens financially happens. I’ll be fine. I proved to myself in my last job that I could find opportunities that allow me to live at a standard of life I’m happy with. There’s no risk of me being homeless. I can come home, I have a great relationship with my parents.

And when I stopped focusing on money so much, I started focusing on: what’s the problem space I’m really interested in? Who are the people I’d really love to help?

So that’s probably my most poignant example of moving from operating from a wound to operating from abundance. And it’s been a really interesting journey to notice the different feelings along the way.

David: That financial scarcity seems to be so common today. I notice that even for people who aren’t struggling to make ends meet, there’s still the fear of losing it all and finding themselves in that position. It seems to be what stops people from leaving jobs where they’re unhappy. Even though they have the privilege, it seems like they’re functioning from fear of losing it.

Alex: I think you’re right. And I’ve had the same observation speaking to people.

Obviously, in some cases, it is a real worry. It’s legitimate. But often, the reality is much less dramatic than people make it out to be.

I also think people hear advice in hyperbolic terms: “I made this leap,” “I took this jump,” “I took all the risk, and it paid off,” “capitalism rewards risk,” “fortune favors the brave.” That narrative is largely perpetuated by social media.

What you don’t hear is the nuance: you don’t have to go immediately. There’s no rush. You can take your time. Think of a plan. With sufficient information, through reflection and research, you can diminish the risks.

People think things are more binary than they actually are. There are more roads available. What happens if you scale things back for six months, save some runway? Dedicate an hour an evening to researching opportunities, understanding how your experience uniquely positions you, networking, playing around with numbers?

Maybe it’s not an hour, maybe it’s 20 minutes, and you wait 12 months. But you’re not stuck. You’re not doomed in your current predicament forever. People tend not to think like that. I don’t think I have enough experience with the problem to fully understand why, but that’s what I’ve noticed.

David: You’ve talked to a lot of people with career uncertainty who are unhappy, especially in corporate. Have you talked to many people who are happy?

Alex: I live with one.

My dad is there. He’s an example of somebody who is extremely happy, successful, fulfilled. I’ve been really lucky that from a young age, I know exactly what it looks like. He’s an engineer. I have memories going to Heathrow Airport—he was the chief engineer for Terminal 5. So we go there all the time whenever we go on holidays. And he’ll say, “I remember doing this thing I built,” and he can see it. It’s such obvious pride.

It’s interesting: with my dad, and with entrepreneur friends of mine, there’s something with enoughness. A clear line, knowing what enough means.

My entrepreneur friend just had his first kid and lives out in Cyprus. He’s making really good money. He could make a lot more, but he’s said: These are the hours I’m going to work. I’ll work really hard in those hours. The rest of the time is for my kid. I’m leaving a lot on the table, but that’s the tradeoff. I’d happily pay the excess money I could be making to spend time with my kid and engage with family.

So that’s another example. It’s helpful to have a clear conversation with oneself about what enough looks like.

David: Let’s talk about that. If you’re unhappy at work, is it just an enoughness thing? Like, if your expectations of what was “enough” were lower, you’d be happy?

Alex: You’re exposed to so many more opportunities to compare today. A hundred years ago, the average person’s frame of reference for success was geographically limited. Now, the smartest people in the world are figuring out ways to bombard you using algorithms and social media with, “You’re not good enough. Here are people who’ve done amazing things, and you could be aiming higher.”

There’s a balance. I absolutely advocate for people to aim high, but by the laws of distribution, not everybody can achieve the 1% goals. So we need a conversation about valid and realistic expectations, and not making people feel like they’re not enough.

In one of your articles about enoughness, you mentioned your wife having a strong innate sense of enoughness. I have a similar thing with my partner. Success for them doesn’t look like millions of pounds or a huge business. It looks like helping people they see every day and being engaged with their work. These things are still valid. And society tells people it’s not valid.

So that’s one thing. Another thing that our mutual friend Simone Stolzoff talks about in The Good Enough Job: Enoughness is vague. Are we speaking about enoughness financially? Enoughness in terms of impact? And if it’s impact, how do you measure impact? Intensity? Breadth? It becomes tricky to measure. So the concept of what is “enough” gets vague.

Rutger Bregman talks about the type of work that has net positive impact. If you can honestly say your work ticks boxes—net positive to society, expansive rather than extractive, not exploiting anyone—then I think wanting more, being ambitious, is healthy.

Whereas if you’re in jobs that are, “how can I take from other people, funnel that into one person, make the shareholder richer, climbing over people”, then you have to question: is the pursuit good for society?

Because ambition is powerful. I think ambition is good. It builds cities and countries and great technology. But it has to come from a place where you can argue your work is net positive.

As I say that, I’m thinking about Musk. Watching his descent into madness, I’m trying to pinpoint where it went wrong. At the beginning, it was clear he was concerned with the good of the world. And there’s no question he didn’t think about what enough looks like.

So maybe even if all the criteria are ticked for net-positive work, not having a relationship with enoughness is still dangerous. Interesting. I’ve never had to think about it before.

David: Yeah. I don’t know.

Alex: What do you think? It’s such an obvious example. Someone who probably set off with good intentions, didn’t temper expectations, and now there’s an argument he’s done more harm than good. I don’t know.

David: Enoughness is interesting to me because even what you described—impact, measuring it—can come from scarcity, woundedness. Like, “I will be enough if I have enough impact.” It seems like Musk has been very attached to being “the hero”, in addition to being attached to power and wealth.

What if enoughness is more of a state of being? I am enough. I don’t need impact, grand purpose, or meaning in my work in order to be enough. And then from “I am already enough,” okay… what is the work I feel called to do? And impact, and money are emergent properties of coming from enoughness.

Alex: Let me ask you this, because this is really interesting.

Say someone is totally focused on impact, not money, status, or power. Why is it a bad thing to not feel like you’re enough in that scenario?

Maybe it’s tougher for the person who battles never being enough. But maybe that’s the sacrifice they make to have world-changing impact.

Versus someone who says, “I’m not going to engage with that ambition. This is what enoughness looks like for me, and I’m going to feel better”, but the world misses out on impact left on the table.

So it’s worse for the person but better for the world. Do you see what I’m saying?

David: Yeah. Great question.

The question I’m asking is: Where is there suffering? Let’s take the scenario where I need to have impact in order to feel like I’m enough. And the world benefits from the impact, even though I’m suffering.

Where else is there suffering? Is the impact coming at the cost of patience with the people around me? At the cost of empowering people around me because I need to be the one credited with having impact? At the cost of my family? How many times have we seen people with incredible impact who built extremely toxic environments around them?

The suffering never just stops with that one person.

Alex: Yeah. The example that comes to mind is Ralph Nader, the guy who campaigned for seatbelts, famously a bit of a dick to everybody he worked with. But if you think about how many lives he saved with seatbelts, on paper, it’s hard to argue the sacrifice wasn’t worth it.

He probably suffered, people around him suffered. But you look at it from outside and say: was it worth it? A lot of people would say it was.

David: I think it creates a false dichotomy: either you have to feel like you’re not enough and have positive impact, or you have to feel like you’re enough and then you give up on impact.

But what if Ralph Nader felt like he was enough and still felt seatbelts were really important in the world?

Or what happens if Elon Musk felt like he was enough, he didn’t need more money, power, or reputation to feel whole, and yet he still believed in solving the energy crisis as an important gift from his heart to the world? What if he put all his wisdom and skills and effort and hard work into it. Sleep under the desk, fine…but with an open heart instead of a closed heart?

Alex: What if. I really like that. I’m going to sit with that.

David: Alright, last question for you. Tell me about the impact you’re hoping to have with Rumbo. What is the product, who is it for, and what are you hoping it can do for them?

Rumbo is an AI career coaching platform, and the core idea is simple. Before you start looking at jobs, you need to understand yourself. What you care about, what you’re good at, what problems interest you, and what the market looks like for someone with your specific combination of those things.

That sounds obvious, but almost nobody does it well. The standard career advice process goes straight to job listings and CV tips. People end up in roles that look fine on paper but feel empty within six months, because they skipped the foundational work of figuring out what they were looking for.

We built Rumbo to do that foundational work. You go through assessments, get a personalised report that helps you understand your patterns and motivations, and then work with Maya, our AI coach, to turn that into a strategy that accounts for your financial reality, your risk tolerance, your constraints.

It’s for anyone at a point of career uncertainty or transition. The impact I’m hoping for is that fewer people waste years in work that doesn’t suit them because they never had access to quality career guidance. Rutger Bregman talks about the smartest and most ambitious people ending up in jobs that don’t contribute much to the world, and I think that’s largely a guidance failure. People don’t lack talent or ambition; they lack the infrastructure to make better decisions about where to direct it.

David: That sounds like it could have incredible impact on the world AND relieve a lot of suffering. I’m pumped about what you’re building man. Thanks so much for the conversation. It’s always a pleasure to unpack this stuff with you.

Alex: Cool, man. It was such a pleasure. I really enjoy these conversations.

Welcome to Enough Already!

This newsletter is all about living from enoughness, and yet I’ve never really tried to define it and speak directly to my experience of it.

So let’s try to do that today. I’m writing this for anyone who subscribes to this newsletter as well as for my coaching clients, as our work often orients to this question of enoughness.

If you connect with today’s essay, please hit like or comment or reply! It lets me know I’m not just shouting into a void.

Alright, now for today’s essay…

Perhaps it would be helpful to start with what enoughness isn’t. Or what it’s like to live from not-enoughness.

To live with not-enoughness is to believe that you are broken, and that some accomplishment, or improvement, or change will fix you.

For most of my life, at least as long as I can remember, this is how I lived. There was a core belief that I am not enough, and everything I did in my life was part of a strategy to fix myself.

The way I would interact with people, the goalposts I set for my career, how I built businesses and communities, how I created art, how I approached romance…all of it organized around this core belief.

Maybe, just maybe, if I achieved the right things, or married the right person, or was charismatic enough, then I would be enough.

Of course, it never worked. Because enoughness can’t be earned. If we believe enoughness is something to be achieved, then we’ve already deluded ourselves about what enoughness is.

So what is enoughness?

Enoughness is already here.

It’s not something we create, it’s something we discover.

I know when I’m living and working from enoughness because there’s a sense of surrender. A “trust fall” with the universe. I’m not attached to any outcomes. I’m not clinging to any stories. I’m present. Enoughness is presence.

I am whole and complete as I am, no matter what I do or build, no matter whether or not people accept me, no matter what I create, no matter how I live my life.

Living from enoughness doesn’t mean experiencing it at all times. Not to say it’s not possible. I don’t know if it is. But for most of us, it’s less about experiencing it at all times and more about holding faith that it’s there.

It’s like the sun. Even when the clouds cover the sky, we know the sun is there. That’s how it is with enoughness. Even when we’re swirling in stress, and overwhelm, and stories, we can remember our innate enoughness.

In a recent essay, Colin Beavan speaks to this as “a vow”. It’s a commitment to enoughness. “It is a spell. An incantation that creates a sense of ease with life.”

At some point in your life, you experienced enoughness. We all start there as babies, I think. But we forget. We’re convinced otherwise, often starting with the way our parents show or withhold love. We learn the conditions to be worthy of love.

Enoughness is to know you are always worthy of love.

Beyond our parents, it’s our peers, teachers, coaches, and society, all telling us what we need to do in order to be worthy. Worthy of love. Worthy of inclusion. Worthy of remembering.

Enoughness is radical inclusion, no matter what.

Daniel Thorson talks about the idea of “unconditional relationship,” which I LOVE and think is pointing to enoughness.

It means that every single part of me — no matter how angry or sad or riddled with shame or guilt, no matter how deeply buried — can all be brought to the light, and I can be in relationship with them.

If it’s been a long time since you’ve experienced enoughness, perhaps you can’t recall what it’s like. Therefore, how can you believe in something if you haven’t experienced it firsthand?

Perhaps enoughness is a lot like God, in that way.

It’s only recently, in the last few years, that I’ve been able to experience enoughness firsthand. Usually, it’s only for a few moments. In Zen Buddhism, this is known as “kenshō”, or a brief glimpse into the true nature of reality. But a glimpse has been enough to root the faith, for me, that it’s there, not just for myself, but for all beings.

As I move through life and work, as I coach, as I parent, as I write, as I play basketball, as I clean the dishes, as I fold laundry, as I cook meals for my family, as I sit there suffering with a migraine, in every moment of life, I can ask this question:

Am I living from enoughness?

Think about what it would mean for your life if you already understood yourself to be enough. If you didn’t have to do anything. If you were inherently worthy.

For some, it can feel terrifying. Because if you’re already enough, why do anything? At least when we’re striving for enoughness, it gives us something to do. If you’re already enough, you’ll have to actually figure out what it is you want to do.

But that is what happens. You start doing things because you want to, or genuinely have to, but no longer because you think you’re not enough if you don’t. Life and work become an expression of your essence. You’re dancing with the universe.

There are days when connecting with my enoughness feels really fucking hard, if not impossible. I am just overwhelmed with emotion or anxiety. And enoughness just feels so far away.

So I try to just remember that enoughness is there. To remember my vow to enoughness. And know that even if I can’t see the sun behind the clouds, it is still there.

What would change in your life if you knew that you were already enough?

Thanks for reading! For those who are ready to step into this kind of work, you can learn more about my coaching practice here.

👋 Hey there,

Welcome to Enough Already, a newsletter about living and working from enoughness.

If you connect with today’s essay, please hit like! When you do, it feels like I’m getting a nice pat on the head, and who doesn’t like a nice pat on the head? It also lets me know I’m not just shouting into a void. Or even better, hit reply or comment, and tell me how this one landed for you!

Alright, now for today’s essay…

There I sat, bawling my eyes out in front of an uncomfortable nurse. I had just had my wisdom teeth removed. Right side. Top and bottom. With only local anesthesia. It sucked big time.

At first, I just felt light-headed. “Take your time!” the nurse offered kindly.

So I sat there for a moment, being with the light-headedness, when something else started to arise. I didn’t know what it was at first. It seemed so out of place for this moment. But then it was clear as day. I wanted to cry.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was all the anxiety leading up to the procedure. Maybe it was the intensity of getting teeth ripped out of my head. Maybe it was unresolved trauma from breaking my jaw in high school and all the dental work that followed. Whatever it was, there was an intense wave of emotion wanting to come out.

“Well, that’s not acceptable,” was my first thought. “I’m in public! In front of a surgeon and nurses! I can’t just… cry.” So I pushed it down.

I quickly noticed what I was doing. “Woah it’s happening! I’m holding back tears because it feels socially unacceptable! Literally! Right now!”

All that I’ve learned these past few years about letting emotions move, about the patriarchy and how hard it is for men to let themselves look weak, about my people-pleasing tendencies and not wanting to make others uncomfortable…and I was watching it play out in real time. Cool! I noticed!

So I said “fuck it”, popped some Bon Iver on the headphones, and let it rip.

The nurse’s response was funny. She didn’t know what to do.

“Are you… okay??” she asked nervously. “Yeah", I said. “I think I just need to cry for a little bit.”

“Oh… ok…” she said, sounding surprised and ill-prepared. Then I started shaking my arms out to move the energy in my body and she got extra worried.

“Is something wrong with your arms?! Are they numb??”

After I assured her I was physically okay, the staff went about their business, coming in and out, leaving the door open, doing things on the computer, while I wept in the chair.

I’ve been joking that I needed a tooth doula. Someone who knew how to support me in that moment. That’s okay. Justin Vernon sufficed.

After a couple of songs, I felt better. Much better. I mean… my face felt like a truck hit it but emotionally I felt clear again.

This experience got me thinking about when society deems it okay for men to cry and when it’s not.

Movies give us a good map.

Like in Gladiator, Maximus Decimus Meridius was allowed to weep for his slain wife…

…but not when he was literally STABBED IN THE RIBS!

Crying for his wife made him look like more of a man, in a way. Dedicated, loving husband and all that. But if he cried from a lethal wound? Weak.

Or look at Vito Corleone, the Godfather himself, who could shed some tears when he lost his son.

But that’s the only time you’d see him show “weakness”.

Even young Simba was allowed to grieve the death of his father.

…but the rest of the story is his journey to step up, be a man, and take back the throne.

Right, so it’s okay to cry for the death of a loved one. Otherwise, we’re in uncertain terrain.

Movies are just one place we get a map. Sports is another one.

When is it socially acceptable for a male athlete to cry? Perhaps when they win it all, proving their strength and domination.

Just don’t cry when you get hurt unless it’s really serious. The best thing you can do when carted off the field? Give everyone the thumbs up. Let ‘em know you’re okay.

Keep looking at most of the examples that we’re given in the media, and you’ll see the same themes. Stories of men overcoming hardship, navigating the hero’s journey, exuding strength, dominating… and rarely crying unless crying somehow validates his manhood.

In the wake of the Epstein files, I find myself thinking a lot about the cultural state of masculinity. This powerful essay from , put a point on it for me. She makes a strong case for how this whole issue roots down to patriarchy.

My feeling like it wouldn’t be safe to cry at the dentist, and the way men treat each other, and the way men treat women… it all starts at the same place.

Young boys, in my experience, are constantly having their masculinity tested. And when they fail, they’re emasculated in the form of bullying, alienation, and physical abuse. And this continues into adulthood, in both subtle and explicit ways. We’re made to feel powerless and “lesser than” if we don’t exude strength and “manliness”, if we show any amount of femininity.

I’ve been thinking about all the times growing up when I was emasculated (by both men and women), and how deep that pain still sits in my being. It’s one of my corest wounds. Any time in my life that I’ve acted to become more powerful, or to dominate, it came at least in part from this wound. It’s how I learned to find safety.

To cry is to be less of a man. To be less of a man is not safe.

This is the message that’s been repeated to boys and men since we were little.

That’s the voice that told me to hold back the tears at the dentist.

Well, now I try to let myself cry when I want to cry.

I cry during sad movies. I cry when someone hurts my feelings. I cry when I get teeth pulled out of my head, apparently.

I cry almost every day. During my morning meditation, as I stay with the intense, dread-like sensations that tend to always be in my body (most likely rooted in those same childhood experiences), tears emerge.

Sometimes it’s just a few tears. Sometimes I need a big cry, like a few days ago in my coaching circle. Two weeks of intense emotions built up in me, and I was able to let it all out while being witnessed by this incredibly safe and supportive group of humans. Afterward, I felt renewed.

It always feels good after I cry. It’s a beautiful release. I can breathe again. Ironically, I feel strong.

Apparently, I’ve been on this soapbox for a while, because as I was writing this, I was reminded of one of my old Twitter (I still refuse to call it X) posts.

Mr. Lasso himself shot me a like for this one. If you remember from watching the show, he took a hard, panic-attack-filled road toward allowing himself to feel and express his grief.

Well, perhaps it’s time to offer that invitation again.

There are too many big problems in this world that root straight down to patriarchy and our twisted view of masculinity. Too many crises arising from men feeling like they have to be strong, to dominate, to hoard power, in order to feel like a man, in order to feel safe.

The rise of autocrats, the struggle to address global warming, the haphazard way we’re barrelling toward AI dominance, the high rates of violence toward women, all the other imbalances that still affect women, high male suicide rates, the loneliness epidemic… everywhere I look, I see men sitting in power, working ever so hard to prove their masculinity. I see men avoiding anything that might make them look feminine or weak, at all costs, even if those costs are our planet, communities, or humanity itself.

Men crying might not save the world or end patriarchy. A man who cries can still do harm. Crying has to come with ownership and change in our actions.

But perhaps crying is a good start. Because if a man can cry, it means he feels safe. And a safe man doesn’t need to fight for power. He can just be. In my experience, when my emotions are expressed fluidly, and I can just be, it becomes much easier for me to take right action.

So, let’s normalize men crying at the dentist.

Let’s normalize men crying whenever they feel like crying.

Cry at work. Cry at the gym. Cry in front of your wife. CRY DAMN IT! CRY!

ok brb… gonna go cry.

P.S. I currently have one slot available in my coaching practice. If you’re a founder or leader navigating a difficult trial, transition, community pickle, or personal growth edge, take a look if we’re a fit, and let’s chat.

I’m in a moment of my life where, for the first time, I’m not doing too much.

For years, my life has been filled with doing—building businesses, building communities, writing, starting projects, working out, improving myself, networking… If there was time to fill, I filled it.

Now my days are simple.

I meditate, I take my kids to school, I go to the gym, I post unhinged thoughts on linkydinky (my pet name for LinkedIn), I send out this newsletter when I have something to share, I coach my clients, sometimes I do a coach training, I take walks and hikes, I spend time with my family and friends, I read books and watch TV, and I help take care of our home and three kids.

That’s mostly it.

There’s a spaciousness to my life that I’ve always longed for. In fact, it’s this sense of spaciousness, of okayness, of calm, that I was hoping I’d find on the other side of all the doing. But I didn’t end up finding it by doing.

I found it mostly by not.

In a world that is constantly asking us to do more, that glorifies agency, that celebrates those who exert maximum effort, not doing something feels like an act of rebellion.

But I believe in you. Go ahead. Don’t do it.

Don’t start that podcast.

Don’t learn how to vibe code.

Don’t meditate.

Don’t exercise.

Don’t set goals.

Don’t travel.

Don’t make new friends.

Don’t volunteer.

Choose the thing that you’ve been telling yourself to do. Then go ahead and not.

As you read this invitation, notice what comes up for you.

Maybe this feels like a weight lifted. UGH, how good it feels to not have to do something. Better than sex.

Or maybe there are parts of you that feel triggered by this invitation. That say, “WTF is this random Substack bro saying? I can’t just not do the thing.”

I get it. There’s still a part of me that, at least once a day, says, “do more”.

Come on, David. Start that podcast. Build that business. Launch that community. Scale up my impact. Make more money. Improve myself. Pick up that hobby.

A past version of myself would have taken that voice and run with it. It’s all too easy for me to spin up new projects. You might even say it’s a gift I have.

But this time, I’ve just been listening to that part of me. I hear it’s worries:

“You’ll be bored.”

“You’re not safe yet.”

“You need to maximize your time on earth.”

“You’re wasting time. You’re wasting your potential.”

“Your life won’t have meaning if you don’t do more.”

Ah, I see. It isn’t really about doing. It’s about finding meaning and safety. I appreciate that it wants these things for me. I hold it. I feel the sadness it’s trying to protect me from. Sometimes I cry. It softens.

And then I see that every moment of my life is filled to the brim with meaning if I’m present enough. I see that I am safe. I feel spaciousness again. The urge to do subsides. I can just be.

If you find there’s a part of you that’s triggered by the idea of not doing the thing, what if you didn’t take that as a sign you must do, and instead, you just got curious?

Pause, take a break, and ask yourself…

• What does this part hope will be true on the other side of doing this thing?

• What is this part of me afraid will happen if I don’t do this thing?

• What is it afraid I might feel if I don’t do it?

Then check in with your body. Can you feel that emotion now? What happens if you just let yourself feel that emotion? Is it okay, even if a bit uncomfortable?

The okayness that you hoped doing would help you feel…

Perhaps it’s available to you now.

Sometimes, when the part urging me to do softens, there’s still something pulling me (not pushing me) toward action.

As I consider taking this action, there’s a sense of lightness, of joy, of energy, of flow. It’s almost like it’s not even doing. It feels more like being into that action.

When that happens, I find myself taking the action.

That’s how I started coaching. I followed the glimmers of joy and lightness I felt in coaching containers. This career path emerged. I didn’t have to do much.

That’s why I meditate. I spent a decade trying to effort myself to meditate every day. It never stuck. Then, three years ago, I tried Zazen at the right moment in my life, and it just clicked. I’ve sat every morning since. Something keeps pulling me back to the cushion. It feels easy to show up to (not always easy to do).

That’s why I write when I feel like writing. And when I notice that writing is starting to feel like doing, I pause and ask myself, what are the words that are already here and wanting to flow? There’s no effort when I’m writing like this. I already am the words.

This is how I’ve come to live much of my life at this moment. Just being, and right action emerges.

I know what some of you are thinking…

There are things we have to do. We don’t have a choice. Taxes. Making enough money to survive. Watching “The Pitt”.

I hear you.

In these cases, the part of me that is afraid of consequences if I don’t do the thing is right! If I don’t pay my taxes, I’ll be arrested. Thanks for the heads up, part! Let’s go ahead and do that

When it’s truly not a choice, then I try to surrender to it. I’m not choosing the effort. The effort is choosing me.

And in that way, I can return to just being with it. It’s out of my control.

But it’s always worth asking, is it true that it’s not a choice? Do you truly have to stay at that job? Can you truly not shut down that project? Do you truly have to launch that podcast?

I find that we often have more choice than we think, even if not doing something feels a bit painful.

Maybe I will someday be myself into a busy schedule again.

Maybe the universe will make it clear that it’s the right time to start that podcast, or do more public speaking, or write another book.

My hope is that, if I’m truly surrendering to the universe, none of these things will feel like doing. They will feel like being.

Until that’s true, I’ll just keep not doing them.

And enjoying every minute of it.

I have a memory from childhood of watching an award ceremony for a girl who invented something incredible.

She created a wallet for the blind. You put the money into it, and it announced the value out loud. Keep in mind, this was in the 90’s. It was impressive. I was in awe. Not just of the invention, but of the recognition.

I thought to myself, “That’s it. That’s what I want to do. I want to invent something that will be so important that I’ll be remembered for a long time.”

It was the start of a long road of working my ass off to do something meaningful with my life. Something that could become my legacy.

Every time I’d learn about a respected historical figure, elite athlete, or titan of industry, I’d think, “I want that. I can do that.”

Because what better measure of a life well lived than one’s reputation? Who wouldn’t want a reputation so powerful that it ripples through culture long after one dies? If I’m not worth remembering, then what is my worth?

I appreciate the parts of me that have held these concerns since I was a wee lad. They want my life to have meaning.

But if meaning is the goal, I’m starting to suspect that optimizing for legacy is a poor strategy.

First, my legacy is entirely outside my control. I can’t even control what people think of me while I’m alive! What makes me think I can control the story that’s told about me after I’m dead?

Legacies are never accurate representations of the people being remembered. Not even close. They’re summaries of an infinitely complex human, translated through the world views of the biased people who tell their stories.

Like, Jesus is 99.999999999% metaphor at this point. I’m sure if he does get resurrected, he’d be like, “You think I did WHAT?!”

I can’t control who tells my story, and I can’t control the story they tell.

Second, I have no idea what I would have to do in this lifetime to be remembered.

Looking at many of the people that we study in history classes, they weren’t trying to leave a legacy…

Socrates never wrote about his philosophy. He didn’t try to start a movement. He just asked lots of questions. At least we think that’s what he did. We only know about him through his students’ writing.

Rosa Parks wasn’t trying to start a movement. She made one courageous choice in one moment, and it rippled through history.

Anne Sullivan was simply focused on one student, Helen Keller, and as a result of her work, we never saw disabilities the same way again.

Meanwhile, there have probably been millions of people who were big deals during their lifetime, and forgotten about almost immediately after they died.

The actions and reputation we have while we live are not predictive of how we’re remembered. Sometimes small things become big. Sometimes big things are forgotten overnight.

Third, focusing on legacy prioritizes that which can be retold and remembered. So instead of doing a good thing, I become motivated to do the thing that will be remembered as being good. A subtle difference that’s worlds apart.

Say, for example, I see a homeless person on the street. The good thing might be to offer them some food. But if I’m optimizing for legacy, that’s not enough. I need others to know that I offered them some food. So maybe I don’t offer it at all if there are no witnesses. Or perhaps I offer them food, and then tell my wife about it, ensuring that my act is remembered.

The entire intention of the action is undermined. A good act becomes a manipulation of ego. It becomes about me rather than the person I’m supposedly serving.

Lastly, I notice that when I focus on legacy, I’m projecting meaning out into some future date.

Instead of finding meaning here in this moment, I’m optimizing for this moment to matter later, long after I die, when I can’t even experience it!

Now is the only moment that exists. Everything else is a projection. An extraction. A distorted reflection. So meaning can only exist now.

And every moment is bursting at the seams with meaning if I can just be with it fully. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing. Meaning is always waiting there when I drop into presence.

Here’s where I land on legacy today…

Our true legacy isn’t what’s said about us. It’s not how we’re remembered. It’s not our accomplishments.

Our true legacy flows out of every micro action we take in our lives.

Loving actions like giving food to that person in need, or the warm glance I exchange with my wife at the end of a long day of parenting, or holding the door with a smile for a stranger who was having a rough day.

And actions that aren’t so loving, like when I act out of spite, or fear, or jealousy.

Even actions that seem tiny and insignificant, like taking a deep breath, or pausing to appreciate the way the light is hitting the leaves of a tree.

Every small action sends out vibrations that ripple out into the universe, weaving, and compounding, and dancing together for all of eternity.

That is my legacy.

That is all of our legacies.

What does it mean to rest?

I’ve been sitting with this question a lot recently.

If we are to work hard, build things, raise families, write newsletters, manage households, and navigate *gestures wildly* all this, then we need rest, right? We know this.

And yet, when I’ve tried to create space to relax, it’s been anything but relaxing. I’ve had a very hard time just being still.

I know I’m not alone in this. It’s something I hear often from other high agency folks who love to work. Why is it that rest is so stressful and confusing for us?

Well, I think it’s because there are different levels of rest:

Level One: Physical rest.
Level Two: Psychological rest.
Level Three: Egoic rest.

The problem is that we tend to only focus on level one, but we need all three to feel truly rested.

So, today let’s explore each one briefly…

Level One: Physical Rest

I figured a good place to start making sense of what “rest” means would be to ask the ol’ dictionary. Let’s see…

Shit. Wrong one.

There we go.

That seems to get at how we commonly think of rest. Doing nothing. No motion. No movement. This definition speaks to physical rest, which is a biological imperative.

The human body is constantly using energy to keep organs, muscles, and the brain functioning. Physical rest, like lying on the couch or sleeping, reduces energy demand so the body can shift resources toward repair, recovery, and maintenance.

Ok great. That part feels clear.

But it doesn’t tell the full story about what we need to feel rested. Otherwise, we could just sit around and do nothing all the time, and feel great!

There’s one word in that definition that caught my attention. The last word. “Disturbance”. To rest is to be “free of motion or disturbance.”

And there lies the core tension.

To rest our physical bodies, we must stop moving. But if you’re like me, being still can feel quite… disturbing. My wife used to joke that my worst fear was being alone with my thoughts. She wasn’t wrong.

When I sit still, my anxiety spikes and my mind runs wild. I ruminate, self-critique, plan, and worry. My nervous system lights up, and a sense of dis-ease ripples through my chest, throat, shoulders, and neck.

So when I rest my body and don’t distract my mind, what I actually feel is unrest.

This is what drives some of my more harmful habits around work, social media, video games, TV, socializing, sports, and anything else that will keep my mind occupied.

I keep moving and pushing until I become physically exhausted. At the end of each day my eyes feel heavy, my shoulders ache, my brain is exhausted. And I’d drag my exhausted body and mind to bed to sleep, the only form of physical rest where I’m not stuck in my head.

What’s happening here is that I’m not truly giving my nervous system any rest. I’m keeping it stimulated as a way to avoid being with the parts of me that need attention.

Resting our body is just the first level of rest. But to truly feel rested, I believe we need to move into the second level…

Level Two: Psychological Rest

What I’ve come to understand is that when I’m not focused on work or some other focused activity, and my anxiety spikes, this isn’t my whole self freaking out. It’s a collection of parts of me:

• The part of me that’s still scanning for threats and opportunities.

• The part of me that desperately wants to be liked and respected.

• The part of me that needs to do important and meaningful work.

• The part of me with money scarcity.

• The parts of me that crave power, perfection, or play.

• The part of me that was bullied as a kid,

• The part of me that wants to be a good husband and father.

• The part of me that judges all of these other parts.

…and all of the other parts that get triggered whenever I stop doing.

Whenever I come to rest, they shout at me, “YOU CAN’T JUST SIT ON THE COUCH! WE HAVE TO BE READY! WE HAVE TO FIGHT!”

Like the Japanese soldiers who kept fighting on their islands long after WWII was over, my parts don’t know the fight is over. They don’t know that I’m no longer under threat. They don’t know that everything is okay.

And how does that shouting show up in my body? As anxiety, discomfort, racing mind, racing heart…

And so I listen to them. I accept their story that I’m under threat. And I make it true by putting myself in high-pressure situations. I throw myself into work, competitive sports, video games, watching dramatic TV, and scrolling the dumpster fire of social media. Anywhere where my hypervigilance can be put to good use. At least then, these parts are occupied and not shouting at me.

Or, when I really needed a “break”, I’d numb with alcohol or weed.

And look, there’s nothing wrong with letting these parts express their gifts when needed, especially when I’m actually in a high-pressure situation.

The problem is that it’s usually not true. I’m not under threat. And I can’t keep them “on” all the time. Just like my body, these parts need rest. I want them to come online when they’re needed, like when I’m driving to the hoop or coaching a client, and rest when they’re not needed.

Now I know how. When I feel that anxiety rise, I look at it as a signal. There’s a part of me that wants to be felt, heard, and seen. I slow down, take some deep breaths, notice what’s happening in my body, and let the emotion flow. I listen to what the parts have to tell me with curiosity, and nonjudgement.

When I do that, these parts tend to feel heard, and seen. They soften. They rest.

This is the second level of rest that I now know to be critical. Rest for my psyche. Rest for my parts who have been working so hard to protect and serve me.

I do this now every day. I do it with coaches and therapists, journaling, and now that I have practice, I can do it with myself as a sort of meditation. This is the essence of what I do with my clients as well.

Any time I notice an anxiety spike, instead of running away, I breathe, create space, and move toward it.

And once in a while, that drops me into the third level of rest…

Level Three: Egoic Rest

When my parts soften and are truly at rest, I sometimes find myself landing in a different state.

The anxiety fades. The parts are quiet and soft. My mind is clear. I drop into a depth of embodied presence that feels like what the great teachers describe. My body becomes translucent, the sense of the “me” that’s organizing everything dissolves.

“I” disappear.

What’s left is everything in its essence, without needing to name them, interpret them, or react to them. Just what is. No fighting or proving. A sense of flowing with time and space. Everything is enough. All peace. All love. Or something like what those words are pointing to.

This is rest at the level of the ego itself.

And holy cannoli… I never knew this level of rest existed.

I have a much more nuanced view of rest now. It’s not quite as simple as doing nothing. There are levels to rest.

My body needs stillness and sleep.

My psyche needs welcoming and acceptance.

My ego needs to see its true nature.

As I’ve started to offer myself all of these gifts consistently, I’ve finally started to feel truly rested. I feel ready to build, play, and serve in the world with a tank full of love and life.

I hope you find true rest, at all three levels, too. If you need help, say hi.

I wrote this article, in part, to help myself make sense of rest.

I’d love to keep learning with you all. So, tell me, how do you understand rest? What do you do to rest? What felt true and resonant from this essay? What didn’t land as true?

As we arrive at the end of the year, if you’re like me, you’re starting to feel that pull toward reflection and recalibration.

This is a sacred time for me. I take it seriously. Over the holidays, I love to reflect deeply on the past year, harvest my learnings, check in on my compass, and chart the path for the next year.

In the past, it was common for me to come out of this reflective process with a set of goals or changes I would make in the next year. Business goals, fitness goals, relationship goals… YOU get a goal. AND YOU get a goal.

But the last couple years, that didn’t happen. I did the reflective process, but goals didn’t emerge. As I stepped into the new year, I found myself simply orienting around a way I wanted to be in the world and the values I wanted to embody.

Why is it that goals didn’t emerge?

My theory is that, for most of my adult life, I set goals for the year around all the things I wanted to achieve in order to feel better about myself. Make more money, lift heavier weights, write a book, etc.

But this yearning to improve wasn’t coming from a place of joy, self-love, or even practicality. It was coming from the belief that I am broken. Not yet enough. And maybe, MAYBE, if I achieved these goals, then I would finally feel okay being me.

So I would set the goal, and sometimes I’d even hit it. But the damage was already done. The goal already reinforced the belief that I’m broken and needed to be fixed. It didn’t matter if I hit the goal or not. It mattered that I thought I needed to.

This newsletter is called “Enough Already” because we’re here to challenge the whole self-improvement paradigm that has become commonplace in our culture. New Year’s is a time where it’s taken to a whole new level…

We’re pummeled with ads for products and services that promise us joy, fulfillment, and abundance on the other side of the credit card swipe.

Our businesses ask for our 2026 roadmaps, passing down the next set of OKRs from corporate Mt Sinai that will determine our livelihood and measure of worth for the next year.

And it’s easy to get swept up in the deluge of content telling us about all the ways we can finally live the good life if we just set the right goals, have the right plan, and commit!

I’ve been fed these messages my whole life. And for many years, I bought into them wholesale. I’ve read soooo many self-help books. I’ve set all the ambitious goals. I’ve optimized my morning routines.

And it left me empty.

As you sit with your goals and intentions for the upcoming year, my invitation is to ask yourself:

Am I committing to this goal to achieve enoughness, or from a place of enoughness?

If you’re setting the goal to achieve a sense of enoughness, you’ve already convinced yourself that you’re not enough. The myth of self-improvement has already lodged itself in your wrinkly brain.

But what if it could be different? What if you approached your goals for the new year from a place of enoughness?

What if you said, “I am enough already, and from that place of enoughness, I’m going to work on improving my health because it feels good and brings me joy.”

Or, “I am enough, and as a whole and complete human being, I’m going to grow my business because it will provide for my family, and I feel energized by the challenge.”

Or maybe, “I am enough, and from this place of love and appreciation for myself, I’m going to invest in deepening the friendships that make me feel more connected and alive.”

That orientation changes everything in my experience. There’s no more stress about achieving the goal. There’s no attachment to the outcome because it’s no longer being used to justify my existence. I can just do what I was put on this earth to do: to live, to grow, to act, to create, to connect, to build… without any of that defining my worth. I do them because they make my toes wiggle.

Is that a weird thing to say? Are toes wiggling even a positive thing? I think so. I’m wiggling them right now, and it feels like they’re having a little dance party in my slippers.

I’m not just blowing smoke up your tuchus here. I truly believe you are already enough. I know that you are whole and complete, and in need of no improvement to be worthy. I know this because I’ve experienced it within myself after a lifetime of not believing it.

And there’s nothing special about me. I simply exist, and that’s enough. You exist, too. And that is enough.

Now get out there and focus on whatever makes your toes wiggle.

Happy New Year’s y’all. Wishing you a restful holiday full of love and connection. See you in 2026.

Warmly,
David

P.S. If you’re looking for a good guide to doing an annual reflection, go get Steve Schlafman’s free guide, which I had the honor of contributing to last year. It’s a beautiful, deep process that I’ll be going through myself over the next few weeks.

I felt stuck with my writing again this morning. It’s been difficult to get back into the rhythm since taking an extended pause when our baby was born.

I pulled up a draft of an article I’ve been working on and felt my whole body contract. I just didn’t care about it anymore. Another draft to the graveyard.

So… what do I write about? I decided that today, instead of trying to write something, I’m just going to write whatever flows through me. What are the words that are already there? I opened up a new draft and just started writing. You are reading those words now.

I realized that it just takes too much effort to write the stuff I’m supposed to write. When I feel like I’m trying to teach, or sound smart, or sell something, it’s like pushing a boulder up a mountain. It’s exhausting.

Am I weak? Am I a bad writer? A good writer writes and writes and writes, and pushes through the blocks and the difficulty. Right? Writing is suffering, is it not?

What if it doesn’t have to be? What if we can just write whatever comes easily to us? The idea that’s just sitting there in my mind right now. No, not an idea I have to come up with, or the thing I wanted to write about last week. The words that are currently moving through my brain.

But I never write that. Or at least I don’t publish it. If these words come so easily to me, there must be nothing of value.

Ah. Yes. There it is. The belief that for something to be good, for it to be worthwhile, it must be difficult. It must require maximal effort.

Oh, how I need to learn this lesson again and again.

Is a destination any different if it were easier to reach?

Perhaps. I mean, if I hike up a mountain, I’m going to appreciate the view from the top more than if I drove. There’s a certain pride that comes with working hard for something. Like playing a video game on hard mode.

Perhaps that’s what I’m addicted to, that feeling of accomplishing something hard. The hardness of it becomes more important than the result itself. But life isn’t a video game (if it is, it’s much more complex than Donkey Kong). Doing things the hard way doesn’t win you the respect of your peers. It just burns you out.

No wonder I’ve never reached financial independence. It wasn’t actually the financial independence I was after. It was proving that I could do it. That I was capable. That I was worthy.

If I were to win the lottery tomorrow, I would feel very empty. Like I cheated. Like I didn’t earn it. Like I’m not worthy of it. Happiness needs to be earned. It needs to be sanded down and refined with dried and bloodied knuckles.

I can see how hard I’ve made so many things in my life. Building businesses, leading communities, writing articles… time and time again, I’ve chosen the hard road.

But what if it doesn’t have to be that way? What if I took the easy path to write this week’s article?

In fact, I wrote this article in five minutes. At first, it wasn’t even an article; it was a journal entry where I came to write about how hard it feels to write. And would you look at this! An article has emerged with rich themes about the creative struggle and about how we associate value with difficulty.

I’ll go back and edit it to make it sound more article-y, of course. But not too much. I sense you’ll appreciate this in its more raw form. Funny how the easier path can come across more real, more raw. And how, often, that’s what people want. We feel connected to things that feel real. Writing that’s more like our lives. Unedited. Unrefined.

And look… there will be times when the only roads available to us are the difficult ones. Moments where we have to just put our heads down, grit our teeth, and move forward one grueling step at a time. Death comes to mind. I’m not sure there’s an easy road through grief.

But perhaps, in any moment, there are always paths ahead of us with a range of different levels of difficulty. And we always have a choice to take the easier one.

And now I sense a prompt coming. Something to help me, and you, contemplate the way this story of “everything needs to be difficult to be valuable” is showing up in our lives.

Perhaps the prompt is, “What could this look like if it were easy?” Someone asked me that once. I think it was . It always stuck with me.

Or, “What am I afraid of happening if I take the easy path here?” Oh yeah, that’s a good one.

One more… the next time you sit down to create something, you might ask… “Am I creating what I *should* create? Or am I simply revealing that which is already flowing from me with ease?”

I’m not even sure I wrote this article. It just flowed through me.

Perhaps when our body and mind tell us something feels hard, it’s not always a sign to push through. It could just be pointing us to an easier path, right over there.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I ever truly wanted to be a CEO.

Did I want to start companies? Did I want to build something massive? Did I want to lead a community and a movement? Or were these all stories that were handed to me?

The truth is, I don’t know. I’m sitting with the question. And it’s been confronting because I’ve believed this story for so long. I’ve assumed it’s just who I am. It’s hard to imagine who I might be without them.

Every day that I spent as a CEO, I woke up with anxiety radiating through my body. I moved through my days with an invisible hand pressing down on my chest and constricting my throat, with shallow breath, a racing heart, and a nebulous sense of unease.

I escaped these feelings by working harder and longer, drinking and smoking, video games, social media, and anything else that would help me escape the uncomfortable experience of being David Spinks, the CEO.

I wasn’t totally blind. I remember looking at CEOs of successful companies and asking myself, “Do I want their life? Do I want the responsibility for so many livelihoods? The intense work schedule? The constant fires? The relentless pressure?”

“No”, I’d think. “I don’t want that!”

But then another part of me would speak up.

“What about the prestige? The legacy? Isn’t life all about doing hard things? Don’t you want to be like those other successful CEOs? Look how confident and important they are! Man up!”

And another…

“What about impact! Don’t you want to bring more community to the world at a grand scale? Don’t you want to help people to the greatest extent possible? Don’t waste your gifts!”

And another…

“What about the money? Wouldn’t it be nice to never have to work again? Wouldn’t it be nice to not struggle in the same way your parents did?”

And so I’d push through. One day at a time. I’d will myself forward through the anxiety and unease, past the voice that was still whispering, “this ain’t it”.

When I stepped down from CMX, I wasn’t exactly burned out. I describe it as feeling more like being emptied out.

I had nothing left to give. I pushed through my final day. My creative juices were spent. My heart was tired. My soul felt so far away.

I set out on a sabbatical not knowing what to do, but just knowing that I had to stop and create space.

It’s been three and a half years now since I took that pause.

These days, I’m not a CEO, or a founder, or a formal leader of anything. I’m a coach and facilitator. I spend my work days writing, on coaching calls, in trainings, in my own therapy/coaching, and facilitating groups and workshops. My non-work time is dedicated to family, a few hobbies, and complaining about the Giants. That’s mostly it. It’s simple.

I don’t have a grand mission or vision. I’m not trying to save the world or anyone in it. I’m not trying to scale my impact. I’m not optimizing for title or status. I’m just trying to do work that fills my heart.

10 years ago, I would have looked at myself with judgment. This person isn’t ambitious enough. Not hungry. Not willing to go big.

But today that voice is mostly quiet and content. I can’t tell you exactly how I arrived here, but here I am.

There are days when I still wake up with anxiety. Where the morning greets my body with a sense of unidentifiable urgency. But it feels more like a relic of the past, echoing into this moment, but not truly there. These days, I can hold my unease more gently, without losing myself in it. I can reconnect with the truth of the present more quickly, ground myself, and come back.

I avoided this life for a long time. In the beginning of my sabbatical, I wouldn’t consider becoming a coach (or therapist, or some other simple, service-based work).

“Those that can’t do, coach,” the voice still whispered in my mind. “It’s not big enough.” “You’ll never make enough money.”

These parts of me were designed to believe that doing something that’s “small” wasn’t right for me. That “renting out my time”, in the words of Naval Ravikant, is an inefficient way to build wealth. That, unless I built something big, it wouldn’t be enough. I wouldn’t be enough.

It’s these parts that took my career to great heights. That urged me forward into starting companies and communities, into leadership, into writing a book, into becoming well known in my little corner of the world. I’m grateful for these parts and the way they’ve worked so hard to serve me. I’m grateful for how much they helped me accomplish and the people they led me to serve. But I’m also aware of the harm these voices led me to cause to myself and others.

I know that these weren’t the voices of my soul. They were the voices of my well-meaning parents, and of my peers and society. They were voices that thought their stories were needed in order for me to feel safe and whole. At first, that may have even been true.

But their services aren’t needed anymore. I’m okay. I’m enough. I’m loving the work I get to do. I’m loving the way I get to be with my life. Even if it’s simple. Even if it seems “small”.

And yet, I find a voice whispering still. It’s wondering, “What could it look like to step back into leadership, but this time from a place of enoughness?”. It wonders if I’m just afraid, since I’m no longer naive to the risks and responsibilities of leadership. Since I was burned to the ground. It still sees the gifts I offer as a leader and worries about the risk of not offering those gifts to the world.

I’ve had invitations back into leadership. I’ve declined them. I haven’t felt energized by stepping back into those roles. My body very clearly tells me “no” when I consider it.

Perhaps I was never meant to build something big. Perhaps this is my design. To guide. To hold space. To help others wrestle with the complex and the impossible. Maybe I’m at my best when I’m helping other leaders build something big and meaningful.

And perhaps I had to go through my own rise and fall as a leader and CEO in order to be able to do this work from a place of experience and kinship.

I don’t know what the future will hold. I’m letting my soul speak and guide me, for the first time in my adult life. For now, the universe is very clearly telling me that the work of coaching, guiding, and facilitating is my path. It feels good. It feels true. I look at my calendar and I feel excited about the calls to come (imagine that!!!).

Maybe, I’m finally finding my intended “vocation,” as Parker Palmer would say. Perhaps I’ve shed the mask that I thought I had to wear, and am finally showing the world the true contours of my face.

Or maybe this is just another step in a long and swirly journey that will one day take me back to leadership and building something big. I’m not seeking it out. But perhaps the universe will ask it of me.

If it does, I hope I will have the courage to listen to my soul the same way I am now.

For years, we’ve been told that we should bring our “whole self” to work.

But let me say something that may feel radical:

The “whole self at work” advice is a trap.

And worse… it often guilts ambitious people into thinking they’re failing.

Because let’s be honest: we all hold many different roles and identities and, often, they’re best kept separate.

The expectation that we bring all of ourselves into everything we do is burning us out.

Let me share a quick story…

Rewind to November 2017. It was a typical day in my NYC life, leading the brand marketing team at a public company and juggling three kids under the age of four.

I wake up at the crack of dawn and get dressed in my couldn’t-afford-it-if-my-life-depended-on-it Rent the Runway dress. After dropping my oldest child at her Upper West Side preschool (the other two at home with my sitter), I sprint to the subway, gulping my ordered-ahead Starbucks Venti Iced Latte, and arrive at my office in the financial district.

At the office, I run back and forth all day from the tiny closet-turned-lactation-room to meetings with engineers, product managers, and marketing and editorial teams, making sure we’re moving the roadmap forward while simultaneously collecting the only source of nourishment for my chubby ginger baby waiting for me at home. I’d finish pumping and go straight into a meeting with our lead male designer, laughing to myself that I was sitting tits out just a few seconds prior and now have to talk seriously about user journey maps.

I leave work at 5:00 p.m. to ensure I make it home for bedtime routine. My husband was once again on a business trip, so it’s on me to keep the three tiny humans alive, clean, fed, and put to sleep. It is now 6:00 p.m., sitter gone, alone with a 4 four-year- old, two-year-old, and five-month-old baby. I glance at the clock and realize I’ve got forty-five minutes before my home turns into a messy Bravo reality TV reunion where all humans involved are screaming, crying, or both (myself included).

Bathtime has begun. My brain is flooding with a list of to-dos from work, groceries that I need to order, wondering when I’m going to drop off my Rent-the-Runway dresses, and then I’m snapped back to the present moment, as my toddler starts shaking their naked butt at me. The bathroom starts to fill with splashes of water, and it’s time to get the kids out of the tub and ready for bed. After jammies, I wipe the sweat from the cleavage of my nursing bra, and I find myself snuggled on a bean bag, reading Goodnight Moon to the six eyes beside me.

I put the two larger and mobile babies in their cribs, sound machine on, lights off, and ventured to my bedroom to rock and nurse the baby to sleep. By now, I’m delirious. I can hear the older ones crying, which sends a feeling of pure adrenaline into my body, yet I must sit and rock and nurse.

Thirty minutes later, it’s finally quiet. I debate putting the sleeping baby in the crib, but he’s giving an almost weighted blanket level of tranquility to my soul, so I remain there and open the notes app on my phone.

You.

Can.

Have.

It.

All.

I type the five words in staccato sentences as if I’m starting a prolific haiku. I stare at the words, wondering where the friction is coming from.

You.

Which you? Is it the high achiever inside of me who doesn’t want to give up her career and leave every meeting ten minutes early to go stick her boob in a plastic funnel to be milked? She’s killing it, finally feeling confident in her skills and abilities to make an impact in the organization. Or is it the party girl and passionate lover of sex who has many other things she’d rather be doing with her boob? Or the mother who just wants to sit and rock the baby all night and forget every corporate and social responsibility given to her?

“You” feels like too many people for three little letters.

Who can have it all?

Which version?

For once, I could clearly see the various characters I was playing throughout my day and realized the more I tried to merge them into a singular human, the more chaos and guilt I felt inside.

You see, we’ve been taught that the goal is to align every part of our lives.

But here’s what I’ve learned with a 20-year career, 3 kids, and a divorce: Alignment isn’t always the answer.

Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is compartmentalize.

I’m not the same person when I’m negotiating a business deal as I am when I’m reading bedtime stories to my kids.

The version of me at work doesn’t love missing meetings to drive to karate. The version of me with my family doesn’t care about Slack messages and email notifications.

And neither of those versions of me has a high sex drive (if I’m being honest).

In Toxic Grit, I introduce Character Theory - a framework to help you navigate the different roles you play in your life and how to understand, honor, and separate them.

Each version of you has different needs, goals, and rules.

Trying to live one perfectly aligned life often means merging so many parts of you that don’t align. Instead, honor the role you’re in and learn to transition between them with intention. That’s how you can reclaim energy, joy, and clarity.

Ready to stop feeling like you are doing everything and succeeding at nothing?

It’s all about the ART of transitions.

You likely don’t have the luxury to do less….but you need to transition better. When you’re juggling roles (CEO, mom, partner, caregiver), the exhaustion often comes not from the tasks themselves, but from whiplash between identities. That’s where the ART of transition comes in.

A = Assess

Before you shift gears, take 30 seconds to ask: Who do I need to become next? What energy, mindset, or priorities will this version of me require? Going from boss to bedtime reader requires a different mental state than shifting from solo creative time to socializing. Recognizing the distance between the two roles helps you prepare, rather than abruptly snapping into the next thing and wondering why you feel off or drained.

R = Routine

Now that you know who you need to become, initiate a low-friction ritual to help your brain get there. This could be a walk, a change of clothes, a certain playlist, or even a quick snack or fun drink. The simpler and more consistent, the better. These rituals act like a Pavlovian switch, signaling: “Hey brain, it’s time to shift.”

For me, a Post Malone playlist and iced latte means I’m stepping into CEO mode. A glass of wine, bath, and Frank Ocean = date night energy. When I need to transition to parent mode I jump in the bath (there’s a theme here) and scroll funny cat videos.

Build a few repeatable cues per role you play, and you’ll reduce the mental load of shifting roles.

T = Transition

Last step: Say it out loud. Name the role you’re stepping into. This is the anchoring moment where you move with intention, not default. It could be as simple as, “Time to be mom now,” or “Let’s go, CEO mode activated.” This short phrase helps you let go of what came before, so you’re not half-in one world while pretending to show up in another. This is where character theory becomes embodied. You’re stepping into a new script, and that starts with naming your role.

If you’re exhausted from trying to “balance it all”...

If you’ve been chasing alignment but losing yourself in the process...

Toxic Grit was written for you.

This book will teach you how to:
✔️ Set guilt-free boundaries
✔️ Transition between your roles with clarity and grace
✔️ Let go of “balance” and embrace intentional imbalance

You can preorder the book here.

With you in the messy middle,
Amanda

Today, our team is announcing the difficult decision to sunset Downshift.

As Steve shared in his post today, he felt the call to step away, simplify, and bring more spaciousness into his life. And we decided as a team that moving forward with the project without its original source in Steve didn't feel aligned. So it's going on the shelf. At least for now.

I feel a swirl of emotions today.

Lots of sadness. Sad that this program, which I witnessed change lives, won't reach more people. Sad to not get to work closely with this team in this form, for now. Sad to not get to do this work that was deeply meaningful to me. I’m still grieving this ending.

Boatloads of gratitude. I'm so thankful to Steve for bringing me in on day one to such a special project. To Tracy, Andy, and Matt for being truly truly incredible teammates and friends.

I’m also grateful for all that I learned by working on this project. When I started working on Downshift, I was just getting started on my coaching path. Honestly, I couldn't pay money to get this kind of experience and training.

I also feel deeply grateful to the 30+ participants who took a risk in joining an intense new program, and showed up with open minds and hearts. Y'all brought it. And I'm so happy to have you all in my life.

Mountains of pride. Pride in what we built yes, but honestly? I think I'm even more proud of how we worked together and communicated as a team. We were honest. Really fucking honest. We challenged each other lovingly. We showed up for each other as colleagues and humans, when we were at our best and, more importantly, at our worst. And we had FUN. Not like bullshit corporate pretend fun. REAL FUN.

When I started working on Downshift, I had a lot of past trauma from working on teams, and held a lot of resistance and fear. The risk of abandonment felt too hard to bear. This team has totally rewired how I view working on a team. We did what I believed wasn't possible in a business setting. They made me a better coworker, leader, and person. They helped me find myself again. I pray we get to keep working together in some form.

I want to give a heartfelt thank you to each member of our team.

Steve showed me a form of empathetic and conscious leadership I didn’t know existed. He challenged me, and I challenged him. His vision and creativity shined through in everything we did. I got to learn, firsthand, from one of the truly great coaches of the day.

Tracy is my long-lost Jewish sister. Working together was SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. We also challenged each other but it always felt like love. It always felt like we were in flow together, whether we were designing curriculum or facilitating group work.

Andy was like our steady rock that was also sometimes an earthquake (in the best way possible). He makes me feel stronger. He makes me feel safe. And his ability to bring visions to reality is second-to-none.

Matt stepped bravely into this work at an early stage in his career and brought a steady, calm presence to every moment together. It was incredible to watch him grow as a coach and facilitator. I loved getting to partner with him and feel extremely confident that he’s going to continue to do such incredible work in this world

Alice, our breathwork facilitator, brought such warmth and wisdom to our container. I pray I’ll have more elders like her in my life and that we stay in partnership in some form.

I'm still a massive massive believer in what Downshift stood for: slowing down, being present, and living life in deeper alignment.

We believed that work doesn't have to be a constant source of stress. That pausing, breathing deeply, getting in touch with your body and nature, and listening to your deepest intuitions aren't just nice to haves, they're a critical part of humaning... yes, even if you're a big-time hustle CEO. ESPECIALLY if you're that.

When we become aware of the stories and scripts that were handed to us, we become empowered to rewrite our scripts.

We started this project because we had all been on our own journeys of burnout, misalignment, and finding our way through the abyss. We’re all on the path of coming back to alignment in who we are and the work we choose to do.

Making the choice to let Downshift rest is a big step for all of us in practicing what we’ve preached and staying in alignment.

Downshift changed my life.

Whether it comes back in some form or not, it will always live on inside me and in how I show up in the world.

What's next for me?

I'm taking this message from the universe to focus.

My energy to get out there and build my coaching business is filled to the brim. So that’s what I’m doing. My goal is to get my 1-1 practice up to speed by the end of this year.

What’s becoming clear for me is that the path calling me isn’t community work OR inner work, it’s the integration of the two. That’s who keeps coming to me. People who are working in the business of community AND who want support in navigating their inner stories, patterns, anxieties, balance, presence, and burnout.

I’m getting to bring the Downshift methodology to the people I know and understand best. Which is great because, frankly, community builders need this form of support and it just hadn’t been there.

My most recent community founder client just shared this testimonial with me yesterday:

“David's Coaching was nothing less than transformational for me. I was in a burned-out and overwhelmed state. Utilizing his approaches on mindfulness and self-awareness, I was able to take control of my life while running my business.”

That’s what’s giving me life. Helping leaders live more energetic, balanced, stress-free, financially abundant lives, while building businesses in service of others.

So if you’re a community builder, founder, or ambitious pro who wants a coach who can support you in both the inner AND outer game of building businesses and navigating transitions, please reach out!

Otherwise, I'm listening, trusting, and surrendering to whatever comes next.

Love to all of you. Thanks for following along.

Onward.

There was a long time when I didn’t know who to turn to. I was building companies and hustling in my career while, at times, feeling totally anxious, overwhelmed, and insecure.

I spun in circles for a long time, struggling alone. I was unsure if what I needed was a coach, a therapist, or just a good nap. And I didn’t know how to take the step toward getting the professional support I needed.

This question of whether to choose a coach or a therapist, and how to find the right one, comes up often with my coaching clients. So, I thought today I’d share my lessons to help any of you who are sitting with this question.

I come to this question from the experience of:

1. Being a 4x founder over the last 16 years

2. Being a client of a number of different kinds of coaches (exec, IFS, conflict, Aletheia, and more) over the last 10 years

3. Being a client for a traditional talk therapist (CBT)

4. Being a full-time coach for founders, execs, and community builders over the past two years

5. My training and education as a coach by Aletheia, Hakomi, and more

There are many different kinds of coaches and therapists. And both coaching and therapy are incredibly valuable. Finding the right one can be life-and-career-changing.

I hope this guide helps you take a step toward finding the support you need.

Before we dive in, just a reminder that this article is for informational purposes only and is not intended to provide medical, psychological, or therapeutic advice. Always consult a licensed mental health professional or healthcare provider for personalized support.

Should you work with a therapist or a coach?

Let’s start with the big question. Therapist or coach? The challenge is that the lines have blurred, and traditional definitions no longer apply.

Therapy used to be all about looking "backward” at trauma, childhood, and inner patterns, while coaching was all about looking “forward” with strategy, planning, and optimization.

This is no longer the case. A lot of coaches take a more therapeutic lens and look back, work with “lowercase-t” trauma, unpack long-held patterns, etc.

And many therapists now take an approach that, traditionally, we would have considered to be “coaching”: forward-looking, planning, strategizing, etc.

So, while I don’t recommend throwing out this question entirely, I’d keep this important point in mind:

The individual and their specific methodology, experience, and vibes matter more than whether they identify as a coach or therapist.

Always look deeply at the individual and whether they are a good fit for you.

Now, there are many different “inner work” methodologies in coaching and therapy. It’s easy to find yourself drowning in acronyms and obscure words (CBT, IFS, EMDR, somatic work, parts work 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫). It can be overwhelming to figure out which one is right for you.

Here is a helpful guide that explains some of the more common therapeutic methodologies and may help you narrow down the one that’s right for you.

My take?

Don’t stress about finding the perfect fit on day one. Most experienced practitioners will help you clarify what you need over time and refer you elsewhere if your work together reveals a better path. It’s okay to start with something basic and foundational, and explore deeper or more specialized approaches as you go.

The importance of chemistry

The best advice I received from a mentor on how to select a coach, which I think also applies to therapy:

“Is this someone that you’ll want to call on your worst days and your best?”

This person is going to be strapped alongside you on the roller coaster of your life and career. It should be someone you genuinely enjoy spending time with. It’s like dating. There has to be a connection. A spark.

It’s not just because it will be more enjoyable. It’s because the relationship itself plays a central role in growth and healing. Experiencing a safe, consistent, and compassionate relationship can begin to rewire our brains around what’s possible when interacting with other humans. We get to experience what “secure attachment” feels like, and then bring that security out into the world.

For example, I have a pattern of avoiding conflict. My therapists and coaches have created safe containers for me to test that edge, inviting in a little more conflict, allowing me to give them direct feedback that might hurt their feelings. Seeing them respond to my feedback with kindness and openness has reformed the pattern for me. It’s given me experience with a new possibility.

Of course, feeling chemistry with your coach or therapist is just one component. There are other practical considerations. Let’s talk about them…

Seven dimensions to consider when selecting a coach or therapist

Here are some considerations that can help you clarify who’s the best fit for you, along with interview questions you can bring with you to your intro call.

1. Domain Expertise: Do you want mentorship and advice?

Are you looking for someone who has walked the path that you’re on? Someone who can share lessons, frameworks, and perspectives from their own experience (e.g., starting a business, navigating burnout, reinventing their identity)? Someone who understands the jargon and inside jokes? It’s likely you’re looking for a coach here.

Many of my clients come to me because of my experience with building businesses, communities, and navigating transitions. They want someone supporting them who they believe has already been down a similar path. My coaching weaves together space holding and mentorship.

Therapists generally lean away from giving advice. Some coaches, too. Many, like me, are happy to blend both space-holding and advice-giving.

If this is important to you, ask up front how they bring mentorship into the container. And make sure to vet them on their lived experience.

Keep in mind, you don’t need your coach to have the same experience level as you. Some of the greatest NBA coaches in history never made it far in their own careers. Just make sure they’ve experienced enough to have an understanding of what you’re going through.

Ask them:
“What kind of personal experience do you have with what I’m navigating? Do you bring mentorship into our work together? If so, how?”

2. Scope of Practice: Are you looking for a specific methodology? Do you need clinical care?

You may be looking for a specific kind of practice. For example, some people are looking to work with an IFS practitioner or want to do somatic work.

If there are methods you know you want to work with, then you can narrow down your options based on practitioners who have training and experience with that method.

If you’re navigating mental health concerns, trauma, or need a diagnosis, you’ll want someone trained in psychological disorders and treatment. You’ll want to work with a licensed therapist here.

I’ve had potential clients come to me for coaching, whom I recommended work with a therapist first, because the level of anxiety and depression they were experiencing was beyond the scope of what I could support. I’ve also found it’s very difficult to engage with coaching effectively when you’re in a regular state of depression or intense anxiety. A therapist can help you get re-grounded first, which will open up more options.

It’s okay if you don’t know what you need yet. Just reach out or book the call. Most skilled practitioners are happy to chat and can point you in the right direction.

Ask them:
“What kinds of issues do you typically work with? How do you support the specific challenges I’m experiencing? What’s out of scope?”

3. Relationship Style: Do you want to be held or challenged?

In my experience, the work became much more valuable when I worked with someone willing to challenge me. Not so much that I felt attacked or overwhelmed, just enough to push me at my edge. It’s our job as coaches and therapists to challenge you lovingly and safely.

This goes back to the importance of chemistry and the relationship. As you build trust with your coach or therapist, you’ll become more capable of receiving their challenges.

When you interview them, take note of how much they challenge you. In an intro call, it may not be much, but you can start to get a sense of their edge. You can also ask them directly how they’ll challenge you.

Ask them:
“How do you balance being supportive with holding clients accountable or challenging them? How can I expect you to challenge me?”

4. Orientation Toward Goals: Are you focused on inner work or outer strategy?

In my kickoff with new clients, we often talk about the concept of “content and context”, from the Conscious Leadership Group. The content is the set of actions and plans you can take to reach a goal. The context is the underlying patterns, environment, and beliefs that may be preventing you from reaching the goal.

A couple examples:

Goal: I want to communicate better with my cofounder.
Content: Workshopping an email to share candid feedback with my cofounder.
Context: Exploring why I get so nervous any time there’s conflict.

Goal: I want to make more money.
Content: Creating a marketing plan to help me achieve my financial goals.
Context: Exploring the limiting beliefs I hold around money and wealth.

Therapy tends to lean heavily toward context. Some coaches do too, while other coaches lean heavily toward content.

In my experience, great coaching and therapy occur when the practitioner and the client are willing to work with both content and context.

Warning: The context work may feel a lot slower and like it’s “unproductive”. But this is the work that has most shifted things for me in the long run. The content work is important too, and can solve problems in the short run, but has generally failed to create lasting shifts.

Ask them:
“Do you tend to focus more on goals and tactics, or more on inner process and exploration? How do you bring both in to help me hit my goals?”

5. Support Format: Do you want help only in-session, or between sessions too?

Most therapy happens in session. Therapists will make themselves available to you in between sessions but it’s generally not a core part of the practice in my expeirence.

Coaching often includes support between sessions with voice notes, email, reflection prompts, practices, and homework. It’s more hands-on in that way.

If you’re looking for more ongoing contact and more activity in between sessions, that’s something to ask about up front. You may also inquire about frameworks, tools, and templates that the practitioner can offer you.

Ask them:
“What kind of support do you offer between sessions, if any? What work should I expect to do between sessions? What frameworks or tools might you bring in?”

6. Price & Accessibility: What’s your budget?

Therapy is often more affordable than coaching, especially if you have insurance.

If you’re looking for general mental health support, you can often find an excellent therapist for a fraction of what a coach might charge. That said, some therapists don’t take insurance and can be just as expensive as coaching.

I pay my therapist $25 per session after insurance. It’s extremely affordable. I pay much more for coaches—generally hundreds, sometimes over a thousand dollars per session.

If money is tight and you’re not sure what you need yet, therapy is often the more accessible first step.

Ask them:
“Do you take insurance or offer sliding scale rates?”

7. Training & Accountability: How much training and oversight do they have?

Therapists go through extensive education and licensing.

Most therapists have a master’s or doctoral degree in psychology, counseling, or social work. They’re required to complete thousands of hours of supervised clinical experience, pass board exams, and continue their education over time.

Therapists are also held to strict ethical standards and legal guidelines. Therapists are generally trained to work with trauma, mental illness, emotional dysregulation, and crisis, and there are systems of accountability if something goes wrong. You can report the issue, and they could lose their license.

Coaching, by contrast, is mostly an unregulated field. Some coaches have no formal training at all. Others have completed high-integrity certification programs (some of which are excellent). A growing number are trauma-informed or trained in modalities like IFS or somatics (I have training in both). It’s up to you to vet carefully. Ask about their training. Ask how they’ve handled tough situations with clients. Trust your gut.

I’ve worked with coaches who have truly mastered their craft. But it takes more due diligence to find the right one. If you’re dealing with trauma, mental illness, or emotional crisis, it may be safest to start with a licensed therapist where there are clear systems of accountability.

Ask them:
“What kind of training or supervision have you received? And how do you handle situations that might be outside your scope?”

Working with more than one coach or therapist at a time

You don’t have to find one person who does it all.

One of the most powerful shifts I’ve made in my personal growth work was moving from the question, “Who’s the one person that can support me?” to “What support team can I build around me?”

At any given time, I’ve worked with:

• A therapist to help me process and stabilize

• A coach to take me deep into inner work

• Another coach to help me grow my business or leadership skills

Each relationship has served a different function. Each one supports a different part of me.

Here’s how it’s looked in practice:

• My CBT therapist gives me space to vent, process emotions, and stay grounded. He doesn’t take me especially deep, but that’s okay. I don’t always need depth. Sometimes I need containment and steadiness.

• My IFS or Hakomi-trained coaches take me into the deeper terrain: core wounds, emotional release, and big shifts in identity. That work is intense. And it’s not always what I want every week. Therapy helps me integrate it.

• Strategic or executive coaches have helped me navigate career and leadership questions: decisions, communication, conflict, direction. When I was a CEO, this kind of coaching was essential. Now I work with coaches who help me sharpen my own coaching.

Each plays a role. None is “better” or “more complete.” They’re just different tools for different jobs.

If I expected my therapist to do deep identity work or my executive coach to hold space for grief, I might be disappointed. But together, they create a support system that’s much more responsive to where I’m at.

What about spiritual teachers?

There’s a third type of support you can work with that I think is worth mentioning: The spiritual teacher.

The lines here are becoming increasingly blurred as well, with some coaches and therapists taking a more holistic, spiritually inclusive approach.

For example, Aletheia, where I’ve received coach training, integrates nonduality into the methodology. I’m also a practitioner of Zen Buddhism and often introduce practices like Zazen meditation to my clients.

Some coaches may work with psychedelics, Akashic readings, Reiki, Qi Gong, energy work, or other more spiritually oriented practices. Many of the coaches I know have a deep spiritual practice that they bring into their container, explicitly or implicitly.

Then, there are the pure spiritual teachers. Roshis, priests, rabbis, imams, shamans, etc. I haven’t worked with a spiritual teacher in a formal, ongoing capacity. I’ve sat with teachers, one-off, through my Zen practice, and I learn a great deal from talks and books from Zen teachers that I bring into my life and business.

Zen has helped me approach life and work from a non-dual perspective. It’s helped me deepen my meditation practice, keeping me grounded through the storms of building businesses. And it’s given me entirely new ways of seeing the world. As a coach, my Zen practice has helped me be more present and capable of holding nonjudgmental space for my clients.

Spiritual teachers can also help with strategy and planning. I’ve brought similar questions to monks that I’ve brought to coaches and therapists, and received unique perspectives.

For example, when I was struggling with motivation after emptying my tank of dirty fuel, I asked a Zen teacher, “What’s the point of doing any work if I’m no longer motivated to achieve?” and she smiled and reminded me of the Boddhisatva Vow, “to end the suffering of all beings.”

It’s something a coach or therapist wouldn’t have told me. They would have helped me inspect the parts of me that worry about not being motivated, or unpack my patterns around productivity. All super helpful. But being reminded of the Boddhisatva Vow gave me something different, which felt tied to a larger purpose, steeped in reverence.

For some, just having a spiritual teacher is enough. It covers what they’d hope to get out of coaching or therapy. In my experience, it’s been a critical pillar, but not the whole of the support team I’ve needed.

Still not sure? Ask. And maybe just try it out.

Every coach, therapist, and spiritual teacher I know will gladly sit with you for a session for free. And an honest coach or therapist won’t try to sell you. They’ll help you get clear on what you truly need right now.

That includes me. If you’d like to explore coaching, you can learn more about my practice here. If it seems like a potential fit, I’m happy to do a free session with you. If I’m not a fit, please still reach out. I’m happy to email with you and help you find the path that’s right for you.

My recommendation, whatever you try, is to give it some time (at least three months). This is what I ask of my clients when we kick off. Coaching and therapy are both built on relationships between you and the coach and therapist. It can take time to build that trust and rapport. Some people have a breakthrough after one session. For others, it takes time. Taking a long-term view of the relationship is key.

I hope this guide will help you take a step toward getting the support you need. Coaching and therapy have been nothing short of life-changing for me. I only wish I had started sooner.

If you have any questions, please drop a comment or send me an email! I’d love to help, and I’m sure other readers here would love to help too.

—

My deep gratitude to Derek Haswell, Amber Gauci Ward, Ayla Zeimer, Ketriellah Goldfeder, and Ivan Diller for their review and feedback on this article.

They want to take the leap to do more meaningful, soulful work, but are concerned about making money.

And they’re not alone. There’s a reckoning happening with work, fueled by late-stage capitalism, the rapid rise of AI, the rising costs to buy a home and provide for your family, and the rise of anxiety, depression, and burnout. This thing ain’t working.

As a result, many of us are reaching a point in life and career where we’re starting to question the scripts. We’re waking up to a different way of living and working than the one passed down by our parents, and their parents, and their parents.

Perhaps you’ve found that there’s a part of you getting louder. The part that wants alignment, depth, and meaning in your work. A part that’s tired of pretending to be okay doing work that leaves you feeling exhausted and disconnected.

At the same time, money is real. Bills are real. The risk is real. The part of you that’s waving the red flag and saying “DON’T DO IT, IT’S NOT SAFE, YOU’RE GOING TO DIE POOR”, is probably being a little too dramatic, but also holds some truth. It’s not wrong to be cautious, especially if others rely on you or you’ve worked hard to build a stable life.

So what do you do? Do you take the leap?

What work “should” be

There are a whole lot of “shoulds” flying around the zeitgeist today, around how one is meant to approach work. Let’s take a moment to explore some of the common ones…

First, there are the scripts that keep us in soulless jobs:

“Success comes to those who hustle.”

Perhaps. But what if hustling leads to exhaustion? What if the cost of nonstop productivity is losing touch with what actually matters? What if this isn’t the only option anymore?

“You don’t have to love your job. That’s why they call it work.”

Says who? Also, seems pretty limiting, no? Is it not possible to enjoy your work?

“Money first. Then you can do what you love later.”

But what if that day never comes? What if, one day, you look up and realize the life you were hoping for has already passed you by?

Then, there are the scripts that tell us to blindly follow our hearts:

“Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

Okay, but all work, no matter how aligned, has hard parts, right? There will always be moments that suck. Expecting tension-free work doesn’t seem very reasonable.

“Do what you love and the money will come.”

Will it? How do you know? What if it doesn’t? Aren’t there countless stories of gifted artists and soul-led creators who struggled to get by? Think about ol’ Van Gogh. A master who died poor.

“If you you love doing something, never do it for free.”

What if monetizing it will ruin it? What if it strips away the joy? Why does everything have to be tied to monetization?

—

So let’s acknowledge that one path isn’t better than the other. There are unhelpful scripts on both sides.

You can’t sacrifice your soul. You just know you can’t. But you also can’t be careless with money. That would be irresponsible. The question isn’t money or soul. We need both.

But make no mistake, the shift is happening. If you’re still reading this post, that much is probably true. Something is awakened in you. Something is calling. Fight it, run from it, numb it—it will still arrive.

So what’s the right next step?

“Do I quit my job? Should I take the leap?”

Let’s set aside the platitudes. The question I invite you to explore is, what shift is right for you, right now?

I see there generally being four paths:

1. The big leap

2. Micro-shifts

3. The middle way

4. Do nothing

Let’s briefly explore each one…

1. The big leap

Blow it all up. Burn it to the ground. Quit the job. Leave the company. End the career. This path is a total restart. Unplug yourself and plug yourself back in.

Sometimes the heart is clear, and the discomfort of staying put becomes too heavy to carry. The big leap may be scary, but it becomes the only honest move left.

This is what I ended up doing when I stepped down from CMX. I knew incremental change wasn’t going to do it. I was too caught up in the script. I felt the call to leap into the abyss. And so I did. But it’s not the only path.

2. Micro-shifts

In this path, you stay put, but start to carve out a bit more space for exploration. You dip your toe into your “soul path” in small, incremental ways, on the side of your existing work.

You reclaim a few hours for the work that lights you up. You slowly release the attachment to your work identity to make room for something new to emerge, slowly letting your soul take up just a little more room in your life and work. Perhaps you bring more spiritual or mindfulness practices into your life. You start working with a coach or therapist. You take one small step at a time.

For those of you who can’t take the financial risk or just can’t bring yourself to make a bigger change, this may be the aligned path. Start small.

3. The middle way

And there may be a path in between. The middle way. Go part-time. Find ways to make money as a consultant while you explore other paths. Take on a fractional role. Something that sacrifices some income, but keeps the lights on and creates more space for you to follow your heart.

This isn’t the long-term plan. It’s a stop-gap until you find financial sustainability doing the thing you love.

4. Do nothing

There’s the fourth option. You do nothing. You stay put. You change nothing.

There’s nothing wrong with this path. Maybe there was a moment of fear about your current path that will pass, and you’ll find your rhythm again. Maybe being still, staying the course, is exactly what you need right now.

Maybe you do nothing, but the quiet voice doesn’t go away. In fact, it gets louder. Staying the course feels less and less like a viable option. Making a change becomes something you can’t not explore. Beautiful. Now you can revisit options 1-3 again.

—

I’ve guided people on all four paths. All four are great. All four work.

So, how do you know which one is right for you?

Which path is right for me?

Here’s a three-step process I go through with clients when they’re sitting on the threshold, deciding what path to take.

Step 1: Sort out the financial stories from financial reality

The first question I often ask when someone holds fears around money is, “Have you run the numbers?” The answer is almost always “not yet”.

If you haven’t run the numbers, then your fear around money is a story that may not be rooted in reality.

Seeing the numbers helps tremendously. How much do I have saved? How much runway do I have if I make no income? What’s my runway if I make less money?

Okay, this is what I’m working with.

You might find that it’s not nearly as risky as you thought. Or maybe it is. Great. Now you know. You’ve sorted out the stories from reality.

Step 2: Identify the non-financial stories

Usually, money is a catch-all for a bunch of other reasons one uses to avoid making a change. It’s easier to just say “money” than to inspect those stories closely.

But once you get the money story out of the way, you may find these stories emerging on their own. Stories like…

• “My parents/friends/family will judge me if I don’t have a job.”

• “I don’t know who I am without my job and reputation. Without it, I feel worthless.”

• “I’ve invested so much into my career. Am I just going to waste it?”

• “I’m scared of not having a goal to work toward. The uncertainty is terrifying.”

• “What if I take the leap into the abyss, and I never find solid footing again?”

You may not be able to reform these stories right now, but just seeing them is an important first step. You can then continue to unpack them with your support network, therapy, coaching, or journaling. Where did these stories come from? Are they true? How would it feel if you didn’t hold onto this story? Who would you be without this story?

Step 3: Explore your options

Now that you’ve sorted out stories from reality, you can start to explore which of the three paths we discussed earlier feels right for you.

• The big leap: Is this path an option for you? How much time are you willing to invest in yourself to give yourself the space to explore other paths?

• Micro-shifts: Could you shift your role, start a project, or reclaim a few hours each week for what your heart longs for (or to discover what your heart longs for)?

• The middle way: What are the options available to you that will let you keep income coming in, while carving out more time to explore this next chapter?

• Do nothing: Is there any urgency to make a change right now? Can you give yourself some space and time to just stay the course, and see if this inner voice persists?

Still not sure? It could be that you’re trying to answer this question entirely with your mind. It’s what we high achievers do. We try to think our way through any problem. But your body holds wisdom, too. More than you can imagine.

Here’s how to check with your body:

1. Close your eyes, take three deep breaths, and invite each path into your awareness, one at a time. Give each path at least 2-3 minutes. It can take some time for your body to respond.

2. Keep breathing and notice the sensations, energy, vibrations, temperature, visuals, or anything else that arises within you, as you sit with each path. What do you feel? Where do you feel it? Which paths bring a sense of expansion? Which ones bring a feeling of contraction? Which paths make you feel something? Which paths make you feel nothing? Don’t try to attach stories to the feelings right away. Just let yourself feel them, and keep breathing.

3. What did your body have to teach you about the path that feels most alive? You can stop here and just be with what unfolded. If you’d like to unpack it further, you can journal about your experience or talk through it with a peer, coach, or partner.

Start close in…

I don’t have the answers. But I know that the questions you’re asking are important. They’re signs that something in you is ready to evolve.

And maybe the next step isn’t about figuring it all out right now. Maybe the next step is to just listen. To “live the question" as Rilke famously invited us to do. To trust that something real is waking up in you, and there’s nothing you have to do other than surrender to all that’s coming to life.

With that, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite David Whyte poems…

Start Close In

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step
you don’t want to take.

Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way to begin
the conversation.

Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people’s questions,
don’t let them
smother something
simple.

To hear
another’s voice,
follow
your own voice,
wait until
that voice

becomes an
intimate
private ear
that can
really listen
to another.

Start right now
take a small step
you can call your own
don’t follow
someone else’s
heroics, be humble
and focused,
start close in,
don’t mistake
that other
for your own.

Start close in,
don’t take
the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step
you don’t want to take.

I’ve been sitting with this question recently as I’ve been stepping into a new chapter where I’m working hard again.

I have no choice. We’re buying a house. Third kid on the way. Pressure’s on fella! It’s time to start earning. And if I’m being honest it’s not just out of necessity. I’m enjoying it. The warrior energy is alive in me right now.

So I’ve been working more intensely than I have in years. One might even say I’m HUSTLING again dun dun.

“Bad Spinks, no hustle, only calm”, says the tiny yogi sitting on my shoulder.

“Yeahhh, that’s not going to work anymore. We have real-world needs. Time to get after it,” says the tiny entrepreneur sitting on my other shoulder.

Maybe they’re both right.

Somewhere along the way, we decided that hustle was inherently toxic. That grinding, pushing, and executing at high speeds was fundamentally at odds with consciousness, presence, and well-being. It’s too aggressive. Too masculine.

But I’m realizing that I no longer buy into the story. I’d like to let my inner Gary Vee out of the basement and explore what it could look like to hustle consciously.

Can one execute at a high level while staying present and aware? What would it look like to bring my full presence to periods of intense work?

Hustle is an important part of life. Whether it was our ancestors chasing down a gazelle for hours on end, or a team cranking to ship a software product, "hustle mode" is simply part of human-ing.

The question for me is no longer whether to hustle... it's how.

When Hustle is Blind

I know what hustle feels like when it’s not conscious.

I get tunnel vision. I lock into the work but lose myself. I’m disconnected from my body. There’s a constant feeling of urgency, fear, and anxiety. And instead of giving myself the space and time to be with those uncomfortable feelings, I try to work through it. I get a lot done, but it always comes with a cost.

I think I picked up this habit back in college. I was a habitual procrastinator. I’d put off studying for a big test until the night before, then lock myself in the library and grind for hours. Head down, headphones in, totally in it. And more often than not, it worked. I’d ace the exam. The adrenaline would carry me through, and I’d get the reward on the other side.

That pattern: wait until the pressure hits, then go all in, became a kind of internal logic. A survival strategy. A belief that if I just push hard enough, I can pull anything off.

The problem is that the strategy followed me into adulthood. But unlike school, where the work is handed out in neatly packaged assignments and it’s clear when something is “done,” startups don’t work like that. The mountain is never-ending. There’s no final exam. No natural stopping point. You can lock yourself in the proverbial library every night and still wake up to more to-dos, more expectations, more unfinished business.

The cycle becomes endless.

The Cost of Blind Hustle

While I blindly hustle, my body “keeps the score” as they say.

My shoulders tighten. My jaw clenches. My breath gets shallow. My heart races. Sometimes I snap into a moment of awareness and realize I haven’t moved in hours. I’ve ignored hunger. Skipped water. Forgotten to pee. It’s like my whole system narrows down to a single output: execute.

That’s the short-term version of blind hustle. The kind of sprint that’s effective in bursts but unsustainable.

Then there’s the long arc: the hustle mentality that seeps into weeks, months, and years. The one where there's always something urgent, where every day feels like a race, where I can't remember the last time I truly exhaled. At first, it was just about keeping up, but eventually, it became the water I swam in.

That’s when presence disappears. And while I’m not paying attention:

• The impact on my psyche, body, and soul compounds

• I lose sight of whether I’m even sprinting in the right direction

• I stop noticing the subtle cues of the people around me

• I start feeling disconnected from myself and from the world

• I lose my creative spark, I feel lost, I burn out

And still, somehow, hustle often felt like the right thing to do.

Because that’s the story I inherited. That effort equals value. That momentum means progress. That if it doesn’t feel hard, it’s not worth doing. That if I’m not moving, I’m falling behind.

There has to be a better way.

Conscious Hustle

The better way is conscious hustle.

There’s nothing wrong with hustle itself. It’s just that without awareness, it becomes a trance. A loop. A way of outsourcing my self-worth to productivity.

What I’m learning, and practicing, is a different way to hustle, one that doesn’t require me to abandon myself.

In Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, Shunryu Suzuki writes:

“Calmness of mind does not mean you should stop your activity. Real calmness should be found in activity itself.”

That’s it.

Conscious hustle isn’t about working less or staying in perpetual stillness.

It’s about being awake, so we know when to move and when to be still. It’s about staying connected to the body and its signals, to one’s values, to the people around us, to our environment.

Blind hustle is fear-based. It’s about control and urgency.

Conscious hustle is driven by presence, integrity, and self-awareness.

I think of Steph Curry on the sideline in the middle of a high-stakes game: locked in but breathing deeply, cycling between maximum effort on the court and deep rest on the bench. He knows how to stay connected to himself when the pressure is high.

Or LeBron James sleeping 12 hours a night. That’s not indulgent. That’s how you play the long game. That’s someone who understands that their inner system is the instrument of performance.

Conscious hustle means using your work as a mirror. To see your patterns. To learn how you react under pressure, and choose an aligned response.

It’s using the work rather than letting the work use you.

How to Hustle Consciously

This is an ongoing experiment for me as I step into this more intensive period of work.

Some of the things I’m doing to stay conscious while hustling:

• Maintaining presence and awareness practices like daily meditation and journaling to reveal my patterns and experiences

• Practicing nervous system regulation techniques like breathing, movement, touch, and sound

• Reducing other things that raise my cortisol levels, like intense TV shows

• Using a timer to remind me to check in on my mind and body every 45 minutes during intense work cycles

• Reciting a “work sutra” before I sit down to work to remind me of why I work and keep me grounded

• Keeping my values on a post-it note on my desk at all times

• Time blocking my days for work, fitness, family time, nature, and rest

• Working with my support network: my team, wife, therapist, coaches, and community

• Asking myself regularly if the urgency I feel is real, if I’m coming from fear or enoughness, and what I might be avoiding by throwing myself into work

• Reminding myself that this moment of intensity is just a phase, and that when it no longer serves me, I can let it go

I fail at least once every day. I fall into the trance. I forget the practices. I lose touch with myself. But this is the practice — notice that I’m lost, and gently bring myself back to awareness, over and over again.

I’d love to hear from you:

1. What would conscious hustle look like in your life?

2. How do you stay conscious while working hard?

3. Is conscious hustle possible? Or am I just fooling myself?

Drop a reply or comment and let me know.

Until next week…

Stay enough,
David

P.S.

If you’re a leader navigating a season of intensity and want support staying grounded, I’ve got a few coaching spots open. Reach out. I’d love to talk.

• When taking action can actually keep us stuck

• The moment I realized doing more wasn’t working

• Five invitations for knowing when it’s time to pause and go inward

For most of my life, I’ve been someone who gets shit done.

Start a company? Done. Ship a newsletter? Done. Quit my job and move across the country with a toddler and pregnant wife? Done and done.

So when I felt stuck, my default response was ACTION. Push harder. Try a new strategy. Take the next step. Don’t just sit there, MOVE.

If I didn’t have the answer, I thought someone out there might. I’d ask mentors for advice, read lots of articles, and try to find the one piece of information that would get me unblocked.

But, often, the more I leaned on action as the answer, the more I noticed that I wasn’t actually making progress. In fact, I would just feel more stuck. I was moving but going nowhere. I was solving problems, but only with great force. Each day would end and I’d be absolutely exhausted.

Something was off. And I couldn’t fix it by doing more.

When doing doesn’t work?

This question came up recently when a coaching client asked me something beautiful and honest:

“How do I know when I should orient toward taking action to move through a situation and when I should pause and do the inner work?”

I didn’t have a perfect answer. But I recognized the question. Deeply.

When I was leading CMX, I was in perpetual motion. The team and community needed direction. There was always another project, another fire, another deadline. As a bootstrapped company, our bank account was a constant reminder that if I stopped moving, everything might fall apart.

So I kept going. But I wasn’t listening to what was happening inside me.

Back then, I didn’t have much awareness of my inner world, but I can see now the parts of me that were screaming for attention. Unexamined beliefs, old stories, protective patterns, all working overtime beneath the surface.

I had parts of me that were terrified of letting people down, others that believed I had to prove my worth through performance. And because I wasn’t in relationship with those parts of me, I was often at odds with myself. Some parts of me were hitting the gas, while others were hitting the brakes.

Sometimes what we need isn’t more muscle. It’s less resistance.

Removing friction vs adding force

There’s an analogy I come back to when I think about action vs introspection:

Imagine a car stuck in the mud. You can press the gas pedal harder, add force.
Or you can step out, clear the mud from the tires, and create traction.

Both are forms of action. But one gets you more stuck. The other sets you free.

We often treat inner work like it’s passive, even indulgent. But in my experience, it’s anything but. It’s a kind of action that requires presence, honesty, and courage. It’s just as hard, if not harder, as the discomfort of taking external action.

There are moments in life, every day, where we need to downshift. Not to come to a stop, but so that we can slow down enough to reorient, then hit the gas in the right direction.

Five invitations for deciding between action and introspection:

Here are a few invitations I’ve found helpful for discerning whether it’s time to do something… or to pause and listen more deeply.

1. Reframe stillness as a form of progress.

Clarity isn’t always loud. Sometimes the most important movement happens when we’re quiet enough to hear what’s true. Notice the stories you hold about what is productive (action) and what is a waste of time (slowing down). Remember the car stuck in the mud.

2. Pause before you push.

It’s never a bad time to check in with yourself before taking action. It doesn’t have to be an hour-long self-therapy session. Before taking your next step, you might simply close your eyes, take three deep breaths, and notice what’s happening in your body, heart, and mind. If you find a lot of tension, and a lot of conflicting thoughts, it might be a good moment to extend the pause and explore what’s happening in your inner world.

3. Check for fear.

Where is the impulse to take action coming from? Is there fear here? Fear of failure? Fear of judgment? Fear of being seen, or not being enough? Are you moving because you feel called, or because you’re trying to outrun something?

Fear might be present (that’s human), but is it in the driver’s seat? You’ll know because action from fear often feels urgent, tight, disconnected. You may feel constriction in your body. Action from alignment feels clear, grounded, alive. Your body may feel more open and loose.

4. Watch for urgency.

Urgency is rarely a sign of clarity. It’s usually a signal that something deeper is being avoided or defended. If your action feels like it has to happen right now, slow down and check if the urgency is rooted in reality (there’s a real deadline), or in your mind.

5. Look for patterns of stuckness.

If you’re doing all the “right” things but still chronically stuck, it might be time to look inward. The problem might not be the goal or the actions you’re taking. There’s likely an inner pattern for how you relate to this type of problem.

📖 Journaling Prompts

• What’s driving my urge to act right now? Is it clarity… or fear?

• Am I trying to solve an inner discomfort with an external solution?

• If I did nothing for a moment, what feeling would surface?

• What part of me wants to move forward, and what part wants to pause?

• When I imagine taking this action, does my body feel more open or more tense?

P.S. I’m a founder, exec, and community coach, and I LOVE helping my clients get unstuck. I want you to be the unstuckest. If you find yourself stuck in the mud often, and you’re looking for a coach in your corner, I’ve got a few spots open. Please get in touch!

❤️ The Love Corner

Lovely things people in my community are putting out in the world…

• Lindsey Lerner is offering a one-week “Media Strategy Kit” experience for founders, coaches, and creatives ready to show up like they mean it, where you’ll leave with a one-liner that hits, portraits that feel like you, and a story that actually lands.

• Nadia Asparouhova⁠ announced her (surprise) new book Antimemetics, on ideas that are inherently unspreadable. Fascinating topic.

• Amanda Goetz is kicking off a 35-day crash course in building a revenue-generating newsletter (with zero fluff, daily emails, live workshops, and a hype squad of fellow solopreneurs).

That’s all for today! Thanks for reading and please drop a comment and say hi if any of this resonated with you.

Stay enough,
David

• Potential sounds good, but it can keep us stuck

• How I broke the spell of potential in my career

• Five ways you can navigate the trap of potential in your life today

For years, I stayed in a role I had outgrown.

When we started CMX, I poured my heart into building something that I believed truly mattered. And it did matter. I had a great deal of conviction in our purpose and cared deeply for the people we were serving.

But somewhere along the way, I started showing up not because I felt alive in the work, but because I was attached to what it could become.

I had so many visions. Greater impact. A bigger conference. A growing team. We wanted to build a school for community professionals, a certification program, an awards program, a global network of local chapters… the visions were endless.

I’d compare us to other communities or businesses who were farther along than us and think, we’re not there yet, but we could be.

Of course, every milestone became a moving target. Like a never-ending hall of doors, I’d finally crack one door open just to find another door, heavy and bolted, waiting for me to start banging away.

“I feel stuck”

There wasn’t one big breaking point. More of a slow erosion.

I was waking up with pressure in my chest. I felt anxious, rushed, angry. I would get frustrated with others and blame them for how I was feeling.

I was creatively blocked. I craved spaciousness and inspiration, but couldn’t find it.

And even when there were moments of joy—financial stability, a team I loved, beautiful community experiences—there was also a quiet, persistent voice saying: this isn’t it anymore.

Letting go felt impossible. My identity was fused with the company. If CMX was successful, then I was enough. If it wasn’t, then maybe I wasn’t either.

And I felt a commitment to the team and the community. I’ve promised them this potential. How could I not follow through? Will that make me a hypocrite?

The pressure built within me. Eventually, the decision came to a head. My equity from the acquisition was fully vested and I had to decide. Stay or go.

There were so many voices in me saying, “Stay. Don’t risk it. Don’t walk away from a good thing. Don’t let people down.” But I also knew: there had to be more to life than this. And I wanted to find out what that was.

Potential as possibility

Potential isn’t bad. It’s beautiful, actually. It’s the part of us that imagines, that dreams, that reaches for something more. I still see potential everywhere—in my coaching clients, in the retreats we’re building with Downshift, in my creative work. I don’t want to shut that part of me down. But I’ve learned to hold it more gently now. To see it as a possibility, not a requirement.

These days, when I notice myself gripping too tightly to an imagined outcome, I pause. I ask: Am I making my self-worth conditional on this happening? Am I telling myself that I’ll only be enough if this succeeds, grows, scales, proves something? That’s usually my cue. The tighter I hold onto potential, the more disconnected I become from what’s actually here now.

And I’ve come to learn that I never want to sacrifice the aliveness of the present moment in service of a fantasy. No matter how shiny or meaningful that fantasy might seem. The present moment is the only place anything real can happen. It’s the only place where truth lives.

5 Ways to Navigate the Trap of Potential

Here are some invitations, based on what I’ve learned about navigating the trap of potential. As always, this isn’t advice, it’s an offering of experiments you might run. Try what resonates. Ditch what doesn’t.

1. Pay attention to your body.
   Before your mind catches on, your body will tell you the truth. Pressure in your chest, constant anxiety, chronic tension… these are signs you might be out of alignment. Don’t override them. Stay with them. Listen to the truth your body is trying to reveal to you.

2. Flip the risk equation.
   Most people stay stuck because they fear the risk of change. But staying the path comes with its own risks: disconnection, resentment, creative atrophy. Ask: What is the cost of staying the path?

3. Name the stories you're telling yourself.
   Are you attaching your self-worth to an outcome? Do you believe you have to “make it work” to prove you’re enough? Get curious about what narratives are running the show.

4. Use potential as a compass, not a contract.
   It’s okay to see potential. But check if you're clinging to it as an obligation. Can you hold the vision lightly, something that inspires, not imprisons?

5. Come back to the now.
   When you feel overwhelmed by what could be, drop into what is. Use a presence practice (for me that’s meditation, journaling, walks in nature) to reconnect to the truth of the present moment. That’s where real change begins.

📖 Journaling prompts:

• What potential outcomes are you attached to?

• What are you afraid will happen if you take the leap toward something new?

• What are you already losing by staying where you are?

• What signals is your body sending that you might be ignoring?

☝️One last thing: If you realize you’re feeling misaligned with work, that doesn’t mean you have to leave your company. You can do this work while staying in your seat. You may find, after deep reflection, that you do enjoy what you’re doing, and it’s just how you show up to it that needs to change. Change doesn’t always mean changing what you do. It could be an inner change that’s calling to you.

Thanks for reading!

If this article resonated, feel free to reply, comment, or forward it to someone who might need to hear it.

P.S. I’m a founder and leadership coach and community consultant. Reach out if you’d like to explore working together. I have three available slots for new clients at the moment.

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The room is perfectly still, except for the occasional shuffling of robes or the sound of my neighbor swallowing. My knees and back ache, a persistent throb that’s growing sharper with each passing minute. The pain anchors me in reality.

It’s day two of Sesshin, a 7-day, silent, Zen meditation retreat I attended at the Zen Mountain Monastery. We’re in the middle of Zazen (just sitting meditation). My mind has been racing, mostly about how much I want to go home. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting, time has started to lose its shape. I listen carefully for the quiet movement of the timekeeper, which would signal that they’re about to ring the bell and set me free.

I was warned this retreat would be intense. They weren’t kidding. Sesshin isn’t just sitting. It’s a full immersion into silence, stillness, surrender, service, and self-confrontation. The days were structured and filled to the brim: waking before dawn, 7 hours of Zazen every day, lots of chanting and bowing, formal silent meals, and caretaking of the grounds.

Typically, Sesshin involves a Dharma talk at the end of each day and 1-1 teachings (“Daisan”) offered throughout. This one did not because it was a “Bodhidharma” Sesshin, inspired by the Buddhist monk who was said to have spent nine years wall-gazing alone in a cave. So, like Bodhidarma, we were meant to just be alone with our minds with no outside influence.

There was no escape — not into conversation, not into content of any form, not even into the comforting flow of time. The only option was to be with your experience.

Finally, the bell rings, a low, resonant hum that cuts through the silence. We’ll do a few minutes of walking meditation before returning to our cushion for the next 30-minute round of Zazen. I’ll choose a different way to sit this round to give my body a break. I can’t believe I have five more days of this.

By day three I started to get the hang of it.

I became more familiar with the chants, remembered the process for formal meals (known as "Oryoki”), and got used to the schedule. With familiarity came flow. I found myself feeling awake and energized despite not getting much sleep. I hadn’t even thought about my phone in days. My mind started to quiet, mirroring the silence of my surroundings.

Then I started to notice an inner battle between surrendering to the experience and remaining vigilant.

I’ve never been one to drink the Kool-Aid, especially when it comes to religion or anywhere I sense dogmatism. I have a fiercely independent and critical mind. This made it hard to give myself over to the experience.

The chants felt cringey. The bowing to Buddha felt demeaning. The bowls and bells felt unnecessary. “What’s the point of all this? Who decided this was the right method? How do I know this isn’t a cult?” I wondered.

Then, there was a moment that shifted my entire experience.

We were chanting during one of the formal services and I looked up to observe Gokan Osho, one of the monastics. We didn’t see him much that week because he was going through a training, an ancient ritual, to become a priest. The process involved spending most of the day sitting in a dimly lit room meditating, prostrating, receiving transmissions, copying documents, and doing other secret things that are above my zen grade. But he would come out for meals and specific services, like the one we were currently participating in.

I watched as he moved through the middle of the Zendo, head bowed, brows furrowed, chanting the Sanskrit words. What I witnessed was a deep, unwavering reverence. He said each word with 100% of his heart. I don’t know what was going on in that room he had been sitting in, but he was fully immersed, and clearly believed in this process deeply. He gave himself over to it completely.

I recognized, in Gokan at that moment, something that has been deeply lacking in my life: Reverence.

I’ve long struggled to give myself over to a spiritual belief system. My negative experiences with Judaism as a kid combined with my analytical mind has kept life at a relatively shallow depth. But in that moment of observing Gokan, I saw something that felt deeply true. I felt his dedication and presence. My walls crumbled. After that, I chose, for the rest of the week, to give myself over fully. I chanted, prostrated, and participated with all my heart. I chose to trust in the teachings and experiences that brought me here. And I started having a much deeper experience.

Being in extended silence is powerful. I thought it would be hard, and sometimes it was (like when I was really struggling and wanted someone to talk to). But overall, I found silence to be easeful. It was fascinating how quickly my mind quieted when the world around me quieted.

I learned that many of my thoughts are rooted in interacting with people. When interacting with others, I have to think about what to say, how to be, what they think about me, what I think about them, and on and on. Silence removed the need to worry about any of that.

And I learned that much of the rest of my thoughts are rooted in content. The content I consume adds all sorts of thoughts, worries, and ideas to my mind. Political news murder shows, self-help articles, social media posts… it all just sparks worry, judgment, envy, and all sorts of clinging. Content I create adds all sorts of thoughts too. What should I write about? What will people think when they read it? Do I sound smart? Am I sharing too much? Will this help me grow my business? Should that matter? By removing content, all those thoughts disappeared.

So, remove all the human interaction and content, and what do I have to think about it? Not much, it turns out. I would think about my kids sometimes and how I missed them. I would think about my back when it hurt. But, for the most part, my mind was clear, just focused on what was in front of me.

At moments, my mind landed in the cleanest states of presence I’ve ever felt.

It felt like everything was okay. Life was beautifully unfolding around me. I saw the miraculous in the mundane all around me. The way the light was softly landing on the floor in front of me through the Zendo windows, the curving lines in the wood, the gentle breathing of the person sat next to me…

I sensed myself disappearing. I witnessed the impermanence of my body, of my thoughts, of everything around me. I saw how everything is flowing in and out, how there was truly no separation between me and anything else. I felt equanimity. My ego whispered, “Is this enlightenment?” and another part of my ego whispered back, “Shut up! You’re ruining it!”. Yeah, I’m still here.

But I felt like I caught glimpses of deeper states of awareness. Of pure presence.

There were also moments of great intensity. Interestingly, in the stillness and quiet of my mind, I found myself having intense somatic experiences.

When I’d drop into presence, I would feel a rush of upward energy, like a lightning bolt, course through my body starting at my chest and moving to my head. My lungs would quickly force the air out. It wasn’t painful or too overwhelming but it was unsettling, and would take me out of presence.

This is something that’s been happening to me regularly in my meditation. I often feel an uneasiness, and I often cry, but never with this frequency and intensity. With the amount we were sitting during sesshin, it became more persistent and pronounced. There was a point on day five where I couldn’t drop into presence without it happening. I became hyper-sensitive to my environment. Subtle sounds like a door creaking or a person’s cough would trigger the jolt of energy to shoot through me.

I didn’t know what to do with it, so I decided to request Daison (1-1 teaching with a teacher) with Shugen Roshi. Generally, this wasn’t being offered during the Bodhidharma Sesshin, but they made an exception for those doing Sesshin for the first time.

I entered the room where Shugen Roshi awaited, prostrated twice (as is the process), and, when I came up on my knees, his eyes were open wide, staring straight into my soul.

Daison is an intense experience (this is my second time doing it). It took me a good 10-15 seconds to get the first words out. There was that sense of reverence again, for this practice, for the teacher and their wisdom, for the powerful presence of their full attention.

I explained my experience with the jolts of energy going through me. He sat perfectly still, listening. When I was done, he softened, and we shifted into what felt like a more casual conversation.

Shugen Roshi asked me if I was having thoughts associated with these sensations. I said, “No. my mind is clear, but the sensations arise anyway”. He asked me about my practice and if I’ve been self-taught. I said, “Yes, mostly.” (I had previously attended the intro weekend retreat at ZMM).

His advice was helpful. There was nothing profound. In fact, it was guidance I’ve heard many times before. But something about being in that room, in front of that person, at that moment in the Sesshin, it hit different.

He reminded me that there are different forms of Zazen (focus on breath, open awareness, focus on koans, etc.) and that I could return to my breath when open awareness felt like too much.

He shared the analogy of my awareness being like the vast sky, and thoughts, emotions, and sensations being like clouds, moving and impermanent. I’ve treated thoughts in this way, but it hadn’t occurred to me to look at physical sensations like clouds as well.

He offered some more guidance, some emotional validation that I’m on the path, and I returned to Zazen.

From here, my experience deepened even more.

I practiced letting the jolts of energy arise while remaining in my vast awareness. Not clinging to them, not trying to stop the feeling, not leaning into it, but just letting the energy move in the way it wants to move.

Sometimes, it was still too much, and it would pull me out of awareness, and I would focus on my breath to come back to regulation. Sometimes it would unfold in interesting ways, opening into a blissful alertness, or sometimes just dissipating. I practiced being with it all, without clinging to the “good” or “bad” experiences that arose.

I’m finding that since returning from Sesshin, when I sit, this sensation continues to occur, but my capacity to be with it, to hold it in my awareness without getting swept up by it, has expanded.

This somatic sensation feels a lot like the anxiety I’ve felt throughout my life. An uneasiness with just being that would arise whenever I became too still. Throughout my life, I’ve learned to numb or avoid this sensation by throwing myself into work, social media, TV, video games, weed, alcohol, and anything else that would take me out of the present moment.

Sesshin brought it to the surface and showed me how it’s not always tied to thoughts or circumstances. It’s just something I experience when I’m still. Perhaps it’s from a past trauma I can’t remember. Whatever it is, I’m learning how to be with it without numbing or running away. This feels like a true edge for me in my journey.

By the end of Sesshin, I didn’t want to leave. It felt like a cozy cocoon.

I valued the structure, the way I didn’t have to make decisions throughout the day, the stillness and silence, and the peace I found in my inner world. I found myself dreading returning to the world of noise, work, kids screaming, social media blaring, etc. I sat with that discomfort on the final day.

On Sunday, the last day of the retreat, we sat Zazen and brought Sesshin to a close. After that, for a few hours, we would be allowed to talk before heading home.

I thought talking would feel deeply uncomfortable, but I found it quite easeful. I felt close to the other people, despite having no direct interaction all week. It felt like we had been through something meaningful together.

And, even though we didn’t talk or make eye contact, we still interacted in different ways. Our voices merged when we chanted, the energy of our silence filled the Zendo during Zazen, we took care of each other through cooking, cleaning, and serving. It felt like a purer form of connection, stripped of ego, filled instead with our shared presence and reverence.

Over lunch, it was fun to talk about our experiences and name the little things we’ve been waiting to share all week. I spent a couple hours chatting with people, took a short walk in the woods alone, and set off for home.

Since returning, my integration experience has been surprisingly smooth. I thought that the noise of the world would overwhelm me. What I’ve found is that the week of intensive practice left me with a greater capacity to be with the intensity of life and not get swept up in it, though I’ve certainly been put to the test.

I returned to a relatively intense moment in life. My nana passed away (she lived a long and wonderful life and passed peacefully). There were challenges at Downshift as we prepared for the upcoming cohort. Trump has been treating the world like his personal hacky sack. It’s been challenging to stay present.

I’ve had moments of intense anxiety, fear, and sadness arise. But what feels different is how quickly I notice it and am able to observe it, let myself feel it fully, without avoiding to clinging to it, and without totally spiraling out. I’m able to see the impermanence of it all.

Alison asked me if I felt like a different person. It was an interesting question. On one hand, I feel like less of myself, after chiseling away at layers of my ego. On the other hand, I feel like more of my true self, more fully here, more connected. I’m less my thoughts. I’m more my experience of the current moment.

I’m finding sitting Zazen to be more easeful. Before Sesshin, 30 minutes felt like my max. Now I can sit much longer, both because I’ve improved my posture and my mind isn’t so quick to want to run away from extended presence.

And I’m finding myself holding more reverence for life and for my practice. Though, I notice that this is one of the first things that starts to fade when I’m not practicing with a Sangha. I start to lose contact. Reverence, I’m noticing, primarily happens in community.

Overall I’m so happy I had the opportunity to do Sesshin. I’m grateful to Alison for taking care of our family while I was gone (while also being super pregs). I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do this again, but I’d like to eventually make this an annual practice.

So, that was my first Sesshin experience!

Your turn…

• Have you done Sesshin or any other silent meditation retreat? Did any of this sound familiar? What was your experience like?

• Have any reflections for me on my experience? I’m all ears!

• Are you thinking about doing a silent meditation retreat for the first time? What are you hoping for? Do you have any questions?

• How does reverence show up in your life? Do you also struggle with giving yourself over to it?

• Do you ever have intense somatic experiences when you meditate? How have you navigated it?

Drop a comment or hit reply to this email, I’d love to hear from you!