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
The Key to Everything : When it all felt aligned.
That moment when everything finally clicks - not with fanfare, but with a quiet certainty that feels like coming home to yourself. This episode explores the transformative power of authentic connection and the courage to stop performing.
Through a captivating narrative about a writer who finds unexpected peace in his daily visits to a local cafe, we witness how genuine conversations with a thoughtful barista named Lena gradually reshape his understanding of success and fulfillment. Their exchanges over coffee become a masterclass in presence - in being fully available to the moment without trying to capture, define, or leverage it.
What makes this story resonate so deeply is how it challenges our conventional metrics of achievement. The protagonist experiences professional success - publications, speaking invitations, lucrative contracts - yet finds himself valuing the quiet moments at the cafe far more than these outward symbols of accomplishment. His journey reminds us that peace isn't necessarily found through achievement but through alignment, when our external actions finally match our internal values.
The recurring napkin notes exchanged between the characters become breadcrumbs guiding the protagonist back to himself. "You feel more like yourself when you're not explaining who you are," reads one - a powerful reminder about the exhaustion of constant self-justification and the freedom that comes with authentic being.
As you listen, consider your own life: When was the last time something worked and you didn't try to turn it into proof? What would your days look like if you stopped chasing and started choosing? What moments have you kept private, not out of fear, but because they felt too sacred to share?
Join me in exploring how stillness becomes not the goal, but the gift - and how sometimes the key to everything isn't in striving for what's next, but in fully inhabiting where you already are.
"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 three to the key to everything. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening. There are mornings that wake you like a bell, not loud, just clear. He didn't set an alarm, he didn't need one. His eyes opened on their own, the way windows do when the breeze is soft enough. There was no thought waiting to be wrestled, no weight waiting to be wrestled, no wait waiting to be explained. It was just stillness.
Speaker 1:He sat up, not because he had to, but because it felt like something in the world had already begun and he didn't want to miss it. There was a thin beam of light cutting through the blinds. Not golden, not poetic, just honest, like the day had nothing to hide. And for once he didn't feel behind. He didn't feel like he had to catch up with himself. The mirror didn't accuse, the to-do list didn't snarl. Even the coffee brewed without that desperate undertone, the one that says Please fix me before 9 am.
Speaker 1:Outside, the city moved like a slow tide. Trucks whispered down the street. Someone laughed too hard on a phone call in front of his building, the kind of laugh that doesn't apologize. And when he stepped out, someone held the door open for him, not in a dramatic way, just like it was normal. That's what stayed with him, Not the quiet, not the light, but the fact that the world didn't resist him this morning. It didn't push back, it didn't ask him to approve himself before letting him through. And that's the part that no one really warns you about. When it stops being hard, when the gears stop grinding Because when things start to work, you stop asking why you stop checking the cost you forget what you traded to feel this right. And in that moment, walking to the cafe, not knowing what was waiting, you thought he'd finally figured it out. But peace never shouts, it whispers just loud enough to keep you from noticing what's missing.
Speaker 1:He went back the next morning and the next and the next, not because of a schedule, not out of routine, but because something in the air around that place felt different. The cafe wasn't special. It had a cracked tile near the front entrance, a flickering bulb above the espresso machine, the window seal gathered condensation too easily, making the corner table feel colder than it should have. But it was alive, not loud, not curated, just present. And Lena was always there. She didn't greet him with rehearsed cheer or exaggerated warmth. She didn't try to remember his name. She remembered his drink, black coffee, no sugar, served like it was a little secret.
Speaker 1:The second morning he walked in she was already pouring it. He blinked how did you? She shrugged. People don't change their order unless they're trying to impress someone. He smirked. Wait a minute. Are you calling me predictable? No, I'm calling you consistent. She slid the cup across the counter like it was an offering. It's not the same thing. He sat by the window wondering how many people she said things like that to. But when he looked up she was reading again A thick book, no cover art, margins filled with pencil marks.
Speaker 1:He didn't ask about it, not yet that day he opened his laptop and wrote more than he had in weeks Just three paragraphs, but none of them were pretending. By Thursday she was already setting the mug out before he even opened the door. You always come in five minutes after the rush, she said without looking up. I used to think it was a coincidence. Now I'm wondering if it's a strategy. He chuckled, can't it be both? She tilted her head. Chuckled Can it be both? She tilted her head. That's what people say when they don't want to admit that they need quiet. He looked down. She wasn't wrong.
Speaker 1:That morning he asked about the book Golder, asher Bach. He said she was holding up two fingers, like it weighted more than it should. It's about strange loops, self-reference and consciousness. He blinked. You had me lost at strange loops. She grinned. Good, that means you're honest. Then she turned the page and kept reading.
Speaker 1:By the end of the week he had a new rhythm. Then she turned the page and kept reading. By the end of the week he had a new rhythm. Wake up without panic, shower slowly, dress, like someone might notice, walk two blocks, enter the cafe at 8.37am, Sit near the window, talk to Lena. They never talked for long, but something about the cadence made him feel more himself than anywhere else. It wasn't about flirting, it wasn't about being seen. It was about being real, someone who didn't need an explanation. She never asked what he did. She never asked where he was from. She asked questions like do you think people outrun their patterns? Or Do you notice when your body speaks before your brain does? Or when did you stop being surprised by yourself? He didn't always have answers for her questions, but she never rushed the silence that followed that weekend.
Speaker 1:He skipped a network brunch, slept in, walked to the cafe just to see if she worked Saturdays. She didn't. The barista that morning didn't know his order, didn't ask him a question that made his brain stretch, didn't underline anything in a book. He still stayed, but he didn't open his laptop. Instead he thought about what it meant to miss someone you hadn't let yourself need.
Speaker 1:Yet the next morning he came early, earlier than usual, and when she walked in than usual, and when she walked in hair had pulled back, mit sweatshirt, half-zipped, earbuds still in he felt something quiet shift. She saw him, paused, smiled. I didn't think you were a Saturday kind of guy. I'm not. He said, tapping the side of his mug. I guess I just wanted to be around something. I understand. She arched an eyebrow you think you understand me With a playful laugh. No, he replied. But the coffee's always the same, so that helps. She laughed. It was soft and it was real.
Speaker 1:And for the first time in a long time he didn't feel like he was waiting for life to begin. It was already happening, right here, in this moment, in a cafe with a chipped tile, under bad lighting, with a girl who reads books heavier than most people's self-esteem, and for now that was enough. There was no declaration, no pivotal moment, no scene where one of them leaned in too long or said something that changed everything. But something was changing Daily, quietly, in the way most true things do. They talked more, not because they had to fill the air, but because silence had already proven it could hold them.
Speaker 1:He stopped bringing his laptop. He started bringing a notebook instead. Sometimes he'd write, other times he'd just sit. Lena never interrupted him, but she always noticed when he was stuck. One morning he tapped his pen against the table five times in a row. She walked over, gently placed a napkin between his coffee and his hand. A quote was written in black ink we're always becoming someone. The question is, who gets to decide? Al? He looked up. She was already walking away.
Speaker 1:Later that week he told her about his dad, not in a vulnerable, cinematic way, just casually. He was talking about voices and he said my dad used to tell me the loudest person in the room was usually the weakest, and that stuck with me. Lena, without missing a beat, replied that's probably why you listen so well. He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. He just sipped his coffee and let it land. She never rushed his silences.
Speaker 1:The next morning she said something too. My professor thinks identity is recursive, she said, sitting across from him before his shift. What does that mean? She smiled tired. It means your idea of who you are is built from feedback loops, of who you think others think you are. He blinked. That sounds like a trap. Only if you forget to opt out. He paused. Do you ever forget? She looked at him long still. Sometimes I forget on purpose. Then she stood, walked behind the counter and he realized she had told him something real, not rehearsed, not academic, but personal. He wrote it down when he got home, didn't know why, but he did.
Speaker 1:On Thursday she brought over two cookies, don't argue. She said I'm celebrating for you. He raised an eyebrow. Wait, what am I being celebrated for? You didn't check your phone this morning. He laughed. Maybe I was trying to impress you, she grinned. Well then he failed. Impressing me would have meant not mentioning it. Meant not mentioning it. They shared the cookies anyways.
Speaker 1:Sometimes they talk about nothing, like how no one ever orders lemon pastries or why early morning sun feels more honest than noon light. Other times they went deep. She told him about a childhood memory where her brother asked if dreams were other versions of you. Waking up, he told her about the day he realized ambition and anxiety, felt like twins wearing different jackets. Neither of them tried to sound smart, but the conversations always went somewhere sacred.
Speaker 1:One morning he asked if she wanted to hear something he'd written. She nodded. It was a single paragraph, raw, non-edited. She read it twice, then looked at him and said You're different when you're not trying to be brilliant. He nodded. So am I trying too hard? She shrugged no, just, you're closer when you stop aiming. He didn't know what to do with that, so he wrote another paragraph the next day, one that didn't aim at all. It was the best thing he'd written in years.
Speaker 1:They started having standing silences, moments where he'd come, come in, she'd pour the coffee and either one would speak until the other one broke the spell. Sometimes the silence lasted minutes, and yet it always felt full. One day, during one of those silences, she placed a napkin on the counter. You feel more like yourself when you're not explaining who you are. One day, during one of those silences, she placed a napkin on the counter. You feel more like yourself when you're not explaining who you are. Now he looked up. You always write these things just for me, no, walking away. I write them for whoever needs them. You just seem to keep showing up when they're ready. He smiled, tucked it into his notebook. It was subtle, but the thread between them had become a cord Taunt Steady, unspoken, not romantic, not yet, but undeniably real. And in a world where most people talk past each other, this felt like being seen without a spotlight.
Speaker 1:He started sleeping better, woke up without alarms again and began each morning with a sense of not arrival but presence, like maybe, maybe, just maybe. Life wasn't trying to hand him something quiet and for once he was actually receiving it. It was strange how easy it became to wake up with clarity, to move without rushing, to walk through the door of a cafe and know what kind of silence he'd be met with. Some mornings she spoke first. Other mornings she didn't say a word until she handed him the mug, but the rhythm was there. There's no need to name it.
Speaker 1:That week everything in his work began to shift. His writing got picked by a mid-tier magazine than a larger one. A friend forwarded one of his essays to someone on a speaking panel. A brand asked if they could quote him. He got offered a ghostwriting deal for a name he wasn't allowed to mention. He didn't say yes to all of it, but the doors were opening and for once he didn't feel like he was kicking them down. He was being invited in.
Speaker 1:He told Lena about the writing deal over coffee. They want me to help someone tell their story, he said. Except I can't tell anyone, it's mine. She nodded. That must feel strange. Strange good or strange bad. She tilted her head both, but mostly like someone else is trying to wear your voice. He blinked. You always say things like that. No, she said, stirring her tea, just around people who sound like they're about to forget themselves. He didn't know if that was a compliment or a warning. Maybe it was both. Either way. It made him pause, made him write later that night with more attention, made him edit less, let the words be crooked and whole.
Speaker 1:On Thursday she brought out a cookie without asking. He smiled. I didn't earn that. She shrugged. You look like someone who remembered something true today. He didn't Well, not consciously. He didn't Well, not consciously, but the night before he found an old letter from his brother, one he never responded to, and instead of feeling guilt. He just felt like maybe remembering was its own reply. He told her that she didn't say anything at first. Then maybe not replying was the only honest thing you had done at the time. He really looked at her when she said that, really really looked. She was wearing the MIT sweatshirt again. The sleeves were fraying the leather soft from too many washes. You're not just a barista, he said. She grinned. You're not just a writer. They both slipped their drinks.
Speaker 1:That afternoon he closed a contract, the kind that paid more than his last three jobs combined. It came with a six-month retainer, a publishing credit and a clause that allowed him to stay anonymous if he chose. He celebrated alone that night, not because he didn't have anyone to call, but because the wind felt internal. No champagne, no announcement, just the quiet sense that he'd been building something for a long time and the bricks were finally starting to hold. The next morning he walked into the cafe with a different kind of energy, not louder, just fuller, she noticed, didn't say anything, but he could see it in the way. She lingered for a second longer before handing him his drink.
Speaker 1:He sat in the window, opened his notebook and wrote without effort Two pages, then three. Then he paused and looked up. Lena was reading the Feeling of what Happens. He asked her once why she always read the heavy ones during shifts. She said because if I read at home I'd never stop underlining. I'd never stop underlining here. I have to pick my moments. He asked if she underlined anything today. She tore a slip from a notepad, wrote slowly, then handed it to him. Emotion is the key to continuity of the self, damaso. He read it twice. Then he tucked it in the inside cover of his journal. I don't always understand you, he said. She smirked. That's okay. You don't talk like someone who needs to.
Speaker 1:That night he skipped the strategy dinner, turned off his phone, ate tech out on the floor, watched an old movie without checking the time and as he closed his eyes, the last thing he thought of wasn't the contract, it wasn't the money, it wasn't even the words he'd written. It was the moment her fingers touched the edge of the cup before handing it to him and the way she looked at him without expectation. On Sunday he arrived early. She walked in with wet hair and headphones, looked surprised to see him, but happy, I didn't peg you for Sunday again, he shrugged. I guess I've been wrong about myself lately. She poured the coffee, sat across from him, didn't say anything for a while. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes soft. You know you're different when you stop trying to land the sentence, the sentence. He smiled. I don't know what that means. She smiled, you will. Then she got up, put her apron on and started her shift.
Speaker 1:He watched her from the window, didn't feel behind, didn't feel ahead, just in it, the day, the moment, his life. For the first time, maybe ever, it all made sense. They still hadn't talked about attraction, but the space between them had started humming. He wasn't imagining it. The way she looked at him when he was lost in thought, the way she leaned in slightly when something he said made her eyes squint with delight. The way neither of them mentioned the growing softness in their pauses. Some mornings they sat in silence for nearly ten minutes. It wasn't awkward, it felt like they were listening to someone no one else could hear.
Speaker 1:He stopped scheduling calls before noon he started rearranging his calendar without needing to explain it. The team he was working with didn't question it. He still delivered, still met deadlines, but he always seemed to vanish between 8.30 and 10. They joked about it once on a team call, you always disappear. In the morning someone said You're not in love, are you? He laughed and shrugged, said something deflective. He shrugged, said something deflective. But a part of him wondered, not if he was in love, but if he was finally inside of something that didn't require performance.
Speaker 1:One morning she handed him a new napkin. The realest parts of you are the ones you hide when you feel seen. Now he read it, then looked it up. I think I'm scared of being understood. She tilted her head. That's because you're used to being useful, not known. He opened his mouth then closed it. That felt like a gut punch. He said Good. She replied it means it's landed. There was a new rhythm now. It wasn't just the cafe. She'd walk with him to the corner after her shift. They'd stand there too long, not wanting to break the moment.
Speaker 1:One moment she said have you ever felt like you're becoming someone without even trying? He nodded Lately yeah, that's the version I like, the one who doesn't need a script. He started telling her about his dreams, not the lofty kind, the real ones, the kind that left him shaken for hours after waking. She listened like someone decoding a language, only asking questions when he reached for meaning, even then only gentle ones. One day she admitted something too. I used to want to be a neuroscientist, said you still could? She shook her head. I don't think I wanted the title, I just wanted to understand why people leave themselves. He stared at her. That's the best reason I've ever heard. She smiled, not proud. Just present. They shared music now quotes, occasional memes, scribbled on napkins like ancient jokes passed through a secret order. But the air was changing Once she brushed past him behind the counter, their hands touched. It was nothing and it was everything. He didn't flinch and she didn't pull away. Just two people with full awareness of how warm electricity can feel when it's not forced.
Speaker 1:A Thursday came where he almost canceled a major call to stay longer, but he didn't. But he thought about it all day, not out of guilt, out of wonder at how easy it was becoming to want nothing more than this. That Sunday they walked a little further together down the block past the bookstore. She pointed out her favorite apartment, top floor. She said you can see the water from the corner window if you lean out far enough. You ever go up there once. She said friend of a friend.
Speaker 1:We listened to ban evar song and didn't say anything for nine minutes. He smiled. Sounds like you looked at him a beat too long. Then you're not in a rush anymore. I still have deadlines, he said. She stopped and turned toward him. That's not what I meant.
Speaker 1:And in that moment the air between them wasn't friendship. The air between them wasn't friendship, it wasn't flirting, it wasn't anything simple, it was recognition. And just for a second he wondered if this was the kind of peace people spent their whole lives trying to name. He didn't say anything as he walked back, neither did she, but as she reached the cafe door she turned. Don't ruin it by trying to define it Then softer, just be here while it's here. He nodded and she disappeared into the building and he realized he hadn't thought about his old life in days. The version of him that chased, the one who always fell a few steps behind, that version hadn't been showing up lately, and maybe that was the point. He didn't think about success the same way anymore. It wasn't about getting published. It wasn't about being followed. It wasn't about a rival. It was about alignment, waking up and not flinching, spending time with people who didn't need him to prove anything, writing words that I didn't try too hard, having mornings with Lena that didn't demand a narrative.
Speaker 1:He was still getting invitations, podcasts, panels, features, and he said no to most of them, not out of fear but out of peace. He no longer needed the noise to confirm his value. One afternoon he and Lena sat on the curb behind the cafe. It was her break. They both had coffee. She was humming something, a song he didn't realize. You hum when you're calm, he said. She smirked. I hum when I forget anyone's listening. That's the same thing. They sat for a moment letting the warmth of the sidewalk seep through their clothes. Then she said You've been quieter lately, quieter how, less trying and more arriving. He smiled. You sound like a mindful apt, she laughed. Well, you sound like someone who used to run from stillness, and now you're not. He thought about that. He didn't say she was right, but she was.
Speaker 1:That night he journaled for the first time in weeks, not because he needed to dump thoughts, but because he wanted to remember the feel of the season, the way the cafe smelled when the beans were fresh ground. The way Lena sometimes held her cup with both hands like she was protecting something sacred. The way his own shoulders didn't hurt as much. In the morning he wrote until the pen ran out and he didn't replace it right away, he just stared at the page, let the stillness speak louder than his words. He started dressing differently, not fancier, just clear Sweaters with intention, shoes that fit well and didn't scream for attention, the kind of clothes that said I know who I am and I'm not auditioning. Lena noticed You're softening, she said one morning. He raised an eyebrow. Is that good? That's real, she said.
Speaker 1:They had a moment Wednesday morning, 9-12 am. The cafe was quiet and he was early. She was distracted thumbing through a dense article printout and he watched her just for a second. She looked up what Nothing, he said. Looked up what Nothing, he said. She tilted her head. What he paused? Just, I think this is the first time in my life where things feel like they fit. She didn't smile, she didn't nod, she just reached across the counter, touched the edge of his hand. She didn't nod, she just reached across the counter and touched the edge of his hand. Then stay in it, she said Don't try to capture it, don't try to name it, just be in it. He felt something press behind his eyes, a kind of ache, but not sadness, gratitude, like he was being given something he didn't have to earn.
Speaker 1:That weekend he turned on a high profile writing assignment. Could have paid more than anything else he's ever done, but it required flights, deadlines, eight weeks of interviews. It would have pulled him out of this rhythm, out of this city, out of this life. He emailed them back it's not the right season. I'm building something slower. No one understood what that meant, but he didn't care, because Lena would. He was beginning to trust that she was the mirror he needed.
Speaker 1:Sunday afternoon she handed him a folded napkin before he left. Maybe peace isn't found, maybe it's remembered. Now he looked up. You always give me these, not always, she said, just to people who might forget. That night he opened a drawer full of these napkins, read through each one and realized something. They weren't notes, they were breadcrumbs. A quiet path back to himself. He didn't know what came next. He didn't feel he needed to. For the first time in his life, he wasn't waiting to arrive somewhere. He was already there.
Speaker 1:It was Tuesday when he took the photo. Late morning, the cafe was nearly empty. Sunlight spilled through the front windows like something intentional. Lena stood at the counter, her back to the glass. She laughed at something a co-worker said, half-turned arms crossed, one leg bent slightly, like she wasn't aware of her own softness. The light hit her hair like gold that didn't know it was valuable. The sleeves of her sweatshirt were pushed up. Her journal was half open next to her hand. The corner of a napkin stuck out words barely visible. He lifted his phone and took the picture. Just one, no filter, no framings, no thoughts of captions, just the need to remember something exactly as it was. He looked at the photo that night and again the next morning, but it never posted it, not because he didn't want to, but because some moments feel like they would dissolve if spoken too loudly. That photo became a kind of proof, not of love, not of possession, but of presence, of a season that didn't need to be shared to be real.
Speaker 1:That week his name was mentioned in a major article. A mentor called to congratulate him. He was invited to dinner with important people. Someone asked if he could speak at a creative summit in New York. He said maybe, but he didn't change anything. He still showed up at the cafe, still ordered the same thing, still read the book she passed to him, still answered her question with half thoughts and whole honesty. One day she handed him a book wrapped in a paper bag. Wait to open it until you're home, she said he did. It was a used copy of being in Time. Inside the front cover she'd written you don't have to understand this, just know I trust you with things I haven't figured out yet. Al, he stared at the handwriting for a long time, not because it was beautiful, but because it looked like someone who wasn't trying to impress him, just someone being real, even when the words were borrowed.
Speaker 1:That weekend he was invited to an off-site retreat. It was hosted by a company that had followed his writing since the early days. They promised exposure, a full crowd, a private suite. He read the itinerary Three panels, four mixers, no silence. He declined.
Speaker 1:Instead he sat in the cafe with Lena on a slow Sunday. She was off-duty. They were sharing a pot of loose-leaf tea, a single cookie broken into two between them. He told her he used to chase meaning, but lately he was trying to make space for it. She didn't respond, just leaned her head against the window, watched people pass and then said I think the loudest love is the kind that never asks to be noticed. He nodded, looked at the cookie, then broke off a small piece and handed it to her. They didn't talk for another 20 minutes, didn't need to.
Speaker 1:That night he looked at the photo again, still didn't post it, but this time he wrote beneath it in the Notes app. This is what stillness looks like when it trusts you back Then locked his phone, turned off the lights and slept without dreams. You know, some seasons aren't meant to be preserved, they're meant to be lived. You know, if you look at him right now, he was waking up before the alarm right, not because he had somewhere to be, but because, you know, the day itself felt like something to meet, not outrun. You know his work was moving, money was coming in. You know people were quoting him, forwarding his writing, offering more, and yet it was the space between the milestones that felt full for him. The way he, you know her eyes looked when she underlined a sentence, the rhythm of her walking towards the register and back, the weight of the book she gave him, wrapped in paper.
Speaker 1:The cookie split in two. The photo he never posted, it was all so quiet, but it was undemanding, and maybe that's what presence really is, not the stillness of. You know, I should say as the goal, but stillness as a gift. You know, if you think about it, he wanted everything and he got everything he wanted so far, you know. But what grounded him were these. It wasn't these yeshes, I should say, it was the mornings with no performance, the silences that didn't need filling. He didn't know what would change, he didn't know how long the rhythm would last, but for now, the key sat untouched in the drawer, not forgotten, just not needed, because for the first time, he wasn't trying to unlock anything, he was already inside. So as we're talking about that, let's go ahead and get into reflection prompts. When was the last time something worked and you didn't try to turn it into proof? Man? That's a really big one, right? Reflection prompt two Is there someone in your life who helps you feel more like yourself just by being around you?
Speaker 1:Number three have you ever kept something private, not out of fear, but just because it felt sacred? Number four what would your days look like if you stopped chasing and started choosing man? That's a huge question, huge question that I still have problems with. And number five what's the photo you never posted?
Speaker 1:What's the moment you're holding on in your heart quietly writing this is is that moment when two people start to feel each other. You know, not out of love, but out of mutual respect and honesty. You know, and if you think about it, every time you enter a relationship either a great friendship or a great romantic relationship they always kind of start like this. They start off slow, they have like a slow burn, and then you realize that you can learn from them and they can learn from you, and that they're the yin to your yang and vice versa. You know that essential. In a lot of ways they complete you but they push you. That's what we're starting to see here. We're starting to see him being fulfilled personally and being fulfilled professionally, and that's usually something that doesn't happen. It's a very rare occasion and he's living that rareness right now.
Speaker 1:So I'm definitely excited about this series. I'm excited for you to listen to it. But as we continue forward, here's the thing we got to talk about how you can get a hold of me. So there's a couple different ways. First way is going to be through the chat function. On the description of this podcast, it'll say let's chat. Is going to be through the chat function. On the description of this podcast, it'll say let's chat. You click on that and you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, the other eight series that are out there and the other 250 plus episodes that I have out there now.
Speaker 1:Second way is through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom, so please feel free to email me there or get a hold of me there. And, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is Anthony. I'm sorry, it's not Anthony, it's mygentsjourneycom. Holy smokes, I'm leaving that in there. I'm not editing that out Mygentsjourneycom or mygentsjourney Jesus. I'm leaving that in there. I'm not editing that out MyGentsJourneycom or my Gents Journey Jesus. But anyways, guys, I just appreciate all your support, all the love you give me. It just means the world to me and I'm definitely excited where this series is going and see how this is all going to work out. So again, guys, thank you so much for listening today and remember this you create your reality, take care.