The hydration vest strapped to his chest is the tell. The no-slip-grip sunglasses and, yeah, my green running hat too, complete the look.

Like an off-duty Navy SEAL, he’s David Gogginsing it until his legs collapse. Water hose over one shoulder, phone tucked neatly into his pocket, and a Slurpee in hand, delivered by yours truly.

The rig on my brother is somewhere between ultramarathoner and wellness influencer, and I love him for it, but I still can’t quite believe it, because I remember when exercise and diet weren't deliberate categories in his life. Now both are slotted into every single day.

At fifty, he embarked on a self-designed fitness regimen of keto, intermittent fasting, and sneaking in exercise throughout the day, often dropping down to do crunches mid-sentence while we were chatting. Marathon walks and runs were the main event.

It’s nearing fall now. Nobody told him to stop.

***

Often he runs loops along the seawall. Ten kilometres a day, on average, for three years straight. His record: Fifty-one miles in twenty-four hours. This isn't just consistency, it's training for what’s next: a hundred kilometres. What in the actual hell?

He doesn't really stop for rest. He'll drop for pull-ups, kick into a headstand, take some photos, or jump in the ocean. When he does pause, he bathes, refuels, and sits still. Then he visualizes what's next, before he's back on his feet.

Why would anyone choose that?

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I ask him, in the roundabout way you ask your brother anything, which is to say I don't really ask; I just notice out loud. He says there's a six-pack in it, maybe an eight if he's lucky. But pushes past this too: he doesn't just want to look athletic, he wants to be an athlete. The endurance, the speed, the strength, the discipline. The body's just what's left over as proof.

He also says that it’s something in his life that he has control over. Running lets you decide when, where, the tempo, solo or not, sans music. But I don’t think it’s the whole of it.

So I fill in the blanks to suit my fancy: I think there’s a version that’s less about the abs and control and more about the quiet — that this is a very efficient way to get your own mind to shut the fuck up. He comes back from these runs lighter than he left.

I know, because I did the same thing today.

***

Today was slow and grueling before it was anything else. I spent most of the morning in the dumps, my mind blasting at 100mph.

Then I put my shoes on.

I always pick a landmark — the park and two laps around, then home, or over one bridge and back over the other. Somewhere to aim for.

I’ve written about running dozens of times before, and nothing much has changed: I still dread the first ten, sometimes twenty minutes. That stretch where you’re like, “What was I thinking? This is an absolutely terrible idea!” But somewhere past that hump, something shifts. My legs stop complaining. My breath starts to breathe me.

My mind, thought by thought, starts to empty — and towards this void, I run.

On this day, the sadness does not lift. It just quietens. It drops from my shoulders towards the earth. Something’s shifted. The sadness still keeps me company, without running the whole show.

***

When I told my brother what I was actually writing, he said, “I’m not running toward what hurts. I’m discovering what becomes possible when I keep moving while it hurts. Previous endurance becomes evidence against the feeling that I have to stop.”

What usually makes it more palpable are chemicals your own body makes mid-run that hit the same receptors cannabis does. The runner's high is a genuine, homegrown one — its own kind of painkiller, or vitamin, in my case. And a moving meditation to boot.

Maybe that’s the trick, if there is one. You don’t outrun the void. You get a little better at running into it and out the other side.

It was a Sunday morning disco party. The kind of place where people get loose, a little sweaty, and unmasked. Volume up, bodies moving with that wonderful mix of joy and vulnerability you only witness on a dance floor.

I’d told her about it months earlier. She called to say she was running late, as usual, and casually mentioned her neck was hurting. A few weeks before, I’d been massaging that same neck after a run, the two of us pretending we were just friends. A few months before that, I was kissing it.

I started dancing. And then I saw him. Tall, good-looking, easy confidence. I didn’t know him, but I just knew. She’d mentioned a new crush in passing, and something in the way he moved through the room clicked. This was him. I felt it before I could explain it.

That was the first arrow.

Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time.

She arrived a few minutes later, came straight up, hugged me, introduced me to her friends. Long shiny turquoise skirt, signature Adidas, black crop top. Effortless. I loved the look. She knew that. Whether she was doing it for me, for herself, or for no one at all didn’t matter. I was already inside the story.

The next hour was brutal. Not because of anything she did, but because of what was happening inside me. Every part of my attention was locked onto her: where she was, who she was talking to, whether she glanced over, whether she laughed. The dance floor, usually a place where I feel free, became a kind of prison.

Towards the end, we sat on a sofa at the front of the venue. And of course, he came over. She introduced us. He was a good guy. Easy to talk to. Kind, even. Fuck. There was nothing I could find wrong with him.

Which only made it worse. Because there was no one to point a finger at.

And that’s when it hit. This wasn’t about her, or him. This was about what I was doing to myself. The story was running unchecked, and I was believing every ounce of it.

What about me? I’m right here. Don’t you see me!?

That was the second arrow. Not what was happening, but what I was making it mean.

Most of the time, I treat the story as if it were the truth, collapsing the arrows together. The pain I couldn’t help; that’s just being alive. But the untrained person (that’d be me) fires the second: anger, blame, catastrophising, shame. All self-inflicted.

The Fake Trial

The disco was over. She’d gone home. And yet there I was, still on the dance floor in my head, replaying how she moved, how he walked over, scoring every detail for evidence. Evidence of what? What did I do wrong? Why didn’t I see this coming? Was any of this even real? A fake trial that only I would attend.

This is what makes the second arrow so insidious: it disguises itself as thinking. As processing. As doing “the work.” It says, if I just go over this one more time, something will resolve. It rarely does. The first arrow is a fleeting moment. The second arrow is a pet project.

Cutting the Cord

At some point, I said it out loud. I told her I couldn’t see her anymore, that this wasn’t good for me. She understood. We went for coffee. She pointed out another good-looking guy, completely innocently, and I felt the reaction spike again. Same pattern, same story, same pull.

I drove her back to her car. She got in. Then she got out and came over to give me a long hug. Wished me an early happy birthday. Later, she sent a message so sweet it almost undid the whole decision.

And that was it. I cut the cord.

Before I Go

We’ve all got fake problems we’re convinced need solving. Conversations replayed at 4 am. Messages drafted and never sent. A detailed scoreboard of evidence, long after the verdict stopped mattering.

So: where are you still firing the second arrow? What would you set down if you trusted the first one had already been shot and fully felt?

I write to catch myself in the act. To think about my thinking and feel what I couldn’t before. Maybe that’s the whole practice. Not stopping the arrows, but noticing the hand on the bow.

“The cure for the pain is in the pain.” — Rumi

Know someone caught in their own second arrow? Send this their way.

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P.S. Catching your own second arrow is hard to do alone. Believe me, I still shoot mine. Sitting with people through these moments, and the transitions they belong to, is the work I do. If that's where you are right now, just hit reply. My door’s open: jonasaltman.com

The first thing I feel is the humidity. It clings. Not quite hot yoga. But just enough to remind me I’m not in control of the tempo here.

I'm in Umalas — a place that used to feel like a quiet edge of the island, where I was one of a few foreigners. Today, it spills over with nomad cafés and gymfluencers documenting their morning routines. The rice fields are breakfast joints now, each serving its version of smashed avocado. I've indulged in most of them. But the ocean still moves the same way.

I lost my flip-flops yesterday. Again. It's how I know I've arrived.

Life is funny like that. Same island. Same me. Different story.

The Last Time

I spent twelve years in London. It gave me a lot, until it didn’t.

Burnout has a quiet way of arriving. Not all at once, but slowly enough that one day you realise the thing that used to energise you is now draining you. I went back to school. Rebuilt myself through work, relationships, and stubbornness. I’d tried to reinvent myself without leaving — same city, new chapter. It wasn’t enough.

I needed a scene change. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. What I really needed was a different relationship with time.

The Balinese have a phrase: Jam Karet — rubber time. Time that stretches, bends, refuses to behave like you’re used to. I first came here a decade ago to write a book about how work was changing. I swapped London Town bustle for expansive beaches, sunsets, surf, and jungle.

The story I was carrying was that I had it figured out. That the writing would come easily. That clarity would arrive on schedule.

It didn’t. The page stayed blank.

The Decade

Here’s what happened instead: I wrote. I got lost. I found my rhythm. I lost it again. I started coaching people through their own transitions, which felt absurd at the time, though maybe that was the point.

I kept moving. Japan. Portugal. South America — a dozen other places I couldn’t have predicted from that first flight. I surfed when things got loud. I ran when they got louder — sometimes towards my problems, sometimes away from them.

There were seasons of clarity, and seasons where nothing made sense at all. Relationships that formed me, and ones that cracked me open.

And through all of it, I kept writing. Asking better questions.

Writing became the bridge. That process became my first book, Shapers. Reinventing the way I worked was the medicine I needed at the time. It was published during the peak of the pandemic, when the world itself was being remade.

Book Two

This time, I’m not writing about work. I’m writing about what sits beneath it.

Identity. Connection. The invisible architectures that shape how we meet the world, and unravel.

Work doesn’t exist in isolation. It only makes sense in the context of a life. And life, at its core, is relational. We don’t remember people for what they produced. We remember them for how they made us feel.

This book is less about what we do. More about who we are while we're doing it.

We are always inside a story. A story about who we are, what we deserve, what’s possible, and what’s over. Transitions begin the moment a story stops working. Not always cleanly, and not necessarily all at once. But enough to know that you can’t keep living it the same way. Eventually, the next chapter starts asking to be written.

The gap — that in-between — is where most people rush. It’s also where most of the real work is done. The book is a relational field guide for the in-between — for not sprinting past the threshold, for sitting in liminality long enough to notice something profound.

The book project is structured in three parts: Endings, The In-Between, and New Beginnings. Here’s a snippet from the foreword:

Something happens. The mind makes a story. The story creates an emotion. The emotion lives in the body. The body drives action. The action reinforces the story.

Round and round we go.

Transitions themselves — the job loss, the breakup, the move, the burnout — are rarely what keeps you stuck. What keeps you stuck is the story the mind wraps around it. The one that says you should have known better. The one that says you should have seen it coming. The one that says this is proof of something you already suspected about yourself.

Viktor Frankl called it the space between stimulus and response. In that space, he said, lies our freedom.

This book is about finding that space — and staying in it long enough to choose differently.

I’ve been living this book for a decade — through heartbreaks and burnouts, career deaths and creative rebirths, and openings that arrived cleverly disguised as crises. The stories we tell ourselves in the middle of a transition will either keep us stuck or set us free.

I’ve seen both play out. In my own life, and in the lives of the people I work with. The same event, interpreted differently, can lead to completely different futures. Not because the circumstances change, but because the relationship to them does.

The impulse is to rush through transitions. The invitation is to stay in them.

Before I go

When I ask folks what they would do with an extra hour in their day, the answers often surprise them. Dancing. More time with their kids. A walk. Nothing at all.

Not more productivity. Just more presence.

That's what transitions tend to reveal. Not just what's changing, but what was always there, waiting to be noticed. Attending to what matters with the quiet awareness that it won't last forever.

If you were granted your own Jam Karet moment (time that bends in your favour), what would you stop rushing toward? What might you loosen your grip on? Where would you finally slow down?

I started writing to find my way.

Now I’m writing because I trust that something is already unfolding — and the work is to stay with it long enough to understand what it’s asking of me.

And maybe that’s true for you too.

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“The journey out of falling asleep in your own life will begin not with the call, but with the desire to hear the call.” — Boyd Varty

You’re receiving this because we’ve crossed paths at some point. Unsubscribe anytime — I don’t track who leaves.

If you do stick around, I think you’ll find it worth your while.

It’s been a hot minute » well, actually 181,440 of them (but who’s counting?) since my last dispatch. In that time, I’ve been reflecting, experimenting, and dreaming about what 2026 might want to be.

Think of this as a little year-end care package: part reflection, part experiment, part invitation, in meeting the world a bit more intentionally.

Here’s what’s inside:

• 25 Things I Learned in 2025

• Meet the World – New cards and retreats

• My 2026 coaching program

Let’s dive in.

Another year of being human. A handful of moments that nudged, humbled, or cracked me open. Some of these tiny revelations came easy. Others had serious teeth. But each one earned its spot—brief, honest, and often delivered with a wink from the universe.

1. Pabels Day Mixes may be some of the finest soundtracks I didn’t know I needed.

2. ADHD is awesome (and sometimes exhausting).

3. Breathe in for 3, hold for 6, out for 9. Stress down, focus up—and I slept like someone who actually closes all their tabs.

4. Just because it’s a voice in your head doesn’t mean it’s the wisest one.

5. Sweat: still the most affordable therapist I know.

6. Arguing with reality can be fun—until it isn’t.

7. Playing tennis adds 10 years to your life—not just at the end, but in the middle where it counts.

8. Leaving your dog for the workday? Feels like 56 hours to them. Minimum.

9. Humor is a spiritual practice—especially at airport security.

10. Dancing to house music (in the 120 bpm zone) might just extend your life and definitely your smile.

    

11. It’s a gift to have someone to lean on when the waves come crashing in.

12. Sometimes the truest thing you can say is “I don’t know….I’m still figuring it out.”

13. The opposite of control? It’s yes. (But hey, it’s a practice).

14. Most brilliance begins as boredom.

15. A good walk solves more than a scroll ever will.

16. It’s okay to let love rule—and okay to let love go.

17. Catching yourself in an old pattern is proof you’re evolving.

18. Real self-trust? Curiosity, coherence, capacity, compassion, and commitment.

19. Being impeccable with your word is hard yet always worth it.

20. Not all inspiration is loud—some whispers take time.

21. Joy is often silent—because there’s nothing to prove.

22. Grace arrives when you stop posturing.

23. Thresholds say: I love you—and me. At the same time.

24. Man plans, God laughs… and somehow, I keep dancing.

25. Gratitude is sneaky—it makes ordinary moments feel like tiny miracles.

Maybe one or two land for you, too. If something sparked, I’d love to hear which—and what this year taught you in return. The world spins on. The lessons keep arriving. May the next ones meet you with grace, humor, and a good playlist.

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The Early Doors Collective has been dreaming up new ways to invite more Play into work and life. More lightness, imagination, courage, and regeneration. In times of transition, it can feel counterintuitive, but deep play often unlocks what thinking simply can’t.

You can explore the new creations—including the brand new card deck—right here.

If you’re craving ocean, play, and a fresh chapter, early bird spots are now open for upcoming retreats in Playa Azul, Costa Rica, and Tofino, Canada.

Mornings of movement, afternoons in the sea, and evenings shaped by connection, creativity, and nourishing food. A reset like this only arrives when you step outside your everyday life. Lovingly curated with just enough structure—and just enough spaciousness—for you to unfold at your own rhythm. A little sun, a little saltwater, a little stillness—sometimes that’s all it takes to begin again. Come join us.

This year stretched me. And through it all, one steady joy was supporting a wildly diverse, deeply determined crew of humans. They launched businesses, became authors, moved cities, changed jobs, said hard goodbyes, won awards, fell in and out of love—and, maybe most meaningfully, got to know themselves a little more deeply.

My new coaching program—Lift-Off—opens now and kicks off January 13th, 2026. It’s for folks standing at the edge of a new chapter: ready for more, even if “more” is still a little blurry. If you’re craving clarity, momentum, or a steady co-pilot by your side, you can learn more or book a curiosity call here.

Here’s to what we’re still learning, unlearning, and playing with.
See you in the next turn of the sun.

Happy Holidays.

I used to think personal growth looked kind of like physical growth: linear-ish. Like how we go from children to lanky teens to adults with lower back pain and a dedicated foam roller habit.

Visible. Predictable. Steady.

But that’s not how life works.

Enter: the marula tree.

The marula tree doesn’t bloom year-round. It doesn’t chase KPIs or hit refresh on its inbox. It follows the rains. It rests. It stretches. It fruits. It blooms when it’s ready — not when it’s told to.

What if we lived more like that?

I coached a fellow who had every success metric ticked off: a great job, a partner who ticked their boxes, two fun-loving little girls, and one killer espresso machine.

And yet something was off. His words were articulate. His posture was upright. But his eyes? Glazed. There was no twinkle, and there hadn’t been in some time.

“Everything’s OK-ish,” he chimed.

Long pause.

“…But I feel like I’m sleepwalking through my own life. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

Most coaching conversations tend to arrive at some version of:

“Am I on the right path?”

Which is often code for:

“Why does this life I built not feel like mine?”

And beneath this is often something even quieter:

”What would happen if I stopped trying to be “on” all the time — and started listening instead?”

But listening’s hard when we’re surrounded by noise — inboxes, deadlines, expectations, algorithms, dudes named Brad on LinkedIn giving TED talks in their cars.

We’ve been trained to outsource our navigation:

To our parents.
To our bosses.
To our partners.
To the internet.

But here’s the thing:

The version of success they want for you? It’s theirs. From their shoes. And last I checked — you’re not wearing their Crocs. (And even if you like Crocs... theirs are too tight.)

Many folks do all the things: climb the ladders, update the bio, buy the almond milk —and yet somewhere along the way, they lose the signal.

The inner compass is still there, but it gets quieter every time we override it with “should.” Lion tracker Boyd Varty writes:

“We lose ourselves in shoulds. Shoulds are full of traps, traps laid by society and your limited rules for yourself. No wild animal has ever participated in a should. What you know to do is deeper than that.”

Doing the ‘work’ isn’t about forcing the blossom—it’s bout becoming the tracker of your own internal weather.

No performance. No posturing. No virtual signaling. No ‘growth for its own sake.’
Just noticing when it’s time to let things flow and emerge into the next.

Some seasons are about clarity.
Some are for chaos.
Some are compost.

Yes, compost. That weird, mushy, messy middle where nothing makes sense and everything smells like a transition.

But that doesn’t mean you’re lost.

It might just mean you’re marula-ing.

“People are not looking for the meaning of life; they are looking for the feeling of being alive,” wrote Joseph Campbell.

That’s what coaching is, at its best. Not giving advice. Not directing someone on what to do. But helping people remember how to listen. Supporting them in learning how to track:

Track what feels warm.
Track what gives you energy.
Track what brings ease.
Track what’s been whispering to you for years.

“You can’t think your way to a calling. You have to learn how your body speaks. You have to learn how you know what you know. You have to follow the inner tracks of your feelings, sensations, and instincts — the integrity and truth that are deeper than ideas about what you should do,” continues Varty.

You make your own path with every “must” you make, with every step you take. When you start to listen — really listen — something shifts. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to say: “I know what matters now.” “I know what I need.”

You don’t need a perfect plan.
You need presence.

You don’t need a guru.
You need sleep. And courage.

You don’t need an algorithm.
You need to tap into your wild animal self.

You don’t need to think your way back home.
You need to feel your way.

Because…

You are not a productivity app.
You are not your AI avatar.
You are not a persona or a punchline.

You are the marula tree.

And you’ll bloom whenever the hell you please :)

TL;DR: After 20 years of writing my newsletter, it’s time for a change. I’ll still write here when it feels fitting—but just not on a set schedule and not always in this format.

For this final edition, I’m sharing what I’ve learned (and unlearned), how meditation once saved my laptop, and why writing still saves me.

In 2017, I sauntered into the London Meditation Centre.

I was the last in my friend group to surrender to “bliss consciousness.” My spiritually superior pals had made it clear: join the mindful brigade or risk being disowned.

I figured, fuck it—why not? Couldn’t hurt to close my eyes and breathe for 20 minutes, right? Soon after, I was anointed with a mantra and crowned a meditator.

Cut to a train at rush hour, packed like sardines. I’m heading south to Brighton, sneaking in some work on my laptop. I clock a cup of hot coffee dangerously perched on my neighbour’s tray. I tap away, keeping half an eye on the hazard.

At the next stop, more passengers flood in. It’s elbowy, chaotic, and inevitable. I sense the coffee’s going down.

And then—bam.

In one fluid move, I twist, snatch the MacBook, and like a newborn, shield it from the carnage. My neighbour and the surrounding passengers look on in awe. The coffee flies onto my back, and my computer remains unscathed. For a glorious second, I’m the MacBook-saving samurai London didn’t know it needed.

Then I think, maybe it’s meditation?

Not the serene, lotus-sitting kind. But the reflex. The heightened awareness. Matrix-style bullet-time. Moving through chaos in slow motion.

Okay—maybe I just got lucky. I’ll take it either way.

No More Shoulds

On the train, my reflexes brought me into the moment. Off the train, in everyday life, my practice of being present wobbles. So I breathe. I try all the things—and yet still feel stuck. Meditation. Medication. Movement. Mantras. I chase anything that starts with an M and think, What are you even on about, Jonas?

When I’m ‘out of sorts’ —absent from the now— I feel it in my body. Tight chest. Heavy shoulders. Shorter breaths. Dis-ease. Separation. The stuck-ness waxes and wanes like the moon.

I rewind. I fast-forward. But I miss the ongoing wow happening right now.

I can’t think my way into presence. Discovering what I need— my next move—takes more than logic. It’s been a long slog to read the subtle tracks of my body: how it relaxes when something feels right, how it tightens when I’m off course.

I’m still learning the language of my body. How do I know what I know? Can I trust it? Attuning to my feelings, sensations, and instincts brings me back home to myself. The truth lies in trusting this deeper, wiser, wilder place inside—the one that never speaks in shoulds.

Boyd Varty, in The Lion’s Tracker’s Guide to Life, writes:

”The journey out of [of falling asleep in your own life] will begin not with the call, but with the desire to hear the call. The desire itself has an energy…Most of us are looking but not seeing…As trackers, our part is to be awake. Our part is to listen. We want to hear the call. Tracking begins with wanting to track.”

We shape our lives by how we expend our energy, our time, and our attention. But most of us are conditioned to look outward—soaking up cultural cues, letting others define our value, our direction, our purpose.

And so, we lose our way. We lose ourselves. In shoulds.

Shoulds are traps we build from narrow rules and second-hand beliefs. No wild animal has ever participated in a should.

What makes you come alive runs deeper than any rule or rationalization. No one else can show you the way. That’s The Work.

The Myth of the Magic Bullet

I wish I could hand you a neat little shopping list of enlightenment essentials. But there’s no one-size-fits-all. No ultimate hack. No system reboot. No internal landscaping or spiritual Botox that will snap you back to your higher self.

I get caught up in my silly stories all the time. I ride high, then low. I’m in flow, then stalled out. I double down. I do “The Work.” Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.

What I’ve learned is: The Work isn’t about arriving anywhere. It’s about returning.
It’s a practice—not a finish line.

The aim (if there is one) is to unhook from the grip of suffering-laced beliefs. You say to hell with your mood and follow your practice. You stop trying to make sense of it all and surrender to the unravelling. You permit yourself to be messy. To let go. And just be.

You’re not fixing yourself—you’re not broken. You aren’t becoming whole again because you already are. You are simply returning, humaning really, to your natural state: innocent, present, and calm.

Meditation or otherwise, I come back to what grounds me: my breath, my body, my people, my natural surroundings. To the pulsing awareness that—despite what the world whispers—there’s nothing wrong with me.

I squint, and the view sharpens. A massive Douglas Fir stands still and true. It doesn’t carry its past. It doesn’t store hurt. So why should I?

I listen. I pay attention. I heed the call.

And it’s these tracks, this embodied remembering, that leads me back to the wild self I’d forgotten.

Practice over Perfection

Sure, maybe you don’t want to get out of bed. Perhaps you’re caught in a thought loop, wondering if you could’ve done something differently. Or spiraling over something that hasn’t even happened yet.

And yes—there’s that gorgeous pint of ice cream in the freezer, your trusty emotional support dessert.

Lions don’t lie awake wondering if they should be better lions. Birds don’t question their career paths. Only humans seem to think they’re a problem to be solved.

And yet, I still fall for it—convinced there’s a fix for the human condition I just haven’t found.

But then Byron Katie’s voice echoes in:

When you argue with reality, you lose, but only 100% of the time.

If we begin to see our parts as a symphony rather than a mess of broken pieces, something shifts.

We begin to emerge—unmasked, revived, evolved. We inch closer to coherence.
We start to trust that it’s all figure-outable. That life, in its own bizarre way, knows exactly what it’s doing.

And then we can tune back into the music—remembering how to do the dance.

OK, I’ll leave you here. Time to get back to doing The Work.

But first… I need a nap.

An Afterthought: On Beginnings

Transitions have stages. I see this moment as the beginning of something new. I’m not entirely sure what— but it feels like a shift from ideas toward action, from polishing to pulsating, and from thinking to feeling.

I’ve always needed words to make sense of my insides. So I’ll keep writing, in whatever format and cadence feels right. Expect more conversation-style content, candour, and, hopefully, some laughs.

If you want to follow along, do nothing—I’ll keep you updated here. If you want to unsubscribe, feel free to hit that button—no hard feelings, promise.

Whichever way, thank you for reading, listening, and being here.

Signing off from a writer who’s learning, again and again, that the real work is simply showing up…and sometimes just making it to that morning coffee.

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Greatest Hits Selection

A selection of the most loved digests of the last few years if you fancy:

Celebrating Clients 🎈

Oren Rhodes continues to blow my mind with Telos - your personal coach and accountability partner. Once this takes off, I’ll be out of a job :)

Luke Haverty is behind A Supper Series— a global creative dining experience that blends food, art, and community, sparking connection through every bite.

Ivana Djordjevic just crushes it with her bold-ass, colorful photography. I’ve also loved attending a couple of her wildly immersive events in the city.

Tony Nwachukwu runs CDR, a long-standing music organisation that goes from strength to strength, championing the UK’s most promising new talent.

Pia Stanchina leapt into entrepreneurial life without skipping a beat, offering interior design, creative coaching, and consulting services.

Joshua Gray, with fierce heart and vision, continues to shape the future at GoogleSoc. I’m constantly amazed by his ability to widen his lens and choose wisely.

Stash Bylicki leads Chor Leoni, which fosters community through moving choral performances, supports singers of all ages, and enriches culture through new music.

If you’re looking for some soundtracks to summer, my latest mixes may do the trick:

“I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific.” — Lily Tomlin

Hey, I'm Jonas—fire starter (figuratively), founder, coach, writer, and teacher. You can find me online at JA and SF. If anything here sparks a thought, hit reply—I’d love to hear from you.

The sun’s out longer, the days feel looser, and the air has that buzzy pre-summer energy—like something’s about to crack. I’m staring out the window, and everything feels a little more alive than it should on a typical Tuesday. “Huh,” I think. “That’s odd.”

My Co–Star app—which I’ll admit has become a mild addiction—tells me today is all about synchronistic connections. Of course it does.

So I start wondering: am I just linking scattered dots like some cosmic connect four? Or… is that the whole point of living—to catch the signal buried inside the noise?

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

Carl Jung coined the term synchronicity nearly a century ago to describe those moments when events line up in time and feel deeply connected, even though there’s no clear reason they are.

No scientific method explains how or why these uncanny events might be linked, except through the meaning we assign to them. From a lab nerd’s perspective, it’s all just a coincidence. But from the inside—your perspective—it feels cosmically connected. The randomness has a rhythm. And it’s hard not to believe it’s pointing somewhere.

When synchronicities start to stack up, it can feel like you’ve caught a wave. There’s a silent sherpa guiding you—whispering through songs, signs, symbols—nudging you gently toward who you’re here to become.

Synchronicity doesn’t shout. It taps you on the shoulder, asking you to trust that life might actually know what it’s doing:

• A line in a song hits—suddenly you’re clear on something you didn’t even know was murky.

• You finally open that book that’s been lying around, and it answers the exact question you’ve been carrying.

• You bump into someone you haven’t seen in years on the exact day you were thinking about them

• The same number keeps following you—on clocks, receipts, locker numbers, license plates.

• A double déjà vu. You swear you’ve been here before—twice.

The logic doesn’t always track. But the timing is undeniable. These moments don’t prove anything in the scientific sense, but they do something else. They orient you. Not with a map, but with a compass. A quiet propelling forward.

Life flows more smoothly as you glide through it like hot butter on breakfast toast.

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Lucky Number Seven

A client just told me some facts about his dad that stopped me in my tracks.

• Born on the 7th day of the 7th month at exactly 7:07 p.m.

• Weighed 7 pounds 7 oz at 7:07 pm

• First name: Charles— 7 letters

• Second name: Richard — 7 letters

And when he passed? It was the 7th day of the 7th month. At 7:30 p.m. On his 67th Birthday.

Yeah. I had chills, too.

In numerology, the number seven is often associated with completion—seven days of creation, seven chakras, seven notes in the scale, seven days in a week.

His father, it seemed, lived inside that rhythm. And when it was time to go, he slipped out quietly, like the final note in a song that knew just when to end.

Maybe That’s the Point

Optimizing for synchronicity means staying open to where the subconscious dances with the conscious. It’s here, just past logic— that your antenna tunes into whatever magic is unfolding.

It doesn’t offer clear answers, nor does it need to. Sometimes, just noticing is enough. You feel aligned with something larger, like stepping into the beat of a song you didn’t know you were grooving to.

The fact that you don’t fully understand the events may be the whole point. Synchronicity helps us practice presence and cultivate curiosity. It lets you make sense of the world—and your strange, beautiful place in it.

In a world obsessed with control, trusting the timing of things becomes a quiet act of resistance. Even the strangest coincidences can soften us, just enough, to consider that something deeper might be at play.

We may never prove synchronicity. But it gives us something just as powerful: a sense of meaning. A quiet feeling that we’re not just drifting and that maybe we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Perhaps it’s just the universe winking at us.

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Lift-Off

I’ve got some spanking new credentials (PCC), which has been a journey, and I also have just two spots remaining on my next Lift Off Program. If you’re a business founder, creative entrepreneur, or adventure seeker, this program is specifically designed for you. Learn more below:

Lift-Off Program

Non-Sleep Deep Rest (NSDR)

I just finished my training in this domain and am excited to be able to guide others (unfortunately, not always myself) into deep rest, blissful states, and peaceful sleep. This is one of my current faves, which you can take for a spin if you’re curious:

Liminal Dream Space

Now Play This

Continuing to evolve - this latest playlist seems to be a crowd pleaser, spanning more genres than I can count. You can tune in below:

That’s all, folks :)

“Synchronicity occurs at the intersection of your awareness, response, perspective, and action.” ― Andrea Goeglein

Your best ideas rarely come to you when you’re trying to have them. They certainly don’t emerge while staring at a screen or drowning in notifications. Yet, many of us try to summon genius like an Uber—on demand, with surge pricing included.

Creativity doesn’t flow on command–it needs space and momentum. But in a world of endless distractions and eerily precise algorithms feeding us things we didn’t even know we wanted, how do we create the conditions for it to flourish?

The answer isn’t another productivity hack or hustling harder—it’s about refining your rituals, shaping a space that fosters deep work, and making tiny shifts that lead to breakthroughs.

Here are four ways to experiment with a process that works with—not against—your natural creative flow.

What’s In and What’s Out?

A great place to start? Declutter your space, your mind, and whatever graveyard of tabs is haunting your browser. From 2016 until the pandemic threw my routine off a cliff, I had a structured morning ritual: no phone before work (hello old-school alarm clock!), 20 minutes of meditation, an outdoor walk on Monday mornings, and distraction-free writing from 10 AM to noon.

This period was easily my most focused, creative, and productive stretch.

Since then? Complete shitshow.

But I’ve realized the key isn’t about rigidly sticking to old rituals—it’s about evolving them. A simple way to do that is by making an IN vs. OUT list for your current creative season.

Here’s mine:

You get the idea—more brain space, fewer distractions. Creativity doesn’t respond well to grinding harder, multitasking better, or praying for inspiration to appear. It thrives in the right conditions. So I optimize for boredom, brain blinks, and deliberate rest.

Moving Meditations

You don’t need to run a marathon (unless you’re also into questionable life choices). A simple stroll will do the trick. Walking isn’t just movement; it’s a creative catalyst. Aristotle, Charles Darwin, and Helen Dunmore all swore by it. Why? Because walking quiets your inner world and awakens the outer one. It fosters reflection, integration, and—most importantly— creative breakthroughs.

Next time you’re stuck, go for a walk—no AirPods, podcasts, no calls. Just you, your thoughts, and that stray cat that may or may not be tailing you.

Designing Your Creative Environment

Your environment matters. A lot. Prime yourself for flow by designing a space that supports your creativity. Research shows that even something as simple as adding a few plants can boost focus, productivity, and equanimity.

Minimizing digital clutter = maximizing mental clarity. Try this for some tech hygiene:

• Adopt a “searching vs. filing” mindset—stop over-organizing digital folders like you work at the CIA

• Create “off” times for your tech so your brain can reset

• Cultivate deep work sessions (up to 120 minutes max) with no distractions (especially email)

The truth? Your best ideas aren’t sitting in your inbox. They arrive through dreams, walks, conversations, or in stillness. Remain open, and they’ll find and consume you.

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Revisiting Your Rituals

I know myself: I cannot work until my space is tidy. Otherwise, I’ll think about whether my coffee mugs are living their best life instead of actually working.

Want to create rituals that stick? Test-drive the 6 C’s:

1. Commitment – Show up, even when you’d rather do literally anything else.

2. Consistency – Tiny daily actions beat ‘I’ll work on this later for hours straight’

3. Creativity – Experiment. Fail. Learn. Try again.

4. Community – Surround yourself with hell-yeah people.

5. Curiosity – Stay open to new ways of working.

6. Celebration – Acknowledge progress, however small.

Habit Hack: Stack Your triggers.

After I meditate, I make my delicious coffee.
After I make coffee, I sit down to write.
After I write, I go for a walk.

For many of my clients, walking the dog becomes an anchor, triggering everything from journaling to deep work. Stack positive triggers—also known as glimmers—and you counter that creative resistance.

Juice Work vs. Popcorn Work

Some tasks demand high focus and deep immersion. Others? Autopilot mode.

Juice Work = Exciting, creative projects (think strategy, designing, writing)
Popcorn Work = Autopilot tasks (emails, admin, scheduling)

Knowing the difference changes everything. One of my clients structures her days around this. She does juice work when she’s fresh and popcorn work when she’s half-dead. The aim is to align the type of work with your energy levels. The result? Less burnout, more fulfilment—and more juicy work in her life.

Your Call to Action: Protect the Asset!

Big shifts come from tiny habits. Your job? Protect the asset—and that asset is you.

Organizing your creative life isn’t about perfection—it’s about designing systems that don’t make you want to scream into a pillow. You can unlock new levels of focus and innovation through practice and by letting go of what no longer serves you. A physical and psychological space that fuels inspiration will soon emerge.

So ask yourself: What’s one small change I can make today?

Whether you re-configure your workspace, re-design your rituals, or just start by starting, your next move is yours to make.

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Dive deeper:

Your Creativity Code (IG)
From Flourishing to Floundering (Substack)
Either hell yeah! Or No (Article)
Mind Wandering (Substack)
Where Great Ideas Come From (Video)

Lift-Off This Summer:

What? A six-month journey of self-discovery, purpose, and doing your best work
When? June 12th - December 15, 2025
For whom? Business founders, creative entrepreneurs, and adventure seekers
More questions? Head over to the FAQ

”Without a doubt that Jonas was key in helping me chase down some big, audacious goals. His support helped me rewrite the rules of ‘normal’ and his perspectives inspired me to navigate the path forward.”
- Matt Tanner, Director of Operations, Onevest

My next Lift-Off program has just opened up—is now your time to fly?

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My new Aries Flow Playlist is here to help fuel your creativity this month ~

“It is important to remember that at first flush, going sane feels just like going crazy.”

—Julia Cameron on trusting our creativity in the Artist’s Way

Too many creative people hesitate to call themselves entrepreneurs. They think business is about sales and scaling, while creativity is about passion and instinct. But creativity and entrepreneurship aren’t opposing forces—they’re natural bedfellows, even if they don’t always see eye to eye.

In my 22 years of running my own business, I’ve seen countless people follow their entrepreneurial instincts—whether launching a startup, freelancing, building a lifestyle business, or crafting a portfolio career. And while every path looks different, the patterns of success (and struggle) are shockingly similar.

Like therapy or personal training, there’s no one-size-fits-all approach. But certain principles in building your business won’t just make the journey easier—they’ll make it positively transformative.

Motivation Matters

Every entrepreneur’s journey is unique, and most start their business for one of three reasons:

Unbearable Frustrations: Some of the best businesses start with someone thinking, I can do this better. Annoyance fuels innovation.

Happy Accidents: Great ideas often emerge from failures, pivots, or unexpected “aha” moments (Case in point: Honibe was born years after its founder’s near-death encounter with a bear.)

A Healthy Obsession: Forget “Do what you love.” Instead, do what makes you come alive—what aligns with who you are, your vision, and your values. The love will follow.

Starting is one thing. Staying engaged and motivated is another. What keeps entrepreneurs going when the road gets tough? Typically, it’s one (or all) of these:

Freedom – The desire to own your time and destiny.
Money – Not just wealth, but financial independence.
Impact – The drive to create something meaningful.

Whatever sparks your journey is important. What sustains it matters even more.

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Building the Raft While Already at Sea

If you’re waiting to feel ‘ready’ before you start, you’ll be waiting forever. Maybe you design killer streetwear, make TikToks about ancient mythology, or sculpt ceramic cats that people on Etsy go crazy for. Whatever it is, you can turn creativity into cash—without selling your soul. And there’s no better time than now.

Creativity is the fuel for your entrepreneurial engine. But too many aspiring entrepreneurs hesitate—paralyzed by risk, uncertainty, or the belief that they’re not ‘business-minded.’ Trust me—there will always be an excuse.

Entrepreneurship isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about taking action. It’s about testing the waters, iterating, and refining.

It often feels like building a raft while already drifting in the ocean—there’s no perfect plan, no instruction manual. You learn by executing and sometimes by frantically paddling to stay afloat.

Lessons I Wish I Had Learned A Wee Bit Earlier

Get a Coach

It took me way too long to get a business coach. Her name was Claudie, and I remember sitting on a park bench in London’s Queen’s Park—when she looked at me and said, “You’re a creative entrepreneur.”

Then she waited. She wanted me to say it out loud.

I hesitated—it felt…ick. But years later, I fully owned it. A creative entrepreneur earns a living by selling their ingenuity, packaging up a bit of themselves, and gifting it to the world. That’s exactly what I do—I just resisted claiming it.

Anne-Marie Slaughter, CEO of New America, once said that Olympic athletes don’t just have coaches when they’re young—they have them for decades. Entrepreneurs are no different.

A great coach helps you stay motivated, shift your mindset, navigate failures, regulate emotions, celebrate wins, make tough decisions—and most importantly, hold you accountable.

→ Takeaway → If you’re thinking of starting up on your own, stop reading now and find a coach.


Meditate (Yes, Really)

You have to clear your mind—Oprah, Ray Dalio, and countless leaders swear by it. It’s not just about calm—it’s about training your mind to navigate chaos like a Jedi Master.

Simple? Yes. Easy? Not at all. Sitting still for 10—hell, even 2—minutes is tough. But meditation works. It sharpens creativity, patience, resilience, and focus.

Once, on a packed commuter train, a passenger’s coffee went flying straight at me. In a split second, I dodged it, saving both myself and my laptop. The onlookers were stunned by my reflexes. Me? I just smiled, hearing my teacher’s voice in my head: ‘Maybe it’s the meditation.

→ Takeaway → If you’re too busy to meditate, that’s exactly why you should.


Keep Inventing as You Go

The lean startup framework tells you to build, measure, and learn. But creative entrepreneurship works differently—it starts with understanding your unique genius and taking it to the world so that the right people can find you.

Creative entrepreneurs are a special breed. They don’t just sell products; they sell their vision, artistry, and unique perspective on the world.

I know it sounds cringe but think of yourself as being in the business of transformation. If what you create changes something or someone for the better, then the world needs you to keep going.

There are eight billion people on this pale blue dot—and you only need a thousand true fans.

→ Takeaway → Define your value, start before you’re ready, and grow your audience.

The “Risky” Business Myth

After years of running a fashion business, I dropped everything—literally. The clothes, the stress, the emotional baggage. If burnout were a brand, I would’ve been its chief spokesperson.

I was working hard but not working smart—like so many others trying to turn creativity into a business. The music, film, and gaming industries are often called “risky.” But ask any restaurateur, and they’ll laugh in your face. All business is risky. Success isn’t about picking a ‘safe’ industry—it’s about learning to surf the inevitable waves of uncertainty.

In 2023 alone, 5.5 million new businesses were registered in the U.S.—an all-time record. Only a sliver had venture-backing, which means most entrepreneurs are out here duct-taping their dreams together with grit, caffeine, and blind optimism. It’s a game of adapting fast and betting on yourself—over and over again.

The artists, bakers, designers, DJs, yoga instructors, florists, food truck owners, photographers, dog walkers, kombucha peddlers, makers, and artisans? They’re not just building businesses. They’re making a damn good bet on themselves.

Afterthought: No One Knows What They’re Doing

​​Entrepreneurship isn’t about perfection—it’s about practice.

It takes confidence and competence to take the leap, but it also requires a healthy dose of humility to recognize one's blind spots, listen to hard truths, and improve because of them.

So, go ahead—turn your ideas into action, launch your dream, and remember this: No one has it all figured out.

We’re all just making it up as we go.

Hi, I'm Jonas, the dude behind this newsletter, now in its 20th year. I coach, teach, and write. For fun, I enjoy chasing waves and making mixtapes. Want to learn more? Head to jonasaltman.com. And if something here sparks a thought, just hit reply—I’d love to hear from you.

Transitions, whether planned or thrust upon us, have a funny way of unraveling our old selves while hinting at what’s possible. The question isn’t whether we’ll change—it’s whether we’ll embrace the in-between with curiosity or resist it with restless uncertainty.

I’ve often wondered if transitions are less about leaps of faith and more about small experiments—tiny steps that let us prototype our future selves.

When we resist the urge to bulldoze through the uncertainty, we might discover the joy of the build-up—the suspense that makes the crescendo unforgettable.

Small Steps, Big Impact

During transitions, we often feel the pressure to have all the answers—to know exactly who we’re becoming. But transformation is rarely that linear. It’s iterative, a process of experimenting, testing, and refining.

Here’s a napkin sketch to get you started:

• Start Small: Experiment with tiny shifts—dedicating time to explore a forgotten passion or reaching out to someone whose career intrigues you.

• Fail Gracefully: Treat every attempt as a learning experience. Think of it as your sandbox, not a stage for perfection.

• Discover Glimmers: Notice what lights you up—those micro-moments of joy or inspiration.

Each experiment builds your identity capital—the investments in skills, relationships, and self-awareness that bolster your sense of self and point you toward what’s next. The invitation here isn’t to fix but to notice, discern, and welcome the opening.

From Stuck to Sprouting

Think of transitions as nature’s reset button. A forest fire may seem destructive, but it clears the way for new growth. Without the destruction, we’re stuck in the same routines, the same stories. Cue the yawn.

What lies dormant in you that’s ready to bloom? Perhaps it’s time to revisit an idea you shelved years ago or pursue something entirely new. The beauty of transitions is their invitation to reimagine what’s possible.

The Upside of the Muck

Here’s the good news: transitions offer upsides, too. They nudge us to reprioritize, spark spiritual awakenings, and make us care a lot less about what others think. Most importantly, they permit us to write a new story—one that chooses enlargement over comfort.

Prompts for the In-Between

• What’s one outdated story about yourself you’re ready to release?

• Becoming beats being. What’s one small step you can take this week toward the person you’re becoming?

• Who can you learn from, and will you reach out?

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Take the Meet The World 2025 Deck for a Test Drive—download it here.

Embracing the in-between may feel as appealing as skipping your morning coffee, but this liminal space is fertile ground for growth. When life feels up in the air, it’s the perfect moment to pause, widen your lens, and trust the process. After all, when you know exactly how everything will pan out, there’s no room for serendipity–no room for magic.

Your Next Chapter Awaits

Here’s the liberating truth: from a psychological perspective, identity isn’t fixed. We’re natural storytellers, continually shaping narratives to fit the roles we play in different settings. This means we can rewrite who we are—not by erasing the past, but by reframing it to align with the person we’re becoming.

Transitions aren’t about solving—they’re about listening. Start small, stay curious, and let your story evolve. A better you is already in the works. And if you choose your words wisely, you might just rewrite the trajectory of your life.

Are you navigating a transition right now? Reply to this email —I’d love to hear from you.

A version of this article first appeared at Shift where I’m partnering on a new series called Make Shift Happen—inspiring stories and actionable tips to shift your perspective and intentionally design the life you desire.

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Lift-Off Coaching Program

The Lift-Off program is a six-month journey of self-discovery, purpose, and doing your life’s most impactful work. After a decade of refining my coaching approach, this proven method will help you unlock your potential and become the best version of yourself — with confidence, clarity, and courage. We kick off on January 21st and wrap on Summer Solstice 🌞

For business founders, creative entrepreneurs, and adventure seekers ready to embrace change and lift off. If this resonates with you—let’s hop on a call and chat.

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Meeting the World

This year, through Early Doors, we shift our focus outward as we welcome the Lunar Year of the Wood Snake, beginning with the new moon on January 29th. The Wood Snake, celebrated for its wisdom, intuition, adaptability, and strategic nature, invites us to explore how we meet the world—through presence, intuition, collaboration, and connection.

VIEW THE DECK

Shifting States

My recent FieldTrip for CreativeMornigns saw hundreds move through their bodies to help shift their inner ‘scripts’ to become pure. This is the playlist to help discover the beauty of transitions.

LISTEN NOW

Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.

—Arthur Ashe

Yeah, it happened—while on a run I had a thought “Hey, I’ll make one of those lists that folks do at the end of the year.”

So here we are with 24 things I learned in ‘24…

1. Boundaries as Love: Setting boundaries is an act of love, as is asking for help.
   

2. Gumption as a Practice: Gumption isn’t just a fun word to say—it’s a life skill worth cultivating daily.
   

3. Guacamole and Gathering: Nothing says “I care” quite perfectly like mashed avocados and good company.
   

Read more

Keanu Reeves was bemused that some teenagers today don’t really care whether life is real or virtual. To them, it’s all the same—a game, a movie, a Matrix. Terrifying? A little.

One obvious reason they might be doubting reality? The average teenager spends nearly nine hours a day on screens. With that much time disconnected from tangible, human life, the line between reality and simulation would blur for anyone.

The Tools We Deploy (and When They Fail)

Of course, screens aside, we all have our trusted tools for gaining perspective: nature, journaling, therapy, coaching, meditation, or simply calling a friend. These practices can help widen your lens on life, helping you reflect and reset.

But sometimes, life doesn’t whisper—it screams.

A near-death experience (NDE) isn’t gentle guidance; it’s a Ctrl+Alt+Del for the soul. It’s a system reboot that jolts you into clarity—like an existential smack in the face, reminding you of what actually matters.

Take the show Nine Perfect Strangers. Nicole Kidman’s character takes this concept to the extreme. Spoiler alert: she tricks her retreat guests into believing they’re about to burn alive in a fire. Faced with the illusion of death, their walls crumble. Masks drop. Vulnerability washes over. They reveal buried truths and supercharge their healing journey.

Why? Because confronting death—whether real or imagined—forces you to confront life. And often, it pushes you to start living it differently.

My Near-Death Moment(s)

Perhaps you’re curious about my own NDE? I’ve had a couple.

In Bali, I nearly drowned while surfing. One moment, I was riding a perfect wave; the next, I was trapped in a spin cycle, dragged to the seabed floor with no escape. Submerged, the sky above the water blurred into a swirling watercolor. I remember thinking: So this is it? This is how I go—beaten by the very ocean I love.

Time slowed to a crawl. Eventually, the water relented, spitting me back out—bruised, humbled, and gasping for air. Oxygen—and life itself—had never tasted so sweet.

I walked away, but I’ve been strutting differently ever since. More grateful, more intentional, and more aware of what I need and who I want to be.

That was my near-life experience —one I didn’t choose, but that chose me.

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A New Operating System

A near-death experience isn’t something you can plan for; it’s something that happens for you. It strips away ego and illusion. You don’t just see life differently—you feel it differently. Holding onto fear feels silly. Accepting your nature, well, becomes second nature.

When the operating system of who you are shuts down—even momentarily—it installs something extraordinary in its place.

The days shine brighter. Ice cream tastes sweeter. Music moves you to dance. Boundaries become clearer. You love harder and let go faster. Life upgrades you to a whole new OS—one where gratitude, purpose, and presence take center stage.

So here’s the question: Are you living like an avatar—just going through the motions? Or are you fully awake to the fragile, fleeting miracle of it all?

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The Beauty in Transition

Today at noon PST! Come join 300+ other creatives for this movement practice. Do some YIn, grin, reflect, wind down your year, and turn the page to a new chapter.

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Guac and Talk Live

​Get ready to spice up your New Year with Guac & Talk Live! Join me on January 9th at noon PST for a virtual fiesta you won't want to miss. We're bringing the party to Grab your favorite guacamole recipe, whip up a batch, and settle in for an hour of lively conversation and tasty fun. Expect jam-packed dialogue with a special surprise guest and a live coaching session to boot. This event is for the curious — seekers, creators, and entrepreneurs ready to lift off this year.

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2025 Lift-Off Coaching Program

A six-month journey of self-discovery, purpose, and doing your life’s most impactful work. After a decade of refining my coaching approach, this proven method will help you unlock your potential and step into the best version of yourself — with confidence, clarity, and courage. For Business Founders, Creative Entrepreneurs, and Adventure Seekers. Lifting off in the New Year there are only 2 spots left.

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New DJ Mix: S L O W

Perhaps you are ready to unplug, unwind, and take it slow over the holidays. If that sounds like you (or even if you plan on going wild)— this mix could be the soundtrack to set your wheels in motion.

TUNE IN

“The closest I ever came to a near death experience was living in LA.”

—Deirdra Baldwin

*This post comes from entrepreneur, author, and friend Brian Hall.

Let’s start with an obvious, uncontroversial observation: Art is for people.

Books are meant to be read, paintings are meant to be seen, songs are meant to be heard. Other humans are an indispensable part of any creative work you produce—and given that, you might be forgiven for jumping to a few questionable conclusions.

Like: Other people’s opinions of your art are worth considering.

Or a softer version: Other people, who are established and authoritative connoisseurs of the type of art you produce, have opinions worth considering.

Makes sense, kind of. But it’s wrong. Hear me out.

Let’s start with the world-famous novelist Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Surely you know him. Right? He wrote Prudence Palfrey. Not ringing a bell? How about From Ponkapog to Pesth? Seriously, never heard of it?

Okay, we’ll try someone else: Emily Dickinson. Now that’s a name you know. “Because I could not stop for Death,” “Tell all the truth but tell it slant”—good stuff. Classic. Canon. I mean, the woman has her own postal stamp.

Now let’s look at what Thomas Bailey Aldrich had to say about Miss Dickinson’s poetry:

It is plain that Miss Dickinson possessed an extremely unconventional and grotesque fancy … an eccentric, dreamy, half-educated recluse in an out-of-the-way New England village (or anywhere else) cannot with impunity set at defiance the laws of gravitation and grammar.

“Grotesque” … “half-educated” … “defiance” … okay, so he was not a fan. You can’t please everyone. But Aldrich was not just a fellow writer, not just the celebrated author of Marjorie Daw and Other People—he was a prolific and respected critic. He edited The Atlantic. People listened to him.

Yet here we are faced with the seemingly incontrovertible fact that, when it comes to Emily Dickinson’s poetry, Aldrich got it wrong. She did set at defiance the laws of grammar, and she did so with impunity—considering she was six years dead when he published his hot take.

Aldrich’s critique is beyond wrong. It’s irrelevant. Noise. As is so much criticism, so reliably, that you might as well categorically ignore it all.

Consider The Village Voice complaining that Nina Simone was “bogus” and a “middlebrow keyboard tickler.” Or The Times of London critiquing Frida Kahlo’s “colour-by-numbers style.”

What are we to make of these judgments? What value do they have? As an artist—or more generally, as a “person who makes stuff,” which you surely are—how should you receive and interpret criticism?

It’s entirely up to you to decide, of course, but consider this: What if Meryl Streep had taken to heart the review that asserted her “technique doesn’t add up to anything,” opting to pursue a career in data entry? Suppose Beyoncé, after reading the New York Times review of her first album (“proof that she isn’t quite as versatile as she seemed …”), had hung up her microphone, donated her bodysuits to the Salvation Army, and learned to code. 

Would the world be a better place? Or would it be poorer, less lustrous, and a tad more boring? If you believe the latter is the case, there are two things you can do about it. One: Take a moment to appreciate all the artists in history who have studiously ignored their critics. And two: Join their ranks.

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*Note from Brian: These anecdotes are from my book-in-progress called One Star. I’d love to include your favorite artist, musician, writer, or thinker in the book (It’s fine if you don’t have any stories about how the critics treated them—I’ll do the research!). To suggest someone, head over here.

Upcoming: Creative Mornings FieldTrip 🧘🏼

Thu, Dec 19, 2024 • 12:00 PM – 1:00 PM PST
The Beauty in Transition: A Movement Practice

Are you feeling overwhelmed or excited about the next chapter in your life? This one-off event invites you to harmonize your breath, body awareness, and movement—helping you shift those inner ‘scripts’.

✨Release Stress with Ease: Identify where you hold tension and learn simple techniques to release it.

✨Connect with Like-minded Souls: Share your journey with others in transition, embracing shared and unique experiences.

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"A creative life cannot be sustained by approval any more than it can be destroyed by criticism." —Will Self

I’m oscillating.

One moment soaring, the next sinking. Drifting between lightness and heaviness, sulking and dancing. They say this in-between space is fertile ground for something new—but I’ll believe it when I see it.

This led me to reflect on a conversation with a friend about what it really means to flourish. So I thought we’d turn our attention to that for this month’s edition.

The Shape of Life

Take two actors: Sam and Mas. Sam grinds through indie films and low-budget productions, facing constant rejections. Over time, his diligence pays off—he lands leading roles, makes a crap tonne of money, and finishes his career with a string of Oscar-winning performances.

Mas, on the other hand, bursts onto the scene, winning an Oscar right off the bat, and enjoying blockbuster roles that bring him fame and fortune. But eventually, the spotlight fades—and so does he.

Would you prefer Sam’s steady climb or Mas’ fleeting fame? Yeah, right? When we think about flourishing, the sequence of events matters. Both actors experience highs and lows, but Sam’s steady climb feels more satisfying than Mas’ early success and later decline.

Thriving isn’t just about the total of what happens in your life, but how it all unfolds.

Philosopher Patrick Stokes explains that just as arranging the right furniture in the wrong way can ruin a room, the order of our successes and failures shapes how we experience life’s meaning.

Flourishing often stems from overcoming adversity and finding meaning in the highs and lows. But what does it really take?

The Journey vs. The Outcome

Flourishing isn’t about rational analysis, amassing possessions, or ticking checkboxes ☑ Flourishing is an age-old idea dating back to Aristotle’s eudaimonia. You can’t flourish without the capacity to endure and transcend all the misfortunes and sufferings that life deals you.

During the pandemic, organizational psychologist Adam Grant’s article on languishing made the rounds. This subtle feeling of ‘blah’ sits smugly between depression and flourishing.

This mehness can be a spark for creativity and change, pushing you toward the growth you didn’t see coming. You begin to build awareness, regulate your emotions, and create the conditions for flourishing. Wilderness guide Bill Plotkin frames this as a ‘descent’ into your psyche, aligning with your true nature. I love this.

Self-renewal is a winding journey of twists, setbacks, and unexpected growth. It’s about finding your inner compass and navigating life’s unpredictable terrain. Whether you like it or not, flourishing is a practice. It requires patience, resourcefulness, and devotion to what works for you at this stage of your life.

The practice often requires different doses: a bit of self-determination, a dash of continuous improvement, and a sprinkle of how you present yourself in everyday life. It’s an inside job, best navigated through your inner compass. Over time, you can discover a powerful sense of meaning, personal mastery, and mattering to others.

Flourishing isn’t about hedonism or pleasure. It’s about becoming your best self through small, meaningful steps. Think of it as life’s version of an experimental soufflé—sometimes you nail it, sometimes it flops, but you keep trying.

While struggle isn’t a prerequisite for growth, it is for flourishing. The magic lies in what you do with the struggle—how you emerge and come out the other end.

A Collective Effort

True flourishing isn’t a solo act. It’s a communal effort, built on mutual support and shared goals. It comes from playing a part in something larger than yourself, cultivating virtues, deepening your moral character, and fostering mutual dependence through your friendships and shared practices.

We thrive together when we pursue collective goals and lift each other up. Flourishing as a practice means you're embedded in community and connection—attuning to both individual and collective well-being. We must constantly ask, “What is the good I am aiming for?”

Flourishing isn’t a quest then—it’s an opening. It’s shaped by how we engage with the messiness of today, connect with others, and savor the fleeting moments in life.

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What Makes You, You

Building identity capital takes work. Becoming yourself is like piecing together a complex puzzle bit by bit (some pieces don’t fit, and others get lost under the sofa cushions).

Psychologist, Meg Jay writes:

Identity capital is our collection of personal assets. It is the repertoire of individual resources that we assemble over time. These are the investments we make in ourselves, the things we do well enough, or long enough, that they become a part of who we are.

Think of identity capital as an investment. Your choices—jobs, relationships, hobbies, even mistakes—accumulate over time. These assets will open doors and help you flourish in ways you can’t yet predict. It’s the not-so-glamorous, daily practice of adding layers to who you are that shapes how you navigate life.

If you’re unsure of where to begin now, try wandering in nature, journaling, or doing something completely new and outlandish. Even when stuck in the muck, showing up for yourself and letting others support you sets you on the path toward growth.

The goal, it seems, is to create space for flourishing—to tend to yourself, rely on others, live your purpose, and contribute in ways only you can.

So while we practice, persevere, and push through the struggle, we also open the door for flourishing to surprise us.

Or you could sit back and wait for flourishing to find you—but we both know that’s not how it works

Links to make you think 🤔

A different view on happiness
The era of infinity content
Fear, Fame, and Faith

Creative Mornings 🪩

Speaking of experiments, my next CM FieldTrip will be:
The Beauty in Transition: A Movement Practice

If you've been feeling a sense of giddiness to the next
chapter in life then this is a gentle practice for you to tie the
breath, body awareness, and movement so that those 'scripts inside'
are pure.

‣ Learn to move your body so that your mind can follow intentionally
‣ Recalibrate and get motivated to lean into the liminal
‣ Leave feeling calm, rejuvenated, and clear on your next steps

Thursday, December 19th
From 12 pm-1 pm

RSVP here

“I’ve had a lot of troubles in my life, most of which never happened.”

—Mark Twain

Hi, it’s Jonas, the human who has been dreaming up this newsletter since 2005. I help companies, creatives, and changemakers navigate transitions with heart and purpose. I believe in embracing the unknown—whether in work, life, or the ocean where you’ll find me most at peace 🌊 Got a question? Hit reply!

Ping me

When I was young, I reluctantly visited my Grandfather, Shlomo Hyman, whom we called Zaida. Born in England in the first years of the 20th century, he was a pious Jew, praying eastward three times a day. His and my Bubbie’s kosher kitchen was always bustling with rich smells, his library overflowed with ancient Judaica, and while I resisted many of his traditions, my brother and I were thrilled there was a pool table in the basement.

Even in his old age, Zaida didn’t slow down—he became even more resolute, and unyielding in his beliefs. Before retirement, Zaida was a distinguished attorney, honored as King’s Counsel. He never turned away a deserving client, even those who couldn’t afford to pay Helping others wasn’t just something he did—it was who he was. Zaida’s virtue lay in his unwavering commitment to giving without expecting anything in return. For him, it was a way of making sense of the world—a constant amid chaos.

Whenever I visited, he would be imprinted in his orange sherpa chair—an eyesore I couldn’t stand as a kid. His feet, weathered by time and journeys I would never know, would rest on the matching footstool, a picture of settled wisdom.

Then came the barrage of questions. “Pinchas, my boy, where have you been? You never come around anymore. Is it such a crime to visit your Zaida once in a while?” His inquiries would tumble out relentlessly, layering over one another before I could respond. “How’s school? Do you know the Parshat this week? Well, it’s Lech Lecha. You should come to shul with me this Shabbos. It can’t hurt, you know!” He wasn’t looking for answers. He just wanted me there, in that moment with him. At the time, I was too young to grasp his intentions, too caught up in resisting his overbearing affection.

Zaida passed away when I was barely a man, and it took years before I understood what he truly meant to me. It wasn’t until I journeyed to the land of milk and honey—to Israel—that everything began to change.

As a university student, I was constantly on the move—always living in the thrill of the present moment. A pleasure seeker, I chased joy like it was a race (in some ways, I still do today). With a permanent smile, I found reasons to be joyous and little to be upset about. In Israel, I made friends easily and never went far without striking up a conversation. My energy was boundless; my days were filled with conversations, music, adventure, and some classes. I felt alive.

Towards the end of my year abroad, everything came to a halt. My world paused in the scorching heat of the Negev desert. I had run there, alone, desperate to escape the feelings creeping in. But the desert offered no refuge; it mirrored the searing pain I was trying to outrun. I stared up at the sky, blinded by the intensity of the sun’s light. At one point, lost in the endless expanse of sand, I feared for my life. It felt as though the sun was trying to communicate something, urging me to confront whatever was festering inside, but I was too lost to understand.

I returned to Jerusalem, thinking I had left the turmoil behind. I believed I had solved the riddle of my emotions, but nothing had changed. I was still adrift. As I sat on a bus, staring out the window, a stranger slid into the seat beside me.

“The sun sure knows how to make us feel, huh?” she said, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts. Does she know what I’m thinking? I wondered. The sun—yesterday, it felt different. Like it was trying to tell me something, but what?

I turned, pretending I hadn’t heard. “Pardon me?” I asked.

She smiled gently. “The sun—it makes you feel, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, unsure of what else to say. “The warmth and all.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t always make us feel good. It just makes us feel. Sometimes, it forces us to see things—to realize not everything has to be the way it is.”

Who was this person? Where had she come from? Her words mirrored the turmoil I couldn’t articulate. Before I knew it, we had reached her stop. She turned to me, her gaze piercing.

“You know how to feel. Everyone does. It’s just that most people don’t let themselves,” she said, and with that, she was gone.

I jumped from my seat and followed her off the bus. “I hope you don’t mind, but the sun told me to get off with you,” I said, smiling sheepishly. From that moment, we were inseparable. Her name was Laya. She had this incredible long brown braid and wore the simplest clothes—yet her presence was anything but plain. She taught me things I never thought to question, never knew I could feel. We spent endless nights on a hill that became ours, sharing, learning, and growing together.

Laya was an independent soul, deeply rooted in nature, unburdened by the trivialities of daily life. She found contentment in the smallest things—a patch of grass, a ripe peach. Watching her was like seeing a fish released back into the sea, completely at ease in its natural habitat. But soon, we had to part ways. The connection we had formed was undeniable, but I wasn’t sure what it all meant or how I would handle the separation.

She taught me the beauty of stillness. While I had always rushed from one experience to the next, she gently showed me how to find meaning in the quiet moments—how to lose yourself in dance, or the silence of the morning, when the first light of dawn transformed the landscape into something sacred. In those moments, I learned that stillness wasn’t about the absence of movement, but about being present and fully attending to the rhythms of life.

On our last weekend together, we went to a moshav in the Galilee, her family’s home. It was a sanctuary, far from the noise of the city. There, life slowed down, like stepping into a sacred, timeless space where thoughts had room to breathe.

The moshav was a modern Eden, bursting with fruits of every shape, size, and color. The air was pure, untouched by the usual pollutants of city life. Moving freely, Laya was utterly at peace. As I lay on the grass, I watched her, my heart aching with the grace of it all. She was home. But where was I?

Our farewell wasn’t tearful but filled with gratitude. Laya had become a part of me, a light I knew would never fade. We embraced for what felt like an eternity, holding on to the connection we knew would always endure.

In Jerusalem, I walked to the Kotel, the Western Wall, and pressed my forehead against the ancient stones. I recited the Shema, a prayer that had never felt more meaningful. As I turned to leave, I noticed an elderly rabbi standing nearby, his clear blue eyes holding the depth of the ocean. He radiated calm, a mystical energy. His gaze seemed to pierce through time, as though he could see through all the layers I had built around myself.

“We’ve been waiting for you a long time,” a young student said to the rabbi.

“Yes, yes, I know,” the rabbi replied softly.

Those words echoed in my mind. They reminded me of Zaida, of the people who would wait for him, knowing he would always turn up. Zaida had given everything he had, not for recognition, but because that’s how he came alive—by giving. And in that moment, I understood. I saw the connection between Zaida and myself, between Laya and the rabbi, between all the people who had touched my life and helped me become who I was.

As I boarded the plane, I felt a sense of peace. I left behind my ignorance and resistance to change. And every time the sun shines, warming my face, I am reminded of that day in the Negev desert, of the blindness I once had, and of the awe in finally being able to feel.

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Coming Up: Community Call

If you’re reading this, congrats—you’re official member! Thank you for your support, and I’d like to invite you to our upcoming community call.

Date & Time:
Tuesday, October 8th
10-11am PST

Theme: In-Betweenness ~ Experiment and Enlarge

All you have to do is show up. If you’re grappling with something challenging or looking for fresh perspectives, this is a great space to widen your lens. You can also offer support to others in their journey.

This is a generous, generative space centered on creative collisions, self-exploration, and simply being with what emerges. Let’s explore the power of in-betweenness together.

Simply hit reply to this mail and you’ll automatically receive a calendar invite :)

Hope to see you there!

Jonas.

I know I need to get up, but somehow, staying planted in my chair feels safer than moving forward. The breakup advice is clear: feel it all, grieve deeply, and let the hurt consume you. Are you fucking kidding me? My stubborn self simply isn’t ready to let go. I’ve planted my folding chair at the crossroads, refusing to move.

This festering sadness is unfamiliar and certainly not one I’m willing to welcome. One path is to let go and move on; the other is to extend my stay at the Heartache Hotel. For now, I’ve set up camp right at this junction.

I know this is all a story. “Write a better story, Jonas!”, I tell myself. But I can’t right now—so I’m writing this instead. Maybe you’re in a similar place, stuck between letting go and holding on, feeling like no one truly gets it.

If so, I hope these words bring a little comfort. You’re not alone in this space; many of us are sitting right there with you.

The Art of Letting Go

Stubbornness is my way of pretending I can outlast the pain, like a child holding their breath during a tantrum. I know that healing is hidden in the art of letting go, but right now, I’m not ready to release the grip. I’m deluded that I can somehow out-maneuver the ache, yet I’m only prolonging the suffering. I’m not yet equipped to surrender that part of my identity and the imagined future.

My doctor assures me it’s just an adjustment disorder. While this helps a wee bit cognitively, it does little to ease the pain. So I go for a run. I pause midway, taking a few deep breaths. I pluck a wild blackberry just within reach. It tastes like the present—a brief moment of solace—then I’m back to sulking.

Throughout my life, I’ve been pretty adept at feeling bad for myself. A breakup fifteen years ago brought me to therapy. And still, to this day, that feeling of not-enoughness washes over me. My therapist calls it a ‘lack program’—a common trait for dudes like me.

This is very likely why I became a coach: to fill the void inside. Supporting others helps me feel good about myself. Some days it works, others not. Some seasons go better than others. These transitions —mine and theirs—offer the ripest invitations to grieve and celebrate.

Heart Break vs. Ache

My heart aches like a metal weight pressing on my chest. There’s a voice inside, tied to an old story, shaping how I move through the world. Who is speaking? Who needs to be heard? Thankfully the avoidance and self-soothing have stopped. Naming the parts of myself that need expression feels like progress.

We all crave connection, whether it’s a newborn seeking its mother or fungi entwining with a sequoia. In our closest relationships, we grasp at preserving this proximity, but when love shifts, heartache lingers long after.

Heartbreak feels like a deliberate act—shattering yourself repeatedly. Heartache, though, is beyond your control—a lingering heaviness as love transforms. Both hurt like hell, but only one is self-inflicted. Over time, I hope to see this pain not as happening to me but for me. Day by day, it transmutes into a generative act of creative expression.

Eating My Own Dog Food

My work, like all of us, is to continually do the work. The reverse golden rule—treat yourself how you’d like others to be treated—makes so much sense in theory. In practice, treating myself with kindness right now is so damn hard. It feels like no one else truly understands this pain. But oh yes, they do—you do.

While our experiences of heartache may be different, these are all shared:

• Loss of identity: Who am I without you?
• Mourning the future: What happened to the life we imagined together?
• Protrusive pain: Why does this hurt so much?
• Self-doubt: Why wasn’t I what you wanted?
• Longing: Why am I still holding on to what’s already gone?

The tools of yesterday aren’t working for me today. The shortness of breath and the doom loops that follow—knowing these thoughts are garbage don’t make them any quieter. I can’t, or won’t, shut them up. So I lean into the support I typically offer others.

The Gift in Grief?

Emotions need motion. I’ve blocked the sorrow at every turn, and now it’s seeping out. Sometimes, pain arrives as a faint flicker, other times like a tidal wave, crashing in unexpectedly. Only now, much later than I expected, can I sit in the muck. I’m no longer resisting because I know it will only persist if I do. 

I am mourning the person I became in the presence of another.

The five stages of grief aren’t a checklist nor are they linear. Grief is more like an ever-changing path—sometimes clear, sometimes obscured, but always asking us to take a step forward even if we don’t know where that may lead.

If there’s any gift in grief, it’s in the attitude you adopt, the choice in how you respond—and the meaning you make from it.

As a new season begins, I’m ready to fold up my chair and leave Heartache Hotel behind. I can no longer hold on to what’s already gone. I have to see what lies down that other path.

I vividly remember when the choice to love felt like water moving in a natural direction. It’s time again to embrace radical self-trust. If you’re on this journey too, know that pain is a powerful teacher, and with time, it will be our guide for what’s to come. .

As I head off now to a wedding, it’s a vivid reminder: love, in all its forms—joyous and painful—is worth the journey. It’s in these moments of contrast that we can truly grasp its beauty.

Songs to soothe

A short playlist if you want to feel the feels: Both Sides of the Moon
The last time I felt like this I had no words so I made this: Beautiful Disaster

Coming Up

As the seasons change I’m offering three community calls for paid subscribers (btw, I’m dubbing your members from now on :) and thank you for your support!). If you are keen to join us you can click here to upgrade to a member.

The sessions will be from 10-11am PST on Tuesdays :

Oct 8th: In-Betweenness ~ Experiment and Enlarge
Nov 5th: New Chapters ~ Imagine and Ignite
Dec 3rd: Stepping into Liquid ~ Rest and Recreate

This is a generous and generative space for shared support and accountability, creative collisions, and being with what emerges). Hope to see you there.

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Link About it

Esther Perel: Love Stories
Orlando Bloom: Spills the Beans
Alain de Botton: A Loveless Society
David Whyte: Seeking Language Large Enough

Hi, it’s Jonas, the human who taps away at this newsletter. I’ve spent my life embracing change and curiosity. I help companies, creatives, and founders navigate transitions with heart and purpose. I believe in embracing the unknown—whether in work, life, or the ocean where you’ll find me most at peace.

Got a question? Hit reply.

“The cure for anything is salt water—tears, swear, or the sea.

—Isak Dinesen

While labels can be a drag, they can be beneficial when breaking old patterns.

I recently took an assessment called Inner Team Dialogue, which revealed the various "characters" within me, each with its distinct personality and view on what I should or shouldn’t do. My ‘Pusher’ wants me to ship this now, while my ‘Being’ urges me to chill and let this newsletter marinate for a while, perhaps even write itself (and in the not-too-distant future, my AI avatar might do just this).

Indeed, my ‘Pusher’ has teamed up with ‘Responsible’ and faces a bout against a new alliance of ‘Being’ and ‘Playful.’ None of these parts are inherently bad—yet whomever I listen to undoubtedly affects my behavior. By recognizing and nurturing each of these parts, I can create a more functional and cohesive self through my ‘Inner Leader’.

The Mutable and Multiple Self

We all contain a multitude of selves. I wonder if Walt Whitman, who penned ‘Song of Myself’ in the mid-19th century, would be surprised by the rise in popularity of parts work therapy. His infamous verse from the poem caught even more fire during the juxtapositions felt during the pandemic:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The line reminds us that our contradictions are not flaws but integral parts of our rich, diverse identities. The danger, of course, lies in using this rationale to justify inconsistencies, bad behavior, or being full of shit.

According to Joanna Nadin, author of "The Future of the Self," our identities are both mutable and multiple—constantly changing and influenced by those around us. We curate our personas online, experimenting with different aspects of our identities. This 'playable self' allows us to test out different identities to see what fits. It’s fun and freeing, Nadin declares.

An adaptable identity is designed to fit various contexts and expectations, allowing us to see things from multiple viewpoints. While this may sound exhausting, it holds some truth.

Discerning Our Inner Voices

James Hollis, a Jungian psychoanalyst, might agree with Nadin. He speaks of the divided nature of our psyche, suggesting that the human mind is not a single, unified entity but a collection of voices, each vying for attention and expression. While this inner cacophony can be overwhelming, understanding it is humbling and essential for finding our true selves.

Hollis writes, “When voices inside can no longer be ignored, we really have to try to track these symptoms and ask, ‘What is wishing further expression in me? What is neglected or repressed or split off or cut off? What is that wishes an audience with me?’”

This individuation process is the most rewarding journey we can undertake.

Inner Team Dialogue

The Inner Team Dialogue approach to coaching, which borrows from Internal Family Systems (IFS) developed by Richard Schwartz in the 90s, recognizes that we have different “parts” within us, each with its own thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. This method provides a compassionate and intuitive way of understanding the tensions that reside inside.

Think of yourself as the chief conductor, observing and harnessing the various characters to play in harmony like a big brass band. When you strike that balance, there is clarity and coherence.

And if you’ve ever thought that perhaps you have a split personality—rest assured, that’s unlikely. Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) affects about 1% of the general population and is an awful condition where the rooms in your ‘house’ are locked and don’t know the others exist. Dissociation is often a mechanism to block out trauma and cope with daily life. Your myriad selves don’t operate in concert but through exhaustive and meandering solos.

Unlike DID, with our 'multiplicity' of selves, it's more like an open-plan arrangement. When each of your characters plays the right instrument in the band, you get improved emotional regulation and a sense of well-being.

The Narcissistic Self

Fun fact: in England, people take about 500 selfies a year (with my excellent math skills - that averages more than one a day). We talk about ourselves 30-40 percent of the time in a typical conversation while on social media, this rises to 80 percent.

Self-reference fuelled by the digital era can be a mechanism for narcissism or a way to gain a deeper understanding of yourself. It can feed the ego or the soul—and probably does both.

Nadin exclaims that narcissism has become, “A lazy catch-all phrase for anyone who displays the single quality often needed to succeed—self-belief.” She believes that multiplicity is a natural adaption to our connected world. The digital landscape provides a playpen to navigate and flex our multiple selves— it’s just that we need to attune the right self to the right situation.

And if that doesn’t work you can always adopt an alter ego! It works wonders for Beyonce and Adele sporting Sasha Fierce and Sasha Carter respectively. The alias supplies them with the space and strength to consistently deliver powerful performances.

Pulling the Parts Together

In a world that often demands consistency and clarity, embracing the richness within us can be a radical act of self-compassion. In understanding and integrating the different aspects of ourselves, we become more resilient, adaptable, and truer to who we are.

Multiplicity is not a flaw but a feature—allowing us to navigate the complexities of modern life with greater ease and expression. Whitman was ahead of his time in understanding the complexity of the human self. He implores us to explore the depths within, embrace our contradictions, and celebrate our multitude of selves.

An Afterthought

Marcel Duchamp was a competitive chess player, librarian, writer, art dealer, gambler, and inventor. He volunteered for military service and was a secretary to a French war mission. He dabbled in a fabric dying business, entertained becoming a professional cameraman, and was keen to sell scientific toys. But most of the world knew him only as a world-class painter and sculptor.

If alive today he would either be repulsed by social media or go all in and bask in playful exploration on Instagram testing out different alter egos. With a fluid identity, his aliases would supply endless opportunities for experimentation and entertainment.

Indeed the digital world provides a window into the profound truth about the human self. Social media can help make sense of the multifaceted nature of our lives and roll out the red carpet to express the multiplicity we possess within. And it can also be a curse—fracturing our attention, making us dumb, our kids anxious, and stoking a mental health crisis.

Contradictions, right?

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Dive Deeper

If the above has captured you, you can try out some of these practices:

Prompts: Reflect on the different roles you play in life. Which ones feel imposed? Which ones feel aligned?

Meditation: Take time each day to sit. Let your thoughts come and observe them without judgment as if you are a bystander. Which inner voices are speaking and why?

Explore Your 'Playable Self': Experiment with different identities in safe spaces. See which ones resonate and why.

Engage with Your Inner Team: Use the Inner Team framework to balance your inner characters. Notice when one is dominating and calls on its opposite for harmony.

Celebrate Your Contradictions (With Discernment): Like Whitman, embrace your contradictions—they make you unique and whole.

Summer is still sizzling...tune in to a slew of new efforts like Londres and Tagal here:

“Absorb what is useful. Discard what is not. Add what is uniquely your own.”

—Bruce Lee

As a dweeby pre-teen, “take a hike” meant to skedaddle. It often stung. Seeking acceptance from my older brother and his friends, the figurative expression of getting lost turned out to be good advice—literally. Taking a hike works wonders.

I’ve written extensively about the benefits of walking, running, and forest bathing. So if I sound like a broken record player, it’s because I am. Now, let’s explore a close cousin—hiking.

The most demanding hike I’ve done is the Salkantay trail to Machu Picchu. I experienced a nasty bout of altitude sickness that did nothing but fog my thinking. To be clear, I’m not talking about this kind of feat, but the type of hikes where you can set off in the day and be back cozy in bed by nightfall.

If you’re a seasoned hiker, you probably won’t be surprised by much of the below. But if you’re a wannabe hiker like me, this might convince you to lace up those boots and hit the trails.

Optic Flow

On a hike, your eyes make constant lateral movements to update your brain on where you are in space. When you choose a path ahead, your brain surveys the surrounding environment, constructs a mental map of the world, settles on a way forward, and translates that plan into a sequence of footsteps. As your eyes move, the parts of your brain that process your response to threats become quiet. This is called optic flow.

Our ancestors might have scanned for dinosaurs or wild boars, but these days those threats are rare. If you’re agitated or frustrated—moving through the proverbial forest helps alleviate the stress. You shift gears from fight/flight into rest/digest.

The speed at which you hike influences the inner rhythm of your thoughts and emotions, and vice versa. So you can modulate your thinking by changing your pace.

Creative Incubation

The more we strive for creativity, the less likely we are to achieve it. Hiking stimulates what scientists call the imagination network. Comprised of meaning-making, mental stimulation, and perspective-taking, these networks work in tandem to help us make sense of the world. We can discern stories from truth, reflect on mental and emotional states, look into the past, and peer into the future.

When we take a hike, the heart pumps faster, circulating more blood and oxygen to all the organs, including the brain. Thanks to these physiological changes, creative problems can be unlocked. We reorganize concepts, make new connections, and enhance our mood. Stimulating the imagination network can help us spark our most deeply personal and creative ideas. To be sure, the idea for this blog came from the majestic Pico to Pico hike.

Hiking is a moving meditation that lets your mind soar. Your inner world quietens and the world around you opens up. Anxiety feeders like time scarcity and overwhelm begin to dissipate. You gain space to reflect, interrogate, and integrate. The subconscious mind gets activated, affording you a new lens through which to see the world, your ‘problems,’ and yourself in a new light.

You get more clarity on how best to direct your energy, and what and who is important. Perhaps the most profound relationship between hiking and creativity reveals itself at the end when you’re back doing the work.

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Sufficient Bandwidth

When clients inquire why I like us both to take calls on the move (granted there is no full-on ‘hiking’ here), I find myself espousing the same logic:

1. Tech will be more in our favor without video eating up the bandwidth. No freezing, no blips, just the sound of a voice. Plus, we can be liberated from mirror neurons working overtime and forget about syncing to each other's breath and pupils.

2. There will be more psychological space, expansiveness, and room for possibility. Perspective shifts can occur more rapidly and there is more attunement for what’s emerging.

3. Rather ironically, moving helps anchor me. As a restless soul being on the move lets me regulate, integrate my learning, and listen more attentively. I’m often told this does the same for others.

Simply indulging in how mood follows action helps us change our state. Hiking is not just about physical exercise; it’s a mental and emotional reset. If you’ve been feeling stuck, take a hike! and you might just find the answers you’re looking for :)

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I lived in London for a dozen years, and being back here, it’s easy to slip right into the hustle and bustle. Footie and pub life, canal-side bars, dance parties, Portobello strolls, Pho-mile goodness, and a buzzing coffee culture (close to rivaling Vancouver!). The city has changed and is rapidly evolving, yet it somehow feels the same. I feel my age and ageless. Some days, I feel right at home; others, like a stranger in a familiar land.

Speaking of creative incubation, love this poster from creativity don Richard Holman:

Wisdom while you move with Time to Walk and Seeking Language Large Enough

And finally, some tunes for your hike, lounging about, and for summertime 🌞

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing”

- George Bernard Shaw

Sometimes life flows like a supermarket visit. All the items you want are readily available. Even a pack of juicy blueberries leisurely leaps into your basket. You’re in and out and swiftly slip back into your day.

If only the rhythm of life was always like this.

But like all dualities, we must be thrown out of whack to appreciate how it feels to be in a groove. Whether the discombobulation is short-lived or feels like months of chaos, it’s in times of unease that we learn about ourselves.

Here are some practices I rely on to help make the road less bumpy.

Play Your Edge

I just hosted a retreat in Portugal, where we naturally found our "Ritmos da Vida" (Rhythms of Life). We talked about going to Sintra, a Unesco heritage site, but instead mooched about the buzzing surf village of Ericeira. At one point I was anxious, wondering when we would make time to hang out by the pool, and sure enough, one afternoon behind a blazing sun we gathered for some downtime and good conversation.

We moved through the days and nights much like a flock of birds.

To step outside our comfort zone and mildly overwhelm ourselves, we each explored our ‘edge’. Your edge is where you take calculated risks and embrace the possibility of failure as a route to growth. It often brings flow; that sweet spot between boredom and challenge where magic happens.

I led an a capella session. My willing choir performed, “The Lion’s Sleep’s Tonight’ surprisingly well until one participant went falsetto with, “Wee heeheehee weeoh aweem away” and we all cracked up. I closed my eyes to focus and noticed my palms getting sticky and beats of sweat on my forehead. I must have looked like a tomato.

In playing on this precipice each of us learned to push our boundaries, get our brains firing differently, and trust ourselves. It also helps that syncing together generates good vibes and tightens social bonds.

Go Beyond the Five

Let’s assume your five besties are: three optimists (9/10 peachy worldview), one realist (5/10), and one dabbling with nihilism (3/10).

According to Jim Rohn’s adage, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with,” this would make you a 7/10. An outlook we might dub ‘meh’.

For sure you are influenced by those around you, but it is much more dispersed than the five people that are fortunate to be blessed with your presence in their lives.

Research shows that if a friend becomes obese, you are 45% more likely to gain weight over a few years. A similar study was done with smoking: if your friend smokes you’re 61% more likely to puff, and if your friend’s friend smokes, you're 29% more likely to partake. Another study was done with happiness—you can guess the results.

You are influenced by more than the five people that you associate with. Our social networks are vast and interconnected and shape us in ways we can’t even fathom.

While our world is overly concerned with outputs, it’s your inputs that need tending to. When you change your inputs, you alter your neuroplasticity. Refresh the people you spend time with and you’ll begin to see things differently.

Accept Reality

It sounds simple enough to accept the world for the way it is. But it isn’t always easy. Often we argue with reality trying desperately to bend it to our particular lens. I’m often guilty of doing this and then forced to eat a slice of humble pie.

Often when I’m shedding an old identity and a new one has yet to form, I get tripped up and my sense of self goes haywire. The same places, routines, and relationships don’t feel like ‘me’ anymore. But what does?

My friend says to be patient. With myself? Life will unfold he chimes, and while I feel his reassuring hand rest on my shoulder—I’m still unsure.

Death and rebirth can take time. Following a forest fire, the new growth that sprouts may take months, years, or even centuries. The seeds long since dormant in the ground intuitively know when and how to push through the ashes. But the regeneration happens on the seedling’s timeline, in their unique rhythm with the natural world.

While I understand that embracing the in-between is what’s required, yielding to the emptiness and uncertainty isn’t something I look forward to like my morning coffee.

I tell myself that the unnerving middle passage is a liminal space that is fertile ground for growth. Sometimes this helps.

Navigating transitions is a tricky business but these open-ended times provide an angle of vision on life you can’t get anywhere else. It’s a compilation of such views that produces inner wisdom, declares the author of ‘Transitions,’ William Bridges.

I like to think of this space as composting for the soul—a slow, enriching process to learn how not to struggle and trust the journey. It’s a time to ruthlessly manage your energy and direct attention to what’s right for you.

Because you’ll need a full tank of chutzpah for what’s around the bend.

An Afterthought

The conditions that make waves surfable are particular. There’s the swell, tide, sea-bed floor, and wind for starters. Your board, skill level and the number of surfers in the lineup also add to the equation.

Sometimes a set has five or six waves and other times it’s just two or three. The time intervals between the waves can be quick or slow. All these factors make for a unique concoction—sometimes you find yourself in sync with the sea and at other times you can’t seem to find your flow.

The Ocean will triumph every time if you try to fight it. This is similar to life and the way we get thrown in and out of our groove. When you're wholly aligned and ready, the universe conspires—and you make that appointment with destiny.

So next time you find yourself struggling against the tide, take two deep breaths in and extend your exhale. Then, relax and ride the wave.

Let me know how you get on, will ya?

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Select Reads

On Returning: Traveling At The Soul’s Speed
On Raving: Flyers from San Francisco to Spain
On Shadows: What You Resist, Persists

One Listen

Listen loud to fuel your summer nights here

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“There are men and women who make the world better just by being the kind of people they are.” - John Gardner

The midlife crisis is a modern-day illusion.

In 1965, a Canadian psychoanalyst introduced this idea: a phase when we grapple with our limits, narrowing options, and inevitable departure. He dubbed it the mid-life crisis, and the name stuck.

Before this, our major life transitions were seen as adolescence and retirement—each with its own set of rituals and support systems. But as life expectancy soared and work evolved, the middle phase of life got a bum rap.

Somewhere between your mid-thirties and mid-sixties, you’ll likely encounter an existential opening1. It's a time to realign with purpose, unearth deeper meaning, and make a broader impact.

A ‘mid-life’ crisis is not age-specific (mine arrived at a sprightly 33) and can happen at different times for different folks. It can also be a repeat offender. Here are timeless principles to guide you through this transformative phase—or any transformation, for that matter.

Release and Renew

A midlife meltdown can manifest in various ways. Søren Kierkegaard, the grand poobah of existentialism, urges us to shed our cozy illusions: faith in family, trust in work, and attachment to love. Confronted with an array of choices, mid-life angst emerges.

Like many beginnings, the first phase of the transition begins with an ending. In this initial phase, we reckon with loss and mourning. This midlife unraveling2 may include a compulsion to stay young, creative stagnation, or a lingering low-grade malaise. It’s a sneaky sequence of painful nudges that slowly make us feel we’re losing control. These ‘symptoms’ fuel the mid-life crisis brand we know and loathe today.

But there's an upside: reprioritizing, spiritual awakenings, caring less about what others think, and finally, permission to write a new story. Jungian analyst James Hollis likens it to old maps that no longer serve us in this new terrain. We're caught, "Between who we are and what is wanting to enter the world through us," as Hollis puts it.

So before renewal can begin, we must release. We must dismantle the existing scaffolding, stories, and identities that once defined us. We have to bid farewell to old patterns and mindsets. With more spaciousness, we can embrace the uncertainty of reinvention. We move towards greater depth, authenticity, and vitality.

Experiment and Enlarge

Transitions may come from personal, professional, or geographical shifts. Changing your location can trigger the psychological transformation required to embrace a new sense of self. Or it could be an elaborate, expensive detour.

Freedom beckons in spaces where there is more room to create. Whether it's a minor tweak (like a new haircut) or a major overhaul (returning to school for a new career), experiments can help pave the way forward. Try things on, prototype yourself. Get yourself into a different head and heart space. From here the invitation is to listen, discern, and choose how to respond to the opening.

What’s at stake in this neutral zone is honoring who you are and willing to become. It’s a space to choose ‘musts over shoulds’ and ‘enlargement over happiness’. You have to quash the resistance3 to stay in the known and take calculated risks to step into the in-between and fully express yourself.

Age is merely a costume and you get to try on several outfits. You can retire those that have gone out of fashion and swap in looks that better suit the renewed you. When we see longevity not as being older for longer but as an extended middle passage4—we adopt a spirited energy. As others witness this zest for life, they’ll forget your age.

Imagine and Ignite

News alert: we're all going to age. OK, there may be a slight exception for this man who’s determined to cheat death. Life-extension fanatics aside, the question remains how do we navigate your inevitable decline? And of course, this includes your mind.

Fluid intelligence is your ability to learn, reason, and think flexibly. It’s short-term thinking and you could liken it to memorizing facts for a round of Jeopardy with friends. Crystalized intelligence is your lifetime knowledge. It’s long-term thinking like your mastery of the English language. As we age our fluid intelligence wanes and crystalized intelligence improves.

If we accept this natural evolution of brain function, we can surf the wave from fluid to crystal. Instead of cingling to how our minds once functioned, we can lean into our inner wisdom. We can shift into roles and industries that value our lifetime of learning and experience.

And if you have a weakness for graphs like me, there’s also the infamous U curve of well-being:

This phenomenon of happiness dropping and rising back up has been found in over 70 countries and even in great apes. And we can anticipate that it might get worse before it gets better. The bottoming out is a time to continue chipping away at the rock to reveal the truth of who we are.

Which of the myriad possibilities before me will I now choose? One approach is to design a blueprint for a midlife atrium5 — an intentional space in the middle of one’s life’s midpoint, ripe for invention and regeneration.

The forest has burned, and the new seedlings have sprouted. You're transformed—but into what from what? From a person with lots of hair to little? From greedy to grateful? Or from quietly suffering to sharing yourself in splendor?

With your outdated self laid to rest, and ample space to sit in the liminal—you can welcome the new with open arms. This new beginning is a release of energy in a different direction and an expression of your fresh identity. It marks your personal renewal.6

In this new beginning of the middle passage, you are the writer, producer, director, and actor in your own story. How will you live differently? Where will you direct your energy? Who else will you cast in your movie? While the midlife journey is often portrayed as a solitary affair, it needn't be. At its core lies a profound awareness of life's uncertainties which we all face and the freedom and responsibility to choose our unique path.

Curious if I've been pondering all this because 50 is just around the corner? You betcha!

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I’ve written about three timeless tools I use with clients that have proven time and again that we get to choose what attitude to adopt in any given situation. Tuck in:

The Devil Inside

The Easy Yes

The Pause

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