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
GRANDEUR: The Mirror
Have you ever caught a glimpse of yourself in a broken mirror and failed to recognize the reflection staring back? Grand Jewel Episode 5 plunges into the raw, unfiltered experience of a man who's hit rock bottom, sleeping in shelters, wandering city streets, and gradually disappearing from both society and himself.
Through haunting prose and visceral imagery, we follow our protagonist's confrontation with his fractured identity. The cracked mirror in the shelter bathroom becomes more than a plot device—it's the dividing line between who he once was and who he's become. As he navigates the invisible existence of homelessness, a mysterious figure appears repeatedly in his peripheral vision, eventually revealing itself as another version of himself—one that knows truths he's been hiding from.
What makes this episode particularly powerful is its unflinching examination of the difference between survival and healing. Many of us push forward, believing that simply continuing to function means we're recovering, when in reality we're merely existing in a state of suspended grief. The protagonist's journey illustrates how true healing begins not with escape but with acceptance—sitting with discomfort long enough to recognize what it's trying to teach us.
The reflection questions posed at the episode's conclusion invite you into your own reckoning: Where are you trying to return to a version of yourself that no longer exists? What are you afraid will happen if you admit you're not okay? What painful moments have you never truly sat with? These aren't just philosophical musings—they're gateways to transformation.
As I mention in the closing monologue, "The moment you stop trying to look back to who you were, you make space for who you really are to show up." This isn't about becoming someone new; it's about honestly acknowledging who you are now.
Connect with me to continue this conversation—reach out at anthony@gentsjourney.com, find me on Instagram @mygentsjourney, or click "Let's Chat" in the episode description. Your support continues to overwhelm me, and I'm grateful for each of you joining this journey.
"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 of Grand Jewel. So let's go ahead and let's just get into the cold opening. The mirror in the shelter bathroom is cracked, not shattered, just split. Top to bottom A jagged line that divides his reflection like a wound that never scabbed over the lighting in here is a dull yellow, the kind that makes everything look worse. He stares at the mirror anyways, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, foam clinging to the corner of his lip like spit from a punched mouth. He doesn't recognize the man staring back. Not completely. The beard is thicker than it used to be, patchy in places, eyes have sunken in a little deeper in their sockets. Cheekbones are sharper, the collarbone visible beneath the stretched out collar of a shirt he's worn for four days straight. The only thing that still looks like him is the way he avoids his own eyes. He spits into the sink, the sound echoing off talic and accusation. A man walks in behind him, younger. He spits into the sink, the sound echoing off talic and accusation. A man walks in behind him, younger, maybe 25, tatted neck hoodie too clean to belong, one of the new ones. The man glances at him in the mirror. He doesn't nod, doesn't say hi, just keeps walking like the reflection was easier to look at than the man himself.
Speaker 1:He showers once a week now Twice if the water runs hot and no one's waiting. But today isn't one of those days. He strips down and steps in, ignoring the mildew in the corners, the graffiti scrawled and sharpie above the shower handle Only the weak. Get clean. The water is cold, always is, but it wakes him up or punishes him, he isn't sure which. He stands under the spray until his skin numbs, until the dirt pooling at his feet stops running dark. There's a scab forming behind his right ear where he fell last week, slipped on the curb trying to get a sandwich. Someone left on a bench Didn't even get the sandwich. Some teenager beat him to it, laughed as he ran off. He didn't chase him, he didn't yell, just sat on the curb and held the knife in his pocket like it might warm his hand up. It didn't.
Speaker 1:He gets dressed slow. Same clothes, same smell, doesn't matter. Nobody notices anymore, not even the security guard at the bodega where he steals packets of honey mustard and eats them like snacks. Not even the woman at the post office who used to hand him a dollar every Tuesday but hasn't looked his way in weeks. He walks with his hands deep in his coat, hood pulled low. It's ringing again, but only a little, not enough to clean anything. He steps over a needle by the curb, nods at a man sleeping beneath an overhang with a sign that says I'm still here. They don't know each other, but they nod. That's the rule you nod if you want to stay human.
Speaker 1:He ends up at the library, not to read, just to be indoors. They don't kick you out if you print in and look like you belong. So he grabs a book off the shelf something about military history and plants himself in a corner chair near the back. It smells like dust and paper, paper and stale heater breath. He breathes it in like a drug. The night isn't, his coat always is, but he doesn't touch it. Hasn't touched it in two days. He's afraid of it, what it might does if he does touch it, not in words, but in that hum, in that response, because lately it's been quiet, not dead, just indifferent, like it's still waiting to see if he's worth caring.
Speaker 1:He flips the book open, stares at the page Part One, the Smirk Behind the Glass he hasn't showered in seven days. Not that it matters, not in a place where smells blend together like old regrets Urine, sweat, cigarette, ash, wet concrete. He scrapes what stubble he can off his jaw with a chipped razor he found behind the shelter last week. His hands shake while he does it, not from the cold, from the exhaustion that never ends, only shifts weight. It's not about being tired anymore, it's about disappearing in degrees, from the exhaustion that never ends, only shifts weight. It's not about being tired anymore, it's about disappearing in degrees. He eats stale crackers behind a vending machine. They're free because someone smashed a glass and no one bothered to fix it. The shelter's full tonight.
Speaker 1:Fights broke out earlier. One guy was dragged off by the cops screaming about voices. Another offered him pills for half a sandwich. He said no, not because of principle, but because he doesn't want to lose what little he has of himself left. He just threw the downtown like a ghost wearing old boots. The city doesn't look at him, doesn't even blink. He could walk naked through traffic and it would be part like smoke. There's a danger in being ignored long enough you start to believe you were never here at all.
Speaker 1:It's just past midnight where you find the broken bus stop Glass, panes shattered on one side, sharp teeth still clinging to its edges. One flickering lightbulb overhead casts just enough light to make the dark feel personal. He sits, the bench groans beneath him, everything does lately. Then he sees it Through the broken plane. Across the reflection cast in angles by the leftover glass, he sees someone, a man, sitting opposite of him. Same bench, same posture, same face.
Speaker 1:But this version is clean, it's shaven, its hair is combed, wearing a coat that fits. Eyes are awake, sharp, the jawline isn't gaunt, there's color in the cheeks, there's weight in the chest. This version smirks, doesn't say anything, doesn't move, just smirks. And for one breathless, paralyzed second he doesn't feel like a man sitting alone, he feels like the reflection. Then a city bus screeches by breaks, screaming on wet concrete. When it passes, the reflection is gone and the bench across from him is empty. The night is burning in his coat pocket. He doesn't touch it, doesn't breathe, just sits Still Alone and wonders if, maybe, just maybe, he saw who he used to be, or worse, who he could have been Part 2. Shadows Don't Lie.
Speaker 1:He didn't eat today, didn't forget, just couldn't. There's a difference. The stomach still growls, sure, but it's a dull ache now, a background hum Like the electrical buzz in a shelter's busted ceiling light. He's gotten used to it. Sometimes he imagines it's his body, chewing through old versions of himself, stripping away whatever's left of the man who thought love could save him. Today he sat outside the same gas station for nearly three hours, plastic cup in one hand, head low, trying not to look like he was begging, even though he was. There's an art to asking without appearing to. You learn fast.
Speaker 1:When pride costs more than a sandwich, people pass differently. Now. Cost more than a sandwich. People pass differently now. Some glance, some flinch, a few pretend to smile like it makes them good, but most don't even see them. That's what cuts, not the hunger, not the cold, not the shame of not being able to wash your own socks. It's being passed by hundreds of lives and realizing yours no longer counts.
Speaker 1:Among them, a man dropped a dollar today, Didn't hand it to him, just dropped it Like tossing feed at a bird. He muttered something about getting clean and walked off like he'd done his good deed. The dollar sat between them for a few seconds before he picked it up and pocketed it, not because he wanted to, but because he had to, but because he had to, because that's what it means to be invisible your dignity. It becomes optional. Back at the shelter it's worse than usual. Somebody got jumped over a blanket. Blood on the linoleum Smells like piss and bleach. Whatever drug. Someone's cooking in the back hallway again, he knows the sound of crack lighters now Can tell which ones burn fast and which ones stall. He doesn't use. But it doesn't matter. You breathe the same air long enough. It stains your soul.
Speaker 1:He sleeps next to a man who talks to shadows, not metaphorically full conversations. Last night was about someone named Marcy who apparently betrayed him in 1984. The man's voice cracked in the middle of the story like he was reliving it, like it was happening right there Again. He told her he forgave her, then started crying Deep broken sobs. He almost put a hand on the man's shoulder Almost, but didn't, because he isn't sure if he even exists enough to offer comfort. What would he say? It's okay, that would be a lie, nothing's okay. And lying even in kindness feels like putting paint on a gravestone.
Speaker 1:Later that night he stands in the shelter's bathroom, if you can call it that, looking at himself in a cracked mirror. The light above flickers. Half his face is in shadow. The other half, well, looks worse. Eyes sunken, jaws thinner than it used to be, hair has grown uneven, beard scruffy, but not intentional. He looks like a man halfway between who he was and who he fears he's becoming. He lifts his shirt. His ribs are sharper. Bruises from the fall down the shelter stairs two weeks ago are still yellow and purple. No one helped him up.
Speaker 1:He leans closer to the mirror. He whispers I don't know who you are anymore, but you're not him. And that's when it hits. Not a breakdown, not a scream, just silence. Not a scream, just silence. Deep, aching silence. Not outside. Inside, the part of him that used to hope has gone quiet. Not dead, not yet, but buried under too many nights of cold air and colder glances. He watches his own mouth move like a puppet. Words fall out like ash. You're losing. He says to himself, not as judgment, as a fact, like reading the score of a game. You know you didn't play hard enough to win. You're losing. He splashes water on his face. It's freezing Tap only runs cold now. He doesn't flinch, Just stares, because pain at this stage isn't punishment, it's confirmation you're still tethered to something. He wipes his face with his sleeve and leaves the mirror behind. The version of him in the mirror still lingers after he's gone.
Speaker 1:He ends up outside again, under the bridge. It's past midnight, no B-Ron, except the rats in the wind. There's a pile of trash bags stacked near the wall. One of them moves. He steps closer and a kid stirs awake. No older than 16. Wrapped in a coat four sizes too big, eyes already hollowed out. He doesn't ask the kid's name, doesn't ask if he's okay, because he knows the answers already. Instead, he pulls the last granola bar from his coat and drops it beside him. The kid doesn't say thank you, he doesn't need to. In the dark he walks until his feet splister. The night in his coat pocket is silent again, not cold, not warm. It's just there like an old debt no one ever collected.
Speaker 1:He reaches the top of a small hill overlooking the city. It's beautiful from here Neon lights, moving traffic, the skyline silhouetted like something sacred. And it's not his. It was once. He remembers the bar where she left too loud, the corner store that sold the milk she liked, the apartment window. They used to look out on rainy nights. Used to look out on rainy nights. All of it below him now, all of it unreachable.
Speaker 1:He kneels, not for reverence but because his legs gave out and under that sky, with nowhere left to climb, he finally admits it. This is bottom. He says it to the wind, to the world, to whatever God still listens. I've hit it. The words echo back with no answer. But it doesn't matter, because naming it, calling it what it is, somehow feels like the first real thing he's done in weeks.
Speaker 1:He curls up beneath a bench, no pillow, no cover, just the night. For the first time, he doesn't ask for anything, because tonight there's nothing left to ask for Part 3. The Light that Refused you. There's nothing left to ask for part three, the light that refused you. He's not sure what time it is when he wakes up or if he ever really slept at all. Time doesn't move in the shelter the way it does in the world outside. It stalls, it limps, it forgets to breathe. His back aches from the cot Someone vomited in the corner and there's a new guy across from him with a twitch that won't stop. Every few seconds a spasm jolts his leg like electricity. It makes a sound, a rhythm Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. A rhythm, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It's maddening, but he doesn't move.
Speaker 1:There's something different in him today not cleaner, not clearer, but louder, like, like the thing inside of him that's been whispering finally decided to stop being polite. He rises slow, doesn't greet anyone, doesn't make eye contact. He puts on his coat like armor, the night's weight still in his pocket. Outside the city is colder than usual, that wet kind of cold that soaks through your clothes. It makes your teeth ache. He likes it. Pain feels like a signpost. He walks.
Speaker 1:This part of the city isn't mapped for people like him. It's coffee shops and glass offices and gyms where no one sweats. But no one stops him. They don't even look. Invisibility isn't a trick, it's a symptom.
Speaker 1:He ends up in front of a pawn shop windows full of things that used to matter to someone Guitars, gold chains, a wedding dress on a mannequin with one arm missing. He steps inside. The man behind the counter looks up, sees the coat, the eyes and doesn't ask any question, just goes back to his magazine. He pulls the night from his pocket and places it gently on the counter. The man stares at it, then back at him. What is it? The man asks. It's a piece, he replies, from a set. The man picks it up, flips it, knocks it against the glass Nothing, no gold, no weight. I don't know. You want 20 bucks. He takes it back. No, I just wanted to see what it looked like when it wasn't mine. The man says I'm sorry, what? But he's already walking out Back in the street.
Speaker 1:He pulls his notebook, writes we only think something is ours when we're afraid to lose it. He walks into his feet hurt, ends up in the park, cold benches, bare trees. He finds a spot beneath an old iron lamp and just sits. He watches people A boy feeding pigeons, a woman yelling into her phone, a man playing chess against himself. That one catches his eye.
Speaker 1:The man's pieces are different. They're handmade and the board isn't checkered, it's spiral like a labyrinth. He gets closer. Board isn't checkered, it's spiral like a labyrinth. He gets closer. The man doesn't look up, just moves another piece and says you're early. He freezes what. The man smiles, still doesn't meet his eyes. I said you're early For what. The man moves a black bishop in the center, spiral For remembering. He walks away, doesn't ask more, doesn't look back. But the airfield's charged now, like he's walking through a wire he ends up back at the cemetery or grave. Same unmarked patch of earth.
Speaker 1:This time he sits, pulls out the night, places it on the dirt, not as an offering, not as a surrender, just just because he's tired of carrying it. He talks to her Did you ever feel like you were supposed to be someone else? He asks, like the real, you was just watching, you know, waiting for you to catch up. The wind moves through the trees, the night doesn't hum. He picks it back up, brushes off the dirt, pockets it and says the words that will haunt him later. I think I'm ready to remember Part 4.
Speaker 1:Memory bleeds in silence. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he remembers waking up Because it didn't feel like waking at all. It felt like being thrown into a body that didn't quite fit anymore. The cot is damp, the shelter smells like sweat and vinegar and old regret. Someone's coughing harder in the corner. Someone else is already whispering for pills in exchange for their sandwich. He stares at the ceiling and tries to find something to hold on to. But even gravity feels uncertain now. The night hasn't hummed In days. It's still in his pocket, still wrapped in the same cloth, but it feels quiet, not gone, just watching.
Speaker 1:He doesn't speak all day, not to the volunteers, not to the men who bumped into him and doesn't apologize. Not to the little girl outside who drops her glove in front of him. He wants to pick it up, but he doesn't. He wants to matter, but he knows he doesn't, so he just keeps walking. He ends up in the alley behind the dive bar, their bar, the one with the jukebox that never worked and the owner who used to call her Red even though her hair was brown. There's a man passed out by the dumpster, another lighting up, with hands too shaky for a match. He feels nothing. He leans against the wall and lets the cold brick press against the back of his skull, closes his eyes. He tries to go backward in time, tries to hear her laugh in the way only she could make it. Shoulders forward, eyes squinting, hand on his thigh like they shared a secret of the world. Hand on his thigh like they shared a secret of the world. But all he hears is a bus pulling away and the sound of someone vomiting. Three feet from him, he opens his eyes and sees the reflection of himself in the window. For a moment, just a breath. He doesn't recognize the man staring back. Not because he looks different, but because he looks like someone who's already given up. He doesn't even flinch, he just stares and writes a single sentence into the notebook without opening it. I think I've already disappeared. He gets up and walks in silence.
Speaker 1:The night doesn't hum, part 5. The Unseen Witness. He never meant to follow the man, at least that's what he tells himself that he was just walking, just heading back to the shelter, just keeping his head down like every other night. But the moment he turned the corner and saw the figure again, the one from the church steps, the rooftop, the corner of his eye, something inside him didn't pause. It moved.
Speaker 1:This part of the city isn't on the map, it's not exactly abandoned, it's worse than that. It's forgotten. Stores with no names, buildings with windows papered over in thick black tape, no music, no voices, only the sound of shoes against broken pavement and the occasional cough behind locked doors. And the man. He walks with purpose coat, trailing behind him, like it doesn't belong to this place, shoulders square, hands empty. But he moves like someone who's carrying something you can't see, like someone who knows where he's going. He follows, not close, not far, just enough to stand the draft of his motion, like a bird catching wind off a larger wing, they pass a diner with no lights, a bookstore that's been closed for years but still has a sale sign in the window, and finally a gate, iron chained, locked. The man walks straight through, not around through, and that's when he hesitates, because nothing makes sense anymore, not the pieces, not the voice, not the dreams he doesn't remember having. And now, now he's following a ghost through locked metal. He presses his hand against the gate. It opens, not creaks, not shifts Opens, opens. The alley behind the gate smells like rain and rust. There's something on the walls, words maybe, but he doesn't stop to read them, he just moves.
Speaker 1:The man is still ahead, not walking, now, standing waiting, and when he steps into the clearing, it hits him. Silence, not quiet. Silence, not quiet. Silence, the kind that presses on your skin, that makes your ears ring because there's nothing else to hear. The man turns and he sees his own face. Well, not exactly, but close, like a photo taken through cracked glass. The same bones, the same eyes, but close Like a photo taken through cracked glass. The same bones, the same eyes, but older, hungrier and, beneath it all, cruel.
Speaker 1:The man speaks first. You're late. He doesn't answer, he can't. The man tilts his head and smiles. You thought this was about the peace. You thought you were chosen. It's not you. I'm watching, it's what watches you. He steps forward just once, not threatening, just real. You ever feel it, that itch in your chest? You can't scratch that part of you that knows something is wrong, not because it's broken, but it feels unfinished. He swallows and nods, almost without meaning to. The man smiles wider. That's me. Then he turns and walks away, vanishes into shadow. He doesn't follow, because something is now following him. He can feel it not a person, not a thing. Because something is now following him. He can feel it. Not a person, not a thing, a memory, just out of reach, like the smell of smoke long after the fire's been put out.
Speaker 1:Back at the shelter, the cot is gone, not taken, just not there. The room is too full. New people, new noises. Someone argues in the corner, someone else is curled into themselves, twitching. The air is thick with sweat and hopelessness. He backs out, sleeps outside. It rains, of course it rains. He dreams Not of her, not of the past, but of the man, of a chess checkerboard, black and white squares stretching into the mist and a hand, not his, moving. The night. Only it's not the night anymore. It's a mirror, and when he looks into it he sees nothing because he's not there. And when he wakes up he's screaming into the wet dawn, unsure what he left behind was a dream or was it a prophecy?
Speaker 1:Part six the man you can't unsee. He almost doesn't recognize himself. There's a mirror in a bathroom. It's cracked, streaked, half covered by torn flyer for a recovery meeting. That happened weeks ago. He passes it every day and never looked, not really Not on purpose. But tonight something or someone holds him there.
Speaker 1:He stops in front of him and sees the man looking back. He's thinner, darker under the eyes, beard, uneven, hair pressed to one side like he's been sleeping wrong for weeks. His clothes hang differently now, not looser, just less filled, like there's a version of him that shrink. He studies the eyes. That's where the fracture lives. That's one place. He can't fake it anymore. Not rage, not grief, just loss. But loss doesn't feel like absence anymore, it feels like weight.
Speaker 1:And then something strange happens. He lifts his hand to touch the glass, to trace the line in the mirror where the crack cuts across his cheek and the reflection doesn't follow. It's a millisecond, maybe less, but he sees it. The reflection hand doesn't move. The reflection hand doesn't move. He stumbles back, shakes his head, looks again. Now it's normal, it's synced Hands where they should be, eyes following, but the damage is done. He felt it, he saw it. Someone's watching through him. He turns quickly, expecting to see someone behind. But the hallway is empty, just the mirror, just him. He walks back to his cot like a man running from his own shadow. The night is silent in his coat, but not dead. He can still feel it waiting, not humming anymore, but listening.
Speaker 1:Then the man in the mirror didn't follow him out of the hallway. He stayed there in the glass, still watching, still waiting. For the first time he wonders if that man is who he has to face next. Not the world, not the loss, not even the future, but the reflection, because maybe, just maybe, that's the only man who knows what really happened and what he's still hiding from. All right, guys, let's get into the monologue here.
Speaker 1:You know this was the episode where he finally saw himself, not in a reflection, but in the consequences of what he'd become right. You may not have caught it, but every step he took in this chapter wasn't forward, it was inward. This wasn't about ghosts or graves or supernatural signs. It was about the way pain settles in a man's bones when he stops pretending everything is fine. It's about how isolation can start to feel familiar, even wholly. We don't think anyone's looking for you, you know. He didn't say it out loud, but this was the first time he really asked himself what happened to me.
Speaker 1:The answer doesn't come from outside, because he didn't need to, because deep down he already knows this entire episode was a confrontation, not with a shadow or a villain, but with the quiet lie he's been telling himself that he's still who he used to be. He's not the version of him that existed before everything broke. That man's not walking these streets and if he is, he's doing it in silence, in shame, in survival. But here's what matters. He didn't run from that. He sat in it, walked through it, looked it in the eye and stayed. And maybe that's the beginning of truth.
Speaker 1:Not the shiny, motivational kind, the raw kind, the real kind, the kind that starts when you're sleeping in a cot that smells like mold and piss, when your only conversation is with a journal and when you don't remember the last time someone used your name. This isn't transformation. This is the stripping, the peeling away. And for anyone who's listening, maybe you're there too. Maybe you've been measuring your life and losses and unanswered messages and missed calls and missed chances. Maybe you've got your own version of that bench, that corner, that bridge.
Speaker 1:So here's what I want you to take from this the moment you stop trying to look back to who you were, you make space for who you really really are, to show up, not the polished version, the present version, not the man you promised you'd become, the man who's still standing even when no one's clapping. This is your mirror and what you do with it, what you see. That's your power. You don't need a rescue, you need a reck power. You don't need a rescue, you need a reckoning. You don't need magic. You need to mourn. You don't need the next big thing. You need to sit long enough to remember the old truth you buried.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and let's get into our reflection questions. Number one where in your life are you trying to return to a version of yourself that no longer exists? I'm willing to bet you that question right. There is about half of us right now. Number two what are you afraid of? Or I should say, what are you afraid will happen if you admit that you're not okay. So much of us live in this churn and burn society right, we're okay, we're okay. We're okay until it's completely evident that we're not okay. The sooner you can get ahead of that curve, the faster you can heal. Number three have you ever missed a mistake? Survival for healing. That is probably the biggest question on here. Number four what moment in your life have you never truly sat with because it hurts too much? Because it hurts too much. That's a massive question. And number five if this was your mirror, what would you see that you've been avoiding? That's another massive question. Those last three questions are life-changing questions.
Speaker 1:I'm just going to put that out there right now. So you know, guys, and I'll and I'll explain this more tomorrow, you know, in our review for this this week's episodes, but I'll just say this like doing this series so far especially, we have 20 episodes. We're just got done with five here. This is going to be a very transformational series for a lot of people. You know, we're literally seeing a guy pretty much on the verge of giving up. He's accepting being who he is and what you're going to see in the next 15 episodes is how that starts to change in him. And if he takes this and runs with it and knows that he can do this, he can be better, that this is just a choice, more than anything that he's making, that this is just a choice more than anything that he's making.
Speaker 1:And before we go and before I get into everything else, I really just need to say this to everybody your guys' support has been I don't know I almost get emotional as I say this. It's been incredible. Honestly, these are the biggest numbers I've ever done on this, we've ever done on this podcast. It's the show, I mean it's growing and it's because of you guys. I mean it's not because of advertising, I can tell you that, but it's because of you guys. I can see that you are responding to this show, that you're sharing, you know, your thoughts with me, you're sharing this with other people. So I just want to just thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for doing that.
Speaker 1:Now, as we were talking about just a couple seconds ago about sharing, you know, having conversation about this series, there's three ways that you can do that. The first way is 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 episode, this series, the 14 other series that are out there and the 200, almost 70 plus episodes now that we have on Gents Journey. Okay, second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthonyatgentsjourneycom. Going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom, so please feel free to reach out to me there. And then, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey. So again, guys, thank you, so, so, so, very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality, take care.