Here’s the thing. Your readers (a.k.a. potential clients) want to know that you’ve overcome the same challenges that they’re currently facing. They want to know that you’ve had your own on-your-knees moment—that horrible moment when you recognized that something had to change; that you couldn’t go on the way you had been; that the status quo was no longer a viable option. (Or that you’ve helped enough people in this position that it could just as well be you.)

And let me tell you, it’s not always easy to get my book-writing clients to embrace this concept. Because who wants to admit they haven’t come out of the womb fully formed and ready to kick ass, let alone spell out their deficiencies on the page?

But I want to show you how powerful this stuff is. I want to share with you Roland’s pain story, because it’s just that good. Not to mention beyond relevant to his audience, the people he serves: highly successful individuals who can’t figure out why they’re unhappy when they supposedly have it all. Perhaps his story could open you up to your own.

 

The morning I woke to the sound of my electric blinds was the morning I finally “woke up.” It was the morning I started to see life differently and began questioning how I was using my time. Now, just because you wake up doesn’t mean you know what to do next. I, for one, was lost. Despite living the retirement lifestyle (golfing, socializing, washing my cars, and trying out recipes), there was very little passion in my life. Like most people, I had spent so much time focusing on getting to a point where I was financially free that I hadn’t really thought about what I would do with that freedom.

Rather than staying stuck, I did what I always do… copy those who have done it before me, whatever it was. Which brings me to a mastermind group that consisted of the biggest players in my industry, none of whom had needed money for a very long time. The members spent their time looking for ways to change the industry and help more people achieve the same level of success. To me, this looked like the most logical group of people for me to associate with. I applied to join the group and they agreed to let me in. 

Without hesitation, I paid the annual enrollment fee, booked my flight, and headed off to Alexandria, Virginia.

As I suspected, these people were on a whole new level compared to most of the people I spent time with back home. Nobody talked about money, vacations, or what they owned. The conversations went deep, which required me to adjust. I had always been a chameleon, matching the energy signature of those around me, figuring out what was considered interesting and impressive, so I quickly grasped what to say and how to act. By the third meeting, I had established a seat at their table.

Now that I was a part of the elite group, I was hoping that I was going to feel different, that I would share their passion for work, that I too would be motivated to do more. But nothing changed. I was still bored and not really interested in my work. The mastermind trips were the closest thing I had to a sense of meaning and progress. I would return home and the momentum would quickly fade. A single week would pass, and I would find myself back in the rut that I was stuck in before I left.

After our spring summit, I received a text message when I got home from Russ, one of the guys in the group. In it, he asked for my address and said that he wanted to send me something. A week later I received a package containing a book with a letter inside. I opened the letter and began to read it.

Within a few paragraphs, I was sobbing.

To begin, Russ had highlighted the most fulfilling things he had accomplished in his life. Despite his success as an entrepreneur, none of his business accomplishments made it into his top ten. He told me about his accomplishments as a father, husband, and mentor. He wrote about the impact he’s had on young men while coaching hockey. Finally, he wrote about the success of his marriage and the bond he and his wife had formed over the years. 

Then the letter turned to me.

This was not a letter congratulating me on my early career success. It was not a letter admiring my ability to navigate my way into the group of industry elites. This was an intervention by a concerned friend. Russ could see the path that I was on, and he felt compelled to warn me. The road would end up nowhere good. 

As I read the words, I could feel my throat close, and my face turn bright red.

This man that I greatly admired went on to tell me that he’d noticed a change in me over the past six months… and it wasn’t a good change. He told me that the Roland he’d first met was no longer there. The original Roland he described as someone passionate, enthusiastic, and excited about the future. Whereas, the new Roland was restless, discontented, and searching for the next. He stated his concern for my future and happiness. The letter ended with a sentence that read, “Roland, a fulfilling life comes to those who chase their passions and serve others.”

I took the letter in the way one would a gut punch. Not because Russ had been cruel, but because he knew something about me that I didn’t. He knew that this was all a performance. Roland was not real. Almost everything that I thought about had to do with my being seen as someone wealthy, smart, and special. The stage lights were on, but no one was home. Despite selling my cars and letting go of the material possessions, I was still posturing… just in a different way. It was an act and Russ knew it.

I had no idea I was trapped in a performance. To me, I was just doing what I was supposed to be doing. Everything I saw as a kid told me to work hard, get rich, and then socialize with the elite. Movies had taught me how to act and look like someone important. To be honest, I think I’d been performing since I was nine years old. 

Reading this letter killed me. I knew Russ was right.

I was attached to the idea that this way of living—this performance I’d given the group—was going to help get my needs met. I felt the need for belonging and acceptance. I wanted to be seen and have others care about my ideas. I was attached to the idea that making more money would earn the attention of others even though not a single member spoke of such things. I was attached to the idea that belonging to the elite group would make others—not just each and every member, but important people in general— value my ideas and ask for my opinion. I was attached to the idea that the way I was going about it was right and that it would one day make me feel like I was enough. 

But that was the problem. There was one big attachment that I was failing to address. That was the attachment to not being enough.  I believed in it so much that I identified as a person who was not enough the way that I was. Because feeling like you are enough comes from believing that you are enough. There was no amount of money or adulation that were ever going to change this attachment.

If I was going to experience the fulfillment that I wanted, I needed to change my attachments. But, changing your attachments is only possible if you can see other possibilities. I call the possibilities that you are not investing your attention in, rejections.

When Russ wrote me that letter, he was trying to show me my attachments and the possibilities that I was rejecting.