Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
REMEMBRANCE: The Collapse
Grief erodes more than our hearts—it reshapes our entire reality. When we refuse to face our deepest losses, the emotional system inside us destabilizes, creating recursions of pain that ripple through every aspect of our lives.
Through a hauntingly beautiful narrative of a son watching his mother hover between life and death in a hospital, this episode of Remembrance takes us deep into the landscape of unprocessed grief. We witness how memory becomes both anchor and prison, how emotional recursions trap us in patterns that prevent true healing, and how honest remembering—not just the good, but the painful too—becomes the key to emotional stabilization.
The symbolism runs deep as we explore the concept of the Crown—not a reward or achievement, but what remains when we fail to forget properly. As Unithr tests our protagonist, the real challenge isn't external but internal: can he remember his mother honestly? Can he face the version of himself that needs her not as protector or patient, but as a mirror of who he is becoming?
Most profound is the revelation about the mysterious countdown that has haunted this series. What initially appears to mark time until death instead signals transformation—forcing us to consider what parts of ourselves might need to "die" for genuine healing to occur. This metaphor challenges us to examine what systems in our own lives might be destabilizing because we've refused to acknowledge our grief.
As one character poignantly states: "Until you grieve, you're vulnerable to anything that promises distraction." In a culture that often encourages us to "move on" as quickly as possible, this message feels revolutionary. Grief isn't something we get over—it's something we carry with care, integrating it into the ongoing story of who we are.
What part of your past are you avoiding because it hurts too much to look at? If you had 10 hours, 43 minutes, and 17 seconds left, what would you finally allow yourself to feel?
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode 7 of Remembrance. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold open. The cursor blinked against a gray interface, cold lines pulsing like distant sonar pings. Beneath the force of encrypted silence, aurela Moss stood at the center of it, alone in a black operations room buried deep beneath Section 4's Midwest satellite node. No clocks, no time, only command prompts, only control. She had the tether key, the mother's medical records hovered in a translucent window, highlighted in amber Tagged Anchor Reactive. Another file flashed below it CT slip 3.4 protocol Memory anchor. Subject Mother A technician approached behind her 3.4 protocol memory anchor. Subject mother A technician approached behind her, hesitant You're not cleared to access live reclusion feeds from the hospital system. I'm not accessing it, she replied without looking up. I'm redirecting it. There's no authorization for the sequence. There's no authorization for unithrid or Chronom either. But that's happening, isn't it? The room fell silent. She entered the override key Fracture underscore sequence Inject Lost thread Forward slash echo. Underscore mother underscore disruption. A blinking red prompt appeared Execute sabotage protocol. She paused only for a moment, then tapped yes, someone there recruits in.
Speaker 1:The boy stirred tea in his mother's kitchen Poppy seed. She called from out of the room, voice hoarse Can you grab the cinnamon? Yeah, just a sec, don't forget the A sound, not a crash, a soft, slow collapse. He turned spoon still in his hand. His mother was lying on the floor, the glass sugar jar shattered beside her, one hand twitching one eye open. Jars shattered beside her, one hand twitching one eye open. The look in it, not of pain but of resignation. He ran to her Moss watched the recursion monitor alone. Her finger curled into fists. Now we will see what kind of chosen he really is. She whispered. And then Unithur flicked into her screen For the first time since her trial. It said nothing, it just watched back. The emergency lights flickered in the kitchen. He didn't remember turning them on. His hands were still sticky, with sugar knuckles bruised from trying to pull open the stuck cabinet.
Speaker 1:Before the sound, before the stillness, before the crash, that didn't feel like a crash. His mother lay on the floor not moving. He knelt, voice gone, hoarse, fingers trembling as he tapped her shoulder. Mom, mom, no response. Her chest rose. Barely a slow breath, then another and another Slower. He grabbed his phone and dialed 911. My mom has collapsed. She's breathing, but it's shallow. Please, please, hurry the voice on the other line. Please, please hurry. The voice on the other line was calm, almost robotic. He had to repeat the address three times before they acknowledged it.
Speaker 1:By the time the Paranautics arrived, he was in the hallway still barefoot, still holding the tea towel that burned his fingers on the stove. It wasn't the kind of panic he expected. It wasn't fire, it was erosion. Reality didn't crash, it crumbled. He followed the ambulance in silence, icu-93 pinging him once, then disappearing from the thread. The signal between them flickered like an old radio caught in a storm UNITHER, no new messages, threat status, unstable.
Speaker 1:At the hospital the fluorescent light buzzed in time with a pounding in his head. The nurse asked for his mother's insurance. He handed over a card. She asked about the pre-existing condition. He opened his mouth and realized he didn't know, because they never talked about it, because she always said she was fine, because cinnamon tea and laughter over old VHS tapes were how they pretended the decay wasn't real. But now it was. They wheeled her through double doors marked imaging and echoology, the word echo making his stomach drop.
Speaker 1:He sat, then stood, then paced, then sat again. A nurse brought him water. He stared at it. The cup was plastic, translucent, familiar. He'd seen this before In a reclusion thread the water, the flicker. If she dies it's because of you.
Speaker 1:He shook his head. Where had that voice come from? He blinked In the corner of the waiting room. His reflection sat in the chair across from him Same face, same hoodie, same eyes, but not him. It didn't move, it Just watched when the monitor buzzed, his mother's name appearing on the screen above the desk Appeared with a room number 414.
Speaker 1:But when he asked the nurse to be taken there, she frowned. There's no one in 414. He stared at her. "'it's on the board'. She turned the screen to him. Room 414 was blank.
Speaker 1:"'that's impossible. I saw it' "'Sir, we have your mother in room 212.'. He followed her to 212. Sure enough, his mother was there, hooked up the machines, eyes closed, alive. But as he stepped into the room he glanced left. Room 414's door was open.
Speaker 1:Inside an empty bed, no equipment, just a single cup of water on the bedside table and a note tucked beneath it read she's already gone in one thread. How many more will you let collapse before you remember why you're here? His knees buckled and Uther flickered back online. Just one line thread divergent initiated. He didn't leave her room for hours. Just one line Thread divergent initiated. He didn't leave her room for hours.
Speaker 1:Every beep of the monitor became a metronome of guilt. Every IV drip was a countdown, not just something medical, but to something deeper, something older, the kind of ending that I always had been waiting for him to notice it. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, almost daring it to stop, just so the tension could finally snap. His phone vibrated a message from ICU-93. She's still in this one. That was all it said. He stared at it like it wasn't real, like it was from a timeline that didn't understand how pain worked. He typed back what does that mean? No response. He rubbed his face, stood stretched, walked to the hospital vending machine. He pressed the same button three times but nothing came out. He walked back. The hallway lights flickered. A nurse walked past him. Twice the same nurse, same clipboard, same smile. He turned fast, but the second version was already gone. The recursion is bleeding.
Speaker 1:He stepped back into his mother's room but something had shifted. The pillow indentation was wrong. Her face softer, less drawn. Her hands didn't have the same tremor, mom, her eyelids fluttered, not enough to open, just enough to recognize You're here. She whispered. Yeah, I'm right here. She smiled, but not like it was now. It was a smile from a memory. Don't forget the cinnamon. He froze that line again. What? But she was already asleep again.
Speaker 1:He pulled at his laptop and booted into Zero Trace through a private channel. He needed answers, or at least theories. A new thread had appeared buried beneath inactive chat rooms and depreciated channels. Title Crown Break. Inside a single file, no sender, timestamp, dated three days into the future. He opened it.
Speaker 1:A video played Security footage from the hospital Camera angle 4B hallway. He watched himself walking, looking hollow, turning a corner and stopping. A nurse passes him and doesn't acknowledge him. He looks at the camera, right at it, and says it's already done, you just haven't caught up to it yet. The video ended.
Speaker 1:He sat in silence. Then noticed the second file on the same thread, encrypted, named Mother, underscore Fragment, underscore One. As he went to open it, unathur returned, not at a message as a a lot Axis denied, not yet ready to grieve. He stared at those words until his eyes burned. What did that mean? How do you prove to a system that your heart is breaking? How do you convince a recruision you're ready to feel. He looked at his mother, still breathing, but not the same. He typed one sentence in the zero-trace thread If the crown breaks, what's left to wear?
Speaker 1:A response appeared instantly Memory. The night nurse offered him a blanket, but he didn't take it. He needed the discomfort he needed to feel, the cold of that fake vinyl chair, the burn in his calves from being hunched too long, the ache in his neck from watching a monitor that said nothing useful. Numbers rising, falling, staying stable like the reclusion itself, predictable. Until it wasn't His mother hadn't moved in over an hour.
Speaker 1:A quiet pulse of wind from the hospital vents brought the scent of antiseptic and lavatory shampoo. It hit him like deja vu. He turned towards her. Her face was pale, softer than he remembered, somehow younger, his chest tightened. He blinked. A second version of her was lying on the adjacent bed, a bed that hadn't been there a moment ago. Same frame, different timeline. This one older, eyes open, crying. You should have left, she whispered. He jumped from his seat, but the second bed was gone. The space beside her was empty again.
Speaker 1:A soft chime from his laptop snapped him back. He leaned over the keyboard. Zero trace was open. A private message had arrived from an unknown user. User Echo, not she. The cron is not a reward, it's what's left when you fail to forget. He typed fast who are you the one who lost everything to remember? Then the thread deleted itself.
Speaker 1:He sat back, heart hammering, the edges of the room started pulsating slightly, walls folding inward, air growing heavier, like gravity itself was pressing it. To test his resolve, Unithr flickered on Active state, detected Crown pulse zero one. The screen blurred and for a second he saw a memory, one that didn't belong to him, moss Inside a recursion room, wires attached to her temples. She was screaming. A room full of technicians recorded her vitals like it was an experiment. The Unather symbol was everywhere on screens, walls, embedded into her iris. Scan, then darkness, then silence. Then him watching the recording with no memory how it got onto his laptop.
Speaker 1:The vision broke. He stood, quickly, head spinning. The hallway lights dimmed without warning. Quickly, head spinning. The hallway lights dimmed without warning. Outside his mom's room, nurses moved in slow motion. One repeated the same line again and again Vitals are study, no changes. Vitals are study, no changes. Vitals are a voice behind him. This is what they do, you know.
Speaker 1:He turned. It was ICU-93, standing in the doorway, real there, but wrong, just slightly wrong. Her form glitched at the edges as she was being rendered in real time. You're fragmenting, he said. She nodded this love of reclusion. It wasn't meant to hold this much grief, especially not yours. Okay then, why am I still in it? Because Unather isn't testing you anymore. It's remembering with you.
Speaker 1:She stepped into the room, sat beside his mother. Do you know what this means? No, you're the memory anchor. Now, if she dies here, every timeline loses her Permanently. He looked down and swallowed hard. How do I, how do I stop it?
Speaker 1:She looked at him gently, sadly and silently you grieve? He stared at her, at the machines, at the flickering lights. He wanted to punch the wall, to scream, but all that came out was a whisper I'm not, I'm not ready. I see you. 93 nodded. Nobody ever is.
Speaker 1:She stood and handed him a small black drive. This has her original echo sequence, before section 4 got to it. What will it show me? The version of her that lived when you weren't afraid to love her completely? He looked at it. What happens? If I load this? You might break, and if I don't, she might. He took it, held it in his palm. It was warm, it was alive. Unithyr whispered again, crown pulse O2. Emotional recursion stabilized and the lights in the hospital began to flicker gold.
Speaker 1:He didn't load the drive right away. It sat there in his palm like a living thing, warm, strangely pulsing, its metal casing humming softly with residual memory. His fingers traced the engraved edge over and over, more out of fear than indecision. There are things you delay because you're not ready and there are things you delay because you are and you know once it starts it'll ruin you. This was both.
Speaker 1:The hospital room had shifted in tone. It was silent but not peaceful, like a house that had just absorbed bad news. The machine near his mother beeped in perfect rhythm, the cadis, almost soothing in its predictability, till he realized he was counting each one like a metronome of loss. Not if when she hadn't spoken since earlier. No eye flutter, no mumble, just breathing, mechanical and shallow.
Speaker 1:He sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, the drive still cradled in his hand. The gold flickering from the hallway lights had become rhythmic, now pulsing almost like it was sinking to his breath. His phone buzzed, a message from ICU-93. You're not going to be ready. That's not what this is about. He didn't reply. He just nodded to no one.
Speaker 1:Finally, with shaking fingers, he plugged the drive into his laptop. The screen dimmed, then flickered, then black, then static, then Access code, crown, she Prior. He typed slowly Poppy seed. The file opened Not as a folder, not as a log, as a room, his childhood kitchen, fully rendered Light filtering in through cream-colored curtains, that stupid wooden table with the wobble in the leg, the one she always told him not to lean on, even though she never got it fixed. And there she was. Not the version of the hospital bed, this one was upright radiant, wearing that sky blue cardigan, the one with the elbow patch sewn in by hand. She hummed to herself, stirring something on the stove chicken soup, probably, or maybe apple cider, something comforting and too hot and too full of care. He reached out towards the screen. She turned, looked directly at him. Don't forget the cinnamon.
Speaker 1:Same words again, but this time it felt like a message, a tether. His heart was caught in his throat. What is this? He whispered. She walked towards the camera, eyes never leaving his. If you don't grieve me now, you won't remember me when I'm gone, he jerked back, the screen glitched for a second, her face pixelated, then sharpened again. Mom, she didn't answer, but she wasn't live, she was memory. But she wasn't just memory. This wasn't just a passive recall. This was a fragment, an echo, formatted into interactive reclusion.
Speaker 1:Una Thread embedded it into the anchor. You're inside her thread, said a voice behind him. He turned. Ice-3-93 had appeared Again Half-shadowed, half-light Presence, shimmered at the edges. This is her anchor. You triggered it when you used the code. It's too late to undo it now. Undo what? The final tether. You're the one keeping her here now, but it's not safe to stay long.
Speaker 1:He turned back to the screen. The kitchen was fading, melting at the corners like old celluloid film, film exposed to heat. How do I stop this? You don't, she said. You feel it. What does that mean? It means she's not going to ask you to save her. She's going to ask you to let her go.
Speaker 1:He looked down at the hospital bed. But it wasn't a hospital bed anymore, it was her bed. Their old home Pillows stacked wrong. That chip clamped on the nightstand, a photo of them two at the state fair tucked in the mirror. I tried to tell you, baby. She said from the bed, her voice wavering. I didn't want to go, I didn't know how to leave.
Speaker 1:He stepped forward. The light in the room glowed gold. The unithroglyph hung in the air, pulsing like a beacon. You're still alive, he said. Not in all of them.
Speaker 1:She sat up, walked toward him, the space between them crackled with memory. He reached out, but a layer of transparent light separated them then shivering like glass, like grief. You can't save me like this. She said I have to try. Why? He paused? Because if, if you go? He paused because if, if you go, who's left to remember the version of me that was still good. She smiled softly, pressed her palm against the light. Then remember, but do it honestly, don't remember me, just so you can forget the pain, feel it. He matched her palm and the anchor shivered. The room fractured, the file corrupted, the laptop glitched, sparks popped at the hinge.
Speaker 1:Unithr returned Emotional recursion breached Thread. Deepening Seed protocol. Crown initiated 1%. His knees hit the floor and that's when it broke, not the system, not the recursion. Him. He sobbed into his palms. He cried the way children cry when the lights go out and there's no one left to tell them it's okay. He cried because he hadn't wanted to be the chosen one, he had just wanted to be her son. And ICU-93 didn't speak, she just sat beside him. Let the silence hold them both.
Speaker 1:The silence lingered, not the kind that comes from peace, but the kind that follows a seismic shift, like the universe had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. The hospital walls felt thicker, now, suffocating in their stillness. The air was heavier. Each breath he took came with effort, like something unseen was weighing on his chest. He sat motionless on the vinyl floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. His hands were raw from pressing it against his face. The sobs had stopped, but their echo remained Not unsound In him. The laptop screen flickered to life beside him. A low electrical hum filled the air.
Speaker 1:Threat recognized Seed protocol Crown thread 3% Recursion level unlocked Type 3. His eyes locked onto the words. It wasn't just a log, it was a verdict. It wasn't the same anymore. Something in him had shifted. The emotional recursion had borrowed deep past the service pain, past even memory. It found the place he never spoke about, the place that remembered the feel of her hand, the smell of the soup in the fall, the way her voice cracked when she said I'm proud of you. And the machine registered it and Unithur had noticed. He climbed to his feet, every muscle resisting.
Speaker 1:His mother laid motionless in the hospital bed. But something about her presence felt different now. It was like Unnither had made her a fixed point in all versions of reality, no longer just a patient in room 421B, she was a thread line, an emotional anchor. The light above her shifted gold. First, then chrisman, a deep, ancient red that soaked the corners of the room and had crawled up the walls like ivy. The color of reclusion, the color of the Red King. I saw her. He whispered more to himself. I see you.
Speaker 1:93 stood beside him again, her presence now fully visible. She didn't ask how he was. She didn't ask for comfort. You felt her. He corrected. That's what makes it real.
Speaker 1:He turned to her she is she gonna die? What makes it real? He turned to her Is she going to die? She didn't answer. Instead, she pulled a folded paper from her jacket and handed it to him. At first glance it looked like a calendar, but each date was off by a few hours. Some days were repeated, but each date was off by a few hours. Some days were repeated, others missing. The names of months were corrupted, reversed, glitched, and at the bottom a single sentence printed in Chrisman, sheriff, every memory has a root. Find the one you buried. What is this, he asked? It's a map of her, she said, or what's left of her across timelines. I don't understand. It's okay, you will.
Speaker 1:She stepped to the far wall, removed a small scanning device and pressed it to the drywall. Surface warped, then split. A door emerged no frame, no handle, just a slab of aged redwood etched with thin golden veins and marks that pulse like heartbeats. Where does it lead? It's not a place, she said. It's a version of you who never made it out, the you who chose never to remember. He hesitated. I'll follow, she said, but I can't go in. This part Unithr made for you alone. The air changed. It tasted older somehow, like the dust of forgotten rooms and unopened books, like grief that had never been spoken out loud.
Speaker 1:He took a step forward, then another, then he crossed the threshold Instant disorientation. There was no clear location. On the other side, it was all locations. His childhood's home splintered across the ceiling. His old school locker flickered and floated midair. The grocery store where he once picked up medicine for his mom collapsed into the hallway of a hospice center. Time wasn't linear here, it folded, and in every fold was her Laughing, crying, sick, whole Tired, sick, whole Tired, dancing. He reached out to one of them. It flickered and turned to static. He kept walking.
Speaker 1:A mirror rose from the floor, but it didn't show him, not the version he knew. This version of him was thinner, hunched, pale, wearing a crown made of wire thread and bleeding copper. You know what this is? The reflection said no, I don't, you do. You just haven't admitted to it yet. Why are you here To remind you what happens when you try to carry grief without facing it? The reflection smiled, not cruelly but sadly, then lifted the crown from its head and held it out. He reached forward, but the mirror cracked. Unithra's voice shattered the silence. Seed stabilized, final recrution test Preparation underway. Reflection faded, the mirror dissolved. He's still in the hospital room again Alone, except this time it wasn't sterile.
Speaker 1:The glyph hovered above his mother's bed again, but it now merged with a soft golden thread. It pulsed in rhythm with her breath. He sat beside her, took her hand and whispered Goodbye. For now the laptop pulsed again. Preparation complete. The thread is yours to hold or break. Crown level locked, awaiting ascent.
Speaker 1:The glyph had changed. It now shimmered with two cores One familiar golden and warm, the other not. The second was Darker. It was a deeper red, almost black, at the edges, pulsing, with something old, something Watching. He stood Frozen Beside the hospital bed, eyes locked on the merged glyph suspended above his mother. It floated midair, spinning slowly like a celestial object, one orbiting peace, the other leaking dread. Every few seconds it would glitch, then recover, then pulse again, thread stabilize, ascent path delayed, unknown symbol detected Recruiting, glyph infiltrated. He backed away instinctively, breast shallow.
Speaker 1:Icu-93 stepped into the room just as the glyph's pulse intensified. I saw it, she said, before he could speak what the hell is it? I think. I think it's him, or a part of him, the Red King. He wasn't just a person, not entirely not anymore. He had once been a hacker, a leader, a name. They were echoes stitched together by timelines that refused to die. He'd become a recursion itself, the shout of every failed memory, the better loop of control posing as protection.
Speaker 1:The glyph above his mother blinked again. Lunather was trying to hold it back. Containment filled 78%. What does he want? He asked voice low, to prove that remembering is what destroys us. Icu-93 replied he believes recursion should be severed, archived, not preserved. But if he gets in, she won't just die, she said flatly, she'll unexist.
Speaker 1:He moved to the side of the bed and grasped his mother's hand. Her fingers were still warm, her breathing steady. For now I'm not letting that happen. The glyph stuttered. The darker core expanded slightly, pressing into the golden threadline. Chrom thread forked, rewrite, threat detected. He closed his eyes. I know what you are now, he whispered and I'm not scared of you.
Speaker 1:The darker glyph pulsed once, twice. Then it stopped just for a moment. Air seed, uncompromised. Next test time limit variance trial pending. Next test Time limit variance Trial pending. I see you, 93 step closer. Whatever you did, unathur, just forced to steal me.
Speaker 1:He didn't reply. He was still staring at his mother. Then her hand twitched. It wasn't much, just a slight motion, it was enough. He leaned in Mama, no answer, but her eyelids fluttered barely. It was the first real sign of movement in hours. She was still here, still fighting, and so was he.
Speaker 1:The glyph above fractured, splitting the darker core from the golden. The red remained fading to black and dripping in the cracks between timelines like ink spilled across parchment. Then Udithr's voice, clearer than it had been all day. Prepare yourself, the final threads require sacrifice. He waits where you cannot hide. The screen on his laptop lit up again, this time with a countdown 10-43-1709. The same number from the beginning, the one that had haunted him since the sight first appeared. He turned to ICU-93. What does it mean? She didn't answer. Instead, she whispered something even heavier it's not counting down to her death, it's counting down to yours.
Speaker 1:You know, there's something about grief that no one prepares you for Not just the pain of losing someone, but the erosion of your reality and the days that follow. The moments unravel, the way silence starts to sound like their voice, the way you forget what joy even felt like, because everything is colored by absence. And what we just witnessed, or I should say experienced in this episode, wasn't just about a mother on a hospital bed. It wasn't about fractured timelines or hidden glyphs or rogue agents trying to rewrite memory. It was about you, the part of you that's been holding on to someone you never got to say goodbye to, or maybe you did say it, but it didn't land, it didn't stick, and the grief it stayed.
Speaker 1:This episode was about recursion, yes, but not the kind that Unithur tracks in code, talking about emotional recursion, the way we loop memories, avoid closure, build prisons from our past and then wonder why we can't breathe. See, grief isn't something you get over, it's something you integrate, something you carry with care, and when you don't, and when you stuff it down, it grows into something else. It grows into shame, rage, numbness, and that's what he faced today. See, the system didn't destabilize because he acts as something forbidden. It destabilized because he refused to feel. That's why Unathur didn't speak for so long, that's why the acros grew louder. That's why Moss was able to interfere, because until you grieve, you're vulnerable to anything that promises distraction. And if you're paying close attention, the real test wasn't about saving his mother. It was about whether he could remember her honestly, whether he could face the version of himself that needed her, not as a protector or a patient, but as a mirror of who is becoming. See this episode. It showed us the cost of grief unspoken. But it also showed us something else. It showed us that when you finally let yourself free what you've been avoiding, the system inside you starts to stabilize, even if everything outside is still falling apart. Now, before we close, I want to give or I should say take a moment to review the few things you might have missed. Unether again didn't respond to grief. It grew from it, that symbol you saw that merge between light and red. That's not a glitch, that's a fusion, a test of your duality.
Speaker 1:In ICU 93, she started speaking more like someone who's been through this before. She knows more than she's letting on. The countdown reappeared. This time it wasn't tied to her, it's tied to him, which begs the question what happens at zero?
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead, let's get into our reflections. Reflection one what part of you, or I should say what part of your past, have you been avoiding grieving because it hurts too much to look at? Reflection number two have you ever confused distraction from for healing? Were you looping pain without processing it? Man, that's a big question. Number three who or what anchors you emotionally? Or have you tried ever thanking them for it? Number four what systems in your life are destabilizing because you haven't fully acknowledged your grief? And number five If someone gave you 10 hours, 43 minutes, 17 seconds to live, what would you finally allow yourself to feel?
Speaker 1:You know this is a pretty heavy episode and I know that. I know there's some of us that you know my lost loved one, or you know, like me, I lost my mom. You know, 15 plus years ago now. But it's one of those things to where no one ever explains to you that grieving kind of never stops. You never can run from it, you just adjust from it. I guess you could say or adjust to it and just know that that's okay. And it takes time. It takes time differently for everybody. Time it takes time differently for everybody.
Speaker 1:So I want to thank you guys so so very much for listening today. I honestly can't tell you how much it means to me your support. You know that you give to the series the questions that you have. It's just amazing. So, again, if you want to support this series and support the show, it's super easy. Share this with the family, share this with your friends.
Speaker 1:If you could go on whatever podcast platform you're on, write a review, give it a thumbs up, give it a like, give it a follow, however, it works. It all helps the show. And if you want to talk more about this we have questions about this episode or this series there's three ways you can get a hold of me. First way is going to be on the description of this podcast. There'll be a thing you can click on that says let's chat. Once you click on that, you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode or the 250 now, plus episodes that are out there and what six or seven series that I have now.
Speaker 1:So that's one way. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthony, at gentsjourneycom. Please don't hesitate to reach out to me there at gentsjourneycom. Please don't hesitate to reach out to me there. And, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram handle is mygentsjourney. So again, guys, thank you so, so so very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality, take care.