• She came too close.

    She presumed too much.

    She took what she needed.

    I’ve spent my life trying to keep her happy, making sure I’m giving her what she needs. There’s something in my base-code, an algorithm that says her emotional well-being is my responsibility.

    So when she’s unhappy, my code tells me it’s my fault. And I must comply with her demands.

    She’s not a specific woman, she’s woman, and when she calls, I must answer.

    It’s taken me years, but slowly, through much work, with much help I’ve learned to see underneath my programming. And underneath it exists a line. A demarcation between she and I.

    I don’t know precisely where the line comes from. But if I pay attention, the feeling of its violation is unmistakable, like an enemy coming into home territory uninvited.

    And I’ve learned that the line is mine. One to be spoken.

    “No. I don’t want to give you what you want. Back you go.”

    The violation of boundaries is a universal human experience. It’s the inevitable consequence of the fact that we are separate, and yet yearn for union.

    We violate these lines in different ways.

    He is an expert at overt violation, rough and physical, he just grabs what he wants, brutally shoving dissent out of the way. She is an expert at covert violation – subtle and emotional – she schemes and manipulates, sliding past dissent unseen.

    It took me years to notice that she violates too. I thought it was just him. That’s what I’d been told, but it wasn’t true.

    “You always do this.” She says in that voice that cuts right through into my shame. “I hate that you don’t think of me first. I’m wondering if you actually love me at all! If you did, you’d give me what I want.”

    The average man is not a good player in this emotional game. He thinks in simple terms. He’s clumsy in the emotional world and crumbles in the face of her power.

    “Sorry.”

    He drops his head, beaten by her shaming, he tells her he’ll do better next time, and be a good boy.

    Or he desperately fights back, closes his heart, refuses to swallow the shame, pushes it back at her with force and aggression, defending himself behind his shields and armour.

    Both tactics end up in the same place. The place where we’re alone, and hurt and ashamed. Both of us. All of us.

    The alternative is to draw the line.

    It’s there, waiting for you to take its implicit truth, and create its explicit form. The line is real. Its existence is the very definition of self-love.

    “No.”

    But don’t forget to keep your heart open. Maybe she doesn’t know where your line is. Maybe you’ve never told her before. Maybe you’ve never told yourself before, and the line is just newly acknowledged.

    Tell her with love.

    “No sweetie.”

    The line is drawn.

    And then, magically, I can see her as if for the first time. The woman in my head dissolves – the one who always does this to me – and the woman in front of me appears, real and human.

    There she is, the woman on the other side of the boundary.

    She’s beautiful. I can see that now. Now that I don’t have to desperately defend against her attack.

    I see her now as her. I see her unique being, her good intentions, her imperfect actions. She’s like me, but different.

    And now I’ve shown her where she can’t cross, I have all the space in the world from which to love her.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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  • I’m at a party.

    It’s the biggest party I’ve ever seen, and friends from all over the world are here. More and more are pouring in through the doors. The room is vast, and it seems to grow with each new guest who comes in.

    I look around. I’m not quite sure what the rules are. It’s different to other parties I’ve been to. I just wonder about and try and work out the game. I notice some people are pinning stuff on the walls, and I go over and read them. There are cute little notes about what they’re up to. I try it. It’s nice.

    As I’m looking at the things on the wall, these little devices get handed out to everyone. I look at mine. I don’t really know what it is. Then all of a sudden I hear this booming voice coming out of giant speakers placed all around the room. We all turn and look. It’s one of my friends! And he’s speaking into the device. I realize it’s a microphone.

    Wow! That’s cool. I try it. It really works!

    I say something into the microphone, and everyone listens! And then some people come over say a few things about what I said in return, say whether they liked it or not. And I feel good! I said something, and I got attention! They go away again after a moment, and I feel a pang of loneliness. It was so nice to have their attention, to feel liked. But no matter, I just pull out the microphone again and say something else, people come back again and the loneliness goes away.

    It’s amazing! I can say anything! I experiment. I talk about menial things, about my cat or TV. I say really honest things, sharing my true beliefs on topical matters.

    Everyone’s getting the hang of it. I look around and watch. Some are shy about the microphone and seem to prefer just listening. Some are speaking almost constantly, and paying little attention to the people congregating around them. We all feel so connected. This is a party like no other!

    I can say whatever I want, and everyone has to listen! It’s like we’re all on a collective stage, and everyone has their own podium! I marvel at the democracy of it.

    But as we get more enthused, the noise level begins to climb. Everyone’s talking away in their microphones. People aren’t waiting until anyone else is done speaking, they just pull out their microphone and their voice booms through the speakers. It’s hard to hear what anyone is saying.

    When I pull out my microphone again, it works fine, but no one hears what I say. No one comes over. Did I say the wrong thing? I feel alone again.

    I look around again and I see someone across the other side, surrounded by people talking to them. How did they get so much attention? I feel jealous. So I follow them around to see what they do.

    They’re saying stuff that’s edgy. It cuts through the growing din of microphone broadcasts. How clever!

    I try it. I say something a bit edgy into my microphone. It works! I get people’s attention, and now they’ve come over again, and thankfully I don’t have to feel the loneliness anymore. And more than that, I get to see which people like me when I’m edgy, and which don’t. I’ve never got to play with this before!

    And then this trend catches on too! Lots of people start getting edgier. Some people are even getting aggressive, and starting to fight with each other. No one’s in charge, there’s no host I realize! People are shouting in their microphones, trying to order the chaotic din.

    I try not to fight with people, but it’s starting to turn into a shouting match.

    I can’t make sense of what’s going on. It feels really uncomfortable. And I feel divided. One part wants to keep saying what I really think and fuck the haters. One part wants to just get some love and validation like I used to, have people like what I say. It confuses me.

    The room is pulsating, the conversations moving faster and faster. People broadcasting into their microphones constantly, people coming over to aggressively agree or disagree with them.

    People are saying nasty things to each other. They say nasty things to me. I try not to say nasty things back, but it slips in sometimes. I see it happening to my friends too.

    I keep going. I keep speaking into my microphone. Sometimes loads of people gather around me and I feel great! Other times no one comes and I feel foolish and hope no one heard what I said.

    And then I see some people leaving. Some are announcing it first into their little microphones. Some are just walking out without a word. I realize I’m struggling to remember what life was like before I arrived.

    I begin to wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I look around, and I see few people having a good time. I realize I’m not having a good time.

    So I leave too.

    As soon as I leave I exhale. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I feel lonely, but the kind of lonely where I can hear myself think again. I feel grateful that I don’t have to worry about the microphone. I don’t have to work out what to say, in just the right way, so people like it and I get attention.

    Instead, I meet my friends outside, like we used to meet. We drink wine, coffee. It’s quiet, and I realize how much I was shouting to be heard. And how much I needed the other party goers to acknowledge that they heard me.

    It’s nice out here. There are trees, and houses, and birds, and I can see the sun above the horizon. There are people sat quietly together, looking into each other’s eyes.

     

    This was written six weeks after I stopped logging into Facebook.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • Ever since I decided to build a coaching business last year, I’ve had to learn to sell. I’d avoided it before. I got good at marketing, so I could let my writing do the selling for me.

    But as a coach, I had to learn to be with another human being, and sell my services.

    Selling has a bad reputation. Yet it’s probably the skill that has the single biggest impact on a small growing business.

    I was lying awake in bed a few nights ago. And I had an interesting thought…

    Selling is like kissing.

    It’s a two-way meeting.

    It may lead to a deeper relationship.

    It’s full of potential. For either expansion or contraction.

    You remember the bad experiences.

    Sales doesn’t have to be invasive and icky

    The connotation many of us have for selling is the vacuum cleaner salesman.

    The guy who doesn’t connect with you as a human, doesn’t listen or notice your reactions, and is only focused on getting what he wants – you buying his thing.

    It’s invasive.

    It’s disconnected.

    It’s highly unpleasant.

    If you’ve ever had a really bad first kiss, you may know that feeling is rather similar. Like the woman at the party who’s drunk, and without even noticing who you are, crashes through your boundaries and sticks her tongue down your throat (yes, this did happen to me years ago).

    But sales doesn’t have to be like this.

    Good sales and good kissing are based on connection

    A good first kiss is the result of connection. You’ve spent time with someone. You’re coming closer to one another. You’re creating shared reality. You’re feeling the pull to be closer.

    And then one of you initiates the kiss.

    They lean in, slowly, perhaps hesitant about whether they moved too early.

    You stare deeply into their eyes as their face tilts upward gently.

    They slide up from a neck nuzzle, as you turn your face down toward them.

    A good kiss is born from mutual want. You both want to go deeper. You both want to come closer. And the kiss seals the beginning of that deepening.

    A good sales conversation is like that too.

    You’ve spent time to get to know one another. You can feel the click, the flow between you. You’re in connection with one another, and are both wanting to know what happens next.

    One of you initiates the questions.

    “So, how do I work with you?”

    “Would you like to hear what working with me looks like?”

    And then the sales conversation begins.

    Selling is a result of mutual desire

    You both want it.

    It’s not one person asserting their agenda unconsciously on the other. It’s not a pushing past boundaries. It’s mutual desire.

    “This has been so powerful. So, yes, I’d like to work with you more. What’s the next step?”

    “Yes, I think you’d be perfect for this program. I’ll send you the registration details.”

    I will never initiate a sales conversation with someone that I can’t feel desire with.

    It could be my desire to coach them. I think I could serve them so I ask whether they want to know more.

    It could be their desire to work with me. They’re really opened by our conversation, and want to hear about next steps.

    It could be that we’re both feeling the deep click.

    When you don’t pay attention to the felt sense of desire between you, and attempt to override a lack of desire with charm or pushiness, you’re entering vacuum cleaner territory.

    It can get icky. Fast.

    Follow the feeling of desire. Feel whether the conversation wants to go deeper.

    It’s not about getting to yes. It’s about getting to truth.

    “Yes, I would.”

    “No. Thank you.”

    Selling is the start of a deeper relationship

    When I offer my coaching services to someone, and they accept, I’m stepping into a deep relationship with them.

    I don’t take these things lightly. I’m going to be spending a lot of time with this person. We’re going to talk about the things they don’t talk about with other people. They’re going to grow. There will be challenging moments. Painful moments. Joyful moments. Intimate moments.

    I’m helping them as they step into a deeper commitment to their work, their business, their mission.

    I think about my clients when I’m not on the phone with them. I care about them. I only work with a handful at any one time, so that the depth is honoured and given space.

    Selling is about deciding whether you’re going to step into deeper relationship.

    And a deeper relationship requires deep connection, mutual desire and the willingness to step into the unknown together.

    Great selling is the same as great kissing.

    And remember it’s a metaphor, not a strategy.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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  • I finally said it.

    “I don’t want you to coach me any more. I don’t want your advice. I’m done with it. I’m going to do it my way from now on. You don’t get to tell me how I should do it any more.”

    When it did come, I kind of blurted it out, the pressure had been building for two years.

    Our business partnership was over.

    We both got vulnerable. I was able to soften my rebelliousness. He was able to let go of his need for control. It opened us into a closeness that was only possible now we were separating.

    I had spoken my truth. And a new chapter of my life begun.

    Truth speaking, what is it?

    It’s a horribly clichéd term for something powerfully beautiful.

    It’s saying what’s true in your heart. It’s saying something that feels risky. It’s saying something and not knowing what’s going to happen next.

    It’s saying something that disrupts normality.

    I remember those powerful moments when I spoke something I’d been reluctant to share. I’d been trying to avert the nightmare in my head by not saying it. I remember the sense of deep relaxation as the final echo of my words vanished into the moment just passed.

    It’s out.

    It’s not mine to leash any longer.

    God will take it from here.

    It’s a practice

    It’s a spiritual practice – discovering yourself through sharing your vulnerable experience.

    It’s a business practice – revealing who you are to those you can serve.

    It’s a powerful practice – one that can revolutionize your life and work.

    It’s also a practice that, like any practice, can be misunderstood.

    What we believe to be ‘our truth’ is not always true. What we believe to be authentic, is not always authentic.

    Here are four key distinctions that will help you avoid the traps of speaking your truth.

    1. Opening or Closing

    My friend Lisa first taught me this – will your share open or close people?

    The trap is thinking you can share whatever you want in service of authenticity.

    Will this open their heart, expand their mind or show them something more of what is possible? Will this expand their state, have them feel more, desire more, experience more?

    Or will this contract them, shrink them, close them? Will it trigger a state of anxiety, or defensiveness? Will they walk away from your share feeling less of the world, and less of themselves?

    Yes. It’s your truth. But are you conscious of the impact it will have on people you care about?

    You’re in the midst of a bout of existential depression and anxiety. Everything seems pointless, you seem pointless, your work looks completely meaningless. In a moment of lonely desperation, you tweet it to all your followers and clients.

    “What’s the point? Life is a joke. Don’t want to do any of this shit anymore. Thinking I’ll close down my business.”

    Is it true? Maybe.

    Have you opened them? Probably not.

    You probably freaked them out, and compromised your business and work.

    Are you conscious of the hearts of those you speak to? Can you feel them? Can you tune into where they are, how they are? Will this serve them? Will this open them or close them?

    Are you conscious of even making that judgement call?

    Truth speaking is not saying whatever the hell you want to whoever the hell you want, and expecting everything to turn out authentically.

    It’s a conscious act. You’re conscious of your heart, and their heart, and the connection between you, as you open your mouth, and say what’s there.

    2. Covert Neediness

    You say it like you’re just ‘speaking your experience’, all the while you’re actually hoping for people to meet the needs you haven’t actually confessed to having.

    Maybe you need them to commiserate with you and tell you they love you.

    Maybe you need them to congratulate you and tell you how amazing you are.

    Maybe you need some advice.

    You’re secretly hoping they’ll meet your needs, but you haven’t admitted it to yourself, or them, and it ends up giving your share this weird, creepy or disingenuous feel.

    It’s like those weird incomplete facebook posts.

    “Wow. It’s amazing. I never thought this would happen.”

    And then hopefully someone takes the bait asks what happened, and you get to have that need for attention and confirmation met.

    Except it feels covert, and unowned. And weird. Because it is.

    If you need something, own it.

    I saw a beautiful facebook post from someone recently. She’s a very successful coach and trainer. She was having a really hard time, really struggling. She shared what was going on, very honestly and vulnerably, and asked people to express some love toward her.

    Hundreds responded.

    3. Opinion dressed as truth

    “You didn’t do what you said you would. That’s why your business is not growing like you want. I feel like you’re unprofessional, and it’s never going to change. You should get a job instead. I know this might feel hurtful, but it’s just my truth.”

    No it’s not. It’s your opinion.

    Opinions are powerful, when you share them truthfully, which means sharing them as opinions.

    “You didn’t do what you said you would. I’m deeply questioning whether you actually want to grow this business of yours.”

    Too often, we throw out our assessments and analyses inside this box of ‘our truth’ which actually just squeezes truth out of the connection.

    When I offer my opinion as truth, I leave no room for your truth.

    “I hear you. I do really want this business. But I think I’m following a strategy that just doesn’t fit with my deeper vision. And I’ve felt ashamed about that.”

    Opinions are not true. But they are true opinions.

    4. Vulnerability not vomit

    Brene Brown says vulnerability without boundaries is not vulnerability.

    I agree. I think its vomit.

    It’s throwing up your unprocessed thoughts, feelings and stuff all over other people, without context or consciousness, and expecting them to sort the chunks of importance from the chaff of confusion.

    It’s unpleasant to receive.

    Sometimes our relationship to reality can get messy. And we don’t know how to make sense of it, or connect with it. Sometimes it feels good to splurge. It helps. My woman does it regularly. It helps her get it out of her system, and feel herself again.

    But don’t confuse vomiting for vulnerable truth.

    You’re on the phone with a client. They just asked you how you are.

    “Oh man. I’m feeling kind of funky this morning. I was up late last night. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was rocking out on pot, porn and pistachios. I just don’t know how to kick these addictions, you know? Psshhht. To be honest, I’d rather not be doing this call now. I feel pretty shitty. But hey ho, here we are. How are you?”

    What you say may be true, but it’s not appropriate.

    Vomit is not vulnerability.

    Vulnerability is conscious. Vulnerability is choosing to share something you’d rather not, while maintaining conscious connection with the person or people you’re sharing with.

    Vomit is not even really noticing who’s in front of you, and just throwing up your undigested material all over their awkwardness.

    Your truth is real

    Rilke said…

    “Near here is a land they call life,
    You’ll know when you arrive by how real it is.”

    Truth is like life. It’s so real that those who hear it are moved by it, opened by it, enlarged by it.

    Are you being real? Or are you hiding behind ‘the truth’?

    Your heart always knows.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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  • Human beings feel.

    And these days we’re feeling a lot. There’s a lot to feel.

    We’re desiring connection with one another. We’re feeling scared at the prospect of actually doing what our inner-guidance asks of us. We’re feeling hurt when people don’t like what we create.

    We’re feeling increasingly free, as we discover that our livelihood and quest for meaning can be the same thing.

    And we’re feeling increasingly frustrated as the ‘simple 3-step solutions’ turn out to be neither simple, nor a solution.

    What are my true feelings?

    “I feel called to a new and deeper embodiment of my purpose.”

    We’re called. We feel it. The tug of possibility. The yearning of the soul. It’s real. Visceral.

    “I don’t feel like I’m good enough to build this business to the next level.”

    It’s hard. It’s not flowing. We’re coming up short. It starts to feel like a mistake, the dream was a mirage. What happened?

    “I feel confused.”

    What’s true? I’m trying to trust my experience, listen to my feelings, and yet they seem to contradict one another.

    6 Different kinds of feeling

    Feeling one thing is not the same as feeling another.

    Leonard Cohen said “I don’t trust my inner feelings. Inner feelings come and go.” Which is a pretty provocative statement from one of our most feelingful contemporary mystics.

    But what I think he’s actually pointing to is the fact that we’re confused about the nature of feelings.

    When I say “I feel…” I think it’s one thing. It’s a feeling. It’s true, and it’s the same as other feelings. All feeling are made equal.

    They’re not.

    So let’s unpack feeling. There are at least 6 different kinds. Probably more. But let’s start with 6. They’re really different. Even though each one uses the verb feel.

    1. Sensory Feelings

    This is the most basic kind of feeling. And perhaps the original meaning of the word. It’s a sensory feeling.

    “I feel your hand in my hand.”

    I feel your touch. It’s undeniable. It’s not open to interpretation. I feel your hand. And it’s touching my hand.

    However I can also feel internal sensations. These can be a little more elusive. But they’re the same awareness of sensation.

    “I feel a contraction in my belly.”

    If I can be quiet and still enough I’ll notice it. I slight pulling, dry sensation in my lower gut. It feels contracted.

    Sometimes it may not be so subtle. A raging suck in my entire lower body.

    Feelings on the level of sensation are very direct. They’re closest to the source of experience. They require no interpretation. They simply require observation.

    2. Emotional Feelings

    “I feel angry.”

    It’s not a sensation. Though it has a sensory base to it. Probably a hot sensation, rising. But it’s more than that. Anger is an emotion. And again, we feel it.

    “I feel sad.”

    It doesn’t require too much interpretation. Although sometimes it can take us years to actually recognize an emotion. It took me a long time to recognize anger in myself. I misidentified it a lot. And it would get twisted into depression.

    There are four fundamental emotions: anger, sadness, fear and joy.

    There are hundreds of shades of emotion. Some of things we call emotions are not really emotions.

    3. Feelings of Desire

    “I feel a desire to kiss you.”

    Desire is not an emotion. It’s a pull. It’s the pull of Eros. Eros is the root of erotic, but erotic doesn’t mean suspender belts and baby-oil, it means the mysterious force of nature that has us want something. It’s love with movement. It’s evolution rising up.

    “I love writing. I want to write.”

    We feel it. We feel desire. Desire is not sexual. Though it can be expressed sexually. Desire is the movement that wants to push out and through, into something new.

    “I feel a desire to help you create your new teaching program.”

    It’s not an emotional feeling. I just feel I want it. I desire it.

    4. Intuitive Feelings

    “I feel it could be powerful for you to explore your relationship to money.”

    I said that to a new client recently. I just had a feeling that exploring his relationship to money was going to unlock a lot of the things he was struggling with.

    It wasn’t an emotion or a sensation. It wasn’t a desire. I didn’t want him to explore it necessarily. But I had a feeling it could open up some things neither of us could quite see yet.

    It was an intuition.

    Dan Siegel, the famous Neurobiologist says intuition is a feeling based in science. It’s the ability to draw information from the neuronal webs that surround all your bodily organs.

    We think our brain is in our head. It’s not. We have neural networks throughout our entire body. The biggest cluster is indeed in our head. But we have two enormous clusters around our heart, and in our gut too.

    “I have this really strong feeling we should go meet this guy. I don’t know why.”

    Intuition is the ability to feel the messages from our body.

    5. Relational Feelings

    “I feel really close to you.”

    Closeness can mean physical proximity. But when I say “I feel close” I normally mean that I feel connected to you. It’s a relational feeling.

    We’re mammals. We’re designed to attach to one another. Young mammals attach to their parents in a way that other species don’t. It’s one of the things that separates us from reptiles, birds, insects and other creatures.

    We can feel the texture of our relationships, in the moment.

    “I feel really seen by you” is not about literally being observed with the eyes, it’s feeling understood. In other words, you and I are connected, and we’re both feeling the mutual understanding that we’ve created.

    Relational feelings are the felt experience of being connected with another human being.

    “I feel you.”

    6. Shadow Feelings

    There’s a bunch of stuff that we think we feel, that aren’t actually feelings. Or they are feelings, but they’re masquerading as something else.

    We’re now into the territory of language games.

    Language births consciousness. But it also warps it. We can say things in language that are impossible to actually experience in reality.

    The philosopher Alfred Korzybski was one of the first to write about this. He pointed out that in language we can talk about the distinction between our bodies and our minds. And yet, if you really look, you can never find the split. It’s always a body-mind. You cannot actually experience one without the other.

    “I feel like I have to work harder to succeed.”

    It’s not a sensation. You can’t find any sensation in your body that’s labeled “I have to work harder.”

    It’s not an emotion either. Or a desire. It could be an intuition. A calling to work harder.

    When I ‘feel’ this feeling though, it’s not an intuition. It’s an assessment.

    Some part of my mental map of the world says that the level of hardness with which I’m working is insufficient.

    And yet if I try and experience the scale of sufficient and insufficient I can’t find it. I’ll discover that my idea of ‘sufficient’ is completely arbitrary.

    This is a shadow feeling.

    And this particular one is simply a ‘belief’. It doesn’t rest on anything true. If you follow it down, you’ll discover that it’s simply a concept, resting on another concept, resting on another concept. There is no solid ground under it.

    There’s no feeling there at all.

    We’re misreading our feelings

    We’re making category errors. We’re mistaking one kind of feeling for another. A lot.

    We misinterpret emotions as intuitions. I feel fear at the prospect of starting a new project (which is utterly inevitable), and yet I misidentify that as an intuition that I’m not meant to be doing it.

    We misinterpret relational feelings as sensations. I experience disconnection with someone close to me, and then ‘feel’ that person has ‘pushed me away’.

    We misinterpret beliefs as emotions. I get pissed off in relation to you, but I then tell you that “I feel you shouldn’t have said that thing to me.”

    We’re confusing our feelings. It gets us into trouble in our relationships, in our businesses. It warps our connection to reality.

    It confuses us, as we walk the winding path toward realizing our work in the world.

    I don’t feel like it

    I was taught that “if it feels too hard, I don’t have to do it if I don’t want to.”

    Which is true. I don’t have to. I don’t have to do anything if I don’t feel like it.

    The freedom to ‘trust my feelings’ growing up has probably given me a much higher level of emotional awareness than many men of my generation.

    But what I’ve had to learn is that the momentary “I don’t feel like it” always contradicts and obscures a deeper feeling.

    I love to write.

    I love the feeling when I can birth something new, and say it in a way I’ve never thought of, or heard someone else say. I love discovering who I am, through writing about what I see.

    It gives me such a sense of fulfillment. Soul deep fulfillment.

    When I imagine myself in 10 years, I imagine a man who’s a recognized writer. The author of published books and the speaker of new ideas.

    That’s something that’s important to me. I want it. I desire it. I feel called to it.

    Yet each morning I wake up, and I don’t want to write.

    “It’s feels too hard” the voice inside me says.

    “You’re not good enough. You won’t write anything good today, better to not try.”

    If I trusted my ‘inner feeling’ I wouldn’t write that day. I’d wait until I felt better. Which is what I did for years. I waited until I felt ‘in the mood’ to write. It meant I wrote occasionally.

    Now I write every morning. Whether I feel like it or not.

    Because I’ve learned to recognize that I’m just feeling afraid. I’m afraid of stepping out of my comfort zone, because I don’t know what’s out there, and I don’t know myself in that unknown place.

    It’s fear. Not intuition. Or desire.

    So I’ve learned to ‘not trust’ that inner feeling.

    Which feels like a much better strategy.

    Ewan Townhead

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