I’m listening to Glen Hansard, and facing toward the steady stream of newly arrived folks moving toward the baggage claim, and home, or maybe the start of something new. I actually hadn’t heard of Glen before his tragic passing this week, but two friends who’s taste in music I trust more than I trust myself shared the news of his passing with notes of their admiration, and so in a weird thing I find myself comforted by the art of a soul that’s just resettled into the stars.

I’ve heard of the Celtic belief about thin places, the idea that there are places where the veil between this world and whatever lies beyond it is thinner than elsewhere, and we find ourselves feeling closer to an ineffable something that settles the restlessness of whatever the heck this all is.

I’ve also heard musicians and writers speak of art being a portal to something more, and in reading Mary Oliver, or Rumi, or getting in close to any deeply human art, we find ourselves closer to that same something.

I think that’s a little of something I feel now, listening to Glen, and watching the steady stream of little lives living lives.

We can’t be sure what any of this is, and sometimes it feels heavy, and hard, and weird, and so far from what it could be, and yet we are all little lives living lives and loving our loves and I hope yours is beautiful, just as I hope the rest of mine is, and I hope in many, many, many years our souls resettle in the stars with little crumbs of hope left behind just as Glen, and Mary, and so many others have.

Jesse

x

You might not know that she’s doing really well, and yeah she’s 6 now, almost 7. You might not know she has her first wobbly tooth which has this sentimental Dad living in the memory of holding her in my arms that very first night.

Heck you might not even know that I’ve got two boys now too, and that one of them apparently looks just like me, and that the transition from 2 to 3 was so much smoother than 1 to 2, and that this little guy brought all of our hearts closer, and made this little family feel whole.

You probably wouldn’t know my other boys laugh and how it sounds and feels so much like sunshine that flowers grow taller when he’s near, and that he might just be medicine for us all. You might not know that he asks questions like he’s running out of time, but takes time to warm to new people. You might call him shy, but we see the beautiful bud waiting to share itself with the world.

You might not know he’s in a harder season at the moment, but he’s such a beautiful kid and we’re doing our best to hold his heart with the softest hands, to speak kind words that take up residence in his bones, and raise beautiful boys that become kind men.

You might not know that I’ve been wood working, and reading more, and trying to live more, or that at 34 I’m still not sure who I am.

You might not know that we’re not sleeping great, and some days the coffee machine pours more than it probably should, but this chapter of our lives is as beautiful as it is short and so it really is all alright. We’ve got the rest of our lives to sleep when their little hands no longer reach for us.

You might not know that I’m terrified this all might be too short, too short to spend so much of it glued to anything other than the people and places I love, but part of me knows that without all this my circle may grow smaller, and only ever get smaller, and then how many of you will really know me, and how many of you will I really know, and how much of our lives will we share?

We could write letters, but will we be busy? I’d sure like to keep them, and read through them a few decades from now.

Jesse x

The reason for our return was our love of dates, and the fact that the dates at the supermarket are reliably trash, despite being priced equally to those at the market. Few things better tell the story of the difference between local produce and that of the supermarket than dates — maybe only tomatoes. So shrivelled and dry and devoid of life are supermarket dates that they’re surely a reminder of what we might become should we forget to stay close to that which stirs our soul.

And so we got ourselves a box of dates, and a new handmade mug, and three tech decks (mini skateboards) that I’d later introduce to the kids while we waited for our treats at the bakery, and that would see us spend most of our afternoon building a skate park and jumps out of magnetic tiles and wooden blocks, to which I’ve no doubt my partner wondered whether I’d actually bought these for myself and not the kids.

On the way out of the market and toward the bakery we crossed paths with an older man, around my Dad's age. He looked great, like a dude that has looked after himself and doesn’t get too wrapped up in trivial shit. He looked at our youngest in the pram, then the other two walking with me and he said “you’ve got your hands full” which is something we hear almost relentlessly when adventuring outside with the kids, and normally lends itself to little more than that slightly odd, yet friendly laugh that you kinda feel like you need to offer in those situations.

He went on to share how he had 4 kids, and that they’re all grown up now, and actually his youngest daughter got married just yesterday.

And then he mentioned how the jump from two kids to three felt huge, but three to four felt like nothing, and that he was so glad they had four.

And then as he turned to leave he said, “this is the greatest time of your life”, in this tone that just made it so obvious his heart was doing the talking.

“The greatest time of your life” he repeated, as he turned away.

Jesse x

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You’d see that soft green couch looking across at the wall with the two beautiful yellow stained glass windows, looking out to the east, our favourite feature of this house, and see that positioned like this, the only things the couch watches are the sky changing colours, and the hibiscus blooming, and the birds passing by.

There’d be music, not news. Maybe country, or folk, or acoustic. Maybe Taylor Swift, Credence Clearwater Revival, Leon Bridges or Maggie Rogers. And we’d sit. Maybe on the couch, or the floor, or that vintage chair we found outside a shop many years ago with the hand-written ‘free’ sign that led to the potentially illegal turn to collect it, or maybe we’d find ourselves naturally sitting in a circle on that stain-free play mat we bought for the kids.

We’d drink tea, or coffee, maybe a soda water with lime, and we’d talk. About anything. About what’s been happening in our worlds. About how work’s going, or what opportunities have come your way, about creativity, or purpose, or gardening, or AI, or parenthood, or love, or how weirdly connected we all are, or baking and making, and almost certainly we’d end up talking about a commune, and the role we’d each play.

We always end up talking about a commune, which really is just a shared agreement on how much it means for us to be together, and our collective longing for a space that feels shared and not so separate.

We’d share a meal. You might have brought something, and we’d take care of dinner, because last time we did this at yours and we still think of that meal you made. There’d be homemade flatbreads, and dips, and some kind of choose your own adventure meal. Shared.

We’d breathe before we eat, and share a blessing though non—religious. There’d be conversation routinely interrupted with a ‘mmm this is so good’, followed by ‘it’s not my best’.

You’d offer to clean, and we’d push back. We’ve got this, relax we’d say, though you’d insist and so we’d do it together, all the while the conversation rarely stops, only changes, between you and I, and us, and you and them, and them and I. You’d rinse and I’d stack, and somehow we’d both end up with a tea towel over our shoulder. It’d be terribly inefficient, but fuck it who cares.

The night would get long and we’d head back to the floor, or the couch, or that vintage chair that honestly isn’t all that comfortable. We’d sit by the fairy lights, maybe light some candles, and stay well beyond our bedtimes (8pm is the norm) because we know how special it is to be together.

We’d yawn, together, and yet linger just like the poem that sits on the wall above the soft green couch, the wall where the TV ought to be but isn’t, that speaks of lingering, and leaving your scarf only to come back for it later, for the numbers of hours we have together is actually so small.

We’ll say let’s do this again, and we’ll know that we actually will.

Jesse x

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This morning my daughter said she’ll make her own breakfast, and a few minutes later sat at the table with a plate of fairy bread in front of her. I can only assume because in her mind, why not.

Free will is a beautiful thing, and maybe one of the easiest paths to good things. We deny ourselves so many little joys because of our beliefs around prim, and proper, and appropriate.

We think I can’t, I shouldn’t, or I’m not the type of person to ____ before we ever question the rule we’ve constructed for ourselves or inherited somewhere along the way.

Yes, ethics comes into any conversation around free will. But I’m not speaking of that.

I’m speaking of having breakfast for dinner, falling asleep in the lounge room and having fairy bread for breakfast. I’m speaking of leaning into curiosity, instead of clinging to familiarity, so as not to miss opportunity.

I’m speaking of switching off, logging out, locking in, looking up, speaking our heart, sharing our mind, saying yes, no or tomorrow and putting our time where we want it.

I’m speaking of curating our experience rather than our perception, our vision more than our visual and loving that which we love.

We can plant a plum tree tomorrow, take dinner to the beach, sit by the creek or paint that wall.

We can write that song, hold hands with those we love, eat honey from the jar or climb a tree.

We can skip across the street, skip that meeting, or skip a rock.

We could have a breakfast wedding, obsess over flowers, ditch the TV, buy candles, a record, and just be.

There’s just so much we can, and should. Life isn’t as long as we think it is.

Time is only ever passing, and there are no guarantees, no prizes for keeping people pleased or being the most sensible person in the room.

We should live fully while we can, say yes to our curiosities, and as says, we should:

‘Find out what makes you kinder, what opens you up and brings out the most loving, generous and unafraid version of you—and go after those things as if nothing else matters. Because, actually, nothing does.’

Jesse x

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I saw a frangipani flower resting on the ground, and thought about how much I love frangipanis.

For a moment I thought about how unusual that might be as a man.
And then I thought about how it’s not unusual at all, and I’m sure many men love flowers, but feel it’s a love they can’t express.

Then I thought about how I don’t want to subscribe to the idea that a man can’t love flowers, or that anyone can’t love anything because of any type of norm or label.

Then I thought about that line I heard recently, that often the first time a man receives flowers is at his funeral.

Then I thought fuck that.

And I thought about loving flowers more voraciously than I ever have before.

Then I thought about the time my daughter asked to buy flowers for her little brother, and how there was no part of her that hesitated or questioned whether that was an appropriate thing to do. She loves flowers, flowers are cool, and beautiful, and of course he’d love them too.

And I thought about how much he loved receiving those flowers, and how that must have felt in his heart, and how sure I am that this will become one of his earliest memories, and how ridiculously beautiful that is.

Then I thought to the years ahead where he, and she, and they, may give and receive flowers without hesitation, and each time think back to that very feeling in their hearts.

And now I’m thinking about both my sons, and my daughter, as adults, celebrating flowers, and bees, and birds, and shells, and never losing their sense of childlike joy and appreciation for the natural world, and never for a moment questioning whether any of this is appropriate behaviour, but instead running wildly with what feels good, and right, and natural in their hearts, and always, ALWAYS, choosing to surprise someone they love with a bunch of their favourite flowers.

Give men flowers.

Jesse x

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I asked what she meant by going to the sky.

“When they die” she replied.

After a couple of slow breaths I shared that she really gets to decide what people become to her when their time here ends, and that one of the cool things about being human is that we’re made of the stars, and so we never really leave.

We talked about how, when people pass, we might see them in the stars, in rivers and the ocean, in rainbows or even in animals. Like how two of my friends see their loved ones in birds.

We spoke about how some people believe we simply take on a new life, and that what I love about that idea is believing you always find your loves from a previous life, in the new life, and that I’ve felt that about her since the day she was born. That this isn’t our first rodeo together, and that her birth was us finding each other again.

Then it all felt a bit sad, so we had a big cuddle and she fell asleep on my chest.

Right about now you might be thinking this isn’t what I expected from a post about good things.

But this is a beautiful thing. Because she’s here, and I’m here, and we’re here, and you’re here. And darn it if that isn’t the goodest thing there is I’m not sure what is.

Jesse x

But the magic of this practice is that it sends me combing back through the day looking for something, searching. And of course when I do that, I start to see the good that quietly blended in with the mundane.

Like getting to the office early to decorate a work friend’s desk for their birthday, which happened to include an inflatable unicorn two or three times larger than any of us we’re expecting.

There was the biscoff cheesecake we shared in a team meeting later in the day to celebrate. That cheesecake has somehow become a staple for every birthday in our team, and it’s become this really sweet ritual. It’s funny to think that years from now I might hear the word biscoff and think back to these moments, shared with people who might still be present in my world, or might simply belong to this lil chapter.

There was the conversation with one work friend about her hopes and dreams, and another friend about how the universe is conspiring in her favour. This type of conversation is actually kinda part of my job, talking hopes and dreams, and I should take more moments to appreciate how unique that is.

There was the grandma and grandson in the car next to me at the traffic lights, looking like they were having the absolute best time together. It’s the norm now to see the passenger on their phone and the driver left to gaze out to the horizon, which I get, and it also feels sad. Car rides are such fertile ground for connection, and so to see them undistracted and laughing just felt so sweet. I’m reminiscing a lot lately on what connection and time together looked like in an analog world, so that too may have made this moment all the more beautiful.

And of course there was coming home to my beautiful family, with the partner way out of my league, and the kids so cool it’s hard to believe they’re actually related to me. And there was lying in bed next to them while they fell asleep, on the giant floor mattress we share because that’s what feels good and right for us as a family right now.

And then there’s this, right now. Letting words fall out of my mind onto a page and maybe making the decision to make those words visible to the entire world, or maybe not. That too is pretty cool.

Jesse x

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Today is a work from home day, and that makes it one of my favourite days. A slower start, and coffee with the family. I made an ‘aerocano’ this morning which, if you’re not familiar, is a frothy iced long black and I’m not entirely sure I’ll make it again. Then off to the new local cafe for a few hours of work. It’s the new local because the old local sadly, but unsurprisingly, closed down a couple of weeks ago. Unsurprising because while their coffee was great, their food was not, and while I’m no expert, I sense that probably isn’t great for longevity in their industry.

There are so many good things to share today. There was the laugh shared with the barista at said new local when she said ‘good morning’ and I replied ‘good, you?’.

There was the lunchtime run, along one of the most beautiful beach fronts in the world, that is also my local. And there was everything I saw on said run.

The two young men walking along the esplanade, one playing the accordion, the other a set of drums, and both reciting Buddhist chants.

The three Swiss, or German, or I’m really not sure, tourists, fresh out of the rainforest walk and taking a series of photos on top of the hill that I can only assume will make for an IG carousel that, as the young folk would say, slaps.

There was the couple sitting opposite each other on the hill, him strumming a guitar and playing what sounded like Closing Time (one of my all time, but forgotten of late, favourites), while she painted a canvas. A flower I think.

And there was the fact that I actually ran. An absolute delight after two weeks nursing a sudden and embarrassing lower back issue that may be related to spending the last few weeks sleeping on my 3 year old’s firm bed, while he sleeps gracefully on the soft king mattress beside me.

But the goodest of all good things today was this.

Returning home from my work stint at the new local, where I awkwardly greeted the good morning with the good, you?, to see my daughter, five, had made this on her new weaving loom. The one she’d been begging to use since the moment it arrived yesterday.

It’s not uncommon to come home to a beautiful creation of hers, and awe too isn’t an uncommon feeling in seeing what she’s created. But this was a particularly pure awe. Granted I know not a thing about weaving looms nor the rather expensive cotton thread required, but this was something else.

Our kids, and kids in general, never cease to amaze me. They are perhaps the truest source of good things, and sometimes I think it’s only when we choose to see them for that, that it all comes pouring through.

Jesse x

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Funnily enough I stopped writing not long after sharing those words. I’m not entirely sure why, a multitude of factors most likely. I know for certain that one of those reasons was trying to find my authentic writing voice. The one that doesn’t look outside of itself for permission but is solidly grounded somewhere at the centre of my being.

I think it’s okay to take seasons off so I hold no judgement toward the version of me that stepped back. Cal Newport talks about this in Deep Work, that creative folk often disappear for a period of time before re-emerging to share their findings. Like a ‘hey look what I made’ kinda thing.

I don’t have a thing that I’m re-emerging to share. No exciting new project, or the book that I maybe thought I might have. But then again maybe I am the thing. It’s like Emily McDougall writes…

‘Finding yourself is not really how it works. You aren’t a ten-dollar bill in last winter’s coat pocket. You are also not lost. Your true self is right there, buried under cultural conditioning, other people’s opinions, and inaccurate conclusions you drew as a kid that became your beliefs about who you are. “Finding yourself” is actually returning to yourself. An unlearning, an excavation, a remembering who you were before the world got its hands on you.’

I now see that creativity for me is remembering who I was before the world got its hands on me. Any creative intention or act returns me to the little 10 year version of me that was inherently creative, and imaginative, and expressive, and would have no qualms owning being an artist.

I think of him often, more so in the last few years since bringing a few little humans of my own into the world. I see so much of him, me, in them. Which most of the time is a really beautiful thing, and sometimes it feels more confronting. I’ve noticed lately that it’s always when I’ve let some distance come between that 10 year old version of me, and this version of me, that my internal world gets a bit shaky. I like to think it’s him tugging on my arm, urging me to play, just as my kids now do. I can only imagine he’d think my concern for rent, and electricity bills, and rumination on what I’ll make of my life, or what the people at work think of me, are so lame. Just as my kids now do.

I’ve been waiting for that authentic writing voice to land gently in my lap. To find me, or for me to find it in last winter’s coat pocket. When really it’s probably his voice, which is my voice, before it was calloused by the at times un-magnificent demands of adult life.

As I sit here writing this, I’m thinking of him by my side, smiling knowing that I’m finally doing the thing. I know he couldn’t care if it’s good or not, whether I publish it or not, whether it appeals to people or not. The idea of doing something with a cherished outcome in mind would probably seem ridiculous to him, it wouldn’t even be a thought. You do things because you want to do things. That’s what makes it awesome. That’s what makes childhood awesome.

That I think is the voice that’s solidly grounded in the centre of my being, and always has been.

Love.

Jesse

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but there’s another shade of legacy i’ve come to appreciate, and that is in the physical things we leave behind. things that live beyond us. that see the sun rise after our sun sets.

physical things. handmade things.

things that carry stories, and help a part of us stay close to those we love and leave behind. like the pink blanket my late grandma knitted for my daughter. her first granddaughter, and perhaps amongst her greatest loves.

every time i see it i think of her. i think of how much she loved her. i think of how much she loved us all. i think of her, thinking of my daughter, as she carefully placed each thread. i think of my daughter one day wrapping her own child in that blanket, and in a way my late grandma embracing the generation she’ll never meet.

part of us lives on in the things we create.

some cultures believe memory and moments live on not just in the mind of those that experienced them, but in the physical place and space that held them. i like to believe the same is true for physical things. handmade things. those of natural materials. that hand-crafted mug holds the memory of every coffee it ever held, every conversation it ever heard, and every detail of the hands that held it.

when the sun is setting on my time here, i’ll be sure to leave things behind. physical things. there’ll be my favourite coffee mugs. decades of journals. and my collection of books that together tell the story of every interest and curiosity i’ve ever had.

there’ll be the dining table i one day build, that i hope finds it’s way into the home of one of my children, and then into the home of one of their children. that way i’ll always be there for dinner.

there’ll be the photos i take that i hope have a place on their walls, or in an album tucked away but never forgotten.

there’ll be the books i write that i hope find a home in their book shelves (nestled between their own collection of curiosities), in their back pack, or in that box of important things.

and there’ll be the love that lives on in everything i leave behind.

I’ve walked these aisles so many times before, but never with this perspective—never before has a trip to the supermarket brought me so much joy. Usually, it’s an exercise in efficiency—in and out with precision. But tonight, I find myself walking slowly, smiling, and deeply attuned to the subtle glimmers around me.

Maybe it started with the little dude near the entrance, no older than 4, singing his heart out while his Dad tried desperately to wrangle him and his slighter older brother. It lit something golden inside of me—maybe empathy, seeing myself in the Dad’s shoes—that ‘quick’ trip to the shops is rarely that with little humans in tow. Or maybe it was just the beauty of seeing a kid so free in self-expression, and a parent completely welcoming of that, rather than shushing it—few things inspire me more these days than loving parents.

As I head toward the check out I lock eyes with a gentleman slightly older than me. We exchange a passing g’day, filled with the warmth of two people who know each other well, though we’d never met. I knew at that moment there was an exceedingly goofy smile on my face, and I can’t help but think he noticed it, reciprocating the warmth—contagion.

This is what it feels like to be present I think to myself—deeply engaged with the world around me, rather than entangled in my own internal world.

I round around the corner to pick up our dinner and while I wait the young fella working at the shop opens a convo with ‘much planned for the weekend?’.

‘We’re moving house’ I respond. We tread the waters of small talk, then he shares that his family moved to Australia from England only seven months ago. His accent had been muffled by the noise of the shop, and I kick myself a little for missing it. He’s young, maybe 16 or 18, and I can sense how challenging that must be, but he seems like a remarkable kid—oozing friendliness in a world that often squeezes that out of kids like him.

I leave with dinner in hand and that smile further entrenched on my face—in our fleeting 5min conversation he brought more joy into my night and I hope I did the same for him.

‘It’s a beautiful night’ I text Halee—feeling a true appreciation for life.

This is what it feels like to be present.

‘How am I here now?’ I think to myself on the drive home. Today has been beyond enormous—how is it that I’m so deeply engaged with my surroundings? Shouldn’t I be exhausted? Depleted? It’s after 6pm, we’re two days out from handing over the keys, alongside working and raising two energetic little humans with endless appetites for love, I’ve just spent two hours frantically packing our belongings into a storage shed that now very much resembles a tin of sardines and, like it often is when moving, every second of the day has been carefully allocated to those tedious little tasks that just need to be ticked off.

In many ways, we’re running off fumes.

But here I am, stoked—energised. Why? How?

For a variety of reasons I’ve been particularly entangled in my internal world these past 4-6 weeks. Not in any kind of catastrophic or struggling sense—it’s just been a period of heightened and often repetitive thought, brought on by throwing myself into some big moments and exciting but challenging happenings in our world.

This experience—one of complete joy—might simply reflect finding some mental whitespace for the first time in a while. Finally stepping outside my mind and engaging with life as it is, as it’s happening, right in front of me.

Maybe this is what it feels like to engage with life, rather than constantly anticipating or predicting it.

Hope you’ve had a beautiful past few weeks legends.

With love.

Jesse

The first came when I was 22. Life at that point in time looked exactly as I had dreamt. I was a Strength & Conditioning Coach, working with athletes and running my own training centre. Looking back it sounds naive to think I knew what I wanted my life to look like at 15—but the reality I was living was the vision I’d held since 15.

I could even see my future kids coming to work with me—running amok and engaging with all the different people they came across.

I was living my future.

Until one day I realised ‘I don’t want to do this anymore’ and my world, internal and external, crumbled around me. It rocked my grip on the world.

I am this. If I’m not this, what am I?

What ensued was the first mentally turbulent season of my life. I’d lost my tether.

The second was my initiation into fatherhood back in 2020. An experience I’m sure anyone that has raised a little human knows intimately.

One day I was Jesse—the next I was sleep deprived, completely enveloped by love, and as a Dad, feeling quite useless.

None of my friends at the time had kids. Neither of my older brothers had kids. I was also the first of 20-odd cousins on one side of the family to have kids, despite being middle of the pack in terms of age.

I knew very few Dads and none my age.

How I had lived, and engaged with the world up until that point wasn’t really conducive to my new reality. I had always been the guy with ample time for those around me.

Coffee? Sure. Run? Sure. Gym session? Sure.

Now, the guy whose identity had been completely wrapped up in always being available, was no longer available. It didn’t help that our transition into parenthood also coincided with the arrival of a certain virus a few years back and the ensuing chaos.

Again, I’d lost my tether. Although maybe this time it wasn’t a free-fall but rather a whiplash-inducing shift to an infinitely more beautiful tether.

Right now, I’m in what may have been my third identity crises.

Only now it isn’t a crisis, far from it. It’s just a season where the winds of change are blowing a little harder than usual. It has the potential to be as disruptive as the two experiences above, but I’ve found ease in my experience of change—change isn’t getting in the way of life, it is life.

This one is perhaps a slower, more autonomous burn—a gradual unlearning and relearning over the past 12 months. Some folk might call it transformative, although I feel we’ve diluted that word by slapping it into the title of every 3-month ‘container’. Really, I’m just learning a lot about who I am, what I care about and how I engage in the world.

What’s prevented a descent into chaos is that I no longer see myself as the thing I’m tethered to in any given moment.

I am not it, and so if it changes I am still me.

It’s an imperfect work in progress, but I’ve learnt to hold my identity loosely—like I’m gently tending to it over a pottery wheel, where a soft touch is as creative as a firm hand is destructive. There is still a desired form in mind, but the approach is smoother, more considered and open to change.

And maybe shaping our identity is like working with a form of clay that never dries—there is no complete—no destination to strive for. Liberation in the realisation that life isn’t about forming the perfect vessel and preserving it desperately but simply enjoying the process of tending to an ever-changing form.

This I think is one of the best gifts we can give ourselves—decoupling our identity from what we do and allowing it to be a more fluid understanding of self.

Admittedly I don’t think this would have softened the blow of the transition into fatherhood. Maybe, but that’s not an experience to optimise or get right—it’s one to just experience fully.

Identity has become a cornerstone of my work—in many ways it is the foundation.

Maybe surprisingly though, I’m not that interested in getting to a perfectly curated answer to the question who am I?

I’m more interested in your relationship with the concept of identity, than I am your actual identity. Is it an empowering force in your world? Or a disempowering one?Does it create ease? Or pressure?

To date, it seems the overwhelming experience is one of pressure—pressure to distill our incredibly complex set of interests and curiosities into a single, perfect sentence that makes sense to others.

Of course that leads us to leave out the more unique parts of us—the parts that make us who we are, but we fear might not make sense to the world. And so we offer the world the most vanilla version of ourselves—the diluted, easy-to-understand version.

If we’re lucky, those more unique parts might continue to be expressed in the quiet safety of our home, but more likely they collect dust, pushed to the far corners of our being.

I’m preaching to the converted posting this on Substack BUT if we are to have the vivid experience of life we want to have, we should free ourselves from the need for a perfectly curated answer to who am I?

Here a few of the principles I lean on for an ease-inducing relationship with identity…

1. Hold it loosely—it will change.

2. Be the architect—it’s yours to change.

3. Being, over doing—it’s who you are, not what you do.

As always, I’d love to hear from you 🫶 there’s always infinitely more value in collective perspectives or experiences than any one in isolation.

How has your sense of self evolved over time? How has your relationship with identity evolved? How has, or does this, play out in your world? Can’t wait to hear from you!

Have a beautiful week friends.

With love.

Jesse

I’m leaving Instagram.

Don’t worry, this post won’t be a dramatic or self-righteous glory lap nor a manifesto on why you should do the same. At least I hope not.

It’s more an exploration of the assumptions and beliefs that up until now have prevented me from taking the risk I’ve thought about for a long time.

And it is a risk, at least it feels that way. A business risk, and also a personal risk.

On both fronts, it’s the risk of being forgotten.

I’ve reckoned with this decision enough to know that the real risk would be not doing the thing I feel utterly compelled to do, yet the fear of falling into a social abyss by leaving a platform like Instagram feels very real. And in speaking to a few people about this, that seems to be a shared experience. It shows just how deeply entangled it has become with our existence.

In saying that, and maybe surprisingly, I don’t think Instagram is definitively bad. It has some questionable underlying commercial intentions and an immense potential to be a negative influence in our life, but it’s our relationship with it that determines the expression of that negative potential.

I’ll explore the indecision later in this post but in part what’s kept me there, despite yearning to be offline, is that in some corners of Instagram there are wonderfully talented people sharing beautiful work. It truly can be a well of inspiration.

Sure, the sad reality is that the work often just falls into an algorithmic abyss. But I think to the story behind each post—that of a human following a creative impulse, acting from the energetic rush of anticipation and possibility, and bravely putting themselves out in the world. It might only be true for some pockets of Instagram, but there’s beauty to be found there. That’s something I’ll miss.

An admission.

I'm of the age where platforms like Facebook, Instagram, and even Myspace (lol) emerged during formative years. Instagram specifically launched when I was 18, and I probably created an account soon after.

That's 14 years of my life—14 incredibly formative years from 18 to 32—where my perspective has been shaped by a platform whose longevity solely depends on how many hours of my day (life) I give to it.

When I lay out the time investment like that, it’s nothing short of wild. I definitely don’t want to know exactly how many hours I’ve given to it across those 14 years—I’m not sure any of us really want to see that data. Yikes.

The truly uncomfortable truth that’s led me here is that while I feel I have a relatively good relationship with social media, Instagram has had a 14-year stronghold on my sense of belonging and worth. My understanding of these concepts and my sense of place in the world have been formed in the presence of that platform—how could it not be woven into the fabric of my belonging?

And as much as I feel I have a strong sense of self, that too has been constructed in communion with Instagram. Can I really know who I am without it?

Even though I’m not that active there, the only adult reality I know includes Instagram. I don't actually know what my brain or perspective looks like without it. Beyond a few brief sabbaticals, I don’t know what life looks like without it.

That's the itch I feel compelled to scratch.

Indecision.

There are a few different factors that have kept me online, but honestly, there’s a good chance they’re all just sophisticated excuses masking a genuine biological addiction. I'm often in awe of how brilliant our minds can be in that way.

Beyond enjoying staying connected to people and drawing inspiration from those wonderfully talented folk, the most pervasive excuse for the last 12 months is that if I want to grow my business and have impact, I need to have a presence and following on that platform.

I've joked with friends since I started that I'd love to take this thing underground—have no social presence and operate like the coaching equivalent of a hidden, if-you-know-you-know, NYC bar.

Intellectually, I know a modern business can thrive without Instagram. But there’s still that little voice inside that still whispers ‘can it?’.

What if I fall into that social abyss? Forgotten about?
What if I’m leaving opportunities on the table?
This business might shape our family’s future, am I doing them a disservice?
Is it really just a covert fear of showing up and being judged?

And the whispers I’ve grappled with most…

How will I stay connected to, and support, the work of the people I love?

I say I’m doing this to support people, but how I can support people that can’t find me?

The others I can make peace with, but those two challenge the very heart of my being—they’re the two that, up until now, have consistently and brilliantly negotiated me back from the edge.

It's always the decisions I fear might disappoint others or threaten my sense of belonging that feel the stickiest. Though in this case, that fear is likely little more than the grips of addiction cunningly curating stories that preserve it’s hold. It’s that old adage: no one’s really thinking about me as much as I think they’re thinking of me.

Trust.

Wherever there’s indecision or uncertainty, we need trust. When there can be no proof that the thing will work out exactly the way we hope it will, in the absence of evidence, it’s where we place our trust that decides if we’ll surface the courage needed to do the thing.

Maybe that’s what signals a great adventure, having little more than trust.

I’m trusting that there is a world beyond Instagram, that I’m in fact opening a door, not closing one.

I’m trusting that are an infinite numbers of ways to connect with, show up for, and support those I love.

I’m trusting that the people who resonate with what I put out in the world are either already here, or will find their way here — preserving the opportunity to be a positive presence in their world.

I’m trusting that growth and impact are the products of meaningful work, not funnels or sponsored ads.

And I’m trusting that this really isn’t that serious — few things are.

Permanence.

After all, it may not be a forever thing — few things are. It’s really just a committed experiment, long enough to truly experience a new way of being.

Thinking in permanence seems to keep our feet heavy—held in stagnancy by the weight of life-defining choices. Yet, they’re rarely, if ever, life-defining. They’re almost always reversible—though admittedly some are a little harder to reverse than others.

Those that aren’t reversible though, might be recoverable. That is, we can make this decision now with the information we have, knowing we then get access to the wisdom of experience, which allows us to make another decision in the future that improves the trajectory of this one.

There’s comfort in knowing this isn’t a forever thing. As if the perceived risk softens to a whimper. This is just a let me try this on thing.

Curiosity.

The prevailing feeling is curiosity. Beyond those few brief breaks, I genuinely don't know what my experience of life is like without Instagram

I’m anticipating there’ll be loneliness—having become so accustomed to quick-hits of connection accessible 24/7, I’m expecting some repercussions.

I’m looking forward to the space—the internal space more than anything.

I’m looking forward to exploring how I stay connected to my people.

I’m looking forward to simmering in boredom and all that it offers.

I’m looking forward to recalibrating my sense of awe.

I’m looking forward to feeling my mind undergo renovations.

And I’m looking forward to exploring a more deliberate presence here— yes, I’ll still be here. This isn’t a complete rejection of online life; maybe one day, but this isn’t that. Writing has become such a refuge that in many ways it’s allowed me to make this change with a sense of conviction. And maybe this is somewhat of a halfway house—I can show up here and continue meeting some of that appetite for connection, but do so on a platform that offers a profoundly different internal experience—a quieter, less disruptive one.

So, here we are. On the cusp. Soon after this goes live, I’ll step into life beyond the gram.

It feels right to finish this with a quote from from

‘Worry less about being “forgotten,” and envision a future when you re-find yourself.’

If you made it this far, thank you. This really isn’t about Instagram—of course I could just log off without some grand announcement. It’s more about risk, and decision-making, and trust, and the importance of letting curiosity steer us.

If there’s a risk you’ve been contemplating, big or small, I really hope you take it.

With love.

Jesse

This weeks post is a little different to most. I wanted to share some of the words, moments and reflections I’ve loved of late. It’s almost an insight into the raw data (of life) that would normally act as the catalysts for the ideas I share.

1. Letting this evolve

This Substack started as a means of sharing longer-form ideas for Inside Lane (my coaching practice). And, if I’m being honest, it was probably born out of a little frustration with the quick-hit nature of IG.

Over time it’s evolved. I’ve played with different formats, loosened the connection to business, given myself permission to write about the ideas occupying my mind and eased the pressure to only write about ideas I think my target audience wants or needs to hear. I’ve also stopped trying to convince myself that I could possibly know what people want to hear. I’ve no idea.

Instead I’ve been on leaning on an enduring intention for my time here - to make the world a kinder place.

For now, that’s the filter I’m using to decide what I put out in the world. If it has the potential to make the world, my world, a more kind place then it’s a green light.

“You have no idea who you may end up helping or even the lives you may save simply by following the truth of your heart.”

From Mental Tension & Intuition by .

2. Am I an artist?

I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve never identified as an artist. But I have always identified as a more sensitive person, and while I don’t think that’s a firm prerequisite to being an artist it does make for fertile ground.

I like what identifying as a creative or artist does for me though. It gives me permission to express myself and to explore the impulses or curiosities I’d maybe otherwise silence because they didn’t fit the mould I made for myself.

It also gives me permission to make mistakes. Science and the more academic world, and even the athletic world, is so much about correctness. We’re taught specific ways of thinking, that there is a definite right, wrong or best practice and that there is a correct, textbook technique for things. Through school or coaching, our unique approach is slowly sanded back to conform to standards of normal or correctness. What’s lost in that is the chance at innovation. Just because something has been, doesn’t mean it should continue to be. Current realities are always made obsolete by emerging opportunities and I’d rather be someone nudging the frontier than fearfully shackled to the current state.

Above all else, giving myself permission to express a more creative side has felt life-giving — it’s made me a better person for those I love.

This Rick Rubin gem, shared by from , rings true for me:

‘The sensitivity that allows them to make the art is the same vulnerability that makes them more tender to being judged. Still, many continue to share their work and risk criticism in spite of this. It’s as if they have no other choice. Being an artist is who they are, and they are made whole through self-expression.’

3. Let’s get ice-cream.

Monday had shades of frustration. It was a day-job day and started well, but then quickly filled up with tasks and requests I honestly didn’t have a lot of interest in fulfilling. Necessities, but just not how I wanted to spend my day and a nice reminder of the importance of moving toward an experience of life with more autonomy and freedom.

Later in the day I ducked out to fill the car with petrol and grab some things for dinner. Happy to have the laptop closed, but still a little entangled with frustration. As I drove into the petrol station, I noticed two people riding their bikes but didn’t really think too much of it.

When I walked into pay, they were just ahead of me. A man in his 70’s, or maybe 80’s, and a young girl, maybe 7-8, who I can only assume was the man’s granddaughter. She rushed ahead and ran over to the ice-creams - that’s what they were for. On a day no warmer than 10 degrees, they’d thrown their layers on, grabbed the bikes and rode however far, giddy with excitement, to get ice-cream together.

Any frustration from the day melted away and I just felt warmth. My mind instantly went to my daughter, my Dad and the thought that maybe one day I’ll be an agile 70 year-old riding down to the local servo to get an ice-cream on a day that couldn’t possibly be less appropriate for ice-cream.

I’m so glad I noticed that.

20mins later I also noticed an older couple bickering at the shops over whether they needed lettuce. She said yes. He said it wasn’t on the list. Not sure how that panned out, but it made me smile.

4. Leave your friends love notes.

Yesterday morning was spent solving the worlds problems, over coffee and breakfast, with my good mate .

Later on, I pulled out the notebook I’d had with me at breakfast and found this…

Maybe 2 months or so back, another good mate, asked for my address. I held back on the need to ask why and just trusted, knowing Jono, it was for good reason. A week or so later we received a printed film photo of our son, taken by Jono last year, with a heartfelt note on the back thanking us for who we are as a family. We cried.

Write love notes to your people.

Words I’ve loved.

A collection of quotes and thoughts saved to my phone notes lately.

‘Forgiveness shakes loose the calcification that accumulates around our hearts.’
Frank Ostaseski

‘I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center.’
Kurt Vonnegut

‘The number of hours we have together is actually not so large. Please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. Please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.’
Harvey Mikko

‘I like being barefoot.’
My 4y.o daughter - a little sign I’m parenting the way I want to.

‘I’ve learned how to live without knowing. I don’t have to be sure I’m succeeding, and as I said before about science, I think my life is fuller because I realise that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m delighted with the width of the world!’
Richard Feynman

‘In times of change, learners inherit the earth, while the learned find themselves beautifully equipped to deal with a world that no longer exists.’
Eric Hoffer

‘The fact is, happy and healthy people don't just happen. They are created by the culture in which they reside.’
from .

‘Honestly assessing our situation requires enormous courage. It makes us face hard truths; we might see things that shame, intimidate, or frighten us. But we have to. Otherwise, none of the pathways we identify to reach our objective will be realistic. We’ll nurture false hope.’
from

Thanks for being here friends - go get ice-cream.

With love.

Jesse.

I’m not entirely sure where it came from or what train of thought led me there but I do know I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sea of advice we swim in daily and it’s impact on us.

And honestly, as a coach and someone invested in the happiness of others, I often find myself conflicted. I’m even conflicted in writing this. Is this advice? Against taking advice? That’s weird, right?

Does the world really need more advice? It’s everywhere.

At what point are we just muddying the waters?

Most of it comes from a good place. I like to think that the majority of advice out there is just a reflection of our desire to help each other: this helped me, so here, I hope it helps you.

It’s just the sheer amount, and, the fact that eventually it all ends up contradicting, that complicates it. We’re pulled in different directions from opposing perspectives that all cherrypick some solid evidence or research backing their point of view.

And we find ourselves more tangled than ever; uncertain, confused, overwhelmed by options and wondering what we should actually do or believe.

Prior to the internet, advice was probably saved for long-form books, newspapers or invited in meaningful conversations. Advice ran like a slow trickling tap we could drink from when needed.

But now, in the social media era, advice runs like a high-pressure hose we’ve become so accustomed to drinking from that suffocating has become our norm. We’re drowning in it, and wondering why it feels so hard to breathe (think).

We can of course just opt-out; put the hose down. Which is a great idea. But there’ll be times where we find ourselves looking for something; seeking something. That’s when we tend to reach for the hose, but maybe we can seek from an alternate source.

Art.

Art is like the forgotten freshwater stream just down the road from advice. It offers what the high-pressure hose promises, sustenance, in a more organic form, and without the suffocating force.

Years ago I would have scoffed at this idea - that art could offer more than science.

But I’m now living the impact of art, and seeing it in people I love or work with. I’m finding myself drinking from the stream more than the high-pressure hose; a position I probably never expected to be in and one that has at times rattled, in a good way, the way I see myself.

Where I used to reach for the latest NYT best-selling self-help book in search of answers, I’m now finding myself reaching for the writings of Mary Oliver, , Kurt Vonnegut or Rainier Maria Rilke. And in the last few years, short-films have been the catalyst for more inspired action than any framework for behavioural change.

A timely film, photo, artwork or piece of poetry can pluck us from the mud in an instant. Or at the very least help us make sense of the mud. Art invites us into our own interpretation and perspective; reflecting our experience back to us and helping us see it with a clarity and appreciation we couldn’t reach previously.

Where advice can complicate, art simplifies.

Where advice fills the mind, art empties it.

Where advice muddies the perspective, art clarifies it.

Where advice says this is what I did and it’s what you need to do, art says here’s what I experienced, I wonder if you might see yourself in that?

Where advice says this is what I noticed, and what you should notice, art says here’s what I noticed, and what it helped me see.

Where advice says follow me, art says follow you.

Where advice says this is the way, art says here’s a way.

Where advice draws us away from the quiet voice inside, outsourcing our strength and polluting our perspective, art gives that quiet voice the stage, creating opportunities for trust-building and the insight needed to hold true to the path we want to walk in life.

And in an information, advice dense world, I think that’s important.

A Practice

I can’t talk about this idea and not reference the Ethan Hawke TED Talk on creativity.

If you haven’t seen it, the practice for this week is to watch it. It’s gold.

And if you have seen it, the practice is just an invitation to re-watch if you could use the reminder right now.

Have a beautiful week friends, I hope this sparked a little something in your mind and if it did, let me know in the comments. There’s so much value in hearing different perspectives or experiences and, knowing the people that read this, there’s so much potential there.

With love.

Jesse