From Hate to Love in a Single Moment

My perspective on writing has been very specific for a long time. I’m a decent writer, sometimes even a good one, but I hate writing. Hate it.

Writing has always been an excruciatingly exacting process for me – defining the problem, determining the approach, mounds and mounds of research, writing some stuff, doing more research, writing some more, editing, rewriting, taking a break and then doing the whole thing over again. I’ve always loved the end result – a simple, concise bit of writing that powerfully and effectively communicates a complex problem or difficult concept. But I’ve always hated the process.

When I started this blog after giving myself the challenge to write every day for thirty days, I knew I would either hate the next thirty days or have to find an entirely different approach to writing. I didn’t want to hate the next thirty days, or even thirty minutes of one day, so I did something very simple.

Instead of thinking I hate writing, I decided to think that I love it.

“I love writing.”

It was just a thought. Turns out a single thought is enough to create a completely new reality.

Every day for the past thirty days, as thoughts float through my mind, I’ve held onto to the positive thoughts about writing. I love writing. Writing is easy. I’ll think of something to write about when it’s time to write. I’ll know what to write as I’m writing. Whatever I write will be enough.

Are those things true? Well, truth isn’t really a thing when it comes to thoughts. Thoughts are just thoughts. But thoughts determine experience. When I chose to hang onto those particular thoughts, my experience transformed.

I used to hate writing. That changed in an instant.

Turns out I didn’t actually hate writing, I just thought I did.

Perspective

What’s a pirate’s favorite letter?

R! Obviously.

Arghhh, you would think so, but no. It be the C.

The real question is this: how do modern pirates self-identify? If you asked a Somali pirate, for example, what he (or she?) does for a living, would they say they’re a pirate? A sea bandit? A liberator? An enforcer? An industry disruptor? A revolutionary? An entrepreneur?

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

Your Passion is a Feeling

I spent my twenties and thirties on a quest to find my passion. Or, more accurately, I tried to figure it out. I researched, analyzed, experimented, tested, analyzed, researched, again and again.

I thought passion was a thing wrapped in exactly the right circumstances – a job in a certain type of environment or serving certain groups of people. I just didn’t know what the job was or who the people were.

I did find something I really love doing – coaching – but it’s not my passion. Coaching itself isn’t my passion, because passion isn’t a thing or circumstance or situation or profession.

What I was looking for turned out not to be a passion, it was a feeling. It was so much simpler than the hunt for My Ultimate Calling, so much easier to find because it was part of me all along.

My “passion” was really just a feeling of being energized, an internal fire, an intensely joyful oh-my-god-I-LOVE-THAT feeling.

If you’re trying to find your passion, if you’re feeling stuck not knowing what you should be doing with your life or if you’re looking for purpose, start from the inside out.

What do you love doing? What would you do for free? What do you already do for free, just because you love it? What fires you up, sparks joy, energizes you?

It’s not actually about the what, it’s about the feeling. Once you’re clear on the feeling itself (it took me a while to get there), all you need to do is follow it. It’s your inner compass, your true north, and tuning into it means you have found your passion. Now, you can go about the fun of seeing where it takes you.

Intimate Distance

Sonder: n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

I remember feeling sonder at a very young age. Back then, it came with a twinge of disgust. We all walk around with entire universes in our minds, yet at another scale we’re just undifferentiated ants bumbling about. I was embarrassed by the banality of the human condition and my complicity in the belief that there was anything special about my own little world.

These days, as I drive and walk and work and live among all the other humans, I think about the entire universes in each person’s mind. Entire universes. Billions of infinite universes all around me. Instead of the sameness of repetition, I see a blur of traffic passing millions of lighted windows merging into an exquisite endless bright light.

Professional Identity

I have two websites: one for my consulting work and one for coaching. One uses my legal name, the other uses my nickname. It’s not initially obvious they belong to the same person unless you’re really trying to connect them (or unless you speak Polish and are familiar with the nickname).

I intentionally separated the consulting part of my self from the coaching part of my self. I think it had something to do with the difficulty I had calling myself a coach.

I’ve enjoyed many aspects of my consulting career, but I didn’t love it. I always tried to ensure the work I was doing was in some way improving human experiences but in many cases this was a stretch. It became harder and harder to squeeze meaning out of products that helped people buy stuff more easily or sell more stuff more profitably. I spent many years doing work that I sometimes enjoyed but that rarely felt genuinely important.

On the other hand, coaching feels important. I love coaching. I’ve never had to do a second of work to convince myself that coaching is meaningful. Coaching doesn’t ever feel like work. I still can’t believe I get to spend time with amazing human beings and watch them transform – and that it’s my job.

What I do as a coach is one of the most important things I’ve ever done. I think this is why it was hard to call myself a coach for the first few years. Being a coach is not something casual, it’s not yet another consulting gig, it’s not what I do for money. It means something to say I am a coach.

My consulting domain is expiring next week. I’m not going to renew. I’m not a consultant anymore. I’m a coach.