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: Everything Works”
What happens when you finally get everything you've worked for, only to discover it's not what you expected? In this deeply reflective episode, we unravel the hidden price of success and recognition – the gradual disconnection from our authentic selves and those who knew us before we became "someone."
Through a compelling narrative, we follow the journey of a man whose words become sought-after wisdom, whose presence fills rooms, and whose insights earn standing ovations. Yet beneath this external validation lurks a growing emptiness as he realizes he's become fluent in performance while forgetting the sound of his own voice. Most painfully, he watches his connection with Lena – the one person who truly saw him before fame – slip away not through conflict but through quiet distance.
This episode examines the subtle ways we begin performing versions of ourselves that others applaud, crafting answers before questions are asked and polishing our rough edges until we become unrecognizable even to ourselves. "You never know you've been performing until the clapping doesn't land anymore," becomes a haunting realization as our protagonist confronts the difference between being surrounded by attention versus being surrounded by love.
Whether you're chasing success or already standing in its spotlight, this episode offers crucial reflection questions: Who saw you before you were polished? Who do you no longer share your wins with? Are you showing up authentically or merely arriving where others expect you to be? And perhaps most importantly – can you still recognize yourself beneath the applause?
Join me for this powerful exploration of what we risk losing when we become everything we thought we wanted. Connect with me through the podcast chat, email anthony@gentsjourney.com, or find me on Instagram @mygentsjourney – I'd love to hear your thoughts on this journey we're all navigating together.
"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 five with the key to everything. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening. There are mornings where the light just lands perfectly, where the coffee is still warm after the meeting ends, where the shoes match the tone, where the inbox doesn't feel like weight, just motion. Today is one of those mornings.
Speaker 1:He wakes up before the alarm, not because he's anxious, but because there's nothing to run from. He's slept well, dreamless, clean. He showers, shaves, buttons, the white shirt he used to save for important days, but now every day is important, or at least they look like it. He's never looked better. The mirror agrees. There's a precision to everything now the haircut, the collar, the scent that trails him into rooms. His calendar is full but not crowded. It's curated like an art gallery. Curated like an art gallery. Breakfast is protein and quiet, no scroll, no distractions. He doesn't need to check the metrics. Today His name is already in the newsletter. As he steps outside, the doorman calls him by name. They used to catch him off guard. Now it feels earned.
Speaker 1:A car pulls up, black tinted, waiting for him. He didn't ask for it. Someone sent it, someone who wants to meet, who wants to quote him, wants to say they knew him. Before the driver opens the door, he slides in Leather, silence, success. He doesn't look out the window, he already knows the city will reflect him well At that venue. His name is printed on glass, white letters, all caps His name and conversation with. He reads it with the calm of someone who's been here before and he has Three times this month.
Speaker 1:The security guard recognizes him. The assistant waves him through Backstage. Someone hands him a card, a schedule. Someone offers him tea, water, ginger juice for his throat. There's a chair with his name on it, next to a ring light and a small table of hair products he's never used but he owns. He sits, looks at himself in the mirror, not to fix anything, just to check if he's still him. And for that moment he hesitates, not from fear, from something quieter. It's like a draft in a sealed room, a shift that shouldn't be there, a silence inside the applause. He blinks, shakes it off, checks his notes, talking points, quotes the sentence he wants to land at the end. Success isn't clarity, it's the reward for surviving your confusion. He knows they'll love that one Outside the door, the moderator's voice warms up.
Speaker 1:Coming up next is a man who's changed the way we think about identity. The crowd claps Louder than he expects. He stands, adjusts his jacket and in that stands, adjusts his jacket and in that moment, just for a second, he thinks of Lena Not her face, just the tone of her voice. When she once said be careful who you clap for, you might start performing for them. He never wrote it down, but it stayed somewhere. Now it echoes Careful who you clap for, you might start performing for them. He never wrote it down, but it stayed somewhere. Now it echoes, not out loud but honest.
Speaker 1:He steps into the light. The applause finds him again and he smiles like someone who believes that this is what he's always wanted. But something in the back of his chest whispers. Then why does it feel like I've lost something? Now? Part one the rise that felt deserved. He wasn't chasing anymore. Now they chased him. His inbox used to sit quiet for days. Now it refreshed itself with momentum A new podcast request, a collaborative invite, a keynote panel next spring, A university reach-out, a limited series featurette All in the last 48 hours. They weren't just asking if he was available 48 hours. They weren't just asking if he was available, they were asking when that was new.
Speaker 1:He found himself walking differently now, more centered, less urgency, not because he was pretending, but because he'd arrived. The things he used to explain now explained him. He didn't tell stories about becoming anymore. Now he was the story. It felt earned. He bled for this in silence. Years of writing things no one would read, of whispering sentences in notebooks that never left the drawer, of standing in corners while other people talked louder, while other people looked shinier. But now, now they quoted him word for word, he'd see pieces of himself in other people's posts, phrases he only ever used in the dark, now recycled in headlines. Clarity isn't found, it's remembered. Identity is a negotiation between memory and performance. Stop chasing peace in the houses built by noise. He used to write these lines for himself. Now they were branded. He smiled when he saw them, mostly Not because he needed credit, mostly Not because he needed credit, but because it meant they were listening.
Speaker 1:Finally, he was getting paid for his voice, now Flown out for panels, lodged in hotels where someone else unpacked the suitcase. There was a rhythm to it all. Now he knew how to wear the suit, how to start the talk, how to pause before the punchline. He wasn't playing a character, he was the character and people loved him for it. Even the way he drank coffee changed no longer in paper cups, now came in glass mugs, served in lounges where everything echoed softly.
Speaker 1:He told himself it didn't change him, that he was still grounded, still aware. He still woke up early, still read every morning, still kept the same notebook by the bed, though he hadn't written it lately, not because he forgot, just because the sentences didn't come the same way anymore. He was using his voice all day now, selling it, sharing it, structuring it into digestible stories. That made people nod At night. There wasn't much left, but he didn't question that yet because things were, they were working. Every headline that mentioned him had a version of the same subtext how he built quietly the future of influence. He didn't like that word influence, but he didn't correct them. You don't correct a wave when it's carrying you. The invitations came faster. He was booked two months out.
Speaker 1:Every other day he was on stage or behind a mic telling people how he found himself, how he built his clarity, how he let go of performance and stepped into presence. He believed it Well, mostly. There were moments, though, in the car between cities or in the hotel bathroom, brushing his teeth under the white LED lights, and he'd catch his own eyes in the mirror and not know what to say to them. Not because he didn't recognize the face. And he'd catch his own eyes in the mirror and not know what to say to them. Not because he didn't recognize the face, but because the face didn't feel like it needed anything. And that's what scared him. See, need was what used to make him real, what used to drive the words, the ache, the reach, the want. Now things were smooth, and smooth didn't write very well, but that wasn't a problem. Yet.
Speaker 1:The panels went well, the podcasts were tight, the metrics were growing, his name was spoken in rooms he hadn't entered yet, and he wasn't tired, not yet. He smiled when people asked what's next, because, for the first time in his life, he didn't know. And that used to scare him. But now it felt like a luxury. He was learning how to pause, to let the room breathe, to let the silence say something. Before he did, he had forgotten how powerful that was the ability to not need to fill the moment. And yet there was a small detail, small enough he could ignore it. But still there, in every green room, on every couch, in every call, he was always the one talking, he was always the one being heard, he was always the one giving presents, but no one in these rooms knew him before he wore the suit. No one remembered when his sentences were messy, when he showed up late, when he didn't know who he was becoming. No one ever asked what his silence sounded like. Only Lena did, and that thought. He tucked it away, filed it under later, under return. There was still so much to do, so many rooms to be in, so many names to be remembered by. He had arrived, but something about the way the light landed on his hands that night made him feel like he was becoming someone he wouldn't recognize if he passed himself in the street and he didn't know why. That felt more like a warning than a win.
Speaker 1:There was a stretch of days four, maybe five where he didn't speak to anyone without a camera on Zoom boxes, microphones, clean lighting, questions he'd already answered before the interview even started. He'd become a voice, not a person, but a tone, a presence. They could fit between commercial breaks. He wasn't bitter about it. It was what he asked for and, honestly, it was working. The segments ran clean. The host smiled at his soundbites. Clarity isn't something you find, it's what happens when you stop performing. That one always landed.
Speaker 1:They asked how he got here, what shifted, what his routine was like, how he stayed so centered. He answered like he was reading from a script they all wanted to believe in Mornings alone, no notifications before breakfast, journaling every day, presence, intention, silence. Some of it was still true, most of it was once true. But what he didn't say, what they didn't say, what they didn't ask, was how often he felt like he was impersonating someone who figured it out, because that's what people wanted to know now. They didn't want the man who was still searching, they wanted the man who already found. They wanted the version of him that sounded like closure. So that's what he gave them. It wasn't dishonest, it just wasn't complete. And that difference was starting to show, not in his answers but in the echo after he spoke. He used to finish a sentence and feel like something shift. Now he finished a sentence and felt delivery. There was applause in their eyes even before he spoke, and that's the kind that makes you forget how to pause.
Speaker 1:In one interview the host said you're so confident. Has it always been this easy for you? He smiled, that polished, camera-trained smile. No, not always. But clarity feels easy once you've lived through confusion long enough. That line was rehearsed. He didn't mean it unkindly, but when he watched it back later he didn't see himself. He saw a performance, someone who knew how to land the insight, not someone who wrestled with it. That scared him quietly, Not enough to stop, just enough to notice. He began describing moments more than he was living them. His answers were efficient, his metaphors were crisp, his cadence perfectly broken up for reals, and somewhere deep underneath the rhythm of all, he missed the part of himself that used to speak slowly, not for a fact, but because he was still figuring it out. Now he figured it out. Before the question came. He had lines for everything, even silence.
Speaker 1:In a winter interview, when asked what he missed most before the rise, he paused. He looked down, furrowed his bow, just stopped to look thoughtful and said I miss being unknown. There's something sacred about anonymity it forces honesty. It was a good answer, a beautiful one even. But in the silence that followed he realized something brutal. He didn't miss being unknown. He missed being seen by someone who knew him when he was. And that person was gone, Not dead, not angry, just graduated Without ceremony. Lena hadn't posted in a while. He checked Her rating account Quiet, no new underlines, no new napkins. And that silence felt sharper than any headline. Her reading account quiet, no new underlines, no new napkins. And that silence felt sharper than any headline. Because now everyone was asking what made him special. But the only person who never asked was the one who already saw it before it worked.
Speaker 1:That night, after back-to-back recordings, he sat at the edge of the hotel bed, suit jacket still on, shoes kicked off, but not far. He looked at the room Soft light, designer furniture, curated emptiness Picked up his phone, typed her name in the messages Scrolled he sent something months ago, just a photo of a page, a quote from the feeling of what happens, no-transcript. He never replied. He screenshotted it now and put his phone down and in that silence he felt something tear, not loudly, not all at once, just enough. He walked to the mirror Still wearing his shirt from the interview. He looked good, like the kind of man you'd quote, but something behind his eyes looked like he was waiting to come home. He walked in with his phone still in his hand, not on a call, not this time but still holding it, still in orbit around it. He slipped it into his pocket as he approached the counter, like the act of putting it away was enough to mean he was present.
Speaker 1:Lena didn't look up right away. There was no second cup waiting beside the register, no fresh quote scribbled on the cup sleeve, just her hands quietly moving, cleaning something already clean. When she finally glanced up, it was brief morning. Hey, he said smiling. Still remember my order? That earned the faintest look. One corner of her mouth twitched, unfortunately. He smirked, tried to meet her eyes again. She didn't offer more, just poured the coffee, set it down. No napkin, no linger. He waited a beat. Hey, you okay, she shrugged. I'm good, I'm just Tired. Tired of me, he joked.
Speaker 1:This time she smiled for real, but faint like muscle memory, tired of talking to people who aren't fully there. He opened his mouth and closed it, not at once, like he was taking it in then pivoted because the truth was uncomfortable. Hey, did I tell you I got nominated for something? He said pulling out his phone. Thought you'd find this funny. She leaned slightly towards the screen, saw the email. Emerging voice of the year. She leaned slightly towards the screen, saw the email Emerging voice of the year. She didn't roll her eyes. She didn't smile either. Hey, that's great. She said. You'll be everywhere soon. He chuckled. Already feels like I am. There was something in her expression, a pause. That's the thing she said. People who are everywhere sometimes forget how to be somewhere. He blinked. Is that a quote or a? She shook her head. No napkin for that one. He took the cup, walked to the window seat. It was still empty, still his, but it didn't feel like it had been saved. He sat, sipped the coffee was right, perfect even, but it didn't land. She came by a minute later clearing a table near him. He watched her a little too long. Hey, are you still reading that? You know that consciousness stuff, he asked. She looked over, took a break Working on other things. Like she didn't answer right away but then simply said Finish the paper, couple months left. He nodded casually. Oh, tight deadline. She looked at him for a beat. No, I mean a couple months left here. He paused. Oh, like a break. She didn't correct him, just turned back to the counter. He didn't ask again, didn't realize what she was saying, didn't register that. The tone she used was the same when people speak and when they're trying to tell you something without having to say it twice. Instead, he picked up his phone, swiped through notifications, a podcast invite, a write-up in some digital magazine, another panel ask, another mention. He let the screen reflect back to him a version of himself. He wanted to keep believing in the one who finally made it. She brought a plate back to the back. He watched her disappear through the swinging door. He felt something pull inside of him, but he didn't name it. He didn't lean in, didn't say what do you mean you're leaving? Because in that moment everything else was clapping. He wasn't ready to hear silence again. When she came back, she didn't stop near him, didn't ask what he was writing, didn't offer an article, didn't drop a line like a gift. She just moved around him like someone already practicing absence. He checked the time. Oh hey, gotta run Meeting with a brand thing. They want me to help design a message series or something. She nodded. Of course they do. He smiled you gonna miss me when I'm gone. She raised her eyebrows. You're already halfway gone. Then she walked behind the counter, didn't wait for a reply. He didn't give one. The lights were perfect, they should walk behind the counter. Didn't wait for a reply. He didn't give one. The lights were perfect, soft, clean, indirect, the kind that made your skin look rested and made doubt feel far away. The room was already full when he arrived VIP badges, fluted glasses, soft jazz dripping from nowhere. Conversation sounded like consensus. His name was on the card by the stage, keynote Becoming the voice. He almost laughed when he saw it, not because it wasn't true, but because they made it sound finished, as if becoming had an end point, as if there was a formula, as if he'd written one. A woman in a charcoal blazer greeted him, hand already extended. You must be him. He nodded, then corrected her. They guided him toward the green room bottled water with his name printed on the label. Toward the green room Bottled water, with his name printed on the label. A platter of berries, smoked almonds, something that looked like luxury but tasted like nothing. He sat down. The chair felt firmer than it looked. Across the table was a digital event guide with his face on it. Same headshot, same words, pulled from the same quote. They always clipped. Clarity is what happens when you stop trying to look like you've arrived. They loved that one. He didn't remember writing it. Not really. It came from a morning where Lena had something small and sharp about people who mistake confidence for peace. He had it scribbled in his notebook, then shaped it into a sentence people could post. Now it belonged to them. There was a knock, showtime. The walk to the stage felt like a glide. Everything was velvet and quiet. Shoes. A stage manager touched his shoulder like a prayer and whispered Whenever you're ready? He stepped into the spotlight and he smiled. The first sentence was muscle memory. Now, years ago, I used to sit in cafes hoping someone would see me. The room leaned in. He told the story, the version, with the right rise, the tension, the clarity, and then I remembered who I was. They laughed at the right lines. They wrote down things. One man in the back wiped a tear. A woman in the front mouthed one of his quotes before he finished saying it. He hit every note, every shift, every crafted pause, and for 15 minutes the room believed. He closed with the same line he always did. Now, don't become so fluent in performance that you forget the sound of your own voice. Standing ovation, photos, flashes and reverence. A man asked for a signature. Someone asked said he was the mirror they didn't know they needed. And still, as he stepped off the stage, all he felt was empty air, no napkin, no scribbled quote waiting, no eyes that asked how he really felt about any of it Just that girl. People saw him now, but no one looked at him like he wasn't trying. Lena never clapped, not because she didn't believe in him, but because she saw him, and when you're fully seen, applause feels unnecessary. Back in the green room, he took the mic pack off, pulled out his phone, thumbed through open messages nothing from her of, of course not. She hadn't texted in days. No quotes, no links, no silence shaped like care. He wanted to send something, something honest, like you were right about all of it, but he didn't. Instead, he opened up Instagram, posted a photo of the back of the room blurred heads, soft lighting. Caption the echo is the loudest when the room agrees. No one would know what it meant, but they'd think it was wise. That night, back in the hotel room, he stared at the ceiling. The applause still vibrated in his chest, but they'd think it was wise. That night, back in the hotel room, he stared at the ceiling. The applause still vibrated in his chest, but not in a way that soothed, in a way that made it hard to sleep. He reached for his notebook, opened it back to a blank page, wrote one sentence you never know you've been performing until the clapping doesn't land anymore. Then closed it again and for a brief second he thought he heard her voice, not in the room but in the silence, and it said nothing Because he hadn't earned words yet. Only distance. The hotel suite was perfect, one of those high floor rooms with too much air and no personality. It smelled like eucalyptus and filtered water, the kind of place meant for people who pass through too often to belong anywhere. He slipped off his jacket, hung it on the brass hook, like it was made for it, loosen his collar, kicked off his shoes, still high from the event, that strange humming silence that always follows applause, not sad, not joyful, just swollen. He walked to the mirror. The lighting was museum, soft, warm, but not golden, just enough to make you look like a better version of yourself. He stared the suit fit him perfectly, the shirt hugged his frame just right. The posture, the way he stood now looked like success. He looked like the kind of man people quoted, the kind of man he used to imagine when he sat at the cafe and wondered what was possible. And yet the longer he stared, the less familiar it felt. Not broken, not wrong, just foreign. Like someone had handed him the mask of a better man and he forgot to take it off. He tilted his head slightly. He tried to smile. It looked practiced Even to him. He whispered You're him now. Then he waited to feel something, but nothing landed. Because that's what they don't tell you about becoming is this if you rehearse long enough, you'll forget you were ever unscripted. He looked down at the bathroom sink. On the counter was a little card from the event keynote. Becoming the voice, he picked it up, turned it over. Someone had written a note on the back in clean handwriting. Becoming the voice, he picked it up, turned it over. Someone had written a note on the back in clean handwriting. You made me believe again. He wanted to feel proud, wanted to feel like he had returned the favor to someone. But it didn't land because no one had believed in him the way Lena did, not before the bookings, not before the polish. She never needed him really to be on. She liked him most when he wasn't ready, when his thoughts came out messy, when his questions outnumbered his answers when he asked her what recuser meant, and listened like the world was built out of one sound of her voice. But now he was the answer. That's what they wanted. People booked him to summarize their own unspoken truths, to name things they couldn't hold on long enough to say out loud. He didn't mind, but it meant he had nowhere to go and he was the one who needed naming. He set the card down, unbuttoned the shirt, pulled the tie off, looked in the mirror really looked in the mirror Bare chest lines of muscle, posture still perfect. And yet it felt like he was looking at someone mid-performance, like he'd built a man the world could love and lost track of who he was building it for. He turned off the light. The room went soft, silent. He walked barefoot to the edge of the light. The room went soft, silent. He walked barefoot to the edge of the bed, sat down, picked up his notebook, flipped through the pages. The early ones felt alive messy, honest Quotes from her notes to self, the kind of questions that don't belong on podcasts. He flipped to the latest page, one line written after the event the echo is the loudest when the room agrees. He stared at it. Then, beneath it he wrote but what if the only thing echoing is a version of me I don't believe in anymore. He closed the book, laid back, looked up at the ceiling and whispered Would she even recognize me? Now? And for the first time in weeks, the silence didn't feel like stillness, it felt like distance. The car dropped him off just before midnight. The driver said something about the speech, called it powerful. He smiled, nodded, said thanks, but his voice didn't match his face. He stepped inside the apartment light still dimmed from before, the kind of stillness that felt sterile, not peaceful. He didn't take off his shoes, he just stood there, looked at everything the, the couch, the bookshelves, the unopened mail, the cornery where the key sat still buried in the drawer, still untouched. He moved slowly, not exhausted, just slow in the way people move when the momentum finally stops. He poured a glass of water, drank half, sat it down, then walked out to the window, looked out. The city wasn't asleep, but it was quieter than usual, like it knew something had shifted. He pulled out his phone, opened his messages, scrolled no, lena, of course not. It had been days, maybe weeks now, maybe more. She stopped texting entirely, not out of anger, just absence. He clicked into their thread, scrolled back. The last message she sent was a quote, no explanation, just a line. Not everything that quiets you is peace Gant responded. He stared at it like it might rearrange itself, say something new. But it didn't. He typed something, deleted it, typed again you around, deleted that too, then just sat, phone still in hand, watching the notification screen stay empty. He thought about calling, but he already knew what silence sounded like and calling would only confirm it. He opened his email instead, just to feel needed. Three new invitations, two new testimonies. Someone wrote that the last post felt like a sermon for their younger self. He didn't smile, just bookmarked the message and closed the app. He walked to the drawer, opened it. There was the key, right where he left it, still heavy, still cold. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, thought about what it used to symbolize. Possibly. Now it just felt like weight, not bad, just uncharitable. Because what do you say to someone when your dreams come true and it doesn't save you? What do you write in your journal when there's no enemy left to blame and still something's missing? He sat the key on the counter, left it out in the open for the first time, then sat back down, notebook open, wrote a line across the top of the page I think I've got everything I've wanted Then stared at it, wrote the next line slower, but no one told me how to hold it. When it arrived, he thought about Lena, about the second cup that stopped showing up, the napkin, she stopped writing on the way her voice had grown more factual. She said something a week ago. He hadn't remembered it until now. Maybe it was longer. He remembered her saying a couple months left. She wasn't just talking about school, she was warning him, preparing him. And he nodded, smiled and scrolled. He didn't ask, he didn't lean in, because when everything is working, you stop looking for things that don't applaud you. And now, now it was just him, the notebook, the key. In the quiet he got up, pulled on a sweater, walked out to the balcony. The night wasn't cold, it was just honest. He sat in the dark and let it cover him, didn't think, didn't analyze, just felt. Somewhere deep in the quiet, beneath the press releases, the panels, the praise, he realized he never said thank you, not really, not to her, not to himself. He built the stage, but he left the parts of him that listened off of it. That night he didn't sleep, but for the first time in a long time he stopped performing. You know, he got everything, every yes, every room, every quote he ever wanted someone to say about him and for a while it felt like proof, proof that he was enough, proof that you know, he'd finally done it, arrived somewhere real. But tonight he sat in a quiet apartment holding a glass of water, staring at a notebook full of truths. He didn't live anymore and for the first seven months he told himself the truth, you know, not out loud, not to the room, but to himself. He whispered I don't know who I'm performing for anymore, because the rooms are still full, right, the panels are still clapping, but something shifted. The applause didn't land, not because they're lying, but because he is right. Not intentionally, not maliciously, just slowly, like someone putting on a costume that fit too well and forgetting to take it off. See, that's the danger nobody talks about Not failure, not rejection, not obscurity, but success without witness. See, the kind of success that arrives when the only person who really knew you already stopped watching. You know, when Lena poured him coffee, there was no stage, there was no booking, there was no badge, just a table, a second cup and a woman who asked why he was chasing anything at all. And now, now she's quiet. You know she's still here, technically still reachable, but she doesn't reach. And he hasn't called, because to tell her about the last speech would be to admit that she wasn't in it, that he didn't quote her, didn't reference her, didn't even think to look for her. In the back of the room, he wonders when it started, not the success, but the loss. Right, it wasn't a moment, it wasn't a pattern. It was that second cup that stopped showing up. He didn't ask why. She said a couple months left, right. He didn't ask what, for it blew right by him, right? She started speaking in smaller sentences. He didn't realize that he started talking louder to fill the space. He doesn't realize that either. You know there was that quote she gave him once where. What does it say? You know, people who are everywhere often forget how to be somewhere. Right. And you know, if you think about it, he thought it sounded poetic, maybe something he could. You know, if you think about it, he thought it sounded poetic, maybe something he could, you know, use in a talk. But now you know it sounded like a goodbye. He wasn't ready to hear. And now, at the end of this you know, end of this episode he's sitting in silence, not punished, not abandoned. Abandoned, but alone, when you know all the things he thought would make him whole, none of the people who remembered him before. He needed a microphone. Right, he speaks now, not to tell anyone he learned, but to warn them about how easy it is to become someone people love while forgetting to love the person you were before they noticed you. How many people you know that this happens to? I know a ton, you know, as we're talking about that, you know, there's the version who asked questions, who wrote quietly, who listened more than he posted, who showed up not to be seen but to feel something real. So here's what he's asking now. You know, in this, you know not just to himself, but I'll ask this of you. You know All of us I don't care who you are, we're all chasing our own version of applause. But something I would like to ask and this is a reflection question, this is a question, right, who saw you before you were polished? You know, in that question, I'll ask you another question who do you no longer share your wins with, because you're afraid they'll see what you lost to get to them. Another question with this, as I'm just thinking about this out loud honestly are you showing up or are you just arriving where they expected you to be? How many people? I'm going to tell you this. That's such a huge question, because people think they're showing up, but they're just arriving where they expect you to be. We do that all the time, and especially in this social media world. This is a great question. Did you write the story or just become a headline? Because, as I'm asking you this, there's a kind of grief that doesn't cry, it just pulls away. One sentence at a time, one unspoken thought, one silent morning, until all that's left is distance and the shape of someone who used to know how you took your coffee. You have to remember this, as I'm saying this to you. He's not broken, he's just remembering. Sometimes that's harder, because here's what it means Remembering means you have to sit in the room with a version of you who still believes success would feel like a rival. I'm going to tell you this right now, as I'm saying this to you A lot of the times, I'll say, in successes that I've had, you know where I've really worked hard for something really really worked and I got it. And it didn't feel that great because there was really no one to share it with or there was no one there or whatever. It just felt better, better, sweet in a lot of ways, especially when you look back and you think about how much you worked hard to get something and then, bam, it's there. Another great way I can explain it is like when you graduate from junior high, high school and college, especially college, where you've done all this work, all these things, and you graduate right and now you think to yourself like okay, now what? I mean people there to celebrate you. But if you ask what a lot people are there to celebrate you, but if you ask what a lot of people are thinking when they're graduating college, especially that next day, everything gets real. And that's what's happening to him right now. Everything is getting real, he's getting everything he wants, but the one thing that was staring him in the face is leaving him slowly but surely and he's not going to do anything about it, not right now. So let's go into our reflection prompts. Reflection one Can you remember a moment where you achieved something and felt nothing, just kind of talked about it? Two who did you stop sharing your small joys with, because your world got louder? Number three what version of yourself still waits to be seen without applause? Number four are you surrounded by love or surrounded by attention? I'm going to tell you you answer that question honestly. That's going to change your world, I promise. And number five when did you stop, or I should say, when did you last stop, performing? So, guys, I know this was a big episode and you know what you're going to hear on Sunday or the next episode after this will obviously be our review, you know, of the week or of these past five episodes, kind of get you prepared for the next five. And uh, it's going to be a lot of fun, as always. Um, no, this, like I said, know this, like I said this, this is a big episode and there's a lot here. And yeah, it's, it's definitely interesting, for sure. But again, before we guys go, before I go, as I hit the microphone, sorry guys I want to thank every single one of you who listen, who show support, who email me, who text me, you know, on the, on the, on the chat function here, it means the absolute world to me that you do. That Cause. A lot of times I'm just doing this in an empty room, speaking to myself. So it's, I see, it's nice to see that people are listening, but if you want to talk to me, there's three ways you can do it. First way is going to be through the chat function on the podcast. So say, let's chat. Once you click on that, you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, or the 260 plus episodes I have out there now I think I'm at what? What series? Seven, eight series now it's pretty crazy. Second way you can reach me is through my email. My email is anthonyatgentsjourneycom, so please feel free to reach out to me there. And then, last but not least, you can always reach me and see me on my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey. So again, I thank you guys. So so, so very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality. Take care Bye.