Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #139. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

From December 2022 to June 2025, I published 124 weekly essays. At that time, I switched from a weekly to a biweekly publishing schedule, hoping that giving myself more time to think and write would ease the pressure I felt to deliver essays to your inbox consistently. It did not.

My procrastination expanded from one week to two: “I should really start writing that next essay.” As Parkinson’s Law states, “Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.” The same could be said of drawers, closets and garages, but that’s another matter.

Following in this vein, I wrote a piece in December titled “What I’m Letting Go to Write What Feels Alive.” I shared that I wasn’t feeling inspired or motivated by the topics I was writing about and that I wanted to write about ideas that felt more alive. That didn’t do the trick either.

Since then, I’ve had another realization: what feels most alive is the lessons I’m learning today, not ones from years or even decades ago. I’m in a transition period with many insights and realizations, and I look forward to sharing what I’m learning, in the hope it helps you.

However, sharing them with you now wouldn’t be appropriate given my situation. That said, I expect changes in the coming months that will allow me to write more freely about the many life lessons I’m learning. I know I’m being cryptic here, and I appreciate your patience as I try to communicate as clearly as I am able.

So, what does this all mean for you? You should not expect to receive any essays in your inbox in the next six months. However, depending on how things unfold and how I feel, I may still write between now and then. Regardless, please know, I will have much to share in the coming months. In the meantime, there are many superb Substack newsletters worthy of reading.

Thank you for your understanding and for your ongoing readership. Without you, I would have no one to write to.

Keep truckin’,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #138. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

This is my first essay, writing about what feels most alive in me at this moment. Perhaps you’ll see yourself in some of my goings-on.

Getting My Body in Shape

I enjoy being active, especially outdoors. However, COVID-19 and my work as an online creator disrupted my exercise routine. By spring 2024, I was in the worst shape of my adult life. A year and a half later, I feel healthy again and am reminded of how essential exercise is to overall well-being.

Here’s what I do to feel good:

Walking is one of the highlights of my day. My mom said I walked forever as a kid—some things never change.

Exercise: I alternate days between lifting weights and high-intensity interval training (HIIT).

Nutrition: I take fish oil, magnesium glycinate, vitamin D, creatine, and protein. I’ve taken supplements intermittently throughout adulthood, but I’ve never thought of them as necessary. These supplements might be the exception.

Stretching: I stretch throughout the day, a habit I learned from an early yoga instructor. I credit stretching (along with foam rolling and emotional work) with helping keep my physical pain to a minimum.

Foam rolling: A physical therapist recommended it after a 2000 car accident. My roommate at the time swore by it for easing back pain from sitting. Did I listen? Not until fifteen years later. Today, I foam-roll daily. It keeps my back pain-free. If I skip a day or two, my back will remind me.

Massage gun: I have “tennis elbow” (tendonitis) from doing the wrong grip-strengthening exercise. Icing and manual massage helped somewhat, but the massage gun is more effective.

Massage: Sometimes, I get a Shiatsu or Swedish massage from a local massage school. Why? Because a massage feels good and is an affordable luxury.

Getting My Posture in Shape

I’ve battled with my posture since I was a teenager. If you’ve ever been challenged by posture, you know how hard it is to build the habit. Last week, the massage therapist asked, “Why is your back so tight? It’s as tight as a front-line worker.” “You mean, like nurses?” “Yes, from rolling patients over. Your ESGs are especially tight.” “What’s an ESG?” “Erector Spinae Group.” “I see, the bands that run vertically along the spine.” “Yes.” After years of limited success, I believe I’ve finally found what works: highly targeted, homemade stretching, strengthening, and postural exercises done daily. My posture is finally improving, and I’m optimistic—stay tuned.

Self Care

I meditate and practice mindfulness daily. These practices have changed my life more than any other. They keep me sane, calm my life, and clear my mind.

Healing From Narcissistic Conditioning

My couple’s counselor recommended ‘It’s Not You’ by Dr. Ramani Durvasula. I read the book and watched over fifty of her most popular YouTube videos. She’s knowledgeable, funny, and unapologetic. For years, I refused to label people as narcissistic or toxic. I even posted online that narcissists deserve compassion (and I still believe this). Today, I understand they are dangerous; they will not change; and there is no ‘winning’ with them, no matter how much you work on yourself. The more time you spend with them, the unhappier you will become. Here’s what I’m doing to heal:

Journaling. Narcissistic conditioning runs deep. I’m journaling extensively every day to uncover how it has shaped my personality, attitudes, perceptions, behaviors, and ongoing choices.

Therapy. I attend weekly sessions to better understand myself in relation to narcissists. Unlearning these scripts takes time.

Codependents Anonymous (CoDA). Every Friday night, a dozen of us gather to journal and discuss our codependency tendencies. We aim to break free from our reflexive habits and trauma bonding and to reclaim our authentic selves.

I love Apple Notes. It’s where I organize my personal life: journaling, research, therapy notes, codependency work, food and nutrition, monthly budget, trip planning, tracking 2025 activities, the 2025 annual review, and projects like updating my wardrobe and tidying the garage, bookshelves, inbox, computer files, and paper files.

The Big Five personality traits. My stepdaughter returned from college for the holidays and shared her personality traits. I never paid much attention to the Big Five before, but now I find them fascinating. I see how useful they can be, especially in close relationships.

Getting My Sleep in Shape

Sleep is the foundation of overall well-being. For me, it’s the difference between a good and a great day. I usually spend eight to ten hours in bed each night. Unfortunately, sleep isn’t always within our control. Since the divorce, my sleep has been inconsistent, so I keep trying new methods. Here’s what helps:

Blackout curtains and an eye mask. After installing blackout curtains, light still came in from the top, so I began wearing an eye mask. Today, I never sleep without one.

Earplugs. Since I started using earplugs, I’m more likely to stay asleep, even with the roar of cars, barking dogs, my partner coming to bed at 1 or 2 am, and my stepdaughter stomping down the hall at 3 am. Earplugs work.

Consuming cannabis before bed. Cannabis seems to help me stay asleep and sleep more soundly. However, it’s not a viable long-term solution in my view.

Taping my mouth. I have a narrow nose and have always been a mouth breather. Four years ago, I began taping my mouth at night. I’m not sure if it helps me stay asleep, but I wake up feeling more rested and slightly calmer.

But external solutions only go so far. They can’t protect us from internal conditions such as an overstimulated nervous system, which appears to be the most significant factor in whether I stay asleep. That said, the cause-and-effect isn’t straightforward. Some nights, I feel relaxed and at ease and still wake up in the night. The experiment continues.

Connecting With Friends

Most of my socializing comes from my partner and her kids. I also connect with friends primarily via video calls or phone calls, as they are spread across the globe. Some calls are scheduled regularly, while others happen spontaneously. I also stay in touch with friends indirectly through their newsletters (haphazardly).

Money

I’ve been using Perplexity to model income and capital gains taxes for multiple states. I’m a numbers wizard, so I enjoy this kind of work. As far as I know, Perplexity’s answers were based on logic. However, it made several small mistakes. For example, it stated that $840 is 13.3% of $10,000. AI is imperfect. Also, I contributed the maximum allowed to my 2025 Health Savings Account (HSA) and plan to contribute the maximum to my IRA. Have you?

Other Projects

Eyeglasses. Recently, my optometrist fitted me with a pair of computer-distance glasses, which has been a game-changer—no more strain.

Cleaning my car. My car was filthy, so I recently cleaned, waxed, and Rain-X’ed it. “A clean car just drives better,” as my dad likes to say.

Music library. I finally transferred my music library to my newer iMac and iPhone. My stepson asked his mom, “Why doesn’t Ryan just use Spotify?” Point taken, but when you have 5,000 songs you want and none you don’t, meticulously sorted by genre, it’s hard to let go. Plus, my library is already paid for. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Like clothes, I can’t seem to part with some songs even though I no longer listen to them.

Getting my wardrobe in shape. I’m enjoying the process, which surprised me. People say I dress well, but I’ve never taken clothes seriously, preferring to buy what I need when I need it from stores like TJ Maxx, Banana Republic, Uniqlo, Nordstrom Rack, The Gap, and Patagonia. But looks matter. The world is obsessed with beauty. Whether we like it or not, we’re judged by how we look, and we may not get a second chance, so why not give people what they want?

I can’t draw, so I’m experimenting with AI to create cartoons that complement my ideas. Surprisingly good!

Tested ChatGPT’s advanced voice mode—pretty cool feature.

I will be traveling in Japan for the holidays and will be taking a break from writing. The following essay will go out on January 13.

Wishing you a meaningful holiday season.

Keep living,

Ryan

P.S. If you found yourself nodding along—recognizing your own struggles in mine—share this with someone who might need permission to be honest about theirs. Sometimes, the bridge between isolation and connection is simply knowing we’re not the only ones still figuring it out.

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #137. Every other Wednesday (or Thursday!), I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

I sit down every two weeks to write this newsletter. Lately, something’s missing: that sense of excitement I felt when I was first discovering the things I write about.

Back then, it was as if I were being ushered into a secret world. Everything was new, fascinating, revelatory. I couldn’t wait to share my discoveries with ordinary people like me who were likely suffering too. But that was almost twenty years ago.

I know what has helped me. I know what has worked for thousands of years. Mindfulness. Meditation. Compassion. I’ve written 155 essays over five years about these topics and many others.

But the original thrill has worn off. And not just for me.

The most common response I get now is “thanks for the reminder.” But I want to do more than remind people of what they already know. I want to reveal something, shift something, help them question their perceptions. When the topics lack interest for me and newness for readers, I have to ask: Why am I doing this? Is giving back enough, even if writing about these topics leaves me underwhelmed at times?

This may be a temporary feeling or a permanent one. I don’t know yet. But right now I feel the itch to write about topics that feel more alive, engaging and energized. I want readers to feel something, not just read something they’ve heard from dozens or even hundreds of other writers.

Then, on Thanksgiving Day, I read Oliver Burkeman’s most recent newsletter, “Interest Is Everything.” He wrote that the only question that really matters when creating is: what would it genuinely interest me to write about? Not what would people find most appealing, not what the algorithm wants. What interests me. He argued that pursuing your own interests is what actually generates interesting work for others. There’s an asymmetry: trying to pursue what others might find interesting doesn’t lead you to feel interested, but pursuing what interests you does evoke interest in others.

Reading that, I realized what I was clinging to: an identity. A role. The person who teaches these things. The helper. The one who knows. Writing topics I thought I should write about, what has been most beneficial to me, rather than what’s genuinely alive in me.

I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. So I built a following: thousands on X, thousands on Substack, thousands of monthly visitors to my website. I enjoy the comments, the appreciation, the messages about my authenticity and open heart, hearing that my writing inspires them to keep showing up and inquiring. I love meeting people online and making friends. That’s the best part. But there’s a cost I didn’t anticipate.

Writing is hard work, but completing essays has always been satisfying. Coaching has been rewarding, but not quite as satisfying as I imagined. The issue isn’t the work itself. It’s that I don’t know how much, if at all, I’ve actually helped my coaching clients or readers. Which reveals what I’m really attached to: being the helper. Making people’s lives better and helping them avoid the pain and suffering I’ve experienced.

And then there’s the transactional nature of building an audience online: liking and commenting on others’ content so they’ll engage with yours. I genuinely want to support my friends. After all, they’re facing the same dilemma as me. But I sometimes find myself reading more from a sense of obligation than pure interest. When I do have time to read, I want to sink into a book by someone who’s spent decades with the subject. The constant skimming and performing of engagement feels forced and leaves me depleted, even resentful at times, of the whole online game.

The insane competition. The millions of people vying for attention, trying to make a living online to avoid working for “the man.” Most won’t make money, fewer will pay their bills, and even fewer will replace a salary.

I’ve been holding the banana.

There’s an old story about how they catch monkeys in India. Hunters cut a hole in a coconut just big enough for a monkey to put its hand through. They secure the coconut to a tree and slip a banana inside. The monkey reaches in and grabs the banana. The hole is crafted so that an open hand can go in, but a fist cannot come out. All the monkey has to do to be free is let go of the banana.

But most monkeys don’t let go.

Let me be clear about something: letting go is not casual Instagram advice. It’s not some superficial technique you can dismiss in favor of “deeper work.” I recently read a book that poo-pooed letting go, treating it as shallow compared to more complex psychological processes.

Trust me: letting go is the deep work.

It’s the simplest yet most beneficial skill I know—the most straightforward advice possible, yet nothing will challenge you more. As has been said, the source of all human suffering is this fundamental sense of separateness from life and other people. And that sense of separateness comes from our clinging to a material yet illusory sense of self.

Learning to let go is a skill that remains one of the most valuable I’ve ever cultivated. And it started with a teaching that changed my life.

The meditation teacher Ajahn Sumedho once said:

“The practice of ‘letting go’ is very effective for minds obsessed by compulsive thinking: you simplify your meditation practice down to just two words – ‘letting go’ – rather than try to develop this practice and then develop that; and achieve this and go into that, and understand this, and read the Suttas, and study the Abhidhamma... and then learn Pali and Sanskrit... then the Madhyamika and the Prajña Paramita... get ordinations in the Hinayana, Mahayana, Vajrayana... write books and become a world renowned authority on Buddhism. Instead of becoming the world’s expert on Buddhism and being invited to great International Buddhist Conferences, just ‘let go, let go, let go’.

I did nothing but this for about two years – every time I tried to understand or figure things out, I’d say ‘let go, let go’ until the desire would fade out. So I’m making it very simple for you, to save you from getting caught in incredible amounts of suffering. There’s nothing more sorrowful than having to attend International Buddhist Conferences!

Some of you might have the desire to become the Buddha of the age, Maitreya, radiating love throughout the world – but instead, I suggest just being an earthworm, letting go of the desire to radiate love throughout the world. Just be an earthworm who knows only two words – ‘let go, let go, let go’. You see, ours is the Lesser Vehicle, the Hinayana, so we only have these simple, poverty-stricken practices!”

An earthworm. Not a world-renowned teacher. Not the Buddha of the age. Just an earthworm with two words.

This teaching inspired me to practice letting go with steady, persistent effort. And I’ve discovered that the practice never ends because there’s always something new to release. Always another identity to shed. Always another banana in our fist.

Even profound spiritual experiences become things we cling to.

Jack Kornfield once returned from intensive retreats, excitedly sharing all his experiences and insights with his teacher, Ajahn Chah. Ajahn Chah listened, smiled, and said: “Good. Something else to let go of.” He wasn’t dismissing the experiences. He was pointing to something more profound: can you embody this moment-by-moment, here and now, rather than collecting spiritual experiences?

Think about that. Years of practice. Profound realizations. Deep meditative states. And the teaching remains the same: let it all go.

As Ajahn Sumedho described, he spent years doing nothing but this. Every time he tried to understand or figure things out, he’d say “let go, let go” until the desire faded.

Not once. Not ten times. Jon Kabat-Zinn writes about this in Full Catastrophe Living: “We repeat this hundreds of thousands of times, millions of times, as necessary. And it will be necessary.”

Hundreds of thousands of times. Millions of times.

Because this is the practice, this is what it actually looks like.

So here’s what I’m letting go of right now:

I’ve been taking a break from Substack Notes since October, and I’ll continue to do so indefinitely. Not because I’m too busy, but because I realized I was there out of a feeling of necessity rather than a genuine longing. And because some personal matters are calling me to focus more on my own well-being right now.

I’m letting go of writing about topics that feel less alive to me, even if they “perform well.” I’m letting go of the identity of being the teacher, the helper, the one with answers.

I’m choosing to be an earthworm. To write only about what feels genuinely alive in me right now. The risk is losing subscribers, likes, and offending readers. The gain is that I’ll feel motivated, enlivened, and engaged, and that aliveness will transmit through the words.

This isn’t a one-time realization. Tomorrow, there will be something else to release. Another way I’m clinging. Another identity I’ve confused with who I actually am beneath all the conditioning.

Ajahn Chah said: “If you let go a little, you will have a little peace. If you let go a lot, you will have a lot of peace. If you let go completely, you will know complete peace and freedom.”

I haven’t let go completely. But the practice continues. Hundreds of thousands of times. Millions of times.

What are you holding onto right now? What identity, what expectation, what should? What banana is in your fist?

The hole is big enough. You can let go anytime.

If this stirs something in you—the pull to drop your own banana—share it with a friend still waiting for the right conditions to feel free. Sometimes we all need that reminder to unclench our fists and let go.

Keep letting go,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #136. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

This time last year, I scrolled past a photo Yung Pueblo posted of a resort in Puerto Rico. Exotic and luxurious but somehow organic, like it had materialized effortlessly without human intervention. I paused, thought “That looks cool,” and kept scrolling. That was it.

For most of my life, images like that would capture me. They’d remind me how impoverished I felt and how much I wanted nice things. I’d compare my circumstances to what I was seeing and feel that quiet sense that something was missing. But I haven’t felt that pull in a long time.

Something changed. And it wasn’t my circumstances.

The Content Trap

We all know, intellectually, that stuff doesn’t make us happy. It’s an old theme, maybe even tired. But knowing something intellectually and knowing it emotionally are entirely different things. You can understand this concept and still find yourself scrolling through Condé Nast Traveler at 11 PM, feeling like your life is lacking.

Our culture teaches us that satisfaction comes from outside ourselves. That once we acquire the right things, visit the right places, and curate the right life, we’ll finally be content. We can finally rest. Until then, we hustle.

The writer Joan Tollifson describes visiting her aging mother, who couldn’t always hear the words anymore but could feel the love underneath them. She realized that in their conversations, the content wasn’t what mattered. It was what lay beneath the content. Her mother could feel the love. The words were just an excuse to get together. As that old Louis Armstrong song goes, under all the small talk, what we’re really saying is “I love you.”

This is true for all of experience, not just conversation. We’ve mistaken the content for what actually feeds us. We think the resort, the car, the beautiful home, the exotic vacation (the content of our lives) is what will satisfy us. But content is like the small talk. It’s not the thing itself.

I want to acknowledge something important here: there’s nothing wrong with pleasure. Beautiful things, delicious food, comfortable spaces offer what the Buddha called one-star happiness. Sensory delight is real, and life would be significantly diminished without it. A new car does smell amazing (if you like VOCs). A luxury resort is genuinely beautiful. You’re not wrong to enjoy these things.

The problem isn’t the content itself. The problem is believing that content determines satisfaction.

What I’ve Discovered

Years ago, while on a road trip, I woke up in a tent pitched on dry, late summer grass. When I unzipped the door, one of my flip-flops was missing. A coyote or some critter had taken it during the night, probably for the salt. The sun was streaming across the field and through the trees, lighting everything in gold.

I had one shoe, and I’d slept on hard ground. I was happier that morning than I’ve been in sumptuous settings.

I’ve woken up countless times in a tent and felt profound joy. I’ve seen mist rolling through mountains at dawn. I’ve watched sunlight hit rock formations in ways that awed me. I’ve spent evenings in budget motels, lying on scratchy sheets, feeling completely content.

The luxury resort in the photo? I’m sure it’s lovely. But I see little to no difference between it and that tent with the missing flip-flop. Not because I’ve transcended desire or achieved some enlightened state, but because I’ve learned where satisfaction actually comes from.

It comes from within. It’s something we cultivate internally, not something that happens to us.

The Confession

For my entire life, I denied that I loved beautiful living spaces.

I love architecture. I love interior design, industrial design, furniture design. My parents are incredibly visual, and so am I. Each of them has a remarkable taste for design. Beauty runs deep for me, too. I’m drawn to spaces that blend indoor and outdoor living—mid-century modern, lofts, Spanish-style homes, adobe structures. The texture of walls, the placement of plants, the quality of light through windows, the materials, the colors, the fabrics. I love it all.

But I spent decades denying this truth about myself because I thought wanting these things meant I was spiritually shallow. If I really understood impermanence, if I really grasped the teaching, I shouldn’t care about having a beautiful space, right?

About five years ago, I finally admitted it to myself: I want a cool place, decorated the way I like it, with good light and a view. Something that feels good to me and reflects my values, tastes, and lifestyle. It may be slightly more expensive, but it is within reach.

And here’s what changed: I’m no longer imprisoned by it.

Living in a loft seems like a meaningful experience. I think about the light, the furniture, the act of creative expression. It would satisfy my appreciation for beauty and nurture emotional and psychological well-being.

But I also know that if circumstances prevent it—if the money doesn’t work out, if life takes a different turn—I’ll acknowledge what didn’t happen. And I’ll still be fundamentally okay.

The wanting doesn’t poison my present moment anymore.

The Real Distinction

This goes deeper than talking about adaptation. It’s not just about getting used to new purchases until the shine wears off. It’s about a quality of contentment that’s portable, that you bring with you wherever you go.

Whether you’re sitting alone at home on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, clubbing with friends on a Friday night, or stuck in rush-hour traffic, there’s a contentment available that doesn’t depend on circumstances. You bring the sunny weather with you.

It’s not that staying at luxury resorts is bad. Stay at as many as you want. The problem is if you can only be happy at nice resorts. Because what happens when you lose your money? And people lose money far more often than we’d like to admit, even the most sophisticated among us.

The question isn’t whether to want things. The question is: can you appreciate luxury without being captured by it? Can you see something beautiful and think “that’s lovely” without feeling impoverished?

Can you want something and work toward it while remaining free?

How We Relate to Content

When I look at that resort photo now, I see something exquisite. I appreciate it. My mind doesn’t grasp at it or cling to it in the first place. There’s no story about what it would mean to be there, no comparison to where I am, no subtle sense that my life is lacking something essential.

But when contentment arises naturally from within, it doesn’t fade. I can be sitting in a budget motel room and feel as content as I would at a nice resort. Not because I’m pretending the motel is fancy, but because I understand that the room isn’t creating my experience.

The healing work and ongoing spiritual practices I do (meditation, mindfulness, etc) create the conditions for contentment to arise naturally. I’m not actively generating it. It’s all happening on its own.

When I’m completely available, when my senses are open and I let experience saturate me rather than curating it for some future memory, everything penetrates deeper. The more available I am, the more life reaches me. This is what the Buddha pointed to as three-star and four-star happiness: the happiness of undivided attention and the happiness that exists independent of conditions.

The Invitation

You can verify this in your own experience. You don’t have to take my word for it.

Notice the next time you’re scrolling, looking at images of lives that seem better than yours. Notice the subtle grasping, the fantasy, the quiet dissatisfaction. Notice what it feels like to be captured by content.

And then notice a moment, any moment, when you’re simply present. Maybe washing dishes, maybe drinking coffee, or maybe crawling into bed at night. Notice what it feels like when satisfaction comes from within rather than from circumstances.

The content of your experience isn’t the thing, and it never was.

What matters is how you relate to the content. What matters is the quality of your presence. What matters is discovering that you can foster contentment, like bringing your own weather wherever you go.

If this resonates, share it with someone who’s waiting for the right conditions to be happy. Sometimes we need to hear that we can stop waiting.

Keep being,

Ryan

P.S. This isn’t about rejecting nice things or beautiful experiences. It’s about discovering that your capacity for contentment doesn’t depend on them. Once you see this, you’ll never look at luxury resorts (or budget motels), or anything for that matter, the same way again.

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #135. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

I stood in our living room, surrounded by our furniture, our books, our life together, and felt utterly alone.

The loneliness had been gnawing at me for months, maybe years. It wasn’t the kind of loneliness you feel when you’re by yourself. It was worse. It was the loneliness of being invisible to the person next to you.

I never told anyone. Complaining about my partner felt like a betrayal, as if I were dishonoring our relationship. So I kept the pain to myself, which only made the loneliness more unbearable.

In a moment of desperation, I opened Facebook and reached out to a woman I’d had a crush on years ago. I wasn’t looking for an affair. I was crying for help. I needed someone, anyone, to see my pain, to acknowledge I existed, to validate that what I was feeling was real.

She suggested we meet up during a road trip she was planning. I never replied. Years later, I confessed to her that I was profoundly lonely in that moment and apologized for reaching out. I wouldn’t wish that kind of desperate loneliness on anyone.

If I were this lonely, I realized, my wife must be too. One person can’t feel something that profound without the other feeling it as well. But neither of us knew what to do about it. We were two people sharing meals, a home, and a bed, yet we were completely disconnected from each other.

Years later, I came across an idea in Stephen Covey’s The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People that finally helped me understand what had been missing. He called it the emotional bank account.

The metaphor is simple. Every relationship has an invisible account. When we make deposits through kindness, attention, and genuine care, trust builds. When we make withdrawals through neglect, criticism, or indifference, trust erodes. And when the account runs dry, the relationship deteriorates into loneliness, resentment, or quiet resignation.

Reading this, I finally understood. Our respective accounts had been overdrawn for years, and neither of us knew how to make deposits.

The most essential deposit, I learned, is simply this. Sincerely seeking to understand the other person.

Not listening to respond. Not listening to fix. Not listening while thinking about what you want to say next. But to truly listen and see and understand who they are and what matters to them.

The problem is, we don’t actually do this. We listen through the filter of our own experience, our own autobiography. When someone shares something, we immediately think, “Oh, I know exactly what that’s like,” and we project our own story onto theirs.

In my marriage, I rarely felt seen. She knew my preferences. She bought me a yoga mat early on because we met in yoga, and I always borrowed mats from the studio. She noticed what I needed.

But she didn’t see me. She didn’t understand what mattered to me beneath the surface, what I feared, what I longed for, what made me come alive. And I didn’t see her either.

We were two people having parallel conversations, each reading our own autobiography into what the other was saying. No wonder we both felt invisible.

The second thing that was missing was unconditional love.

When we love someone without conditions, they feel safe, validated, and affirmed in who they are. Their natural growth is encouraged. They don’t have to perform or prove themselves. They can simply be.

But conditional love does the opposite. It says, “I’ll love you if you do this, act this way, meet my needs.” It puts people in a defensive position where they feel they have to prove their worth.

Looking back, neither of us felt safe to be ourselves. We were performing, managing each other’s expectations, walking on eggshells. The intimacy we craved required vulnerability, but vulnerability requires a sense of safety. And safety was precisely what we didn’t have.

I remember the profound loneliness of lying next to someone and feeling utterly alone. We shared breakfast and dinner. We were friends who did things together. But I didn’t feel deeply loved, valued, or appreciated. I felt invisible.

And in fairness, I wasn’t offering her unconditional love either. I did eventually get there, near the end of our marriage. But by then, it was too late. The account was too overdrawn to repair.

Here’s the truth I’ve come to understand. Neither of us had these skills.

We weren’t deliberately withholding love or refusing to listen. We were operating from our unconscious conditioning, our wounds, our learned patterns. We were doing the best we could with the awareness we had at the time.

The emotional bank account metaphor didn’t teach me to blame myself or her. It taught me to see what was invisible before. And once I could see it, I could choose differently.

Today, I practice these deposits more consciously. I work to listen without projecting my own story. I strive to create a sense of safety to foster genuine presence. And when I make withdrawals, knowingly or unknowingly, I do my best to rebuild trust by apologizing sincerely.

I don’t always succeed, and relationships remain complicated and messy. But this metaphor helps me see the patterns I couldn’t see before, and I can’t unsee them now.

If this resonates, share it with someone who might be feeling invisible in their relationship. Sometimes, the right metaphor at the right time can illuminate what’s been hidden all along.

P.S. You don’t need to be married to benefit from this insight. The emotional bank account applies to every relationship that matters - partners, friends, parents, children. Once you see it, you’ll recognize it everywhere.

Keep making daily deposits,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #134. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

My couple’s counselor got it wrong. Mark Manson got it wrong. Even National Geographic got it wrong.

The idea that Buddhism teaches “life is suffering” has become so commonplace that it goes unnoticed. And ironically, this misunderstanding creates the very suffering Buddhism aims to transcend. People believe they’re powerless. Victims of fate rather than active participants in their own liberation.

The misconception originated from poor translation. The Pali term “dukkha” got translated as “suffering” in early English texts. But dukkha means something more precise: unsatisfactoriness.

The Buddha didn’t say life is suffering in an absolute sense. He taught that certain inevitable aspects of life (birth, aging, illness, death) are accompanied by dukkha. Pain is part of the human condition. Life is subject to dissatisfaction because of impermanence and clinging.

It captures the totality of life’s inherent difficulties: not just acute suffering, but also mild discomfort, disappointment, and the fundamental dissatisfaction of existence when we grasp at transient phenomena.

The phrase “life is suffering” stuck because it’s dramatic, memorable, and sounds profound. Too bad it’s wrong.

Here’s what this looks like:

The burned-out white collar worker who thinks chronic stress is “part of life” and so doesn’t question their relationship with work

The person who stays in a toxic relationship because they believe all relationships involve difficulty, so why bother leaving? You’ll trade one person’s limitations for another’s

The procrastinator who beats themselves up daily, thinking their anxiety and self-loathing are how life is, rather than recognizing it as self-created sorrow they can attend to

Here’s what the Buddha actually taught: Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.

The Buddha said, “In the past, monks, and also now, I teach suffering and the cessation of suffering.” Not “life is suffering,” but that it arises and can cease. The distinction matters.

The First Noble Truth acknowledges a simple reality: suffering occurs. This isn’t the same as declaring that existence itself equals suffering.

Being human means experiencing pain. You stub your toe. Your body breaks down. You get sick. You feel sad or lonely. You face disappointment and criticism at work. The Buddha himself dealt with physical ailments and sometimes had to skip teaching because his back hurt.

And if you’re emotionally open to others, you’ll feel their struggles too. That empathic discomfort is part of being connected to the world around you. None of this is personal. It’s what comes with having a human body and an open heart.

But here’s the key: this kind of pain isn’t what the Buddha wanted to free us from.

In the Samyutta Nikaya, the Buddha taught the parable of the two arrows. The first arrow is the pain life brings. The second arrow is what we do to ourselves—the resistance, anger, fear, or rumination we add. The first arrow is inevitable. The second arrow is optional.

The Four Noble Truths point to a crucial distinction. There’s the pain that’s simply part of being alive, and then there’s the suffering we pile on top through our reactions.

We get angry about being in pain. We cling to pleasant experiences. We turn physical discomfort into a story about ourselves: “Why is this happening to me? What did I do wrong?” We blame ourselves. We blame others. We get depressed about the state of the world. These reactions—whether we’re pushing away what we don’t like or grasping at what we do—create unnecessary layers of suffering.

This is what we add through clinging, resistance, and unconscious patterns. As Carl Jung wrote: “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” After 20 years of studying Buddhism, I can tell you this is good news. It means your life is not predetermined misery. You have agency.

The freedom lies in this: you can have a higher threshold for pain and a lower threshold for suffering.

Buddhist teacher Steve Armstrong said it well: “It is such a joy to be able to offer some action, some words, some behavior that relieves suffering.”

When you understand that clinging is the source, you realize happiness isn’t something you gain. It’s freedom from grasping.

This is the shift from being an enslaved person to becoming a student. Instead of running from pain, you investigate it.

All suffering is workable. Life is workable.

When you become aware of your suffering and its causes, you reclaim your freedom. Most people aren’t even aware of the depth of their suffering. They’ve normalized it, called it “life.” But once you see the difference between unavoidable pain and optional suffering, something changes. Less clinging, less suffering.

The result? You stop being a victim of circumstance. You develop the capacity to experience pain without it disrupting your peace. You build resilience not through toughness, but through wisdom.

We’re circling back to what the Buddha knew 2,500 years ago: most people come to the spiritual path because they are suffering. Not because “life is suffering,” but because they’ve been creating unnecessary suffering and long to become free of it.

People are waking up to the cost of unconscious suffering. We’re learning that Buddhism isn’t about accepting misery. It’s about investigating how our minds create suffering and finding liberation.

Understanding this distinction opens up possibilities. You develop awareness of your patterns. You learn to respond rather than react. You choose to be a student of your sorrow rather than a servant to it. This is a universal yet deeply personal path, and the promise of Buddhist wisdom is available to anyone willing to investigate: not a life free of pain, but a life free of suffering, or at least significantly less of it.

And that freedom? That’s worth every effort.

Understanding this distinction intellectually is one thing. Living it is another. But the path is open to anyone willing to face life as it is.

If this resonates, share it with someone who might be carrying unnecessary suffering. Sometimes, the right perspective at the right time changes everything.

P.S. You don’t need to be Buddhist to benefit from this insight. The distinction between pain and suffering is universal. It’s observable in your own experience, right now.

Keep observing,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #133. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

It was August 2021, and when I woke up and looked outside, the sky was an ominous shade of orange and grey.

I opened the Apple Weather app. Air Quality Index: 62. Moderate. I checked Purple Air. Same reading.

But when I stepped outside, I could feel it in my lungs.

I asked my partner, whose nose is more sensitive than mine. “It feels about right to me,” she said, glancing at the AQI reading. That night, my sinuses felt unusually dry, and I had trouble breathing.

So what do you believe? The apps? Your partner? Or your own body?

I almost didn’t close the windows that morning, but I did.

That afternoon, my partner ran errands. “The air is terrible out there,” she said. “The AQI is 129 now. I guess you were right.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d doubted what I knew to be true.

A few weeks earlier in Guanajuato, Mexico, my partner and I were searching for a trailhead to go hiking. We hiked up through the city until the road reached its highest point, and there, at the summit, was a sign pointing to the trailhead.

“There it is,” I said, pointing to the sign.

“Google Maps says it’s back down the hill,” she replied.

What’s funny is that I did the same thing a week earlier. We’d just arrived in Puerto Vallarta and were looking for our Airbnb. I kept insisting it was up the hill because Apple Maps said so. We dragged our luggage higher and higher in the heat and humidity until we ended up at someone’s “rustic” house, the last one on the hill, which was clearly not our rental. Apple Maps was wrong.

After a minute of arguing, I gave in because my relationship is more valuable to me than being right.

As we walked back down the hill, Google Maps kept recalculating, promising the trailhead was just ahead. We never found it...because it was back up the mountain.

I learned to distrust myself from watching my mom.

My mom didn’t believe her head or heart when they differed from what she’d read. Not because she wasn’t capable, but because she’d been taught, like so many women of her generation, that experts knew better than she did. When Dr. Spock advised letting babies “cry it out,” she followed his advice, ignoring every instinct to nurture us. He was an Ivy League-educated doctor, and she got pregnant and dropped out of community college.

As a kid, I learned to ignore my body, too. We drank orange juice from concentrate on weekends. My dad liked it, and it was supposed to be good for you. It gave me a headache every time, yet I continued drinking it throughout my childhood, thinking I was the problem.

The worst part? This is a universal phenomenon. The creator of Candid Camera, Alan Funt, once put up a sign on a road that read “Delaware closed today.” People didn’t question it. They asked, “Is Jersey open?” It seems we’re wired to default to authority.

In 1996, I was a store manager at Starbucks. I appreciated that the company prioritized its employees and had a corporate staff that was friendly, competent, and inspiring. It was the best company I had ever worked for, and I believed in what we were building: a third place beyond home and office.

Then I read an article in Fortune magazine: “Has Starbucks saturated the market?” At the time, there were 778 stores. I had about $2,000 in stock, which was trading at $1.45 per share. I sold it all.

Today, there are over 32,000 Starbucks stores. The stock is at $84.40. That $2,000 would be worth $116,000 now.

I had insider knowledge, yet I trusted a journalist over my direct experience.

Years later, I finally learned the lesson in the most ordinary way: earwax.

Growing up, every doctor had advised against using Q-tips. “You could rupture your eardrum,” they’d say. But I produce a lot of earwax, enough that it doesn’t self-clean on its own, diminishes my hearing and requires medical removal.

After one such procedure, the doctor said, “You know, you can clean your ears with cotton swabs at home.” (I’m pretty sure his dream of becoming a doctor didn’t include ear wax).

“I thought we weren’t supposed to use cotton swabs.”

“I clean my ears every day with them.”

“Have you ever had any problems?”

“Never,” he said.

My situation may be uncommon, but if doctors can’t even agree on the use of cotton swabs, what else might they disagree on? Of course, I consult my doctor, but I also listen to my body.

I’d been doing this my whole life. Trusting experts about parenting, about stocks, about GPS, about air quality, about my own ears. And you know what? They were often wrong. Or they disagreed with each other. Or what worked for them didn’t work for me.

I get things wrong all the time, but now it’s different.

When I missed out on money on Starbucks, following a journalist I’d never met, I felt like an idiot. Worse, I didn’t learn anything because I was acting out of fear rather than from my own knowing.

Now, when I’m wrong, and I am, I know why I thought what I thought. I can see where my assumptions failed. My mistakes actually teach me something because they’re mine.

I feel more grounded now. Not because I’m right more often, I’m probably not, but because I trust my intuition, knowing full well I may be wrong. The times when I trust myself and still make mistakes, I don’t get upset because I dared to follow my conviction and a willingness to acknowledge when I’m wrong.

Last week I opened a package of shredded cheddar cheese. It had been in the fridge for maybe two weeks, yet it smelled like dirty feet. The expiration date was three months out, and there was no sign of mold, yet I threw it out anyway. In the past, I may have eaten it.

I still read articles, talk to people, and seek advice. But now I’m more likely to follow my own sense, even if it contradicts the opinions of those who know more than I do.

James Audubon said it best: “When the bird and the book disagree, believe the bird.”

The Buddha said something similar: Come and see for yourself if what I say is true.

I’m still learning to believe the bird.

Keep trusting yourself,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #132. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

Nearly everyone believes something is fundamentally wrong with them.

They download meditation apps, buy productivity planners, and sign up for transformation courses. They chase the perfect morning routine, the ideal body weight, the anxiety-free mind, always convinced that the next book or workshop will finally fix what’s broken.

But I’d like to propose that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.

I’m not saying you’re morally perfect, nor that your habits couldn’t be improved. I’m saying something more profound: your very existence, this moment, this breath, this felt sense of being alive, is already complete.

You see, you’re not something separate from nature, observing it from the outside. You are as much a part of nature as a caterpillar, an oak tree, or a planet. You didn’t come into this world as a visitor. Instead, you came out of it, like an acorn from a tree or lava from a volcano. The universe doesn’t make mistakes when it creates galaxies, and it didn’t make one when it created you.

This isn’t mystical thinking but factual. Every atom in your body was forged in the heart of a star. Your thoughts, emotions, and peculiarities are as natural as hurricanes or the sound of wind through trees.

Now, most of us were raised to feel as though we are separate from the world, individual beings trapped inside what Ram Dass referred to as spacesuits, looking out at a world “over there.” We learned to see ourselves as isolated individuals who must prove our worth through achievement and improvement.

This feeling of separation creates an exhausting cycle. We become actors in a world of self-improvement, constantly fixing, adjusting, striving, as if life were a test we might fail rather than an experience we’re meant to have.

But here’s where things get complicated. From childhood, we learn to go against our natural instincts. We sit still for teachers when we’d rather move around. We clean our rooms for our parents even though we like them messy. We say “thank you” when we want to say “I don’t feel comfortable with that comment.” By following rules and overriding our nature, we learn the great myth: that we’re somehow not enough, that we must become someone rather than simply exist.

You see, from the very beginning, we’re conditioned to believe life is one big audition. That we’re here to prove something to parents, teachers, society. We embark on the great self-improvement project, forever trying to fix our flaws. But what if the meaning of life is just to be alive? What if existing is enough and you have nothing to prove to anyone?

Here’s a simple exercise: Close your eyes and notice the sensation of being alive before any thoughts arise. Feel your breath. Sense the aliveness that’s present right now. That’s you, not your trauma, not your shortcomings, not your goals, just the simple fact of being here. What do you think?

The truth is, your imperfections aren’t manufacturing defects. They’re part of the design. Have you ever seen an oak tree trying to grow longer limbs or a deer trying to “get ahead”? They exist because existing is their nature. You work the same way, and you don’t need to earn your place here any more than they do.

You see, when someone says “there’s nothing wrong with you,” your conditioned mind immediately protests. “But what about my failures? My bad habits? My anxiety?” Yet all of that is part of who you are, part of your unique pattern in the fabric of existence.

Have you ever seen a river trying to flow faster? Have you ever watched a cat practicing how to be graceful? They do what they do because it’s their nature. You, too, are a natural happening. You don’t have to force it or optimize it. It occurs naturally when you stop interfering with it.

Paradoxically, most of us spend tremendous energy trying to “be ourselves.” But the moment you want to capture authenticity, you’ve already lost it. It’s like trying to look natural for a photo. The trying prevents the naturalness.

Authenticity isn’t something you achieve through self-improvement methods. It’s what remains when you stop pretending. It’s not about becoming someone. It’s about recognizing who you already are beneath all the masks and roles.

Now, of course, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to improve your skills or build better habits. The issue isn’t with growth but with the underlying belief that you’re somehow broken and need fixing. When you operate from wholeness rather than deficiency, improvement becomes a form of play rather than work.

Here’s something worth considering: the person you think you are was constructed mainly by other people. Parents, teachers, and society told you who you are through glances, comments, and expectations about what’s acceptable, what earns love, and what makes you valuable. Without realizing it, you shaped yourself according to these reflections: the sweet girl, the strong boy, the productive adult.

These roles are helpful, but they are not you. Eventually, this creates a split, like walking around in shoes two sizes too small. You sense that who you are isn’t the performer but the awareness behind the performance. The real you is the one who doesn’t need to be good, liked, or impressive. You are the space that’s been watching all these performances your entire life, unchanged by all the changes you’ve experienced.

So then what’s left? If you’re not your thoughts, your roles, or the identity you’ve been defending, what are you? You are the awareness that witnesses thoughts as they come and go. You are the space in which experience arises and passes. This isn’t about adding anything. It’s about subtracting, letting go of the exhausting project of trying to become someone else.

So how do you actually live this way, without constant grasping and fixing? Like the earth. The earth doesn’t hold onto trees or oceans. It simply allows everything to pass through. When you realize you are the earth and not just a passing phenomenon, everything becomes more spacious. You begin to trust life more, not because you’ve figured out how to control everything, but because you’ve let go of the need to.

So instead of chasing some perfect version of yourself, what if you observed who you are right now? There's no need for any improvements. You might discover something surprising: the voice telling you something’s wrong isn’t actually you. It’s just a thought. You are the space in which that thought comes and goes. When you see this clearly, the struggle comes to an end.

And so we return to where we started: there is nothing wrong with you. This isn’t a comforting platitude. It’s a liberating truth. You are not a problem to be solved or a rough draft to be edited. You are nature expressing itself in human form, as natural and necessary as mountains and oceans.

When you see yourself clearly, not as a problem to be fixed, but as a natural phenomenon like wind or lightning, everything changes. You realize you were never broken. You were never too much or too little. You were exactly what you were supposed to be. Not perfect, but complete. The only thing left to do is stop pretending otherwise and just be who you already are.

Because once you stop chasing after some future version of yourself, you’ll realize you’ve been home all along, not in some achievement or approval, but in the simple, sacred fact that you exist.

And that, it turns out, is quite enough.

Keep being,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #131. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

In 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General declared loneliness an epidemic, as deadly as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. Nearly one in two American adults now says they feel lonely regularly.

That rise isn’t random. In the last decade, daily screen time has doubled. Teen loneliness and depression began spiking in 2012, the same year smartphones hit mass adoption. The paradox is evident: the more connected we are digitally, the more isolated we feel psychologically and emotionally.

How did we get here?

Twenty years ago, Apple sold us a dream: a world perfectly tailored to me. iPods, iPads and iPhones. Everything you want and nothing you don’t.

It worked. Life got quieter, smoother, easier. Headphones blocked out the noise. Spotify delighted our ears. Netflix entertained us without leaving the house. Dinner showed up in a bag at the door. A quick thank you at best, hurried and hollow, nothing like sitting in a restaurant, looking a server in the eye, and asking what they recommend.

We called it convenience. Comfort. Freedom from petty annoyances.

But look closer. The same bubble that cuts out irritation also cuts out people. And people—quirky, unpredictable, frustrating as they may be—are also hilarious, creative, and kind beyond measure.

When we avoid people, we don’t just bypass awkwardness. We do away with the very connections that make life rich, meaningful and worth living.

Everyday Isolation

You don’t have to look far. Isolation is everywhere once you see it.

On the street, people still step into the road instead of making eye contact and greeting one another, as if COVID allowed us to avoid each other indefinitely.

Restaurants sit half-empty, the clatter of silverware and conversation replaced by the emptiness of takeout bags.

In elevators, we stand shoulder to shoulder yet stare into our phones.

On buses and trains, headphones block out the noise along with chance encounters.

At coffee shops, laptops wall off people from each other.

Face-to-face doctor's visits replaced by Zoom. Workouts alone in garages (guilty!). AirPods act as do-not-disturb signs. Even grabbing coffee without talking with a barista.

And yet sometimes the spell breaks. A neighbor says hi. A cashier lights up when you ask about their day. For an instant, the world softens. You leave lighter and so do they.

Forgetting How to Be Human Together

The danger isn’t just loneliness. It’s forgetting how to be human together.

My 19-year-old stepdaughter lamented over dinner last week that when she’s with her friend groups, the conversation sometimes trails off. Long awkward silences where nobody knows what to say. She wonders if it's a friend thing or something else.

She’s not alone. A generation that grew up on screens is discovering that even when they’re face-to-face, connection can feel stilted.

When did being together start to feel so unnatural?

Think about it: most of our daily lives are mediated through devices. We text instead of calling. We tap an app instead of talking to a clerk. We swipe on profiles instead of striking up conversations. We Slack or DM colleagues instead of dropping by their desk. Little by little, we’ve lost the muscle memory of simple human contact.

If we want connection, we have to create it. It doesn’t happen by chance anymore.

Without it, isolation turns us into strangers in our own world—isolated, disconnected and unseen. The worst pain isn’t grievances with people. It’s the ache of loneliness and the emptiness of feeling invisible.

Spiritual Wisdom

Jack Kornfield once warned: “If we are not careful, we can easily find the great failures of our modern society—its ambition, materialism, and individual isolation—repeated in our spiritual life.”

Kornfield meant it as a warning about spirituality, but it speaks to life as a whole. If we’re not careful, isolation seeps into everything, even the small daily moments that used to bring us together and enrich our lives.

Zen Master Dōgen put it more simply: “To be enlightened is to be intimate with all things.”

And intimacy isn’t possible from within a bubble. It asks us to show up as we are. To risk the awkward moment. To allow interruptions. To be surprised. To let people in.

That’s the irony: what we often try to avoid in human connection is the very thing that makes life alive, satisfying and sacred.

The Mountain

Not long ago, I went backpacking in the mountains. The trail climbed steeply through a boulder-strewn bowl until it opened to a windswept saddle. Two guys were resting there, catching their breath. We talked for a few minutes before my friend and I continued toward the summit.

At the top, the air was crisp, and the sky stretched wide in every direction. Soon after, the two men joined us. We stood together at the top, trading stories while the sun shone and the wind blew. My friend teased me for talking so much, but I was unconcerned.

The mountains were glorious—the ridgelines against the sky, the stillness of the lakes, the smell of sage and pine. I need that in my life. But when I think back on the day, it’s not the view I remember most. It’s the people I met.

A mountain can awe you, but it can’t connect with you. A flower can stop you on the path, but it can’t leave you feeling seen. A clear mountain stream can captivate you, but it can't satisfy your hunger for contact. Only another human can do that.

It's the People

We chase contentment in accomplishments—money earned, titles collected, ladders climbed. But none of it can replace the deeper sense of aliveness of human connection.

The greatest joy in life isn’t reaching the summit. It’s the people we meet on the path, and the meaningful moments we forge along the way.

If this resonated, consider sharing it with someone who needs to hear it. We all know a people-pleaser who's secretly suffering.

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #130. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

Your back is killing you again.

You've tried new mattresses, expensive chairs, and yoga classes, even that fancy ergonomic setup.

But nothing works.

Here's what no doctor will tell you: your pain isn't physical.

It's emotional.

Your body is holding onto feelings you refuse to face. And until you acknowledge what you're really feeling, you will continue to suffer physically.

Let me explain how this works...

Think about it.

When was the last time you admitted you were jealous? Or truly pissed off at someone you love? Or acknowledged when you were angry?

We lie to ourselves (and others) constantly.

"I'm not mad at Mom. It’s just been a long day."
"I’m not bothered that Sarah got promoted. In fact, I'm happy for her."
"I'm not heartbroken about the breakup. Actually, it's the best thing that could have happened."

Yeah, right. Your mind might buy these stories. But your body? Your body knows the truth. And it's keeping score.*

You can feel it, can't you? There's a knowing inside—quiet yet persistent—that won't let go. It knows what you're really feeling. And when you ignore it long enough, it gets creative.

Suppress your anger? It pounds in your head.

Distraction from your anxiety? It keeps you up at night.

Numb your grief? It seizes up your back.

Your body becomes the messenger when your mind won't listen. It's actually genius how this works.

Your body takes the emotions you refuse to feel and gives them a home.

Swallowed rage? It settles in your lower back.
Unprocessed grief? Your chest tightens.
Fear you won't acknowledge? Your stomach churns for "no reason."

That chronic pain you can't explain? That tension headache that won't go away? That digestive issue doctors can't figure out?

They're not random. They're messages from your body. Your body is literally holding your feelings hostage until you pay attention.

Here's what makes this tricky.

Traditional medicine isn't equipped to see this connection.

A doctor sees a bad back and thinks "herniated disc." A doctor sees digestive issues and thinks "food sensitivity." A doctor sees heart palpitations and thinks "cardiac issue."

They're trained to heal bodies, not connect physical pain to emotional pain.

So you get prescribed painkillers for the chest pain that's actually heartbreak. Anti-anxiety meds for the restlessness that's actually unresolved grief. Sleep aids for the insomnia that's actually unprocessed anxiety.

The symptoms are managed while the real problem remains buried, and your body continues to try to get your attention.

Here's what actually works: Talk to your body directly.

Tonight, when you're lying in bed, close your eyes. Start with wherever hurts most. Put your hand there and ask: "What are you trying to tell me?"

I know it sounds weird, but do it anyway.

Your shoulder might say: "I'm tired of carrying everyone's burdens." Your stomach might murmur: "I'm scared about the meeting tomorrow." Your back might scream: "I'm furious you won't stand up for yourself."

Just listen without judging. Your body has been waiting years for you to finally ask. The answers might shock you.

Your neck: "I'm exhausted from nodding yes when I want to say no."

Your throat: "I'm constricted because there's so much I can't say."

Your heart: "I'm hurting and no one acknowledges it."

Your gut: "I knew this job was wrong from day one."

Your lower back: "I'm carrying resentment I can't let go of."

These aren't metaphors. This is your body's truth, speaking in the only language it knows: pain.

Here's what happens when you start listening.

The pain doesn't magically disappear overnight, but something changes. Your body stops fighting you and starts trusting you instead.

Because finally—maybe for the first time in years—you're paying attention to what it's really trying to say.

Your chronic tension eases when you acknowledge the anger. You sleep better when you let yourself grieve. Your back pain fades when you stop carrying everyone else's burdens.

You're not just healing symptoms but healing your relationship with your body. For too long, you've treated your body like an inconvenience. Something to put up with, ignore, or fix when it breaks down.

What feels like the body betraying you is actually the body keeping score. It's been your most loyal friend—the one carrying what you couldn't face, waiting patiently until you're ready.

The one holding your pain so you could get through the day. Speaking up when you wouldn't. Never giving up on you, even when you gave up on it.

The time has come to listen, not as a patient to symptoms, but as a friend to a friend. Your body has been waiting your whole life for you to hear.

Here's what I would like you to do tonight.

Don't overthink this or wait until you have more time, energy, or feel better. Just lie down, close your eyes, and take one deep breath. Pick the part of your body that's been bothering you most, put your hand there, and ask: "What are you trying to tell me?"

That's it. Don't try to fix it or analyze the answer. Just listen for 30 seconds.

Maybe nothing comes up, and that's fine. Perhaps you'll get an answer that surprises you, and that's fine too.

The point isn't to solve anything tonight. It's to start a conversation that will grow into a friendship and ongoing dialogue with your body. Your body has been patient your whole life. It can wait a little longer while you learn its language.

But it won't wait forever. Start tonight, even if it's just 30 seconds.

Your back—and your sense of well-being—will thank you.

Keep listening,

Ryan

P.S. I know this might sound too simple to work. But after watching friend after friend discover that their chronic pain was actually chronic emotions, I can't ignore the connection anymore. Give your body 30 seconds tonight. The worst that happens? You spent 30 seconds lying down. The best? You finally understand what your pain has been trying to tell you.

*If you want to dive deeper into this topic, read The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk. It's a definitive book on how trauma lives in our bodies.

If this resonated, consider sharing it with someone who needs to hear it. We all know a people-pleaser who's secretly suffering.

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #129. Every other Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

I appreciate your patience as I publish this essay more than a week later than intended.

Dear Friend:

Day 2 of our 12-day road trip.

Two days of driving, poor sleep, crowded redwood trails, and a triggering text from a family member at 7 am. I began taking my frustration out on my partner in front of my stepkids while hiking along a poorly-marked trail.

After two hours, my stepdaughter finally yelled, "Would you guys stop bickering! It's so annoying!"

That familiar voice started: "Great job. You're ruining her vacation, and it's only the second day."

Here's what I wish someone had told me years ago: You're going to screw up your kids. This isn't a prediction. It's a fact.

We've been taught to believe that perfect parenting produces perfect kids. But it's not true. Perfect parenting doesn't exist, and attempting it makes everything worse.

Here's what happens: You lose your temper at dinner. Instead of owning it, you pretend it didn't happen because "good parents don't yell." Your kid learns that mistakes should be hidden, not handled. When they mess up at school, they lie about it. The cycle begins.

What would it be like to talk to ourselves as we would a friend? When you snap at your kid, instead of saying to yourself, "I'm the worst parent ever," try saying, "I had a difficult moment. I'm human. I will do my best to do better next time." You can't guarantee that you will do better, but you can have an intention.

Most parents never give themselves this permission. They think their kids need them to be perfect at all times. But kids don't need perfect parents. They need sincere, genuine, honest ones who own their mistakes and shortcomings, in other words, their humanity.

When you mess up, repair it. "I'm sorry I yelled. You didn't deserve that. I'll try to do better next time." This teaches your kids something perfect parenting never could: how to handle mistakes with grace.

When my stepdaughter called out our bickering, she didn't need me to pretend it wasn't happening. She needed to see me own it immediately and make it right. She needed to learn that humans mess up, and relationships survive.

Children need a parent who shows them how to be imperfect and still whole, complete and worthy of love.

Our task as parents is to foster the conditions that will allow our children to develop the skills to thrive practically and spiritually while wounding them as little as possible. Not zero wounds. As little as possible. There's a huge difference.

Practically means the 'doing' realm of life: discipline, delayed gratification, resilience, time management, systematic effort, habits, critical thinking, and growth mindset. When one stepkid practiced the drums and the other the violin shortly after we got back home, they were thriving practically.

Spiritually means the 'being' realm of life: awareness, naming, surrender, concentration, acceptance, kindness, compassion, equanimity. When my stepdaughter spoke up about our bickering, she was thriving spiritually. She witnessed a situation and addressed it directly instead of staying silent. When I apologized instead of getting defensive, I modeled emotional regulation and showed my stepkids that conflict doesn't have to ruin relationships.

The road trip created a rupture where she (and my stepson) witnessed adult conflict. But the immediate repair taught them that relationships can handle difficult moments and come out with greater awareness, understanding and connection.

Your kids will have healing work to do someday. They'll work through issues that trace back to you. This doesn't make you a bad parent. It makes you a human one.

My stepdaughter might tell her future therapist about the day her parents bickered on a family road trip. She may even tell them about how the conflict got resolved immediately, how speaking up worked, and how pettiness didn't destroy a relationship.

The goal isn't to give your kids nothing to work through. The goal is to provide them with the tools to work through it. Every rupture is an opportunity to model repair. Every mistake is a chance to show them how resilient relationships work.

I know I'm contributing to my stepkids' future therapy bills. I also know I'm contributing to their practical and spiritual well-being. Both things are true.

I'm teaching them that conflict is everyday, that speaking up works, and that mistakes don't define you. I'm showing them what emotional regulation looks like and how to repair relationships when conflict arises.

This is the reality of parenting. You'll help and hurt, build up and let down, succeed and fail. All in the same day.

Stop trying to be the parent who secretly never fails. Start being the parent who fails well, transparently. Your kids are counting on you.

By the way, when I apologized to my stepdaughter, she wasn't so much annoyed as scared that we would break up like her biological parents did. That hits hard.

Reply to this message and tell me about a recent parenting "failure" that you turned into a teaching moment. I read every email.

P.S. I'm not saying all parenting mistakes are equal or that anything goes. I'm talking about everyday human moments--losing your temper, being inconsistent, having bad days. The kind of stuff that makes you spiral with guilt but gives your kids a chance to see real emotional intelligence in action.

Keep forgiving yourself,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #128. Every Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

A hard truth:

If you're a people-pleaser, you're lying to everyone around you.

I know that sounds harsh. But understanding why changes everything.

Being someone who pleases people sounds like a good thing. After all, aren't we taught from childhood to be pleasant, agreeable, and get along with others?

However, this pattern of behavior is tainted by many problems.

Those who feel they must mould themselves to everyone else's expectations secretly harbor resentment. They act like the perfect partner when their real feelings are darker. They say yes to plans they dislike or even hate. They never express their authentic needs.

Here's the brutal truth: They're liars.

I know calling someone a liar sounds unkind. But they're lying for heartbreaking reasons. They're not lying to gain advantage. They're terrified of other people's displeasure.

Here's why: Almost always, their childhood involved being around someone—usually a parent—who couldn't handle the fundamental truths about their child.

Maybe your father exploded at any disagreement. Suggesting a different dinner or admitting you were tired triggered his rage—and as a child, that rage felt dangerous. Or your mother withdrew completely when you expressed sadness, leaving you feeling abandoned and desperate to win back her love. Or a parent made you responsible for their emotions: "You're making mommy very upset" whenever you had your own needs.

You learned to survive by reflexively guessing what others wanted.

What you wanted became irrelevant. Sometimes the lying wasn't even a result of fear. It was from love. You lied to avoid setting off another fight between your parents. To keep a depressed mom happy. To avoid burdening someone who already seemed fragile.

Who were you to make their life more complicated?

The cost of this pattern? You lose yourself completely. Your self-esteem erodes. You stop living your values. Stress and anxiety become constant companions. Your relationships risk becoming codependent. You can't make decisions or handle conflict. Life feels draining instead of engaging and enlivening. Ultimately, you become depressed.

The good news? There are three ways out of this pattern.

1. Most people aren't your parents. Your colleagues, friends, and partner can handle contradiction. They won't explode or abandon you for having different opinions. You learned to relate to the world around people who weren't representative of humanity as a whole.

2. Your "kindness" is harmful. At work, you're not helping anyone by withholding your honest thoughts. In relationships, staying with someone because you think they can't survive without you wastes their time—and yours. They'll be fine. You're being sentimental, not kind.

3. Learn to be diplomatic. As a child, you couldn't express your needs skillfully. Now you can. You can say no while showing goodwill. You can disagree without calling someone an idiot. You can end a relationship while honoring what it meant to you.

You can be pleasant without being a people-pleaser.

Keep honoring yourself,

Ryan

P.S. If you're thinking "But I'm just being nice," ask yourself: Do you ever feel resentful after saying yes? That resentment is your authentic self trying to speak up.

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #128. Every Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

We’ve spent thousands of years perfecting a single strategy:

Control the environment, shape the outside world and hope it fixes how we feel inside. We built tools, stored food, and designed systems. Optimized everything from agriculture to air travel.

And underneath it all was one core belief: If I could get my circumstances right, I would be okay.

That strategy worked—for a while. It got us fire and smartphones. We survived, advanced and thrived materially.

But emotionally? Spiritually? That’s where it starts to fall apart. Because no matter how much we rearrange the contents of our lives, circumstances keep changing.

Still, we keep trying. When something stops working, we start tweaking, adjusting, rearranging, anything to get life back under control so we feel better. Then we move on to the next fix. And the next. And the next. But we rarely pause and seldom inquire.

We’re constantly rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

That’s how we live. Something uncomfortable arises—boredom, grief, sadness—and we rush to fix our feelings in the quickest way we know how. We eat a bag of chips, buy something we don’t need, open a new tab, or start a project—anything that gives us a hit of control, however brief.

We numb ourselves, or we distract ourselves, but either way, we’re avoiding the very thing that needs our attention: the feeling itself.

Long ago, when I began listening to books and talks on Buddhist psychology on my iPod, I'd run into obstacles that made it hard to hear—a loud motorcycle, a garbage truck, people, leaf blowers, traffic, construction. I wanted to get away from people because they annoyed me, and I wanted to escape the sound because I couldn't hear the talk or the audiobook.

So I tried outrunning the noise by getting up earlier, running faster, and turning down side streets. I'd shake my fist internally, mutter expletives under my breath, and turn up the volume. However, I eventually realized that nothing ultimately works. At some point, my strategies for avoiding all the noise ran out. Some sounds were so loud I couldn't turn the volume up loud enough to drown them out. The truck, motorcycle, and leaf blower overwhelmed my strategy.

I was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, trying to control the entire soundscape of the city so I could have my perfect listening experience. But the city didn't care about my spiritual practice.

The real trouble isn’t just that we use this strategy but that we put our faith in it: the idea that changing our circumstances will finally make us feel okay, not only now but permanently. We convince ourselves that if we land the right job, find the right partner, and stick to the right morning routine, then we’ll arrive.

But you don’t arrive. You wake up, or you keep running.

We live in a constant state of almost, always just shy of “there.” Have you got it completely together? Is everything finally done? Is this it?

We keep hoping the next job, the next city, the next book will be the one that settles us, that this will be the fix that finally makes us feel whole.

But it never is.

Part of the reason this pattern is so hard to break is the way our attention works. The mind doesn’t land on space or stillness. It gloms onto objects—furniture, stacks of books, pants that need to be hemmed.

We fixate on what is pleasing and displeasing. If something is pleasing, we feel a little better. If it isn't, we feel slightly worse, and we try to change it. That’s how we’ve trained ourselves to relate to the world.

Not through witnessing, but through control.

We’ve made the things we notice all day long—our furniture, our inbox, other people—the gatekeepers of our emotional well-being. If something is pleasant, we want more of it. If it's unpleasant, we blame it for how we feel.

We’ve handed over our mood to the contents of our lives.

It’s not that this strategy never works. Sometimes getting the thing—the job, the car, the new apartment—does make us feel better.

But it never lasts. Eventually, the thrill fades. The job becomes a chore. The car gets scratched. The apartment starts to feel small. So we start looking for the next thing. But nothing ever really does it.

Awareness is a radical reversal of everything we’ve been taught.

Instead of manipulating life to feel better, we start observing how we relate to it. Rather than chasing the perfect set of conditions, we begin to see the patterns behind our reactions, and that’s where real freedom begins.

This isn’t giving up. It’s waking up. Peace comes from meeting life, not managing it.

It’s noticing how often the mind narrates, judges, and resists—the constant commentary, an endless stream of thoughts that hijacks our attention. We spend most of our lives looking outward, reacting to the world around us. But what we’re learning is to watch how we react, to see the stories we add on top of what’s happening.

We react out of old habits replaying beliefs, defenses, and patterns we never consciously chose. Over time, they become invisible to us.

Waking up means becoming aware of those patterns. It means catching ourselves in the middle of a reaction and remembering: I don’t have to keep doing this.

But that kind of awareness doesn’t happen once. It’s something we practice repeatedly. The habit of reacting to life is deep and automatic. Therefore, we must train our minds to respond in a different way. And that starts with attention.

The first part of this training is simple but not easy: learning to steady the mind.

Because left on its own, the mind doesn’t stay still but runs around and makes a mess. We call it the puppy mind. Right now, I’m sitting for a German Shepherd mix named Mona who cannot resist digging in the garden. No matter how many times I say, “Mona!”, she looks up sheepishly, trots away, and then five minutes later, she’s back digging in the dirt.

That’s what our attention does. It wanders. It forgets. It starts digging again. So instead of yelling at it, we give it something to do. Something gentle and steady, like following the breath, or listening to sounds, or resting attention on the body.

This is the first layer of practice: calming the mind enough to see clearly.

The second part of practice is learning to observe. Learning to attend to the breath or the body helps us become aware of our reactivity. The grasping. The resisting. The way we grasp at what we like and contract and push away what we don’t.

Instead of getting swept up in what’s happening, we start to notice how we react to it. We begin to recognize our patterns of reactivity, inquire into their origins, and gain a deeper understanding of them. From there, we start our first faltering steps toward responding, rather than reacting.

That’s when insight begins, not from control, but from understanding.

And it only happens with sustained attention. A scattered mind can’t see clearly. But a steady mind becomes a mirror showing us how we move through the world, and why.

A still mind doesn’t change the world. It reveals it.

And the more we look, the more is revealed, not through force, but through witnessing. You don’t have to look for it. Just stay long enough, and the truth begins to reveal itself.

That’s it. That’s our job. Our only job is to look. And to look is to be in the present moment. That’s what it means to look.

One of the greatest gifts of this practice is that, over time, we come to like ourselves. Not in a surface, self-help kind of way, but in the way you come to appreciate a good friend.

The artist Georgia O’Keeffe once said that getting to know yourself takes time, just as it does with a friend. Sometimes you click right away. However, most of the time, it takes showing up again and again to build trust, intimacy, and connection.

That’s what this work is.

Not becoming someone better, but staying with yourself long enough to like and trust who you already are.

Keep steadying & witnessing,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #127. Every Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

Emotional growth is subtle. You miss it while it’s happening. But one day you look back and realize: You’ve changed. These 31 signs prove it’s working, even if no one else sees it.

We’re not born emotionally mature. We grow into it, unevenly, through heartbreak, struggles, and staying when we want to run.

But how do you know you’re growing?

You start to move through life with less drama and more ease. Being emotionally mature doesn’t mean having it all figured out. It means being honest with yourself, kind to others, and curious about your patterns.

These aren’t rules to follow. They’re reminders of what we’re developing, with time, softness, and the courage to keep showing up.

1. You discover life is not a zero-sum game. Their wins are not your losses. You feel genuine happiness when others succeed. Because now you know your conditioning is the competition. Not them.

2. You become more aware of sunrises, flowers, and the sky between tree branches. You learn to cherish life's little pleasures instead of hurrying past them.

3. You no longer obsess over what others think of you. You realize that most people are just as uncertain as you are, so you stop trying to control how you're perceived. What matters is being at peace with who you are, just as you are.

4. You realize there’s no arrival. Life is always in process—your body, moods, thoughts, beliefs, bank account. One day, you feel great. The next day, you wake up with a backache and a dented car door. You think you’ve figured something out, then a book causes you to question your understanding.

5. You no longer fall in love with every charming person you meet. You still notice beauty. But now you know everyone is complicated. And some people—no matter how lovely—are better admired from a distance.

6. You discover you can have difficult conversations with people you care about without getting defensive, throwing tantrums, or shutting down. You stop needing to be right and start seeking to be real.

7. You learn that your feelings are your responsibility. If you're frustrated with your partner, it’s not their job to change, so you will never feel frustrated again. You also stop demanding others change so you don't have to feel feelings you don't want to feel.

8. You realize that most people’s bad behavior comes from fear and anxiety rather than malice or stupidity. You lighten up on self-righteousness. You start to see that everyone is struggling in their way, including you.

9. You recognize that gossiping about others is immature. If you have something to say, you say it directly. And if you vent, it’s for clarity, not cruelty.

10. You learn to be more realistic and have lower expectations of yourself and others. You stop expecting perfection and start making room for humanity. The result? You become a lot easier to be around.

11. You learn that nobody is all good or all bad. Your friend might be negative but wonderfully discerning. Your brother-in-law might be selfish, yet tremendous fun to be around. Your daughter might be moody, but she’s also breathtakingly sensitive.

12. You recognize that everyone is carrying a significant burden. You stop thinking your struggle is the only one that matters, which softens you.

13. You realize you and your partner are on the same team. Fighting with them is like fighting yourself. You stop keeping score. You change the toilet paper, vacuum, and water the plants—not to prove anything but because it needs to be done.

14. You don’t have to be right or know everything. When you’re wrong, you say, “You’re right. I was wrong.” When you don’t know, you say, “I don’t know.” And you stop feeling ashamed about it.

15. You discover you don’t have to control everything and everyone around you. You learn to trust life and yourself to handle whatever comes next, and things usually work out when you do.

16. You learn to stay steady through intense moments. You don’t get defensive when someone disagrees. You don’t sulk when your partner is disappointed in you. You don’t take the bait from online trolls.

17. You used to dream of doing something big. A PhD. A bestselling book. Changing the world. But that dream was built on a quiet fear of not being enough. Now, you’re more drawn to love than legacy. You want a life that feels good, not just one that looks good.

18. You learn to hold opposing truths at the same time. You can be angry at your partner and still love them. You can feel hurt by your friends, but you still appreciate how they show up. Life can be messy and meaningful at once.

19. You learn that, to your great surprise, sometimes you make mistakes. And with time and courage, you even learn to say, “I’m sorry.”

20. You finally admit it: no one can read your mind. If you want a connection, you must say what you feel, even if it’s awkward or difficult.

21. You stop chasing schemes for endless happiness. Instead, you start noticing the little wins. Satisfaction becomes a moment-by-moment thing. And on some days, just getting through is enough.

22. You forgive your parents, not because they got it right, but because, you see, they were in over their heads. They were doing the best they could with what they were given. Sometimes, that doesn’t feel like enough, and other times, it opens your heart.

23. You learn how much the little things affect your mood, sleep, blood sugar, stress, alcohol, and inbox overload. You stop picking fights when you’re running on fumes. You wait until everyone is rested, fed, and calm.

24. You stop believing in perfect cities, people and relationships. You start to appreciate what’s good enough, even if Martha Stewart would disapprove.

25. You start appreciating what you already have. You also admit you’re not the easiest person to live with. You drop the fantasy of being perfect. And you begin to warn new friends and partners about the many ways you can be a pain in the ass.

26. You stop trying to build confidence by proving your greatness. You realize everyone else is scared, too. No one knows what they’re doing. We’re all making it up as we go.

27. You forgive yourself for your shortcomings. You stop punishing yourself for mistakes you can’t undo. You become a better friend to yourself—still a fool sometimes, but a lovable one.

28. You stop expecting yourself to outgrow every immature part of your personality. You stop taking yourself so seriously. You learn to laugh at your ridiculousness. And when the “high chair tyrant” shows up, you warmly welcome them.

29. You recognize how your past keeps showing up in the present—your tone, triggers and panic when someone doesn’t text back. You begin to pause before reacting. You learn to ask, “Is this about the present or the past?”

30. You stop needing to pick sides. You realize every story is half-true. Every person is a mix of beautiful and broken. And the truth lives somewhere in between.

31. You stop trying to impress your friends with how great your life is. You realize what brings you closer is the messy stuff, the doubts, the regrets. You become more unguarded because you see that friendship lives in the places we used to hide.

You’re not here to be perfect.

You’re here to be honest, soft-hearted, and real. Someone who can see how far they’ve come—and keep growing.

Keep growing,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #126. Every Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

I will be switching from a weekly to a bi-weekly schedule. The reason is twofold. First, I want to give you more complete essays, which require reflecting and simmering on ideas longer without feeling rushed. Second, I’m excited about some projects: building a content creation system, developing branding, rebuilding my website, and studying a writing course I bought last November but have yet to crack.

See you in two weeks.

Dear Friend,

I remember when it all started. I was a skinny, insecure teen, and my parents’ bookcase was full of self-help books.

One book stood out above all: How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. I procrastinated for years before finally pulling it off the shelf, but once I began reading, I was hooked.

I started exercising and watching what I ate. I began scheduling my days. I started noticing how I interacted in social settings. I read one self-help book after another. I practiced affirmations, took cold showers, and visualized achieving my goals. The more I exercised and worked hard, the more my confidence grew. I felt more motivated than ever.

"This is it," I told myself. This is what my life had been missing. It felt like I was taking control of my life for the first time. At least that's what I wanted to believe.

The world of self-improvement had changed my outlook, but I wasn't yet aware of its shortcomings. If you're new to self-development or have been doing it for some time, join me as we dive into the dubious world of self-help.

I Just Wanted to Be Somebody

Are you seeking a better life? Do you want to find freedom? Do you long to be happier? Have more money? Be better liked? Be somebody? Do you want to prove people wrong, those who don’t believe you can achieve great things?

This is where it all begins. At least, this is how it started for me. I procrastinated reading Dale Carnegie’s book because I didn't feel the need. That was until I moved to a new high school halfway across the country, where I was bullied and struggled to fit in. Sure, I met people and made friends, but I still felt lonely like an outsider. I constantly worried about what people thought of me and was driven to be liked by everyone.

Eventually, I grew tired of feeling invisible and turned to self-help. Generally, people come to self-improvement because, like me, they are dissatisfied with their lives. This sentiment is not wrong. Wanting to improve your life because you’re unhappy makes sense.

However, such motivation leaves us vulnerable to a predatory industry. If you're longing to get out of a dark place, you're susceptible to promises of salvation, no matter how suspect. We want to believe what we're told is true, especially promises of hope and possibility.

Self-improvement is appealing. A world of people trying to become better versions of themselves through effort and discipline that makes you feel like you’re making progress, where you’re growing and bettering yourself.

You tell yourself, this is it. While everyone else is partying and indulging in immediate pleasures, I’m working on myself and investing in my future. That thought makes you feel better about yourself and your life, as if you're embarking on a secret journey.

Finally, there's the possibility of climbing out of the abyss and into the light. A new voice of hope has replaced the old voice of self-doubt. You’ve absorbed the messages and taken the bait.

And that is when you become blind to the trap in wait.

I Got Addicted to the Feeling of Progress

Each time I read a self-help book, I felt accomplished, like a character in a video game leveling up. I felt excited after reading a book, and I'd return to my parents’ bookcase and pull another one off the shelf.

The cycle continued for some time: grab a book, read it, feel a rush of motivation, and crack open another one. On and on it went. If you don't see the problem here, let's look at the addictive nature of dopamine.

Addiction is not about the thing itself, but what the thing does to your brain. Dopamine is a chemical that hooks you, which is why self-help is so addictive. Intentional or not, the self-help world fosters within you the illusion that you're making progress, even if you're not.

You read a book and feel like you've achieved something. You attend a seminar and feel like you've invested your time wisely. You watch a self-help video and feel one step closer to finding the key to lasting happiness. You feel productive. That motivation lingers, compelling you to buy the next book, attend the next seminar, and watch the next video.

It’s only when you pause and reflect that nothing about you or your life has fundamentally changed.

Confusing activity with productivity is a common mistake. We convince ourselves that doing anything means making progress, which comes in many disguises.

It may appear as tidying the living room when an important project is due, or creating a schedule, posting it to the wall, and calling it a day. It may be buying a yoga mat, but never practicing yoga. Or printing business cards, but never going out and cold-calling. It may be highlighting a book, but never acting on the ideas. It may be reading books on entrepreneurship, but never starting a business.

Getting unimportant things done is a lethal form of procrastination because you’re tricking yourself into believing that you’re doing something worthwhile and making progress when you're not.

As Steven Pressfield writes in Going Pro, "The repetitive nature of the shadow life and of addiction is what makes both so tedious. No traction is ever gained. No progress is made. We're stuck in the same endlessly repeating loop.

That's what makes addiction like hell.

All addictions share, among others, two primary qualities:

1. They embody repetition without progress.

2. They produce incapacity as a payoff."

You don’t need to read every self-help book, attend every seminar, buy every online course, or listen to every self-improvement podcast. Learning is vital, but we know when consuming without taking action. Consuming is easy; applying ideas is hard.

This is the first trap many people fall into that has significant consequences. All you have to show for your efforts is fleeting motivation and a gut-wrenching realization that you have yet to achieve anything except to lighten your wallet.

You haven’t made any progress. You only got better at convincing yourself that you did.

Behind your self-help addiction, ongoing purchases, and constantly chasing motivation is something even more sinister: someone is profiting from you.

The only question is who?

I Didn't Realize I Was Being Sold

Here’s something you might not know. According to Custom Market Insights, the self-help industry is a $45B market, with a CAGR of 7.9% [link:

To put it bluntly, people are making money off of your self-loathing. The sales of books, online courses, podcasts, seminars, blogs, coaching, and live speaking events are just a few of the things offered by the industry.

So why does this matter?

I was obsessed with self-improvement and spent money on books and products, and continued consuming with a smile on my face and that all-too-familiar feeling of motivation fueled by fantasy. I never questioned the sellers' motives because they were the experts, and I was a nobody.

Self-help felt like a secret community of individuals discovering the keys to living well. Sure, the self-help gurus made money, but they provided so much value in return. They were trying to make my life better, weren’t they?

In retrospect, I was naive. Why? Because I wanted to believe what I was told was true, that with the right understanding, I could be happy forever. But there's a reason the industry is worth tens of billions. I was more profitable staying discontented and constantly seeking more knowledge than if I were happy and fulfilled.

Remember how we discussed how dissatisfaction compels you to want to improve your life? The self-help industry knows this and depends on you feeling flawed and needing to be fixed to draw you in and keep you coming back. It causes us to blame ourselves when it’s not working, reinforcing the sense of deficiency that drove us to self-help in the first place.

Oh, and they’re aware of the addictive nature of self-help. A combination of your sense of 'not enough' and needing improvement, and feeling a small high every time you consume their content, ensures you keep returning for more books, videos, and seminars.

Many self-improvement gurus will continue to make products for their addicted fan base, knowing you will keep buying. They depend on you thinking the next book, podcast, or workshop will provide the one tip or trick that will finally unlock the meaning of life.

You're one idea away from the workout that will give you the body you've always wanted: The business idea that will provide financial freedom. The secret that will unlock your charismatic self. The yoga practice that will offer spiritual liberation. The one idea that will transform your life so you can live happily ever after. And on it goes.

As you continue consuming, you think, “This time it will be different." But the only thing you have to show for your months, years, or perhaps decades of effort is a shelf full of self-help books and workshop binders and a credit card balance.

The self-improvement industry thrives on one belief: that something is wrong with you. The more you believe that, the more you consume. The more you consume, the less clarity and adrift you are from your true self.

Even if you apply every self-help idea in the universe, your sense of well-being will never change to the degree you hope for. Why? Because self-help was never designed to transform your life. Its function is to offer quick, easy solutions to your complex human challenges.

So, question your favorite gurus. Question the value of the books you read, the courses you take, and the seminars you attend. Ask yourself: Do I need to be told to drink more water, eat more vegetables, and exercise more from ten different books in ten different ways by ten different 'experts?

Ask yourself: Have I consumed more from this industry than I have gained from all the time, money, and effort I've invested?

I Tried to Stay Positive Until I Couldn't

That first year of discovering self-help, I felt great. I was happier, more confident, and felt more in control. I could see the possibility for my life and was genuinely excited to be alive. I was looking forward, not backward.

I felt more empowered, as I had discovered a previously hidden world that promised to free me from my misery. I was learning a secret handshake nobody else knew. “I’m going to be successful,” I told myself. At that time, success was having an important career and becoming wealthy. Of course, reality rarely meets our expectations.

It sounds silly in retrospect, but at the time, it felt like I would learn to be happy forever, or at least in a constant state of motivation. Self-development is a bubble. You’re surrounded by positive messages. Everyone is telling everyone else, “You’re all going to be successful and live your best life.” One book talked about gaining control of my time and my life. Another spoke about the power of positive thinking.

But every bubble bursts eventually. Mine burst when I realized none of the self-help stuff had fundamentally changed me or my life. I was still the person I had always been with all my fears, confusion, and quirks.

I had mistaken stimulation with transformation.

In that moment, it seemed like my whole world had collapsed. I was destined to be successful, someone who had it all together. And now, as I began to question the entire premise of self-help, I felt disillusioned. If self-improvement wasn't the solution to my difficulties, what was? Yet I tried to convince myself that there was still hope. That I had everything in check, as I always had.

Why?

Because I wanted to believe. The self-help bubble offered me positive messages, and that negative thoughts about quitting were wrong. Worse, I felt like if I accepted those feelings of unhappiness, I would revert to the old version of me that was anxious, irritable, negative, judgmental, lonely, disempowered, and depressed.

It took a year of inner self-talk until I finally realized I had to come to terms with my situation and accept the truth that the world of self-development was trying to hide from me.

Life will never be all positive. There is no one secret to life. Happily ever after is just a fantasy. Thinking positively all the time is unnatural. Knowledge alone is not enough to transform your life. No matter how great your life is, pain, struggle, and sorrow will be a part of the human experience.

It’s okay not to be okay.

In the self-improvement world of only positive, hopeful, good-vibes messages, I realized that struggle gives our lives meaning. If life were always smooth and easy, we'd become bored.

I Worked Hard Climbing the Wrong Ladder

In the world of fake gurus, social media entrepreneurs, and humble bragging, a self-help subculture has evolved: hustle culture.

This idea of grinding, optimizing, and being productive every second of every day has become synonymous with self-help and entrepreneurship. To be clear, I’m not saying that working hard is bad. You must be willing to put in the effort to achieve anything worthwhile.

The problem with hustle culture is that it glamorizes working hard for the sake of working hard, even if you’re not achieving anything. Because hard work is romanticized, people can convince themselves they're hustling, even when they're not.

Those bragging online about working hard are often the same ones procrastinating much and producing little. Others spend every waking hour trying to create something for themselves because hustle culture taught them it's the right thing to do.

Hustle culture has two problems. The first is the risk of burnout, or emotional, physical, and mental exhaustion. The second is working hard at the wrong thing. Working hard is one piece of the puzzle. Working on the right thing is the other piece. It doesn't matter how high you climb the wrong ladder.

After reading The 4-Hour Work Week, you may have been inspired to start a nutrition supplement business. You worked on it nonstop, writing educational pieces and promoting your business via social media. Your product line was a hit, and you're making money. For a time, you felt satisfied, but eventually you realized that you were never really interested in nutrition. You did it for the money, and it was an empty experience.

If you had stopped hustling and reflected on what you wanted, you would have seen this sooner. But instead, you continued to grind, believing what you'd been told: that hard work and consistency were the key to success and happiness..

It isn't.

It’s a facade and only one piece of a complex puzzle.

The shadow side of the self-help industry relies on you believing in these illusions to keep you coming back for more and blaming yourself when you fail to change your life in any meaningful and lasting way.

I Don’t Want to Fix Myself Anymore

Self-help has many shortcomings, but we are responsible for our lives and how we spend our time and money. No one is making us do anything.

Not all self-improvement is bad. Skills like building good habits and breaking bad ones can improve the quality of your life. However, because self-improvement only addresses the content of our lives, its ability to improve our well-being is inherently limited.

The great failing of self-help is that it doesn’t speak to our humanity. It fails to satisfy the heart's longing.

Many people start with self-improvement and gravitate to spirituality. Spirituality picks up where self-improvement leaves off. Unlike self-improvement, spirituality is exponential, speaks to our heart, and offers unconditional freedom, meaning, and fulfillment.

If you're wondering what you should and shouldn't be doing and what advice to listen to, I can only speak from my experience. Of the hundreds of things I've experimented with, only a few have helped me live an exceptional life: movement, eating the right foods, going to bed earlier and waking up earlier, stretching, foam rolling, meaningful conversations with friends, drinking enough water, meditating, psychotherapy, group therapy, mindfulness, walking, journaling, gratitud-ing, loving-kindness, being in nature, and reading books and listening to talks on spirituality.

The books I've reread the most are The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle, A Path With Heart by Jack Kornfield, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry by Jack Kornfield, and Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism by Chögyam Trungpa.

Whenever you learn anything, don't accept it as true. Test every idea against your experience to see what is true. Keep what works and discard what doesn't.

Lastly, nothing outside of you is going to save you. Freedom is an inside job. At first, you may be scared until you realize how empowering it is to turn inward. Radically accepting your life exactly as it is is the pathway to peace and meaningful personal change. Real transformation begins when you stop fixing and start feeling.

Should you delve into self-help, avoid the traps I fell into.

Keep questioning,

Ryan

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Welcome to Beyond Self Improvement issue #125. Every Wednesday, I share an essay with practical ideas on finding personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear Friend,

There was a time I did things only because I thought they were good for me.

Reading boring business books. Listening to classical music in the car because it made me feel “cultured.” Lifting weights in an airless gym on a beautiful summer day.

I felt a sense of accomplishment, but I didn’t feel alive. My whole attitude was all-or-nothing. If I couldn’t do something fully, I wouldn’t do it.

Take running, for example.

I would run shorter on weekdays and longer on Saturdays. If I couldn't run the usual distance on a particular day, I wouldn't run.

Why? Because in my mind, anything less didn’t “count.” And if it didn’t count, I wasn’t really a runner.

Of course, those distances were arbitrary. Some people run a marathon daily, while I ran 3–11 miles (4.8 - 17.7 km). Still, my ego turned it into a test of identity. I failed if I didn’t hit my goal, so why bother?

Years ago, I was sidelined by Achilles tendonitis and had to stop running. Recently, I’ve been easing back in, very gently. I walk to warm up, run around the block, and if I feel any discomfort in my heels whatsoever, I stop and walk the rest of the way home.

I told this to a friend who runs marathons. She laughed and said, “That’s a warmup, not a run.”

Years ago, that would have hurt. Back then, I didn’t know myself, was outer-directed, and forever trying to prove I was enough. Egged on by her words and laughter, I would have run through the pain instead of listening to my body and adjusting accordingly.

Now I know that my job isn’t to impress anyone. It’s to take care of myself.

If I missed a workout, I spiraled. I’d look in the mirror and catastrophize.

“Great, I'll never transcend my ectomorph genes. I’ll be stuck in this skinny body indefinitely.”

“No woman will ever find me attractive.”

“I’ll be single and lonely forever.”

I lived by comparison. If a successful founder got up at 5 AM, I had to. If Buffett reads 500 pages weekly, I’d better do the same to be like him. If Bill Gates could become a billionaire by the time he was 31, surely I could become a millionaire by 30. Instead of living, I was performing.

Enjoyment wasn’t the objective. Discipline was. I did things out of obligation, to feel good having done something. But eventually, I grew weary. I hadn’t felt joy or experienced spontaneous laughter in years. I was a machine grinding toward some imagined ideal.

Something had to give.

When I began turning inward, everything softened. I stopped beating myself up and using words like “should” and “have to.” I gave myself grace.

Some days I made 40 cold calls, other days 5, but I always made at least one to maintain momentum. Most days, I walk, bike, lift, and stretch. Some days I do two or three of those things. Sometimes, I rest.

I meditate daily, often in the middle of the night. But when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, I meditate later that day. Still, I miss a few meditations annually due to unusual circumstances like traveling. Keeping the long view keeps me from being hard on myself.

Consistency matters, but flexibility keeps me showing up. The trick is giving myself grace without giving in to sloth.

Some habits are non-negotiable, but most aren’t. The key is knowing the difference and being kind to yourself. As the saying goes, “We are human beings, not human doings.” Let your doing serve your being, not the other way around.

Whatever you choose, make how you treat yourself an expression of your intention: To be kind. To be graceful. To be human.

Keep living gracefully,

Ryan

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Welcome to issue #124 of Beyond Self Improvement. Every Wednesday, I send an essay with practical ideas for personal freedom in an unfree world.

Dear friend,

I used to quit nearly everything: sports, academics, jobs, hobbies.

I quit cross-country running because I wasn’t fast enough. I quit cross-country skiing because I was the clumsiest skier on the team. I stopped studying because I didn’t get good grades. I quit jobs because they were too demanding and paid too little.

Whenever I didn’t succeed right away, I bailed. I wasn’t just afraid of failure. I feared that I was a failure. If I didn’t excel at something right away, I figured I must not be good at it, so why try?

I hadn't yet realized the paradox that effortlessness takes great effort. I hadn't read the first sentence of The Road Less Traveled: "Life is difficult."

Eventually, I saw that if I wanted to grow, I had to stick with things long enough to give myself a chance to succeed.

Bolivia: A Lesson in Endurance

I planned to climb two peaks over 19,000 feet (5.8 km): Parinacota and Huayna Potosi in Bolivia. I trained for months and swore I wouldn’t eat local food until the climbs were over, fearing food poisoning. But on the first night at the outpost on the Altiplano (14,400 feet / 4.4 km) run by a husband and wife team, I gave in. Everyone else, including the leader, ate the stew. I looked down at my packets of Thai rice noodles and thought, "Stop being such a namby-pamby tourist and eat it."

That night, lying in a mud hut with a tin roof on a mattress-less bed with springs that sagged like a hammock, I woke with sharp stomach pain. Not long after, someone stumbled outside and vomited into the dry dirt. At least I wasn't the only one suffering.

I heard it again, then again, and soon I was bent over the same dirt, heaving. Then came the dysentery. No seat on the toilet, just a hole in the wall through which I stared up at the moon. I had never felt so alone.

Despite the sickness, we had to press on. Our leader, who was also sick, offered to let me stay behind, which aroused all my stubbornness. I had trained too long and come too far, and I wasn’t going to miss the climb. So, I stuffed my 65 lb (30 kg) backpack and joined the team.

Mercifully, we had hired donkeys to carry our gear. Even walking was a struggle. We climbed for ten miles (16 km) across soft volcanic soil, into the wind, our boots sliding backward with every step. It felt like a death march. My climbing partners who avoided food poisoning checked on me throughout the day, giving me hard candies to keep me going. It was the most grueling day of my life.

Three days later, we stood on the summit. I ran along the crater’s rim like a child on Christmas morning. The leader said, “I’ve never seen anyone with so much energy on top of a mountain.”

Three of us stood atop Huyana Potosi six days later while the others stayed behind in La Paz. When life gets hard now, I think of that difficult day and remind myself: if I could survive that, I can survive this.

Sales: A Test of Resolve

In my mid-thirties, I took a straight commission sales job. I was painfully shy, couldn’t think on my feet, and got so nervous during sales calls that my hands turned into a fish on ice. Every day, I dreamed about quitting. The job felt meaningless, like I was being punished for some bad karma I wasn't even aware of.

Surely, I was put on this earth for some higher purpose than this stupid job.

But at some point, I got tired of my complaining. I realized that if I quit my job before finding success, I wasn't making a choice. I was running away again.

So I made a deal with myself. I could quit, but only after I succeeded. If I still wanted to leave, fine, but not before.

I read every book on sales I could find with titles like How I Raised Myself From Failure to Success in Selling. I tracked my daily activity in a spreadsheet and reviewed every meeting to see what worked and didn't work. I asked to go on appointments with top salespeople. I created my marketing materials. When I didn’t know the answer to a question, I told prospects I’d find out and follow up. I set up and serviced every account.

In my first full year, I was Rookie of the Year. The next year, I won a trip to New York overlooking Central Park and finished in the top 1 percent of 1,800 reps. Later, I became a top 3 percent sales manager. I only left after a change to the compensation plan that would have cut my income.

Nothing about it was easy or glamorous (except the trips and awards). But once I stopped complaining and started doing everything to improve, I began to succeed.

Meditation Retreat: Sitting Through Fire

My first meditation retreat was pure misery. We sat cross-legged for forty-five minutes at a time, without moving, then practiced walking meditation for another forty-five. We did this seven times a day for five days, and were told to stay mindful in every waking moment in between.

Each sitting brought waves of fiery, hot, searing pain in my knees and back. My thoughts were a jumble of judgment and insecurity. “Everyone here is enlightened except me.” “I wish I were at the coffee shop drinking a latte.” “Why are those people meditating lying down?” "That's my walking meditation spot." “For the love of god, please ring the bell.”

I don’t think I followed my breath for even one moment. But what I took from that retreat (and subsequent ones) stayed with me.

I developed a tolerance for discomfort. I stopped reacting to every strong emotion. I began to see through my thoughts instead of believing them. Most of the things that used to bother me no longer do. I judged others less, and myself too. I became less angry, less reactive. My mind cleared up. I stopped overthinking. I used to hate being wrong. Now I welcome it. I even started laughing at myself.

And when I meditate, I never quit before the timer goes off.

Family: The Longest Climb

Two months after moving in with my partner and her two kids, I told my therapist I had made a mistake. I said it was too hard, that I didn’t have the skills. The house felt heavy with clutter and the depressed energy of unresolved grief. I had entered someone else’s life, and since they weren’t my kids, I had virtually no say.

Every morning, my stepson would lock himself in the bathroom and refuse to go to school. My partner would plead, lose her patience, drag him to the car, buckle him in, then do it all again when he unbuckled himself or flung the door open. She was depressed. After dropping the kids off, she’d crawl back into bed and sleep until afternoon.

Two years after he had moved out, her ex-husband’s things still took up half the garage. She didn’t want to pressure him to move them, so I did, and he got angry. They were separated, not divorced, and she didn’t want to make an enemy, which would make things worse for everyone, especially the kids.

I thought about leaving a hundred times. When it got really bad, I searched for apartments and began packing my dishes. Why dishes? I don't know. My partner triggered every unresolved childhood wound I had. I became depressed and had suicidal thoughts, yet even in the worst of it, I knew I was still okay.

But I stayed, and we got help. After two and a half years of couples therapy, we are closer than ever. Finally, it feels like we're on the same team, rowing in the same direction. I feel connected to my stepkids. I’ve become more constant, more loving, and stronger than I ever thought possible.

If I can survive this, I can survive anything, even death.

I Don’t Quit Anymore

Now, when life is difficult, I remember the endless rejection of cold-calling, the sickness on the side of a volcano, the pain of long sits, the heartbreak of parenting someone else’s children, and the hard-won closeness of a relationship forged in fire.

I don’t give up anymore. Not unless it’s what I refer to as an “impossible situation.”

Otherwise, I stay.

When were you glad you stayed with when you wanted to leave? What did you take away from these experiences? How have you drawn strength from them over the years?

Keep on and don't give in,

Ryan

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Dear Friend,

My first girlfriend and I were standing in the kitchen of an 800-square-foot, post-WWII home, arguing about the direction of the Rocky Mountains.

“They're west of Denver," she said.

“No," I said. "Denver is surrounded by mountains."

She laughed. “What are you talking about? They run straight, north-south, west of the city.”

I doubled down. “No, Denver is in a bowl of mountains. That's why there's so much smog,” I added for credibility.

By then, I knew I was wrong. But I said it anyway. Why? Because I’d already made myself right. Because backing down felt like losing, as if whatever remained of my ego would die in that small, carpeted room.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."

Then she walked off like people do when you make being right more important than being close. I stood there alone, feeling the residue of my pride.

Fast-forward eight years and three states west, my ex-wife and I are throwing a Sunday brunch for friends in a Spanish-style duplex overlooking a trellis of roses resembling a wedding set. One of our friends, a PhD student studying psychology, said something I’ll never forget:

“When I’m absolutely, positively convinced I’m right, I ask myself: Would I bet my life on it?”

It was one of those rare aha moments. Finally, I thought, a way to get out of having to be right, to "step out of the bureaucracy of the ego," as Chögyam Trungpa put it.

I realized then I wouldn't bet my life on anything. Not the color of the sky. Not the law of gravity. And certainly not a memory from a road trip to Moab by way of Denver seven years ago.

And yet I've been willing to gamble relationships, connection and self-respect in the name of being right. Over what? The shape of a mountain range? Now I ask the question. Not always, but regularly.

Because when you stop needing to be right, you start remembering what matters.

Would I bet my life on this?

If not, maybe I don’t need to make myself right and the other person wrong. Perhaps I don't need to make anyone right or wrong. Maybe I can let go of certainty and rest in the mystery of not knowing.

Because the cost of being right just might be being alone.

Keep returning to what matters,

Ryan

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Dear Friend,

You think your office is normal until you realize it's a soap opera, featuring every personality possible. This week, I decided to have a little fun.

Below is a completely unserious, wildly specific and 100% accurate depiction of the types of coworkers you'll meet in any halfway functional workplace.

I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Laughter is spiritual. Why? Because it creates space.

1. Linda, The Front Desk Monarch

Linda is the morale officer and self-appointed VP of Operations who works the front desk like the White House. She has a color-coded binder system, a firm handshake, and more unsolicited process improvement ideas than actual authority. In high school, her sock-to-earring matchy-match outfits were unrivaled.

She's high-energy, opinionated, and doesn't take crap from anyone. Her ideas are good, she doesn't get the credit she deserves and genuinely cares about doing right by everyone, until she burns out and becomes resentful trying to fix problems no one asked her to fix.

2. Joe, The Human Sedative

Joe is 59, has a master's in the Dewey Decimal System and guards the supply room like it’s a Cold War fallout shelter. He has the energy of a man who deeply regrets not retiring when he had the opportunity. With a background in logistics, you'd think he'd be the one to streamline operations. Instead, he’s the human equivalent of a “Closed for Lunch” sign. His main form of communication is explaining why things can't be done.

Speaking in a monotone that makes beige seem flamboyant, his personality has been clinically tested and found to be more effective than sedatives. He does little, resists much, and if you ask for printer paper, prepare for a 10-minute explanation of why that’s not feasible right now. He’s not passive-aggressive. He’s passive-immovable. Joe is married to a very patient woman.

3. Margaret, The Caffeinated Warrior

Margaret is 64, has a PhD in Divinity, and talks like she’s double-parked. Fast, loud, and with zero interest in feedback. She’s done it all: non-profits, ministry, corporate jobs, voiceovers. Now she’s settled into the role of Office Oracle, barking half-truths with full conviction. Her energy is nuclear, her opinions are gospel (to her), and her favorite phrase is “It’s not rocket science, people.” She will ask how you are with heartbreaking sincerity and then bulldoze you with a rant about how much she hates people. You never know if she’s going to hug you, fire you, or both.

Margaret is what happens when a TED Talk and a Molotov cocktail have a baby. She drives a Honda, rents her apartment, and has the energy of a rabid ferret on Red Bull. A machine-gun perfectionist who’s held more jobs than a Craigslist job board, she’s also a minister with the bedside manner of a drill sergeant. Compliment a man in her vicinity, and she’ll whisper “He’s good but not perfect” like it’s a hex. She’s loud, proud, and wrong at least 40% of the time, but no one tells her because she’s also terrifying. When she says, “How are you?” it sounds like a trap, and it probably is.

She sits at her desk like a caffeinated prophet, muttering things like “I hate people” and “Can I tell you how much I hate my life right now?” to no one in particular. She has the résumé and energy of a woman who’s lived nine lives and the temperament of someone who’s been disappointed in all of them. She believes she’s the smartest person in the room. And while that’s occasionally true, it’s mostly just loud. She's high maintenance, but the good ones usually are. Oh, and she's prone to spontaneous happy dances in the middle of the room with her arms raised over her head.

4. Tom, The Buffering People-Pleaser

Tom is 56, a classic people pleaser, and the human equivalent of a buffering screen. He’s always two steps behind, but not dumb, just a little slow. As Eckhart Tolle says, you have to be slow if you want to think deeply, which he took a little too literally. When you tell him something, he says with the gravity of Tom Cruise in a Mission: Impossible movie, “Wait, could you say that again? I didn’t quite understand.”

His shirt is always pressed and tucked in, even when it shouldn't be, and he wears dress shoes even on casual Fridays. He’s quiet, spacey, and brings his lunch pail to work. He takes every break, on time, like it’s a federal mandate. You’ll find him chatting endlessly in the break room about the stock market, Bluetooth headphones, or the subtle improvements in his latest air fryer.

Tom has expensive taste, a side hustle as a rare coin collector, and multiple properties, but you wouldn’t know it unless you asked. He’s honest to a fault, beats himself up for things no one noticed, and has a way of gently nagging you about promotions until you give in… just to make it stop.

5. Mario, The Arm-Wrestling Absentee

Mario is short, jacked, and always wearing a polo shirt that’s one size too small. He’s built like a competitive arm wrestler because he is. A former sales guy turned office fixture, he still walks around like the deal’s not closed until you like him. He’s funny, always joking, always cajoling, basically selling you on his personality so you don’t fire him. Honestly? It works more than it should.

He’s got solid big-picture ideas, but you can’t help but notice he takes more leave of absences than seems necessary, usually for family barbecues or mysterious ailments that align suspiciously well with three-day weekends. He has a handicap tag but moves with the ease of a gazelle and the confidence of a CrossFit instructor. When threatened, he gets gruff and talks down to you like he’s about to revoke your Costco membership, but underneath it all, he’s a pussy cat—anxious, deeply worried about getting yelled at, and still not over whatever happened in that one regional sales meeting in 2012.

6. Pari, The Persian Princess

Pari is the Persian Princess of your office. In her mid-20s, she glides in with designer sunglasses, kicks her feet forward like a marching Barbie, and acts like every hallway is a red carpet. Arguing is her cardio. Ask her to do something she doesn’t like, and she’ll complain about the schedule like it’s a human rights violation.

She drives a white Tesla with white seats, gifted by her parents naturally, and drops off paperwork like she’s scattering petals at a royal procession. Her ego is bigger than her hair, and her sense of self is limitless.

“You’ve really stepped up,” says her boss.

"What do you mean?" says Pari.

"I mean, you've stepped up."

"But what do you mean I've stepped up?"

"You've stepped up," says Margaret.

“But if I’m already up, how can I step up?” Pari says without a hint of irony.

"Okay, I'm so done with this conversation," says Margaret.

Pari is the kind of person who will drop three documents on a desk and say, “Maybe you guys can deal with these.” “Are they beneath you?” you ask. “They’re an interruption,” she says. She doesn’t hold grudges, doesn’t remember your office arguments, and doesn’t care. She also doesn't know what to do with her career. In the meantime, she holds lunch-hour therapy sessions with the kindest person in the office, often while sitting on a parking lot curb.

7. Andrew, The Engineer Emperor

Andrew is 63, Chinese American, built like a praying mantis, and dresses like a background character in a spreadsheet. Think Stanford engineer meets Mr. Miyagi meets your grumpy uncle. His car, a loyal Toyota Sienna minivan, predates smartphones. A true minimalist in both fashion and joy, he has exactly one outfit and one setting: condescending.

Fueled by low-grade frustration, he delivers feedback with the gentle touch of a circular saw and walks the halls with the air of someone who has never been wrong and can’t believe he has to keep explaining things to people who wouldn’t understand anyway. He’s smart, methodical, analytical, detailed, and one of the best problem-solvers in the building, but talks down to everyone, including his boss. And his boss’s boss.

His motto is "Keep it simple," which he repeats with gravitas like a malfunctioning robot, even when the task is as simple as opening an email. When your idea isn’t up to his standards (which is always), he’ll ignore you completely. He waits in meetings like a coiled snake, then pounces at the end to deliver the final word like an emperor addressing peasants.

He is high-maintenance, high-functioning, and emotionally offline. A dream employee if your dream involves being mildly insulted every time you ask a question. High maintenance? Absolutely. But the good ones usually are.

8. Akasha, The Disappearing Friendly Guy

Akasha is 63, Indian, and drives a tiny econo-car that looks like it came free with a toaster. His wardrobe rotates between two identical outfits, which seem to be in negotiations with gravity. A biochem major turned lifelong government employee, he’s spent the last 14 years at the General Services Administration doing decent work when he feels like it, which is not often.

He’s the guy who’s always leaving early for “medical stuff” or “insurance stuff," something about a car accident and maybe an injury, or ten. Nothing rattles him. Not the lawyers, not the threats of getting fired, not even fathering twins at 49. He speaks little, laughs often, and when he does make a joke, it’s surprisingly sharp. He’s the friendliest guy you’ll ever meet inside the building. Outside the office, you’re dead to him. It's nothing personal. It's just Akasha.

He’s smart, low-effort, high-likability, and the human equivalent of the “mute” button. He could be great if he ever decided to actually work.

9. Jason, The Phantom with the PhD

He’s the most educated man in the office. PhD in electrical engineering, MBA, PMP certified, and possibly a few credentials no one’s even heard of. African American, sharply dressed in tailored suits, drives a sleek black BMW that matches his precise, polished, and untouchable vibe.

He barely talks, but when he does, everyone listens because whatever he says is always spot-on. He is so private that HR wasn’t sure where he lived. You could work next to him for years and not know if he eats lunch. Then one day, right before he resigns, he casually mentions he has a daughter, and just like that, he’s gone. No drama. No farewell. Just a mysterious LinkedIn update and an empty chair.

10. Tammy, Office Mom with a Heart of Tissue Paper

Tammy is middle-aged and has the biggest heart in the building. She didn’t get the opportunities others had—never went to college, always took jobs close to her mom, and now lives with her sister and nephew. But she shows up with warmth, friendliness, and a “Good morning! that never fails to land like a hug.

She’s the kind of person who really listens, especially the loudest and most unfiltered among them (looking at you, Persian Princess). She’s gentle, hopeful, people-oriented, and a little nosy in a harmless, well-meaning way.

She cries when you raise your voice, glows when you smile and avoids conflict. She’s kindness in human form with a low emotional melting point and an uncanny ability to know who’s beefing with whom before it hits the Slack channel.

11. Rosario, Queen Bee of Controlled Chaos

Rosario is 250 kilowatts of power, control, and never-ending workweeks. She didn’t go to college and didn’t need to. She rose through sheer charm, brute force, and social finesse. She’s in by 6 a.m., out after 8 p.m., and works weekends like she's trying to win a martyrdom contest. Her leadership style is part drill sergeant, part wounded saint: “No one works as hard as I do, and I’m here to remind you of that hourly.”

She runs the office like a reality show she stars in, narrates, and produces. She talks non-stop, holds court like a game show host, and has the uncanny ability to monologue for an hour without once asking how you’re doing. You think you’re bonding by listening, but she just needs an audience. Her favorite saying is, "Stay in your lane," which is code for "Get out of my way." Her leadership style is: tell you what to do, how to do it, when to do it, then criticize the outcome. No praise, only blame. For fun, she throws coworkers under the bus via long email threads while signing off with “Thanks!” No wonder her kids never visit.

She’s bull-headed, always right, deeply insecure, and allergic to praise unless it’s directed at her. She fights battles via email proxy and will dominate every room, take over every task, and somehow make a mess of it while still blaming someone else. She’s emotionally unpredictable, picks on the weak, and inspires dread, yet if you met her at a party, you’d love her. Because that’s her gift: world-class social skills, the one who threw the best parties in high school.

12. Greg, The IT Curmudgeon

Greg, 65, is the IT manager who dresses like he's about to install a modem in 1998. He has the ponytail, the ballcap and the self-made, old-school demeanor of someone entirely motivated by CYA.

On the surface, he's calm, collected, and friendly in that don't-look-too- closely kind of way. But when something doesn’t go his way—forget a detail, break protocol, or ask him to lift a finger beyond his metrics—he erupts. It’s never immediate. He stews, then suddenly, junkyard dog. Meek but terrifying, controlled until he’s not.

He lives for systems, documentation, and measurable results. If it can’t be tracked in a dashboard or audited in a spreadsheet, it doesn’t exist. Ask him for help and he’ll reply, "I'm too busy, it'll have to wait," while scanning boxes as if he were counting gold bars at Fort Knox. He has a great memory, a simmering temper, and the spiritual energy of a stressed-out wizard guarding the office LAN. Like a bank robber, he's one corporate gig away from riding off into the IT retirement sunset.

13. Angelica, The Tornado of Tenderness

Angelica is Puerto Rican, mid-30s, married with kids, and built like a hummingbird trying to meditate. She works hard, worries harder, and overthinks everything, especially health stuff. COVID might be over for most people, but Angelica still sanitizes like she’s prepping for surgery.

She talks fast, thinks faster, and often seems like she’s in a high-stakes negotiation with her nervous system. Her words can’t keep up with her feelings, and decisions are agony. She’s always between “I should probably do this” and “But what if it’s the wrong choice and everything goes wrong forever?” She’s kind, well-meaning, deeply human, and slightly exhausting in the most lovable way.

14. Connor, The Christian Colonel

In his 50s, Connor is fit as a triathlete and has a perfect head of hair, who looks like he stepped out of a pharmaceutical sales convention and into your workplace to personally coach you on excellence. Disciplined like a retired colonel turned motivational speaker who talks like he’s closing a deal even when he’s just saying goodnight, he looks you in the eye, thrusts his hand like a karate chop, and says, “Margaret, have a wonderful night. Greg, have a wonderful night. Angelica, have a wonderful night.” He’s a Christian, a family man, and lives as if efficiency is a sacrament. Cream-colored Cadillac. Life by routine.

He tells stories like they’re personal TED Talks, delivered with the confidence of a man who never doubts himself. He has a story for every scenario, a lesson for every story. They are cinematic, overly specific, and always delivered with the theatrical volume and gravity of a courtroom testimony: “So my father, in Reno. The transmission on his Jeep goes out. They said it’d be seven thousand. I call my guy at Normandin. Four grand. Refurbished. Hundred-thousand-mile warranty. Rented a truck. Picked it up. It’s getting done. Get it done, right? Get it DONE.”

He always has an answer. Always knows a guy. Always finds a way. He’s a little overbearing, extremely polished, and absolutely unforgettable.

15. John, The Pink Panther of Productivity

John rocks pink pants and matching pink Reeboks by day. Every. Single. Day. And plays bass in a self-described “sad rock” band at night, a cross between a breakup and unwatered plants.

He gets everything done ahead of schedule. He’s thoughtful, humble and a complete enigma. Everyone wants him on their team. Just… not in the bathroom. Yes, the rumors are true. He uses the upstairs bathroom, waits in absolute silence until he hears every last person leave, and only then wipes. It’s not a privacy thing but a full-blown strategy.

He gets it done, gets it right, and does it all while looking like a Wes Anderson character who discovered sentimental depth and bathroom paranoia in equal measure.

Keep Laughing,

Ryan

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Dear Friend,

Most people think childhood trauma comes from something bad that happened. But often, it’s about what you didn’t experience. What you didn’t get and should have been, but never was.

Like someone looking you in the eyes and seeing you, hearing, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’ll do better next time,” and being allowed to make mistakes without feeling like one. The small, invisible absences shape our adult perceptions and behavioral patterns. And for many of us, they left us longing for something we couldn’t name.

You don’t have to remember exactly what happened to know something was off.

Here are a few that took me decades to understand:

Emotional neglect occurs when a parent isn’t emotionally attuned or connected to us. We struggle to understand our emotions because no one ever mirrored them. We learn to suppress our feelings and become the “easy” kid who asks for little because it doesn’t feel safe to need anything. We learn our needs don't matter and that our role is to tend to other people's emotions. Over time, we lose contact with our emotions and end up confused by our moods and disconnected from our needs.

No repair leaves an invisible wound. Conflict is normal, but healing requires ongoing repair: accountability, apology and a direct acknowledgement of what will be different. Without repair, we start believing our feelings don’t matter. We might become hyper-independent or hyper-forgiving, tolerating mistreatment because we’ve never known what healthy resolution feels like.

Learned helplessness comes from never seeing how to solve problems, find solutions, or leave unsafe situations. We internalize powerlessness and freeze in the face of decisions, still waiting for permission to act. As adults, we might stay in abusive situations, not because we want to, but because we don’t believe we have a choice. It’s not a lack of willpower but a lack of learned resilience.

So many patterns we think are personal failings are survival adaptations.

No joy or play is a kind of deprivation. A key characteristic of dysfunctional families is being overly serious, often from living in survival mode long-term. Joy can feel unsafe without space for silliness or spontaneous fun. We struggle to relax, let loose and be lighthearted.

Parentification is when we’re made responsible for a parent’s emotional needs, which leaves us emotionally stunted. We don’t get to be children because we’re too busy fixing what isn’t ours to fix. Adulthood feels exhausting because we’ve been holding it all together since we were seven. We may feel guilty resting or receiving, even when we need it most.

Perfectionism results when mistakes aren’t tolerated. But mistakes are essential for growth and learning logic. In dysfunctional families, perfection is required, and mistakes are deemed a weakness. We can’t take risks or try new things because we’ve been conditioned to believe mistakes equal failure and rejection. We struggle with procrastination and chronic fear of criticism, but we’re not lazy or disorganized. We’re terrified that being imperfect will make us unlovable.

This kind of fear can masquerade as ambition.

No accountability in childhood teaches us to blame others or ourselves for everything. Blaming others for issues and problems is a core trait of dysfunctional families. If no adult ever owned their mistakes, we may have learned to avoid responsibility or carry too much of it. It becomes hard to trust relationships, because no one ever showed us how to stay in integrity. We either repeat the chaos or try to clean it all up ourselves.

For most of my life, I thought I was the problem.

I didn’t know about trauma, conditioning, or domestication as Don Miguel Ruiz calls it. I just thought something was wrong with me. I turned my anger and confusion inward and punished myself mercilessly. I was scared, but called it laziness. I hated myself for not being more disciplined, more successful, more together. I berated, shamed, and guilted myself in silence.

My inner dictator never rested. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I was never enough. I’d rehearse conversations in my head before they happened and replay them for hours after, ashamed of what I did or didn’t say, trying to perfect every word. I second-guessed myself constantly and didn’t trust myself. Even small slights sent me into spirals of self-doubt and shame. I took everything deeply personally.

It’s a lonely thing to be your own worst enemy.

My divorce cracked everything open.

By then, I had been doing inner spiritual work for nearly a decade. I’d tasted deep peace, glimpsed stillness, freedom from judgment and something greater than myself. But when the marriage ended, the pain was too great to ignore.

I hadn’t yet explored the roots of my patterns, and I began asking questions. Why did I pick someone who didn’t see their worth? Why did I stay when there was so much conflict and loneliness? Why wasn't I more successful in my career, and why was money so hard to hold onto?

I didn’t blame my parents, but I wanted to understand how I ended up here. Looking back at my childhood, it all began to make sense. I was the product of unconscious conditioning and saw how the patterns weren't personal but inherited from my family of origin through generational trauma.

Thankfully, what’s inherited can be healed.

Once I saw that, I could finally stop fighting myself. I stopped calling it my fault, but instead of pointing fingers, I took full responsibility for my life. But that doesn’t mean I take all the blame. There’s a difference between owning your life and thinking everything is your fault.

Understanding where you came from allows you to grow without shame. I used my new understanding to address my core wounding through therapy. I shared my childhood sorrows and cried while the therapist listened.

There’s nothing wrong with you. You just grew up in an environment that didn’t know how to meet your needs. And now, as an adult, you get to learn how.

Not overnight, not all at once and not through perfection, self-flagellation, or turning yourself into an endless self-improvement project. But through care, compassion, and a deep knowing that you were never broken.

You’re not too sensitive or too much. You’re finally noticing what hurts and are getting to know yourself. And now, finally, you can begin to wake up from the dream and heal.

Keep healing,

Ryan

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