Every month, one dispatch. Philosophical, snarky, and occasionally practical. No productivity tips. No growth hacks. No self-help magic. Just an honest look at what keeps most entrepreneurs on the run — and what shifts your physics so you can build something you're actually proud of.
What Would Norman Do, [FIRST NAME GOES HERE]?
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A few years ago, I started a men's group called "The Inner Circle" with a couple of posts on LinkedIn. Not because it was a good marketing idea. Not because some business coach told me communities were the future. Because I went on a bike ride with an old friend I hadn't seen in years, and somewhere on that ride we got to talking about middle-aged male loneliness — and I thought, yeah. Someone should do something about that, Reader. Turns out the problem is bigger than I realized. The U.S. Surgeon General declared loneliness a public health epidemic in 2023. Four in ten adults over 45 are lonely — and men in their 40s and 50s are among the most vulnerable. There are five times as many men with no close friends today as there were in 1990. Five times. And research now shows that on the days people feel lonelier than usual, their cognitive performance measurably drops — and stays down the following day. The decisions get harder. The thinking gets murkier. The creative spark goes quiet. So I did something about it. Every other Wednesday, a handful of men would show up on Zoom. Sometimes three. Sometimes twelve. We'd talk about what was actually going on — not the highlight reel, not the LinkedIn version — the real stuff. Some of these guys had done the work. Recovery, therapy, the long uncomfortable excavation of self-awareness. Some hadn't. All of them showed up anyway. And something real happened in that group. I watched men who came in tentative and guarded start to see themselves differently. Start to witness each other. That's not nothing. That's actually everything. So why did I close The Inner Circle at the beginning of this month? Because somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like love and started feeling like obligation. My friend Breck — one of the better coaches I know — has a line he repeats: "I haven't done anything out of obligation in ten years." What he means is that obligation is the opposite of love. Not the opposite of commitment. Not the opposite of discipline. Love. And when I'm only half in something, I'm really out. The ambivalence doesn't work for me. The body keeps score before the mind catches up — and mine had been keeping score for a while. Here's the thing about obligation we fail to acknowledge: it's sneaky. It doesn't announce itself. It just quietly replaces the love that used to be there. And accomplished people — people who pride themselves on showing up, on honoring commitments, on never being the one who quits — are the most vulnerable to it. Because we're very good at performing presence even when the real thing has left the building. I have a little ritual I do every morning, and before every coaching session, and before every podcast I'm on. A quiet conversation with the universe: Please get into my head and heart before I do. Keep me filled with curiosity, honesty, openness, and love — so I can be of maximal service. The whole point is to get my ego out of the way. To clear the path between me and the moment I'm walking into. To choose love over obligation before the day has a chance to choose for me. Most days it works, Reader. I'll be honest — social media still feels a little obligatory sometimes. Even I have my version of that. But the Inner Circle? I knew it was time when I stopped looking forward to those Wednesday mornings. When facilitating felt like maintenance instead of meaning. When the energy I brought was careful instead of curious. The last session was, of course, the best one we ever had. Open, honest, raw, electric. Because that's how these things go — they remind you of what they were right before they become what they were. I felt the tug. Wanted to stay. Closed it anyway. The classic television producer Norman Lear — who worked creatively and productively into his late nineties — attributed his longevity to understanding the meaning of two words: over and next. Not failure. Not quitting. Not abandonment. Over. And next. Knowing when something is complete — not broken, not failed, just complete — and having the courage to name it. And then having the openness to turn toward what's actually next without dragging the last chapter into it. That is the essence of surrender, which gets a bad rap amongst high achievers. It gets mistaken for giving up, when it can actually be a power move. I don't mean any of this in a woo-woo way. As a sports scientist, I've seen what surrender, acceptance, and letting go actually do to the psyche. They reduce mental load. They free up focus. They put us exactly where we need to be — showing up creatively in the moment, instead of white-knuckling the past. Knowing that we can handle what comes our way without knowing what's coming our way is the essence of self-trust. So here's the mirror: What are you still showing up for out of obligation? Not what you've committed to. Not what you're responsible for. What are you white-knuckling because letting go feels like failure — even though your body already knows it's over? What's your cliff? What's your over? And what becomes possible the moment you loosen your grip and say — next? Speaking of which. I've been feeling the same thing about this newsletter. Somewhere along the way it got too heavy on insight and too light on momentum. Too observational. Too much sitting back and watching the parade instead of throwing things at it. I've been perilously close to becoming a MAHA yoga guru writing about the virtues of raw milk and the optimal time to poop. I can't have that. You deserve better. So next month you'll notice some changes. Different name — turns out Shift Happens belongs to someone else, which, fair enough. Different attitude. Shorter. Spicier. More fights worth picking. Less navel-gazing, more mirror-holding. Same exhale at the end. Norman would approve. Bet on yourself, and remember to exhale. — Bryan P.S. If you've been reading this and quietly recognizing your own cliff — just hit reply. Tell me what's over. Or what you're still white-knuckling. I read every one. P.P.S. In the coming months I'll be launching a small group coaching model for insanely capable leaders who want to move forward alongside other people who get it. If that sounds like something you'd want to know more about, hit reply and say "tell me more." That's it. |
Running's for Fugitives
Every month, one dispatch. Philosophical, snarky, and occasionally practical. No productivity tips. No growth hacks. No self-help magic. Just an honest look at what keeps most entrepreneurs on the run — and what shifts your physics so you can build something you're actually proud of.
Back in 2007, I walked out of the Walt Disney Company with a box of stuff, an headful of confidence, and approximately zero understanding of what I was actually walking into. I had a plan, Reader. Sort of. The plan was: I'm Bryan Yates, I've produced things, I know people, I'll figure it out. What could be hard about this? Turns out — the part I hadn't figured out (which was most of it) was everything that came next. What nobody tells you when you leave is this: the skills that made you...
If you've been reading these monthly dispatches for the past year, Reader, you might detect an attitude shift. For years, when people have talked about how busy they are, discussed their self-generated overwhelm, shared their discomfort with stillness, or even effused on their love of running, my reflexive response has been: "Running's for fugitives." This was something that only spoke in my inside voice… until one day a client asked "WHAT THE HECK is that?" My internal dialogue had, in that...
Reader, Almost every professional I worked with this year had one thing in common—a strange, private drag. Not burnout. Not confusion. But a low-grade stall, like their instincts weren't quite firing. And still, they kept delivering. Because that's how insanely capable people roll. Sharpening The Blade For insanely capable professionals, instincts are like a chef's knife. Over time, they naturally dull—not from neglect, but from constant use. The leaders I worked with this year? Wealth...