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: The Room Without Her.
Success can make you louder, but love needs you quiet. This profound realization sits at the heart of our journey into what truly matters when external validation threatens to overshadow authentic connection.
Through a masterfully crafted narrative, we follow a man who achieves professional recognition only to discover the hollow nature of his accomplishment. As he holds his award—clean lines, black marble, silver lettering—he realizes something essential is missing. That something is embodied by Lena, a barista whose quiet presence and thoughtful questions anchored him to his authentic self before success transformed presence into performance.
The story explores how subtly this transformation happens. We don't notice the exact moment when genuine expression becomes strategic communication, when showing up fully becomes showing up carefully. We simply wake one day to find ourselves surrounded by applause yet strangely disconnected from what once gave our achievements meaning.
What makes this episode particularly resonant is its exploration of loss without drama. There's no explosive ending to important relationships—just empty chairs, books left behind, and the gradual realization that something vital has slipped away while we were busy being seen. The symbolism is powerful: a lightweight award juxtaposed against a meaningful book, "The Denial of Death," with its underlined passage: "What man really fears is not extinction but extinction with insignificance."
I've included five reflection prompts to help you examine your own life: Who have you drifted from while chasing something external? What version of yourself did they reflect back to you? When did performance start replacing presence? What once centered you but now feels distant? And finally, what would a return to authenticity look like?
This isn't about rejecting success—it's about ensuring we don't sacrifice our core selves to achieve it. Take a moment today to reconnect with someone you've drifted from, not with an apology, but with presence—because that's how we begin again.
"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 six to the key to everything. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening. He won something last night. Not just applause, an actual award. Clean lines, black marbles, silver lettering, his name carved where others used to be the kind of thing they used to hand to people. He studied from a distance and now it was his. It was handed to him in a silent, soft-lit room where no one wore name tags, because everyone was someone, where smiles were currency and conversation was a ceremony. They called his name with practiced reverence, like it had always belonged on their lips. He walked up, nodded to someone he didn't recognize and accepted the trophy with both hands. Cameras flashed, people clapped, he smiled, and yet none of it felt as full as it should have. There wasn't a moment of disbelief, no spike of joy, just a strange kind of quiet joy, just a strange kind of quiet.
Speaker 1:After the ceremony, someone leaned in and said you deserve this. You arrived. He nodded, but he didn't feel like he had arrived. He felt like he departed. Still, he said thank you, still shook hands, still answered questions about his process and how he knew it was finally working. He gave them answers they were all hoping to hear. But the answer he wanted to give was different. It wasn't about process, it was about presence. And there was only one person he wanted to tell that to. That was Lena. Not because she'd be impressed, because she wouldn't, because she'd look at the award. Then look at him and ask something that made the whole night feel smaller, lighter, more human. She'll tilt her head and ask Is that what you wanted? And he'd pause, consider and maybe finally tell the truth. Imagine sitting it down in front of her, no explanation, no performance, just placing it on the table between them and waiting for whatever came next.
Speaker 1:He didn't sleep much that night, not from nerves, but from eagerness, from the desire to be seen by someone who wasn't trying to make him a brand. So he woke up early, showered, without music, wore the shirt she once said made him look like someone who doesn't need to try. He carried the award in a small cloth bag, like it might shatter if he held on too tight, and as he walked the city it felt different, not newer, not brighter, just closer, like he was returning somewhere, not to the cafe, but to himself. The early sun shattered gold over the sidewalk. The wind carried the scent of baked cinnamon and quiet ambition. He rehearsed how he'd slide the award out, let her read it in silence and then say you were right about me. She'd smile, not because she was proud, but because she was relieved, relieved that he hadn't let the noise make him forget where he started.
Speaker 1:He reached the corner, stepped off the curb His heart was beating a little faster. He turned the handle and opened the door and she wasn't there. The sound hit him first. Not silence, not music, just unfamiliar the low whirl of a new espresso machine, the wrong playlist. The barista behind the counter looked up and gave a professional smile. The barista behind the counter looked up and gave a professional smile. Hey there, what can I get started for you? He blinked. Hey, where's Lena? The barista's smile faded slightly. Oh, she left a couple days ago, graduated, I think. She left behind a box of books in the back. Manager put them out free to take.
Speaker 1:He just stood there, no breath, no movement, like someone, paused the scene but forgot to tell him. He turned slowly. The chair by the window wasn't empty. A man in headphones sat there, scrolling, obliv, irreversible. He didn't order. Anything didn't sit. He just walked outside, still holding the award, and for the first time since winning, he felt it. Not pride, not joy, just absence. The kind that doesn't declare itself, the kind that lets you realize it slowly, alone. And as he walked he whispered. And as he walked he whispered. She didn't even say goodbye, but the city didn't answer. It never does. He didn't go far.
Speaker 1:After leaving the cafe, he sat on a bench across the street, a ward still in hand, blinking against the sun. That suddenly felt too proud. He kept glancing at the door, waiting for something to change, for her to walk out, for someone to call his name, for this to feel temporary. It didn't. It felt like he was late to something sacred and it had closed without him. He thought about texting her, thought about asking where she went when she left, why she didn't say goodbye. But then he remembered he hadn't asked about her graduation in weeks, hadn't asked about the paper, hadn't asked anything that wasn't about himself. So he sat, watched, like the cafe might rewind itself.
Speaker 1:He waited 20 minutes, then got up, crossed the street again, walked slowly to the side table where the books were stacked Half-bent paperbacks, titles on a line and fading sharpie. He scanned the spines. There it was the denial of death Dog-eared, annotated, familiar. He picked it up, opened the front cover and her handwriting For anyone brave enough to die before they forget themselves. No name, no note, just that he held the book like it might fall apart. Then he looked around. The barista was helping someone else, the special machine whirled again. Someone laughed near the register. Life had moved on. He needed to be performing for the wrong crowd. He left without speaking. This time he walked slower. Each block felt heavier.
Speaker 1:He replayed the last week in fragments, her reading quotes out loud but not waiting for his thoughts, the half smiles that didn't reach her eyes, the napkin that went unread. For three days she had been saying goodbye the whole time. He just didn't hear it and now there was no one left to hear him. Back home. He set the book on the table next to the ward. Two kinds of recognition, one external, one internal, and somehow the book felt heavier.
Speaker 1:He opened it again, chose a paragraph at random, started reading it out loud, not to remember the words, to remember her voice, the way she spoke about life like it wasn't linear, the way she found clarity in things most people avoided, the way she stayed. Even as she left. He sat on the floor cross-legged, still in his dress shirt, reading her underlines, reconstructing the sound of her thoughts, and somewhere between the page 42 and 43, he whispered. I should have stayed at the table. But no one was listening now Not the crowd, not the city, not even her. He didn't touch the ward for days. It stayed exactly where he placed it, next to the book, facing slightly towards the door, as if it were waiting to be noticed by someone who never arrived.
Speaker 1:He kept rereading the paragraph she underlined, not because he didn't understand it the first time, but because some sentences don't change when you reread them. You do by the third day. He had the line memorized. It followed him everywhere in the elevator, in the shower, in the silence, between calendar reminders. The fear of death is not only the fear of no longer existing, it's the fear of never having really existed at all. He started checking the cafe's Instagram again, looking for her. Nothing, the stories have shifted new baristas, seasonal drinks, no more quotes on cups, no photos of books next to black coffee. It was like she'd been erased gently, without malice, like she had asked not to be remembered by accident.
Speaker 1:He finally went back on Thursday mid-morning no line, no welcome. Just a new girl behind the counter reading something he couldn't make out. He ordered. He asked carefully hey, um, what happened to? Uh? To Lena Debrisa shrugged, I don't know. I think she graduated. She left like a week ago I think. No ceremony, no post, no, no, no. He almost asked did she? Did she leave anything? But he had already knew the answer. What would she have said Goodbye to someone who stopped saying hello? She said everything she needed to. He was just too loud to hear it.
Speaker 1:As he waited he wandered toward the little shelf by the wall. It used to hold flyers and local business cards. Now it held a small wooden crate books, some dog-eared, some pristine, some he recognized from their conversations and taped to the side of the box a note in her handwriting free to take. I hope something in here finds you before you forget yourself. He didn't reach for anything, not at first, just stared at the box like it was breathing, like it might whisper something if he had waited long enough. Then he saw it a thin volume, no title on the spine, just a blue navy cover with a white ribbon bookmark. He pulled it out it was a journal, blank, except for one page in the middle in her handwriting. A life you don't write down isn't yours, it's a costume. He didn't take the book, he left it there. But he memorized the page number Page 47.
Speaker 1:That night he opened his old notebook, the one he hadn't touched in weeks, turned to page 47. It was blank. He stared at it for a long time, then, slowly he wrote. I forgot to say thank you For the silence, for the attention, for the seat by the window, for the seat by the window. He closed the book, didn't post, didn't speak, just sat in his apartment surrounded by the echoes of a story that only he knew how to finish. And for the first time in months he didn't feel like performing. He just felt unfinished. And maybe that was closer to the truth than anything he'd said on stage. He didn't mean to read it out loud, it just happened.
Speaker 1:A sound, a half whisper slipped past his lips, like his eyes were just barely scanning the page, like memory was speaking before he could stop it. The book was heavier than he remembered. He had seen it a dozen times on her table, in her hands, underlined in different pens, the denial of death. It used to intimidate him. Now it felt like an apology. He found the passage in seconds, page 103. The margin had a faint checkmark and pencil and below it a scroll. This is a thing he doesn't want to know. He read the paragraph once in silence, then again, but slower, and before he realized what he was doing the words were out loud. What man really fears is not so much extinction but an extinction with insignificance. He paused. The silence after was enormous, like the room had exhaled. He closed the book, set it beside him on the couch and for a few seconds he let himself wander.
Speaker 1:What she would have said if she were here? Not Lena the barista, not Lena the quiet witness to his ascent, but the Lena who saw through the applause. She wouldn't have told him to stop. She would have asked him if he'd given anything up. She would have asked does it still feel like you? He wouldn't have known how to answer. That was the part that scared him, not the loss, not even the silence, but the uncertainty. He wasn't sure who him was anymore. It wasn't that he was pretending, it was that the performance had taken on its own rhythm, like he'd repeated a line so many times, they started sounding true and no one had challenged him, except her. That's what he missed the most, not her voice, but her pause, the moment before she spoke, that little space where she thought, where she noticed, where she asked questions, not because she didn't understand but because she wanted him to. He hadn't heard that kind of silence in weeks, maybe months. All the other rooms were full of agreement.
Speaker 1:He picked up the book again, not to read, just to hold. It smelled like ink and warmth, like memory. He opened to the inside flap and there, in tiny handwriting, returned to Sandra Flost then her initials LW. He stared at it, wondering if that meant the book wasn't really meant to be taken. If it was just another message, another breadcrumb left behind, He'd have taken it anyways. He wasn't ready to give it back, not yet.
Speaker 1:That night he went to dinner with two men in suits. They asked about his origin story. He gave them the polished version, left out the silence, left out the cafe, left out her. After they toasted his authenticity, he went home and re-read the same paragraph out loud twice this time, not because he missed her, but because the words sounded like they knew more than he did. And maybe, just maybe, if he read them enough times, he'd remember the version of himself who asked better questions, not to get applause but to feel real.
Speaker 1:He didn't go to the cafe the next morning, didn't even consider it. There was nothing waiting for him there, not the chair, not the quiet, not the eyes that once listened without needing explanation. Instead, he stayed in bed longer than usual, not to sleep, just still. The book sat on his nightstand like a relic. He had reached for it again, opened it slowly no new notes, no second voice whispering behind the author's words. But it felt like her. Every sentence, every marked passage was like being gently interrogated, not accused, just observed. He flipped to a random page, found another underline. This one wasn't a quote, just a single word Disassociation, circled three times in blue pen. You don't remember her ever talking about it, but now it felt like a map.
Speaker 1:He got up, didn't shower, didn't check his phone, just pulled on a hoodie and walked. It was colder than he expected. The air felt thinner, like something had been removed from it. He passed the cafe but didn't stop. He couldn't. Instead, he kept walking until he found himself in a neighborhood he didn't recognize Small houses, older fences, a community bulletin board with handwritten notes, piano lessons, free compost, missing cat. Everything felt slower here, unconcerned with the version of him that gave talks about clarity. He liked that. He sat on a bench and watched a crow pull something from a trash bin, watched two kids argue about which Power Ranger was stronger.
Speaker 1:He took out his phone once, typed her name, didn't hit search, he put it back. He didn't want to find her that way, didn't want to reduce her to a location or a status update. She'd always existed beyond reach anyways. More like a weather pattern than a person Always felt, never predicted. That night he lit a candle, not for ceremony, just to avoid the overhead lights.
Speaker 1:He sat in the middle of his apartment and opened the book, again this time not to read, just to listen To whatever quiet part of him she used to speak to. He thought about how he used to tell her everything, even the things that didn't matter, how he once spent 15 minutes explaining why he hated the sound of certain phone alarms. And she listened, not because the story was interesting, but because he was telling it. Now, when he spoke, people listened because they wanted something from him Insight, clarity, a headline, to quote. She never asked for any of that, she just wanted to know where he went when he got quiet. He missed that, missed being heard without being useful.
Speaker 1:He stood up, walked to his drawer, took out the key, held it in his palm Not reverent, just curious. He didn't feel like the same man who found it. He didn't feel like the same man who used to sit across from her pretending not to care about what she thought. He looked at the key, then at the book, then at the mirror. This time he didn't see himself, not the version people clap for, not the version who knew what to say. He saw a man standing in the aftermath of momentum, not lost, just finally still. And that scared him Because it meant that the silence was real. And if the silence was real, then so was the part of him that missed her.
Speaker 1:He didn't post that day, not because he was taking a break, but because he had nothing to say. Every sentence hadn't been praised for, every clipped phrase about presence, focus, becoming. It all felt hollow now, not false, just untethered. He opened the folder of video clips on his laptop, watched one of his old speeches, the one that went viral, the one who made him the guy who gets it. He watched himself walk across the stage With confidence. He was measured. He watched himself tell the story about the first time he felt like he mattered. He remembered the applause, not the feeling. The clip ended. He closed the laptop. The signs afterwards felt louder than it used to.
Speaker 1:He picked up the book again, the one she left. Let it fall open. A phrase caught his eyes Sometimes the self you protect is the one asking to be let go. He sat with that, not as a quote to use, not as content, just as truth. He poured himself a glass of water and sat back down. Then he did something he hadn't done in weeks. He picked up a pen, not to write something clever, just to write something true. He wrote I'm still here, but I don't know who's reading. He stared at the words. They didn't solve anything, but they made him feel less alone and that was enough. He put on his coat.
Speaker 1:He stepped outside, didn't bring his phone, didn't bring the key. He just walked, this time not to escape anything, just to find where he stopped feeling. He turned down a street. He didn't recognize An old bookstore at the corner. Green awning closed sign crooked in the window, but the light was on. He walked closer, peered in, books stacked in awkward towers, a cat asleep on a reading chair. He smiled, not for anyone, just for himself.
Speaker 1:He thought about her, about how she always marked pages without telling him how she would mark passages and say read this. How she trusted him to figure it out. He missed that kind of trust, not given, just assumed. He walked back home slower, not because he was tired but because he was remembering Every quiet morning, every quote on a cup. Every time she didn't say anything Because she knew he'd understand it better if he found it on his own. He opened his door, lit the candle, opened the book, one last time. This time the underlying sentence was in the back no quote, just her own handwriting. You won't find me in a speech, but you might find yourself in the quiet. He closed the book.
Speaker 1:For the first time in a long time he didn't feel like someone who needed to be heard. He felt like someone who needed to listen and this time he was ready to that night. He was ready to that night. He couldn't sleep. It wasn't the usual racing thoughts or inbox guilt. It wasn't regret either. It was emptiness, a strange suspended kind of quiet, like the feeling after a concert, when everyone leaves the room and the all they left is the echo of what used to be important.
Speaker 1:He got up, didn't bother with shoes, just slipped into the hoodie she once gave him a compliment on. The city was quieter than usual a Tuesday kind of quiet streetlights blinking like they weren't sure if they were needed. He walked, no destination, just direction. His feet moved before his mind caught up and then somewhere, somehow, he was standing in front of the cafe. It was closed, of course it was, but the lights were on the inside. They were dim, soft, the kind of glow that used to feel like a welcome. Now it just felt finished. There's no trace of her. No book stack against the register, no silver charm tucked into the tip jar, no cup with his quote on it, just a room.
Speaker 1:He stepped back from the window, felt the cold settle through his sleeves and then he reached for the book, not one of hers, just something from the free box he brought home. He'd forgotten it was still in his coat pocket. He opened it, folded a page, underlined and noted the margin. Most people chase, meaning like it's a destination, but the truth is it's more like a streetlight. It only shows you what's already there. He stared at that, let the sentence sit. He didn't look up, the streetlight above him flickered, and in that flicker he saw it. Not a memory, not a vision, but recognition Of how long he'd been narrating his life like a character instead of living it. How much he'd missed listening without waiting to speak, how much silence, real silence, was in a void. It was a return. He walked home slower, like the sidewalk might offer answers if he moved quietly enough.
Speaker 1:Back at his apartment, he opened the drawer with the key, held it again, this time not to ask anything of it, just to witness it. Still heavy, still cold. It was still heavy, it was still cold, it was still silent. But this time it wasn't a symbol of something to unlock, it was just a reminder that He'd been holding it all along, not because he needed it, but because he didn't know how to let go. He placed it back in the drawer, didn't close it, let it sit open.
Speaker 1:Then he sat at the table, wrote a single sentence she didn't leave me. I had to stop being someone she could stay with. He stared at it, let it breathe, didn't post it, didn't caption it, just left it there. A sentence, a streetlight, a start. And this time he didn't try to make it profound, he just let it be true.
Speaker 1:I know what you're thinking. Right, let's slow this down for a moment, because you're probably thinking how do we get here? How did something that felt so good we get here? How did something that felt so good, so real, so grounded become a series of miswarnings and unopened messages? How did the warmth in her voice shift to silence that felt like consequence?
Speaker 1:See, the truth is, most of us don't notice the moment when presence becomes performance. It starts small. You win something right, you're seen, you get asked to speak, to post, to advise. You feel needed, admired, necessary and slowly, without malice, without warning, you start curating. You speak less from the soul, more from strategy. You stop showing up fully, because now showing up has stakes. It's not that he stopped caring, it's that he got rewarded for becoming a shinier version of himself, and that version kept winning. And see, and here's the part that no one tells you, success can make you louder, right, but love, love needs you quiet.
Speaker 1:Lena didn't leave in anger, she left in honesty. She watched him get everything he said he wanted and lose the one thing he didn't realize he was still becoming, and it wasn't loud. There was no fight, no dramatic goodbye, just a new barista, a different quote, and a chair no longer saved. That's how life ends things, when it's trying to teach you something deeper, and if you're listening now, maybe you know what I mean. Maybe there's a version of this in your own life. Someone you didn't mean to drift from A space that used to hold you A quiet joy. You traded for performance.
Speaker 1:So let's talk about what this episode really showed us, right? It's not about the cafe, it's not even about Lena. It's about what happens when you confuse momentum with meaning. See, he thought the awards mattered, he thought the platform proved something, but in the quiet that followed, all he had left was a chair with no one in it, and a box of her books, with no one in it and a box of her books. The truth is, we don't often, as she said, we often don't realize how much someone meant to our becoming, until they're no longer a daily part of it.
Speaker 1:I need you to understand something this isn't about blame. It's about return, because if he's brave enough, he can still find her, or at least the version of himself that she believed in. And that's what I want you to sit with right now. I want you to ask yourself this right what part of you? Are you leaving behind just to be seen what part of you, or I should say what part of your life feels like it's fading, not because it wasn't real, but because you stopped watering it? There's still time, there's still mornings waiting to be reclaimed. There's still people hoping you walk through the door like you used to. So breathe with that, be honest with that and maybe tonight reach out to someone you drifted from, not with an apology, but with presence, because that's how we begin again.
Speaker 1:All right, so let's get into your reflection prompts. Okay, reflection one who in your life have you unintentionally drifted from while chasing something external? Number two what version of yourself did they reflect back to you? Have you lost sight of that version? Number three can you identify moments where performance started replacing presence in your life? That's a huge question. Number four what space, habit or person used to center you but now feels distant? And number five what would it look like to return, not in words, but in constant presence?
Speaker 1:You know this was this is a pretty big, pivotal episode for him because, realistically, you know he's understanding that success is nothing without it being shared. So, since we're talking about this, you know you guys have been absolutely incredible, like I see that you know, a lot of you guys are going back into my older stuff, like the death of you, uh, remembrance, which was the one before this, the confidence protocols. You guys are giving so much love to this show and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. A lot of hard work, time and effort goes into this, so I really appreciate that. Now, since we're talking about that, if you have any questions on this episode, this series or the 12 other series that I have out there, please, please, please, never hesitate to reach out to me.
Speaker 1:Okay, there's three ways. First way is in the description of this podcast. If you click on let's Chat, you and I can have a conversation about this episode or this series, okay. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom. And then, last but not least, you can go to my email. My email is anthonyatgentsjourneycom. And then, last but not least, you can go to my Instagram. My Instagram handle is mygentsjourney. So, again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening today. It really means more than I could ever tell you, okay, more than I could ever tell you, okay. But as we close the show as always. Remember this you create your reality. Take care. Bye.