Every business owner has made an investment of time or money they wish they could get back.

Maybe you borrowed money to invest in an online course or a program promising the breakthrough of a lifetime.

The marketing strategy that was supposed to have new leads breaking down your door.

Joining a networking group or investing in office space hoping it’ll lead to more business and referrals.

The conference, the coach, the software subscription, the partnership, the ad campaign that looked like the missing piece.

And after thousands of dollars and weeks/months of your time you realize it wasn't the answer.

As much as those mistakes may have cost you in resources, there’s a bigger mistake I see entrepreneurs and business owners making after that — shaming themselves long after the fact.

I was thinking about this after a conversation with some fellow entrepreneurs and business owners in one of the salsa dancing communities I’m part of.

One of them shared about how they had secured space in a coworking office about an hour from where they lived with the intention of being able to network and get new business.

Now it’s easy to judge in hindsight but if I were to truly list both the dollar and time amount I’ve personally wasted on swings that ultimately lead to nothing, it would dwarf that scenario by 15-20x.

Seriously. I once invested nearly $10K into a Facebook Ads course at the height of FB ad craze, thinking it’d be an “easy” add-on to my existing marketing services. But the main people responding to my ads were other people in the course and community with me…

The things I would do differently now…

But that’s just it — I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

And I didn’t know that I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Yeah, have fun saying that three times fast…

I can cringe at that and many other examples but what would be the value in shaming myself for it?

The thing about entrepreneurship—especially when viewed by those from the outside—is that it has a way of making every wrong turn feel like a personal failure.

I’ve replayed conversations. I’ve questioned my instincts. And even after FIFTEEN YEARS, I still have the occasional thought of whether I’m actually cut out for this.

Social media doesn’t help either. It’s filled with people claiming they built six-figure businesses with one simple funnel, one perfect offer, or one secret strategy.

A large majority of that is absolute-fucking-bullshit by the way. Nobody’s posting their trip to the dollar menu or 4th night eating Ramen noodle to their Instagram highlights.

They’re whole job is to sell you on the idea that if only you had their course, followed their blueprint, you, too, could be taking pictures next to someone else’s private jet or Porsche 718 Cayman GT4 RS.

The reality is there is no definitive playbook.

Business schools can teach concepts and principles. Coaches can share experience. Mentors can shorten the learning curve.

But not a single one of them can eliminate uncertainty.

Every successful entrepreneur has to reach a point where they’re comfortable making decisions with incomplete information.

That’s the job.

You take a swing, you learn, you adjust, and keep moving forward.

Some lessons cost fifty dollars. Some cost five thousand. Some cost an entire year.

At some point, you have to stop treating every failed investment like evidence that you’re bad at business and start recognizing it as the price to be paid for the experiential education called entrepreneurship.

Charge it to the game.

People think the challenge is finding the perfect strategy, the perfect tool, or perfect employee, etc.

But the real challenge is surviving the lonely nights when nothing seems to be working. It’s making it through the lean months when the inbox is crickets, the pipeline is empty, and you’re wondering if everyone else figured something out that you somehow missed.

(And try dating or being in a relationship while enduring all that…)

There’s no masterclass for that.

No certificate.

No guru can teach the discipline of holding onto a vision that nobody else can see but you.

That belongs to you.

So if you’re carrying around regret for money you spent, opportunities you chased, or ideas that never became what you hoped they would be, maybe it’s time to close that mental tab.

Take the lesson.

Keep the wisdom.

Leave the shame behind.

Every entrepreneur pays for an education.

The only real waste is paying for the lesson and refusing to learn from it.

Ali J. Taylor is a NJ-based business consultant and TEDx speaker. He writes about work, identity, creativity, relationships, ambition, faith, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what’s possible.

Some of those stories deserve to be honored, while others deserve to be rewritten.

Learn more at alijtaylor.com or his consulting framework here.

One of my biggest “AI icks” is when I see the phrase “performing [noun]” .e.g., ‘performing confidence’ or ‘performing warmth’.

Excuse me...what?

I know you can perform a dance or perform a task.

I know you can pretend to be confident or warm.

But a phrase like “performing confidence” hits my eyes and ears in all the wrong ways.

And no, I’m not arguing for language to remain stale or stagnant. I’m arguing for the opposite.

Linguistic evolution is incredibly fascinating. The English language has always borrowed, shifted, or repurposed words. And every generation invents shorthand/slang, that genuinely improves communication in fun and exciting ways.

My point is that the loss of PRECISE LANGUAGE — these linguistic shortcuts — flattens the very rich, diverse, and complex experiences we all have.

When we use one word to describe several layers of human experience or take a word out of the historical or cultural context in which it appeared, we lose something.

C. S. Lewis observed that the loss of a varied vocabulary directly limits our capacity to think. As he famously noted, “Men do not long continue to think what they have forgotten how to say”. Without the right words to define our ideas, our intellectual range suffers

I’m reminded of that scene in Dead Poets Society, where Professor Keating, played by Robin Williams (RIP), said, “So avoid using the word 'very' because it's lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don't use very sad, use morose.

Language was invented for one reason, boys—to woo women—and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do. It also won't do in your essays.”

Now you can argue amongst yourselves regarding the last sentiment. I’ve no desire to wade into gender wars or histrionic offenses.

Think about how English uses one word—love—for everything from “I love tacos” to “I love my wife.”

But the Greeks distinguished between eros, philia, storge, ludus, agape, pragma, and philautia because they recognized that human attachment isn't one experience but many. [Read more — 7 Types of Love (And What They Mean)]

See how much richer, juicier, and delicious that is?

Another quote from the film goes, "No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world."

I believe that — to my core.

But only if the words we use are precise and accurately convey our intention; only if they accurately describe context.

So much can be taken from us when we give up specificity.

We don’t merely lose vocabulary. We lose distinctions. And when distinctions disappear, so does our ability to perceive the complexity they once described.

Precise language invites curiosity. Broad labels invite certainty (read: demagoguery).

And part of me thinks that’s the point.

As I stated in my TEDx talk, “Being Good with You in a World of Comparison” (watch here) , learning to be still, to slooooooow down… that’s the key.

When we have—or take—the time to think, to process, to examine what we're reading, give thought to what we're communicating, and leave room for nuance, we become that much more resistant to manipulation.

I don’t want to go beyond the scope of this essay but you can see it in our news media just by comparing the headlines of state media to international news.

Don’t even get me started on all the fun with words that advertising and marketing likes to have…

To reiterate, I am not against the evolution of language.

I’m resistant to language that substitutes interpretation for observation and implication for description.

I am rebelling against linguistic entropy.

Whether it’s generational or generative AI, I fear we lose something critical when everyone writes and speaks in a language that sounds meaningful but is ultimately fuzzy.

To quote C.S. Lewis once more:

“To say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.”

You contain multitudes.

Do not let convenience, online culture, or popular convention rob you of your complexity or your capacity for self-expression.

I’ve been saying some version of “work-life” balance is bullsh*t since at least 2024.

In fact, in November of that year, I made an Instagram reel titled “Why Work-Life Balance is Bullsh*t if You’re a Business Owner.” Watch here

I still don’t believe in work-life balance.

However, I do believe that if you don’t have a sense of balance between your work and your life, it’s your fault.

It’s a YOU problem.

As I expressed in that Instagram reel and other platforms, I believe in work-life presence.

When I'm working, I'm working. Fully. My attention isn't split, I'm not half-present, and my phone is often on “Do Not Disturb” DND. I'm locked in because my work deserves that version of me.

When I’m with my family, I’m with my family. Not physically there while mentally composing emails. There. Present. Engaged.

When I’m on a date, I’m on the date and she’s getting my full attention. The work will be there when I get back. I don’t work at The Pitt (currently obsessed with this show), so no one will die if I stepped away.

That’s not imbalance. That’s intentionality.

And that’s what most people who are always talking about balance, always chasing it, always worried they don't have enough of it, are missing.

In order to be intentional, you need five things. And until those five things are in place, no amount of time-blocking or boundary-setting is going to fix the real problem.

The Five Elements of Intentionality

1. Security.

Insecurity is the ooze bubbling beneath most imbalance. When you’re not secure in who you are and what you’re building, you do one of two things: you overextend in one direction, usually work, because you’re chasing approval, or you let other people’s voices get in your head and start dictating how hard you should work, what you should want, where your energy should go.

Either way, you’re not operating from a sense of self. You’re operating from fear. And no amount of “balance” fixes fear.

2. Self-Awareness.

If you don’t know yourself, you can’t regulate yourself. You drift. You don’t recognize when you’ve gone too far, or you misread what you actually need in a given season. Self-awareness is your guidance system. Without it, you’re flying blind and then wondering why you keep crashing.

3. Self-Control.

Or discipline, if that word hits harder for you. Either way, this is different from self-awareness. You can know you’ve gone too far and still not be able to pull yourself back. Self-control is the capacity to act on what you know. It’s the ability to step away from the work when the work is done, to be fully present with the people who matter, and to do it without a negotiation every single time.

4. Communication.

Most “balance” problems aren’t time problems — they’re communication problems. You haven’t told your partner what this season of work requires. You haven’t told your team what you need. You haven’t set expectations with the people around you, so they’re filling the silence with their own assumptions, and then you’re both resentful for different reasons.

Clarity is an act of respect. Tell people what’s coming, why it’s coming, and how long it will last. That conversation does more work than any color-coded schedule or bullet journal ever will.

5. Integrity.

This is the one that seals all the others. You can be self-aware, secure, and communicative — and still blow it here.

Integrity is doing what you said you would do, for as long as you said you’d do it, and the moment something changes, flagging it immediately rather than hoping no one notices.

“I’m going to be heads-down on this project for the next six weeks. Here’s the reason. Here’s the outcome I’m working toward. Here’s what I need from you during that time.”

That’s the conversation. And then you have to actually honor it or own it when you can’t.

Integrity is the foundation of it all.

What Balance Talk Is Really About

When someone won’t stop talking about balance — when it’s a recurring complaint, a repeated conversation, a pattern — what I actually hear underneath it is: I don’t know who I am well enough to trust myself. I don’t know how to tell the people around me what I need. And I haven’t built the self-control to follow through on what I say matters to me.

In other words, the problem is with your character; not your calendar.

Not trying to shame anyone. But balance won’t be found in a better morning routine. It’ll be found by addressing who you’re being with radical honesty.

Today, March 17th, is my 44th birthday. A fellow public speaker asked me, “What’s the greatest life lesson you have learned?”

I only gave him three but I decided to share fourty-four things I’ve learned so far.

Please don’t look at them as rules or even advice.

They’re just things I’ve seen, felt, gotten wrong, and learned—sometimes slowly, sometimes the hard way.

And honestly, some I’m still in the middle of learning most of these. But each and lesson cost me something.

1. I deserve to receive as much as I give.

Giving and taking care of others without also receiving isn’t noble—it’s self-abandonment. Reciprocity matters. I’m learning to open my hands and accept what’s offered without immediately calculating how to earn it or pay it back.

2. My capacity and depth are not a flaw.

The ocean doesn’t apologize to lakes or rivers for its depth—and neither will I. I don’t need to shrink to be loved. The right people will either meet me there or feel at peace swimming in my depths.

3. I trust what people do more than what they say.

Words are easy. Behavior—especially under pressure—reveals the truth. I’m learning to observe, invest more slowly, and let time reveal who someone actually is.

4. I don’t have to go looking for reasons to love someone.

If someone wants to be loved by me, they’ll show it loudly, clearly, and consistently in their behavior. I’m no longer piecing together potential or filling in gaps. I pay attention to what’s actually there.

5. I’m not grieving who left. I’m grieving who I was with them.

The loss that truly lingers isn’t just the friendship or relationship. It’s the version of myself that felt open, connected, and safe within it.

6. My relationship with myself matters most.

Everything else flows from that. When I abandon myself, I feel it everywhere—my decisions, my relationships, my peace. When I stay aligned with myself, things may not always be easy, but they’re clear.

7. Being useful and needed is not the same as being loved.

I learned early on to be the one who gives, supports, and holds things together. It made me valuable—but it also made me depleted. I’m learning that love isn’t something I can earn. It’s something I’m allowed to receive.

8. I don’t need to fix or save anyone to be worthy.

There was a part of me that felt most valuable when I was helping someone through their pain. But that often came at the cost of ignoring my own needs. We can lean on each other but there’s no rescuing involved.

9. People lie. Patterns don’t.

For a long time, I questioned whether I was overthinking or being too critical. But I’ve had enough repeated experiences to know what certain behaviors lead to. I trust what I recognize now.

10. Rereading the same chapter doesn’t change the outcome.

I shake my head sometimes at how much time I’ve wasted ruminating, dwelling, and imagining a different outcome or how things “should” have been. Hope is good. It’s necessary. But there comes a point where it becomes toxic.

11. Love doesn’t require self-betrayal.

And this where hope becomes toxic. I thought it was “unconditional love” but in reality, I was overriding my instincts, minimizing my needs, and staying quiet to keep the connection. That’s not love. That’s imprisonment.

12. Chemistry is not the same as alignment.

I’ve felt strong attraction, chemistry, and connection with people who weren’t actually right for me. It’s easy to confuse intensity with compatibility. I’m learning to slow down and look at how things actually are and not just how they feel.

13. Being worthy doesn’t require being chosen.

There were moments where I made someone else’s decision mean something about me. If they chose me, I felt validated. If they didn’t, I questioned myself. I see now how unstable that is.

14. You cannot be everything to others and nothing for yourself.

I’ve taken pride in being reliable, supportive, and someone people could count on. But when that comes at the cost of my own needs, it creates resentment. I’m learning that showing up for others can’t come at the expense of showing up for myself.

15. Just because I can carry it doesn’t mean I have to.

I’ve developed the capacity to handle a lot—emotionally, mentally, even in relationships. But capacity doesn’t equal responsibility. I’m getting better at asking, “Is this actually mine to carry?”

16. What I want matters.

There were times I deprioritized what I wanted to keep things smooth, avoid conflict, or maintain connection. But over time, that just created distance from myself. I’m learning to take my own desires seriously.

17. I’m allowed to raise my standards without explaining them.

As I’ve grown, what I’m available for has changed. I don’t need to justify that. I just need to honor it.

18. I’ve fallen in love with potential more than reality.

I’ve seen who someone could be and built connection around that version instead of who they actually were. It’s a subtle form of denial—hoping they’ll grow into what I already see. I’m learning to stay grounded in what’s real, not what’s possible.

19. People show me who they are—I just haven’t always listened.

I love my depth but always looking deep into a person has caused me to look past the inconsistency, the avoidance, the misalignment. I’ve just explained it away, gave it time, or tried to understand it instead of accepting it.

20. Not everything that looks or feels good is good for me.

Chemistry, attention, and emotional connection can feel right in the moment. But I’ve felt those things in situations that weren’t sustainable or aligned. I’m learning to separate what looks and feels good from what actually is good.

21. Clarity doesn’t require chasing.

When someone is aligned, it shows up in how they communicate, how they show up, and how they choose. I’ve spent time trying to get clarity from people who weren’t offering it. Sometimes the confusion is the answer.

22. Their inconsistency is not a challenge to overcome.

Inconsistency is a choice. I’m not talking about perfection. I’m talking about a pattern of uncertainty, stress, or bad timing—and patterns reflect priorities.

23. I’ve tried to understand behavior that I should have just accepted.

I’ve asked why, looked for context, and tried to see things from their perspective. But understanding someone doesn’t change how they show up. Explanations and excuses don’t equal alignment.

24. I don’t need closure to move forward.

I used to feel like I needed answers, explanations, or some kind of final conversation to move on. But not everyone is capable of giving that. I’m learning that closure is something I create, not something I wait for.

25. Being considered is not the same as being chosen.

Attention that comes and goes isn’t commitment. I’ve mistaken moments of connection for something more stable than they actually were. I’m learning to recognize the difference between being considered and being chosen—and to stop settling for the former.

26. I’ve confused being wanted with being valued.

Desire, attention, and attraction can feel validating. But they don’t always come with respect, consistency, or intention. There’s a difference between someone who fucks with me and someone who just wants to fuck me.

27. Repair matters more than the rupture.

Things will break—miscommunication, tension, distance. What I’m paying more attention to is what happens after. Who takes accountability, who leans in, and who avoids it altogether.

28. I can’t build connection with someone who avoids discomfort.

Depth requires difficult conversations, honesty, and the ability to stay present when things aren’t easy. I’ve tried to make it work with people who shut down or deflect despite doing everything I can to create safety for them.

29. I’ve over-functioned in relationships to keep them going.

I’ve carried conversations, initiated repair, and held emotional space—often more than was being reciprocated. It can feel like effort, but over time it turns into imbalance.

30. Just because I understand someone doesn’t mean I should stay.

I can see where someone is coming from, what they’ve been through, and why they are the way they are. But my empathy doesn’t make something sustainable. I’m learning not to confuse compassion with compatibility.

31. Access to me should be earned, not assumed.

I’ve given people access to my time, energy, and inner world too quickly because I know what it feels like to be abandoned and alone. Not everyone knows how to hold that well. I’m becoming more intentional about who I let into my weird little world.

32. I deserve to be someone’s first choice.

I’ve been in situations where I was wanted—but not fully chosen. Where it felt like “maybe, if things were different.” Because whatever—or whoever—is in the way will always set the ceiling on what we can be.

33. Money isn’t the most important thing—but it touches everything that is.

I’ve seen how money impacts freedom, stress, health, relationships—everything. It’s not the purpose of my life, but pretending it doesn’t matter is naïve. I’m learning to respect it, steward it, and build it—so it supports the life I actually want to live.

34. Being a provider is about more than money.

Provision isn’t just financial—it’s emotional, spiritual, and environmental. It’s the energy I bring. The safety I create. The standards I hold. The way people feel in my presence. I’m learning that what I provide isn’t just what I earn. It’s who I am.

35. How I show up matters more than what I say.

I’ve realized that presence carries more weight than words. People feel whether I’m grounded, clear, and aligned or scattered, reactive, and uncertain. I’m learning to take responsibility for the energy I bring into every room, every conversation, every relationship.

36. Discipline is a form of self-respect.

There are days I don’t feel like doing what I said I would do. But every time I follow through anyway, I reinforce trust with myself. I’m learning that discipline isn’t punishment. It’s how I build a life I can rely on.

37. Stillness is where I hear myself clearly.

When everything gets loud—opinions, expectations, noise—I lose track of what’s actually mine. I’m learning to slow down, get quiet, and listen to myself before I move.

38. I don’t need to prove who I am.

There was a time I wanted people to see me, understand me, recognize me. Now I’m more focused on alignment. The right people don’t need convincing.

39. I can be strong and tender at the same time.

For a long time, I thought I had to choose: be guarded or be open. I’m learning that I can be grounded, direct, and strong while still being present, emotional, and open.

40. I’m responsible for the standard I tolerate.

What I allow, I reinforce. I’ve seen how easy it is to let things slide in the moment and then deal with the consequences later. I’m learning to address things earlier and more honestly.

41. Grief befriends us all.

Grief is love with nowhere to go, love persevering, the price we pay for love, etc. And sometimes…it’s a dirty fighter. It hits when it wants, how it wants, and doesn’t care what I have planned. There are days it feels distant, and days it feels like it just happened. It doesn’t follow logic or timelines. I’m learning that I don’t control it—I just ride the waves.

42. Loss isn’t something to get over. It’s something to grow around.

There’s a version of me that existed before certain losses, and I’m not him anymore. Something shifted permanently. There’s a quiet sadness that stays with me alongside everything else. No matter how incredible and amazing and joyously full my life continues to get, there will always be a space frozen in melancholy.

43. Grief isn’t linear. Neither is healing.

There was a time I felt completely unmoored—grieving my parents, losing love, losing a a friend group I thought would last. It felt like everything had been ripped away from me. I spent many nights by the ocean asking God, The Universe, anything for answers. It felt like I was drowning. Some nights, I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

And then slowly…new things found me.

New people. New communities. A new way to express myself through dance. New energy, new connection, new mission, new life.

I’m learning that healing isn’t just about what I lose—it’s also about what I make space for. Grief can trap me in what’s gone, but healing reminds me there’s still more ahead.

44. I can’t control what happens but I can decide what I build from it.

I don’t know what the next year—or the next decade—will ask of me.

So far, it’s asked a lot. More than what’s felt fair.

Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter.

I know this: I’m not the same man I was, and I’m not trying to be.

I’ve lost things I thought would last forever. I’ve found things I didn’t know I needed. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I’ve started to understand what it means to stay with myself.

If there’s anything these 44 years have shown me, it’s this: I can’t control what happens but I do have a say in who I get to be at any moment.

One last thing….

Incubus has been my favorite band since I was 15. Their music has been there through more seasons of my life than I can count.

If there’s one song that captures these 44 years, it’s Drive.

“What do you mean when you say you’re a man who leads?”

Fair question. The language has been hijacked by fragile men who think “leadership” means control, dominance, or needing you to be small so they can feel big.

So let me be clear about what I mean—and what I don’t.

What I Don’t Mean

I'm not talking about someone who makes all the decisions because he doesn't trust your judgment or a man who leads with his ego, his insecurity, or his need to be right.

A man who does all that is about as strong as cotton candy in a hurricane.

What I Do Mean

A man who leads is a man who has a vision for where he’s going. He’s not stuck, he’s not waiting for permission, and he’s not looking for someone to fix him or figure his life out for him. He is a man of clarity, integrity, conviction, and responsibility—building a life worth joining.

And I’m speaking strictly for myself here. Another man could have a completely different answer. This is mine.

In fact, let me personalize it and speak in the first person.

I set the tone.

I’m building something. My life has momentum. You don’t have to wonder if I’m serious or if I’m just talking. You’ll be able feel it.

I make decisions—and I own them.

I don’t need endless validation or reassurance to move. I listen, I think, I decide. And if I’m wrong? I own it and adjust. You’re not carrying the mental load of every decision or wondering if I can handle pressure.

I protect the container.

Physically, emotionally, financially, spiritually—I steward our environment. That doesn’t mean I do everything alone but it does mean I take responsibility for the foundation, the vision, and keeping the chaos outside.

I call you higher, not smaller.

Real leadership doesn’t need people to shrink in order to feel powerful. I’m not interested in you dimming your light to make me feel secure. I want to see you step fully into who you’re capable of being. A true leader doesn’t need followers—he calls out greatness in others.

I don’t need you to mother me.

I’m not looking for someone to manage my emotions, organize my life, or validate my worth. I’m already whole. I’m looking for you to be my partner—not my therapist, not my nanny.

I honor your feminine energy without fearing it.

I cook, clean, and sew better than a lot of women. I’m handy with tools. I’m also more emotionally intelligent and mature than a lot of women. I don't need you to complete me or to give me purpose. But I do desire your intuition, your softness, your emotion, your creativity. Those are not weakness or complications. I see them as essential. I create space for you to move in your power, and I don’t need you to operate like a man to feel safe around you.

What I Know Now

I didn’t always understand this.

There was a season where I confused being chosen with being worthy. Where I tied my value to whether someone said yes. Where I stayed too long, gave too much, and abandoned myself in the name of love.

And in those seasons, I learned what half-hearted partnership looks like:

• She'll take your attention but not your leadership.

• She'll take your provision but resist your direction.

• She'll want the benefits of your strength without trusting you to wield it.

I learned the hard way that a woman who can’t meet you in your wholeness will settle for pieces of you instead.

Instead of partnership, it’s a never-ending callback to audition for a role she’ll never cast you in.

Real partnership doesn’t require you to prove yourself endlessly. It doesn’t demand that you lead perfectly before she trusts you to lead at all. It sure as hell doesn’t punish you for being decisive or resent you for having vision.

Real partnership happens when two whole people choose alignment over anxiety, trust over testing, and co-creation over control.

My Standard

I’ve lost all desire to convince any woman that I’m a man worth walking beside. You either have the desire/courage or you don’t.

My life will show you. I honor my commitments. I protect what I value. I build, steward, and lead.

And if you’re the kind of woman who moves with grace, thinks deeply, takes pride in her presence and energy—if you’re disciplined, self-aware, and not afraid of a man who knows where he’s going—we’ll get along great.

A Final Word

I wrote this because I’ve no desire to repeat myself. Not with the mission and vision I've been given. Not when there's so much to build, experience, and create.

I'm not wasting time having another Godawful conversation about modern dating (I've written about that here) or debates about going 50/50 (covered that too).

I want to talk about vision. About legacy. About what we’re both building and how we might build it together.

I want to share my dreams and hear yours—not as a test of compatibility, but as an act of curiosity and respect. I want to know what lights you up, what scares you, what you’re protecting, what you’re reaching for.

But I can’t get there if I’m stuck playing this performative chicken dance. If I have to prove I’m “worthy” before I’m allowed to be seen. If every conversation is an audition instead of a revelation.

Real partnership doesn’t start with interrogations, questionnaires, and checklists. It starts with two people who already know who they are, standing in that clarity, and asking: “Does this alignment serve us both?”

I’m not perfect. God knows I fall short every day. But I know who I am. I know what I’m building. And I know the kind of partnership I’m creating space for.

If that resonates, you already know.

If it doesn’t, that’s okay too.

But the question of “what do you mean by a man who leads” doesn’t need to be asked anymore.

My answer is here—and in the links above.

Now let’s talk about what we see for our lives and go from there.

For reasons I won’t expound on, I found myself deeply moved and connected to both Will and Sean.

There’s the scene where Sean is talking to Will about why he hasn’t called Skylar. Sean says, “You’re not perfect, sport, and let me save you the suspense: this girl you’ve met, she’s not perfect either. But the question is whether or not you’re perfect for each other.”

And it got me thinking about why I was writing this essay on projection and my experience with being put on a pedestal.

Who is it for? What’s it supposed to accomplish?

A few weeks ago, I posted a public apology on Facebook—to every woman I ever put on a pedestal. It wasn’t about guilt. It was about owning the impact of my Nice Guy conditioning. I grew up putting women on pedestals—believing love had to be earned, that expressing what I wanted was selfish or shameful. So I stayed silent. I played the role. While deep down, I was angry and resentful that my needs went unmet while I kept pretending I didn’t have any.

But I’m not that man anymore.

I’ve been rebuilding from the inside out. I stopped chasing validation and started living with vision. I got in shape—physically, emotionally, mentally, financially, and spiritually. I take care of my body, dress like I give a damn, and carry myself with intention. I’ve created and continue to create a life that reflects my values—built on legacy, purpose, and discipline. I know who I am now. I know what I bring. I no longer shrink myself to fit into someone else’s fantasy.

What’s been happening lately, however, has been a little surprising.

Without going into all the different instances (some more intense than others), I finally know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of projection. To be idealized and not seen. To have someone fall in love with a fantasy they made up in their head—and expect me to play along like I got the script.

It’s lonely as hell. Isolating. Dehumanizing, even.

There’s this invisible pressure that comes with being put on a pedestal—the pressure to perform, to live up to a version of yourself you never agreed to be. And when you can’t—or won’t—the pedestal becomes a prison.

That realization hit me hard. I finally got what it feels like to be consumed without consent. To become an idea—someone’s symbol for hope, healing, or redemption—until the illusion cracks. Then they move on to find a new ideal.

It’s painful and, honestly, infuriating — to be looked at, admired, or fantasized about without actually being seen.

And that’s where Sean’s other quote really landed for me: “We get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds.”

Because that’s the part that stings and liberates all at once. The recognition that, yes, people will project. They’ll build their stories around the pieces of you they find interesting or useful.

But we still get to choose who has real access.

But with access comes risk. That’s part of the fear too, right? What if we let someone into our weird little world — allow ourselves to truly be seen — and they run off to chase a new fantasy?

What if I share too much from my inner world and ruin the “tall, dark, and handsome” illusion? The dashing, debonair, Black-James-Bond-slash-Idris-Elba energy that many women find desirable and some dudes find enviable?

Or what if I let a woman in and she realizes I’m more emotionally grounded and self-aware than she is — that I can’t be manipulated by sex or performative vulnerability? That I’ll actually hold her accountable for how she behaves, and now she sees she can’t reach the standard I’ve set?

That’s the thing about projections: they keep everyone safe from the truth. It’s easier to fall in love with a fantasy than to sit across from a person who might challenge you to grow—or fart in their sleep.

And maybe this is why I hesitated to publish the original essay.

Because I realized putting it out there might recreate the very dynamic I’m writing about — people consuming my vulnerability as if it were a product, turning my truth into another form of projection.

So instead of publishing, I’m practicing something else: discernment.

We don’t get to control whether people project onto us — that’s their work, not ours.

But we do get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds.

Who earns the right to see the unedited version of us—the director’s cut and behind-the-scenes.

Real intimacy looks like this: into-me-you-see.

It’s two people finding the courage to keep looking at other and themselves honestly long after the fantasy has faded away.

It’s bad math.

You’re forgetting all the ways a good woman adds to your life… and how she multiplies your blessings.

Now, this mindset isn’t necessarily your fault.

We’ve all been brainwashed to measure a person's value by their productivity and what they do for work.

Ever notice how one of the first questions we ask when meeting someone is:
“What do you do?”
Not: “Who are you?”

(Even though that question tends to send people into an existential panic — but that’s a conversation for another day.)

The bottom line is: this is patriarchy at work.
And yeah — it hurts women and men.

Now, back to my original point.

Think of a good woman — or the relationship — like a high-yield investment.
(Not to objectify — but sometimes a metaphor helps.)

If you think of her like an investment, her value compounds over time.
But the return?

It only comes if you consistently invest.

Now I know some of y’all say:

“I’ll invest once I know she’s the one.”

But that’s like trying to time the market or predict which stock is gonna take off.

Unless it’s transactional, relationships don’t work like that —
especially if you want a relationship that honors God.

You want her in your corner during the tough times?

You want a partner who holds down the home, the kids — and you?

Then you have to demonstrate your ability to make her feel seen, protected, and prioritized —
not just when it’s convenient or affordable.

Paying for dates.
Providing financially.
Creating emotional safety.

That’s all bare minimum investment.

And if you don’t have the money to invest right now, that’s OK.
But you’ve got to be real with yourself about where you are — and be working on a plan to level up.

Because while, yes, some women want you to have it right now —
there are plenty who just want to see that you’ve got a vision, and you’re moving toward it.

Those are the women to focus on.
The ones who’ll speak life into you as you build — not tear you down while you’re trying.

But again — if you’re not in a place to provide anything financially yet, then be upfront.

Even if it stings.
Even if it bruises your ego.

Because — despite what the internet keeps yelling —
your financial status is not a reflection of your worth as a man.

No matter how many times that idiotic phrase “high-value man” gets thrown around.

It’s not a reflection of your value.
But it might reflect your level of compatibility with someone right now.

So be honest. Be clear. And give her the choice.

Because it’s unfair to let a woman get emotionally invested in a future with you
when you know you’re not ready or able to provide a foundation for that future.

And truthfully? It’s not just unfair to her — it’s unfair to you, too.

Because when you force yourself into a dynamic you’re not ready for — financially, emotionally, spiritually — you’re setting yourself up for resentment, burnout, and disconnection.

You deserve a relationship rooted in grace, ease, and peace.
One where you’re not just providing, but also receiving — support, understanding, and space to grow.

And she can’t give you that if she’s constantly worried you’re going to fall apart or fail because you overextended yourself.

Don’t rob her or yourself of that just to soothe your own fear of rejection or not being enough.

Love demands courage.

And courage is not a 50/50 game.

It’s disorienting to do real emotional work while the culture—and your algorithm—rewards finger-pointing over presence, and blame over self-reflection.

I see it every day—outrage content goes viral, while the posts inviting personal accountability barely make a ripple.

We say we want connection. But we keep feeding the divide.

We confuse polarization for polarity—and then wonder why nothing sticks.

Polarity, as I understand it, isn’t about dominance or control—it’s about tension, truth, and trust.

In frameworks like GS Youngblood’s The Masculine in Relationship, polarity stems from presence, leadership, and emotional depth.

It’s the energetic current that moves between a grounded masculine and a receptive feminine—regardless of gender.

I’m not interested in performative masculinity or femininity like it’s a costume from Spirit Halloween. If it’s not embodied, it’s not polarity.

Real polarity requires emotional maturity, nervous system regulation, and a commitment to mutual growth.

But what gets rewarded online isn’t maturity—it’s mockery. Outrage. Gender tropes dressed up as wisdom.

And a severe lack of empathy.

That’s not creating connection. It’s killing it.

And I’ve witnessed that death more times than I care to admit.

I’ve written before about why some women don’t see coffee dates as “real” dates—and spoiler: it’s rarely about the money.

It’s about energy. Intention. The way the time together feels like an interview, not an invitation.

When she’s being evaluated instead of valued, she doesn’t feel chosen—she feels inspected.

In my last post, "Why It's Up to Men to Save Modern Dating", I wrote about how too many men aren’t dating to love—they’re dating to win.

They treat the feminine like the enemy—or like their mother. Sometimes they can’t tell the difference.

I write about the importance of men dropping the mask. Reconnecting with the boy inside who didn’t get what he needed. And living from a code that keeps them from collapsing into chaos.

I practice what I preach: leading with clarity, initiating with intention, and offering grounded presence.

I’m often told—aside from the kindness and looks—it’s my emotional clarity that stands out. My maturity. My willingness to be honest, even when it’s hard.

I don’t do 50/50. And the only “coffee date” I’m signing up for is espresso martinis with dinner.

And let’s be clear—I’m not a simp, and I’m definitely not an incel.

I’m not here for cosplay masculinity or the watered-down “nice guy” act.

I’ve done—and continue to do—the work. That’s why I’ve earned my center.

So imagine the ache of offering that kind of presence—only to be met with silence, hesitation, or retreat.

And thanks to the low-key surveillance machine we call social media, I watch women I’ve shown up for engage with content that reduces men to punchlines—or turns dating into a hollow, dehumanizing game for engagement.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of resentment.

That content? Those narratives? They aren’t harmless.

They reinforce distrust. Reward avoidance. And feed the part of us that would rather guard our wounds than risk real intimacy.

Here’s the quiet kicker…

Once we start engaging with that content, our brain starts curating the world to match.

It’s called the Reticular Activating System—or RAS. It’s the part of the brain that acts like a filter, reinforcing what we already believe or pay attention to.

Engage with enough posts that say “men are trash” or “women only want attention,” and guess what? That becomes your lens.

Not because it’s the truth—but because it’s what you’ve trained your brain to care about.

We think it’s just scrolling.

But really, we’re programming our nervous systems. Reinforcing our fears.

Training ourselves to stay guarded—even when the connection we crave is standing right in front of us.

I get it.

Maybe a like is just a like. Maybe it means nothing.

(Though let’s be honest—how often does that logic hold up when a guy’s caught liking a thirst trap or an OF post?)

What we consume shapes us.

And the research backs it up: social media actively shapes how we view, pursue, and experience relationships.

Yes, it creates new ways to connect. But it also fuels comparison. Jealousy. Disconnection. Fantasy over intimacy. (Source: How Social Media Affects Relationships)

That steady drip of blame, cynicism, and gender wars doesn’t stay on our screens.

It shows up in how we date. How we listen. What we expect. And what we stop believing is possible.

Social media isn’t just a vacuum—it’s a mirror and a megaphone. It amplifies what we fear and reflects who we’re becoming.

And I say that knowing I’m not immune.

I catch myself numbing. Scrolling. Feeding my own fears. Watching what I consume—and noticing who I’m becoming because of it.

So what do we do with all this?

If we want deeper relationships, we need to make braver choices—especially in what we like, share, and silently co-sign with our attention.

Because that’s what the algorithm—and our nervous system—are always learning from.

We can’t say we want love but keep feeding what teaches us to fear it.

So ask yourself—gently, honestly—
What kind of content are you feeding your algorithm—and your soul? What might that say about the relationship you’re actually preparing for?

Let’s talk about it. Drop a comment or hit reply—I read it all.

And that direction isn’t toward control, performance, or posturing—but toward presence. Toward becoming the kind of man who doesn’t need to prove anything, because he already knows who he is.

But if we’re honest, most of us were never taught how to be that man. We were taught how to perform.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we’re showing up in dating—not just as men trying to connect with women, but as humans trying to connect with ourselves. And the deeper I go in my conversations with friends—especially women—the more I see it clearly: we’re all hurting, we’re all guarded, and we’re all playing out roles we never consciously chose.

And it’s costing us something sacred.

This essay isn’t just about dating. It’s about identity. About emotional honesty. About the soul-level disorientation of being raised in a culture where masculinity was never modeled—only mimicked.

It’s a mirror. And if it makes you uncomfortable, don’t look away.

Sit with it.

The Masculinity Crisis Isn’t Loud. It’s Quiet and Confused.

Modern dating has become a performance. One where we’re all acting, hedging, auditioning for roles we don’t even want. Men are expected to lead but aren’t trusted. Women are expected to receive but stay guarded. Everyone is playing not to lose rather than showing up to love.

The truth is, most men are operating from a place of fear.

Fear of being used. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being seen.

We think if we stay emotionally neutral, we stay safe. But neutrality isn’t attractive. It’s not even honest. It’s just avoidance dressed in faux maturity.

What I see—and what I’ve seen in myself—is that many of our dating behaviors are rooted not in genuine curiosity or connection, but in performance, self-protection, and the pursuit of male approval.

We Don’t Want to Love. We Want to Win.

Too many men aren’t dating because they want her. They’re dating for the nod from other men.

We chase women we don’t even like because it looks good. Because someone might say “I see you, playa.” Because some insecure version of ourselves still thinks having a “bad one” on your arm makes you a man.

It’s validation by proxy.

This obsession with optics over authenticity is what turns dating into performance art—and relationships into power struggles. You’re not trying to create intimacy; you’re trying to maintain your status.

That’s not masculinity. That’s pageantry.

And it leaves everyone feeling unseen.

The Feminine is Not Your Enemy. And She’s Not Your Mother, Either.

A lot of men say they want a woman who’s their “peace.”

But peace isn’t something you outsource. It’s something you cultivate in yourself—and then invite someone into.

You can’t demand nurturing from someone you won’t be emotionally open with. You can’t ask for softness while projecting rigidity. You can’t long for intimacy while making vulnerability a crime.

And deep down, many of us have been taught to resent the feminine—not just in women, but in ourselves.

We mock tenderness. We run from surrender. We fear emotional expression unless it’s anger or ambition. And when we see a woman embodying what we were taught to suppress—receptivity, emotion, softness—we get uncomfortable. Sometimes even resentful.

Because if you were shamed for needing comfort or affection as a boy, it makes sense that you’d feel a kind of ache watching someone else receive what you were denied.

But the parts of yourself you’ve exiled—the emotional, the intuitive, the tender—are the exact parts you need to reclaim if you ever want to build a real connection with anyone.

Including yourself.

Masculinity as Nervous System Regulation

One of the biggest lies we were sold is that masculinity is about dominance or detachment.

It’s not.

Healthy, grounded masculinity is nervous system regulation. It’s the ability to be still when everything in you wants to react. It’s the strength to feel your feelings without collapsing under them or numbing them out.

It’s the clarity to stand firm in your truth without needing to control the outcome. It’s having a vision for your life—and not abandoning it for a temporary hit of validation.

It’s presence over posturing. Integrity over intensity.

And it’s the hardest damn thing in the world when no one ever modeled it for you.

The Real Rite of Passage

In my own healing journey, especially through programs like Nice Guy Reform School and the inner work I’ve done with mentors and other men, I’ve come to understand this:

Many of us never had a real initiation into manhood.

Our society no longer offers rites of passage. Religion, education, even the military—these once-structured paths toward adult identity have lost their cultural weight or become politicized.

So instead, we create shallow initiations.

We drink too much. We sleep around. We join podcast comment sections and talk shit about women online. We mimic alpha behavior while still feeling like boys inside.

But a real initiation doesn’t come from performance.

It comes from surrender.

It comes from looking in the mirror and saying: “This is who I am. This is what I believe. This is the man I am becoming.”

It comes from choosing a code to live by, and refusing to abandon it—even when it’s hard, even when it costs you something, even when no one’s watching.

That’s what makes a man.

Dating Isn’t Broken. We Are.

Dating reflects the collective emotional state of the people participating in it.

And right now? We’re in chaos.

Men are disoriented, disconnected from their emotions, and performing identities they never consciously chose. Women are amplifying that chaos—reflecting and responding to what they receive. And everyone’s tired.

We’re all craving safety, truth, and connection—but we’ve become so practiced at protecting ourselves from hurt that we’ve forgotten how to open up to love.

We’ve turned romance into strategy. Vulnerability into currency. Intimacy into war.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

So What Does It Look Like to Show Up Differently?

It starts with asking better questions.

• Am I here to connect—or to compete?

• Am I showing up as a full human—or just a curated brand of masculinity?

• Am I creating safety—or just demanding submission?

• Am I grounded in my values—or lost in someone else’s approval?

And perhaps most importantly:

• Have I made peace with the boy in me who never got what he needed?

Because until you do, you’ll keep looking for wholeness in the gaze of others.

You’ll keep asking women to mother you, rescue you, or complete you.

You’ll keep performing instead of becoming.

The Invitation

This is an invitation—not to be perfect, but to be present.

To drop the mask.
To get curious.
To define masculinity not by domination, but by direction.
To lead with clarity, not control.
To offer your presence, not your performance.

You don’t need to be six-figures, six-foot, or six-pack blessed.

You need a vision. A code. A self you can come home to.

That’s what separates men who create connection from those who collapse into chaos.

And when you become that kind of man?

Everything changes.

Not because you “get the girl.”

But because you finally got you.

Author’s Note with Book Mentions:

I didn’t write this from an ivory tower. I wrote it from the mud—after years of getting my heart broken and proverbial teeth kicked in untangling my identity from old wounds, false performances, and inherited ideas of masculinity that never fit.

My growth has come through thousands of journal entries, mirror work, breathwork, meditation, prayer, and deep conversations with other men doing the work too.

And I wouldn’t be where I am without the guidance I found in books like:

• The Masculine in Relationship and The Art of Embodiment for Men by GS Youngblood

• How to Do the Work by Dr. Nicole LePera

• The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

• I Am Number 8 by John W. Gray III

• Hero on a Mission by Donald Miller

• Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl

These books helped me remember who I am—and gave me the language to create a new way of showing up in the world. If you’re on your own path of healing, I highly recommend them.

If this essay resonated, share it with someone walking this path.

And if you’re still figuring it out? You’re not behind. You’re not alone.

I promise it gets better.