July 22, 2025 • 38 mins
Success can make you louder, but love needs you quiet. This profound realization sits at the heart of our journey into what truly matters when external validation threatens to overshadow authentic connection.
Through a masterfully crafted narrative, we follow a man who achieves professional recognition only to discover the hollow nature of his accomplishment. As he holds his award—clean lines, black marble, silver lettering—he realizes something essential is missing. That something is embodied by Lena, a barista whose quiet presence and thoughtful questions anchored him to his authentic self before success transformed presence into performance.
The story explores how subtly this transformation happens. We don't notice the exact moment when genuine expression becomes strategic communication, when showing up fully becomes showing up carefully. We simply wake one day to find ourselves surrounded by applause yet strangely disconnected from what once gave our achievements meaning.
What makes this episode particularly resonant is its exploration of loss without drama. There's no explosive ending to important relationships—just empty chairs, books left behind, and the gradual realization that something vital has slipped away while we were busy being seen. The symbolism is powerful: a lightweight award juxtaposed against a meaningful book, "The Denial of Death," with its underlined passage: "What man really fears is not extinction but extinction with insignificance."
I've included five reflection prompts to help you examine your own life: Who have you drifted from while chasing something external? What version of yourself did they reflect back to you? When did performance start replacing presence? What once centered you but now feels distant? And finally, what would a return to authenticity look like?
This isn't about rejecting success—it's about ensuring we don't sacrifice our core selves to achieve it. Take a moment today to reconnect with someone you've drifted from, not with an apology, but with presence—because that's how we begin again.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode six
to the key to everything.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold opening.
He won something last night.
(00:21):
Not just applause, an actualaward.
Clean lines, black marbles,silver lettering, his name
carved where others used to bethe kind of thing they used to
hand to people.
He studied from a distance andnow it was his.
It was handed to him in asilent, soft-lit room where no
(00:46):
one wore name tags, becauseeveryone was someone, where
smiles were currency andconversation was a ceremony.
They called his name withpracticed reverence, like it had
always belonged on their lips.
He walked up, nodded to someonehe didn't recognize and
accepted the trophy with bothhands.
(01:06):
Cameras flashed, people clapped, he smiled, and yet none of it
felt as full as it should have.
There wasn't a moment ofdisbelief, no spike of joy, just
a strange kind of quiet joy,just a strange kind of quiet.
(01:30):
After the ceremony, someoneleaned in and said you deserve
this.
You arrived.
He nodded, but he didn't feellike he had arrived.
He felt like he departed.
Still, he said thank you, stillshook hands, still answered
questions about his process andhow he knew it was finally
working.
He gave them answers they wereall hoping to hear.
(01:53):
But the answer he wanted togive was different.
It wasn't about process, it wasabout presence.
And there was only one personhe wanted to tell that to.
That was Lena.
Not because she'd be impressed,because she wouldn't, because
she'd look at the award.
(02:14):
Then look at him and asksomething that made the whole
night feel smaller, lighter,more human.
She'll tilt her head and ask Isthat what you wanted?
And he'd pause, consider andmaybe finally tell the truth.
Imagine sitting it down infront of her, no explanation, no
(02:40):
performance, just placing it onthe table between them and
waiting for whatever came next.
He didn't sleep much that night,not from nerves, but from
eagerness, from the desire to beseen by someone who wasn't
trying to make him a brand.
So he woke up early, showered,without music, wore the shirt
(03:01):
she once said made him look likesomeone who doesn't need to try
.
He carried the award in a smallcloth bag, like it might
shatter if he held on too tight,and as he walked the city it
felt different, not newer, notbrighter, just closer, like he
(03:22):
was returning somewhere, not tothe cafe, but to himself.
The early sun shattered goldover the sidewalk.
The wind carried the scent ofbaked cinnamon and quiet
ambition.
He rehearsed how he'd slide theaward out, let her read it in
silence and then say you wereright about me.
(03:44):
She'd smile, not because shewas proud, but because she was
relieved, relieved that hehadn't let the noise make him
forget where he started.
He reached the corner, steppedoff the curb His heart was
beating a little faster.
He turned the handle and openedthe door and she wasn't there.
(04:13):
The sound hit him first.
Not silence, not music, justunfamiliar the low whirl of a
new espresso machine, the wrongplaylist.
The barista behind the counterlooked up and gave a
professional smile.
The barista behind the counterlooked up and gave a
professional smile.
Hey there, what can I getstarted for you?
He blinked.
Hey, where's Lena?
The barista's smile fadedslightly.
(04:34):
Oh, she left a couple days ago,graduated, I think.
She left behind a box of booksin the back.
Manager put them out free totake.
(05:00):
He just stood there, no breath,no movement, like someone,
paused the scene but forgot totell him.
He turned slowly.
The chair by the window wasn'tempty.
A man in headphones sat there,scrolling, obliv, irreversible.
He didn't order.
(05:29):
Anything didn't sit.
He just walked outside, stillholding the award, and for the
first time since winning, hefelt it.
Not pride, not joy, justabsence.
The kind that doesn't declareitself, the kind that lets you
(05:55):
realize it slowly, alone.
And as he walked he whispered.
And as he walked he whispered.
She didn't even say goodbye,but the city didn't answer.
It never does.
(06:18):
He didn't go far.
After leaving the cafe, he saton a bench across the street, a
ward still in hand, blinkingagainst the sun.
That suddenly felt too proud.
He kept glancing at the door,waiting for something to change,
for her to walk out, forsomeone to call his name, for
(06:40):
this to feel temporary.
It didn't.
It felt like he was late tosomething sacred and it had
closed without him.
He thought about texting her,thought about asking where she
went when she left, why shedidn't say goodbye.
But then he remembered hehadn't asked about her
(07:01):
graduation in weeks, hadn'tasked about the paper, hadn't
asked anything that wasn't abouthimself.
So he sat, watched, like thecafe might rewind itself.
He waited 20 minutes, then gotup, crossed the street again,
(07:29):
walked slowly to the side tablewhere the books were stacked
Half-bent paperbacks, titles ona line and fading sharpie.
He scanned the spines.
There it was the denial ofdeath Dog-eared, annotated,
familiar.
He picked it up, opened thefront cover and her handwriting
(07:52):
For anyone brave enough to diebefore they forget themselves.
No name, no note, just that heheld the book like it might fall
apart.
Then he looked around.
The barista was helping someoneelse, the special machine
whirled again.
Someone laughed near theregister.
(08:13):
Life had moved on.
He needed to be performing forthe wrong crowd.
He left without speaking.
This time he walked slower.
Each block felt heavier.
He replayed the last week infragments, her reading quotes
(08:37):
out loud but not waiting for histhoughts, the half smiles that
didn't reach her eyes, thenapkin that went unread.
For three days she had beensaying goodbye the whole time.
He just didn't hear it and nowthere was no one left to hear
(08:58):
him.
Back home.
He set the book on the tablenext to the ward.
Two kinds of recognition, oneexternal, one internal, and
somehow the book felt heavier.
He opened it again, chose aparagraph at random, started
reading it out loud, not toremember the words, to remember
(09:22):
her voice, the way she spokeabout life like it wasn't linear
, the way she found clarity inthings most people avoided, the
way she stayed.
Even as she left.
He sat on the floorcross-legged, still in his dress
shirt, reading her underlines,reconstructing the sound of her
(09:45):
thoughts, and somewhere betweenthe page 42 and 43, he whispered
.
I should have stayed at thetable.
But no one was listening nowNot the crowd, not the city, not
even her.
He didn't touch the ward fordays.
(10:07):
It stayed exactly where heplaced it, next to the book,
facing slightly towards the door, as if it were waiting to be
noticed by someone who neverarrived.
He kept rereading the paragraphshe underlined, not because he
didn't understand it the firsttime, but because some sentences
don't change when you rereadthem.
(10:28):
You do by the third day.
He had the line memorized.
It followed him everywhere inthe elevator, in the shower, in
the silence, between calendarreminders.
The fear of death is not onlythe fear of no longer existing,
it's the fear of never havingreally existed at all.
(10:50):
He started checking the cafe'sInstagram again, looking for her
.
Nothing, the stories haveshifted new baristas, seasonal
drinks, no more quotes on cups,no photos of books next to black
coffee.
It was like she'd been erasedgently, without malice, like she
(11:14):
had asked not to be rememberedby accident.
He finally went back on Thursdaymid-morning no line, no welcome
.
Just a new girl behind thecounter reading something he
couldn't make out.
He ordered.
He asked carefully hey, um,what happened to?
(11:39):
Uh?
To Lena Debrisa shrugged, Idon't know.
I think she graduated.
She left like a week ago Ithink.
No ceremony, no post, no, no,no.
He almost asked did she?
Did she leave anything?
But he had already knew theanswer.
(11:59):
What would she have saidGoodbye to someone who stopped
saying hello?
She said everything she neededto.
He was just too loud to hear it.
As he waited he wandered towardthe little shelf by the wall.
It used to hold flyers andlocal business cards.
(12:19):
Now it held a small woodencrate books, some dog-eared,
some pristine, some herecognized from their
conversations and taped to theside of the box a note in her
handwriting free to take.
I hope something in here findsyou before you forget yourself.
He didn't reach for anything,not at first, just stared at the
(12:41):
box like it was breathing, likeit might whisper something if
he had waited long enough.
Then he saw it a thin volume,no title on the spine, just a
blue navy cover with a whiteribbon bookmark.
He pulled it out it was ajournal, blank, except for one
(13:03):
page in the middle in herhandwriting.
A life you don't write downisn't yours, it's a costume.
He didn't take the book, heleft it there.
But he memorized the pagenumber Page 47.
That night he opened his oldnotebook, the one he hadn't
touched in weeks, turned to page47.
(13:26):
It was blank.
He stared at it for a long time, then, slowly he wrote.
I forgot to say thank you Forthe silence, for the attention,
for the seat by the window, forthe seat by the window.
He closed the book, didn't post, didn't speak, just sat in his
(13:52):
apartment surrounded by theechoes of a story that only he
knew how to finish.
And for the first time inmonths he didn't feel like
performing.
He just felt unfinished.
And maybe that was closer tothe truth than anything he'd
(14:13):
said on stage.
He didn't mean to read it outloud, it just happened.
A sound, a half whisper slippedpast his lips, like his eyes
were just barely scanning thepage, like memory was speaking
before he could stop it.
The book was heavier than heremembered.
(14:34):
He had seen it a dozen times onher table, in her hands,
underlined in different pens,the denial of death.
It used to intimidate him.
Now it felt like an apology.
He found the passage in seconds, page 103.
The margin had a faintcheckmark and pencil and below
(14:55):
it a scroll.
This is a thing he doesn't wantto know.
He read the paragraph once insilence, then again, but slower,
and before he realized what hewas doing the words were out
loud.
What man really fears is not somuch extinction but an
(15:15):
extinction with insignificance.
He paused.
The silence after was enormous,like the room had exhaled.
He closed the book, set itbeside him on the couch and for
a few seconds he let himselfwander.
(15:38):
What she would have said if shewere here?
Not Lena the barista, not Lenathe quiet witness to his ascent,
but the Lena who saw throughthe applause.
She wouldn't have told him tostop.
She would have asked him ifhe'd given anything up.
She would have asked does itstill feel like you?
(16:03):
He wouldn't have known how toanswer.
That was the part that scaredhim, not the loss, not even the
silence, but the uncertainty.
He wasn't sure who him wasanymore.
It wasn't that he waspretending, it was that the
performance had taken on its ownrhythm, like he'd repeated a
(16:27):
line so many times, they startedsounding true and no one had
challenged him, except her.
That's what he missed the most,not her voice, but her pause,
the moment before she spoke,that little space where she
thought, where she noticed,where she asked questions, not
(16:50):
because she didn't understandbut because she wanted him to.
He hadn't heard that kind ofsilence in weeks, maybe months.
All the other rooms were fullof agreement.
He picked up the book again, notto read, just to hold.
It smelled like ink and warmth,like memory.
(17:14):
He opened to the inside flapand there, in tiny handwriting,
returned to Sandra Flost thenher initials LW.
He stared at it, wondering ifthat meant the book wasn't
really meant to be taken.
(17:34):
If it was just another message,another breadcrumb left behind,
He'd have taken it anyways.
He wasn't ready to give it back, not yet.
That night he went to dinnerwith two men in suits.
They asked about his originstory.
He gave them the polishedversion, left out the silence,
(17:57):
left out the cafe, left out her.
After they toasted hisauthenticity, he went home and
re-read the same paragraph outloud twice this time, not
because he missed her, butbecause the words sounded like
they knew more than he did.
And maybe, just maybe, if heread them enough times, he'd
(18:22):
remember the version of himselfwho asked better questions, not
to get applause but to feel real.
He didn't go to the cafe thenext morning, didn't even
consider it.
There was nothing waiting forhim there, not the chair, not
(18:45):
the quiet, not the eyes thatonce listened without needing
explanation.
Instead, he stayed in bedlonger than usual, not to sleep,
just still.
The book sat on his nightstandlike a relic.
He had reached for it again,opened it slowly no new notes,
(19:12):
no second voice whisperingbehind the author's words.
But it felt like her.
Every sentence, every markedpassage was like being gently
interrogated, not accused, justobserved.
(19:33):
He flipped to a random page,found another underline.
This one wasn't a quote, just asingle word Disassociation,
circled three times in blue pen.
You don't remember her evertalking about it, but now it
felt like a map.
(19:55):
He got up, didn't shower, didn'tcheck his phone, just pulled on
a hoodie and walked.
It was colder than he expected.
The air felt thinner, likesomething had been removed from
it.
He passed the cafe but didn'tstop.
He couldn't.
Instead, he kept walking untilhe found himself in a
neighborhood he didn't recognizeSmall houses, older fences, a
(20:25):
community bulletin board withhandwritten notes, piano lessons
, free compost, missing cat.
Everything felt slower here,unconcerned with the version of
him that gave talks aboutclarity.
He liked that.
He sat on a bench and watched acrow pull something from a
trash bin, watched two kidsargue about which Power Ranger
was stronger.
He took out his phone once,typed her name, didn't hit
(20:48):
search, he put it back.
He didn't want to find her thatway, didn't want to reduce her
to a location or a status update.
She'd always existed beyondreach anyways.
More like a weather patternthan a person Always felt, never
predicted.
That night he lit a candle, notfor ceremony, just to avoid the
(21:15):
overhead lights.
He sat in the middle of hisapartment and opened the book,
again this time not to read,just to listen To whatever quiet
part of him she used to speakto.
He thought about how he used totell her everything, even the
things that didn't matter, howhe once spent 15 minutes
(21:36):
explaining why he hated thesound of certain phone alarms.
And she listened, not becausethe story was interesting, but
because he was telling it.
Now, when he spoke, peoplelistened because they wanted
something from him Insight,clarity, a headline, to quote.
She never asked for any of that, she just wanted to know where
(22:00):
he went when he got quiet.
He missed that, missed beingheard without being useful.
He stood up, walked to hisdrawer, took out the key, held
it in his palm Not reverent,just curious.
He didn't feel like the sameman who found it.
(22:22):
He didn't feel like the sameman who used to sit across from
her pretending not to care aboutwhat she thought.
He looked at the key, then atthe book, then at the mirror.
This time he didn't see himself, not the version people clap
for, not the version who knewwhat to say.
He saw a man standing in theaftermath of momentum, not lost,
(22:47):
just finally still.
And that scared him Because itmeant that the silence was real.
And if the silence was real,then so was the part of him that
missed her.
He didn't post that day, notbecause he was taking a break,
(23:11):
but because he had nothing tosay.
Every sentence hadn't beenpraised for, every clipped
phrase about presence, focus,becoming.
It all felt hollow now, notfalse, just untethered.
He opened the folder of videoclips on his laptop, watched one
(23:32):
of his old speeches, the onethat went viral, the one who
made him the guy who gets it.
He watched himself walk acrossthe stage With confidence.
He was measured.
He watched himself tell thestory about the first time he
felt like he mattered.
He remembered the applause, notthe feeling.
(23:56):
The clip ended.
He closed the laptop.
The signs afterwards feltlouder than it used to.
He picked up the book again, theone she left.
Let it fall open.
A phrase caught his eyesSometimes the self you protect
is the one asking to be let go.
(24:17):
He sat with that, not as aquote to use, not as content,
just as truth.
He poured himself a glass ofwater and sat back down.
Then he did something he hadn'tdone in weeks.
He picked up a pen, not towrite something clever, just to
(24:43):
write something true.
He wrote I'm still here, but Idon't know who's reading.
He stared at the words.
They didn't solve anything, butthey made him feel less alone
and that was enough.
He put on his coat.
(25:04):
He stepped outside, didn't bringhis phone, didn't bring the key
.
He just walked, this time notto escape anything, just to find
where he stopped feeling.
He turned down a street.
He didn't recognize An oldbookstore at the corner.
Green awning closed signcrooked in the window, but the
light was on.
(25:25):
He walked closer, peered in,books stacked in awkward towers,
a cat asleep on a reading chair.
He smiled, not for anyone, justfor himself.
He thought about her, about howshe always marked pages without
telling him how she would markpassages and say read this.
(25:50):
How she trusted him to figureit out.
He missed that kind of trust,not given, just assumed.
He walked back home slower, notbecause he was tired but
because he was remembering Everyquiet morning, every quote on a
(26:14):
cup.
Every time she didn't sayanything Because she knew he'd
understand it better if he foundit on his own.
He opened his door, lit thecandle, opened the book, one
last time.
This time the underlyingsentence was in the back no
(26:38):
quote, just her own handwriting.
You won't find me in a speech,but you might find yourself in
the quiet.
He closed the book.
For the first time in a longtime he didn't feel like someone
who needed to be heard.
He felt like someone who neededto listen and this time he was
(27:02):
ready to that night.
He was ready to that night.
He couldn't sleep.
It wasn't the usual racingthoughts or inbox guilt.
It wasn't regret either.
It was emptiness, a strangesuspended kind of quiet, like
the feeling after a concert,when everyone leaves the room
(27:23):
and the all they left is theecho of what used to be
important.
He got up, didn't bother withshoes, just slipped into the
hoodie she once gave him acompliment on.
The city was quieter than usuala Tuesday kind of quiet
streetlights blinking like theyweren't sure if they were needed
(27:45):
.
He walked, no destination, justdirection.
His feet moved before his mindcaught up and then somewhere,
somehow, he was standing infront of the cafe.
It was closed, of course it was, but the lights were on the
(28:07):
inside.
They were dim, soft, the kindof glow that used to feel like a
welcome.
Now it just felt finished.
There's no trace of her.
No book stack against theregister, no silver charm tucked
into the tip jar, no cup withhis quote on it, just a room.
(28:34):
He stepped back from the window,felt the cold settle through
his sleeves and then he reachedfor the book, not one of hers,
just something from the free boxhe brought home.
He'd forgotten it was still inhis coat pocket.
He opened it, folded a page,underlined and noted the margin.
(28:56):
Most people chase, meaning likeit's a destination, but the
truth is it's more like astreetlight.
It only shows you what'salready there.
He stared at that, let thesentence sit.
He didn't look up, thestreetlight above him flickered,
(29:18):
and in that flicker he saw it.
Not a memory, not a vision, butrecognition Of how long he'd
been narrating his life like acharacter instead of living it.
How much he'd missed listeningwithout waiting to speak, how
much silence, real silence, wasin a void.
(29:41):
It was a return.
He walked home slower, like thesidewalk might offer answers if
he moved quietly enough.
Back at his apartment, he openedthe drawer with the key, held
it again, this time not to askanything of it, just to witness
it.
Still heavy, still cold.
(30:04):
It was still heavy, it wasstill cold, it was still silent.
But this time it wasn't asymbol of something to unlock,
it was just a reminder that He'dbeen holding it all along, not
because he needed it, butbecause he didn't know how to
let go.
He placed it back in the drawer, didn't close it, let it sit
(30:27):
open.
Then he sat at the table, wrotea single sentence she didn't
leave me.
I had to stop being someone shecould stay with.
He stared at it, let it breathe, didn't post it, didn't caption
(30:47):
it, just left it there.
A sentence, a streetlight, astart.
And this time he didn't try tomake it profound, he just let it
be true.
I know what you're thinking.
Right, let's slow this down fora moment, because you're
(31:12):
probably thinking how do we gethere?
How did something that felt sogood we get here?
How did something that felt sogood, so real, so grounded
become a series of miswarningsand unopened messages?
How did the warmth in her voiceshift to silence that felt like
(31:33):
consequence?
See, the truth is, most of usdon't notice the moment when
presence becomes performance.
It starts small.
You win something right, you'reseen, you get asked to speak,
to post, to advise.
You feel needed, admired,necessary and slowly, without
(31:58):
malice, without warning, youstart curating.
You speak less from the soul,more from strategy.
You stop showing up fully,because now showing up has
stakes.
It's not that he stopped caring, it's that he got rewarded for
(32:20):
becoming a shinier version ofhimself, and that version kept
winning.
And see, and here's the partthat no one tells you, success
can make you louder, right, butlove, love needs you quiet.
Lena didn't leave in anger, sheleft in honesty.
(32:43):
She watched him get everythinghe said he wanted and lose the
one thing he didn't realize hewas still becoming, and it
wasn't loud.
There was no fight, no dramaticgoodbye, just a new barista, a
different quote, and a chair nolonger saved.
(33:05):
That's how life ends things,when it's trying to teach you
something deeper, and if you'relistening now, maybe you know
what I mean.
Maybe there's a version of thisin your own life.
Someone you didn't mean todrift from A space that used to
hold you A quiet joy.
You traded for performance.
(33:28):
So let's talk about what thisepisode really showed us, right?
It's not about the cafe, it'snot even about Lena.
It's about what happens whenyou confuse momentum with
meaning.
See, he thought the awardsmattered, he thought the
platform proved something, butin the quiet that followed, all
(33:53):
he had left was a chair with noone in it, and a box of her
books, with no one in it and abox of her books.
The truth is, we don't often,as she said, we often don't
realize how much someone meantto our becoming, until they're
no longer a daily part of it.
(34:15):
I need you to understandsomething this isn't about blame
.
It's about return, because ifhe's brave enough, he can still
find her, or at least theversion of himself that she
believed in.
And that's what I want you tosit with right now.
I want you to ask yourself thisright what part of you?
(34:37):
Are you leaving behind just tobe seen what part of you, or I
should say what part of yourlife feels like it's fading, not
because it wasn't real, butbecause you stopped watering it?
There's still time, there'sstill mornings waiting to be
(34:58):
reclaimed.
There's still people hoping youwalk through the door like you
used to.
So breathe with that, be honestwith that and maybe tonight
reach out to someone you driftedfrom, not with an apology, but
with presence, because that'show we begin again.
(35:19):
All right, so let's get intoyour reflection prompts.
Okay, reflection one who inyour life have you
unintentionally drifted fromwhile chasing something external
?
Number two what version ofyourself did they reflect back
(35:41):
to you?
Have you lost sight of thatversion?
Number three can you identifymoments where performance
started replacing presence inyour life?
That's a huge question.
Number four what space, habitor person used to center you but
(36:06):
now feels distant?
And number five what would itlook like to return, not in
words, but in constant presence?
You know this was this is apretty big, pivotal episode for
him because, realistically, youknow he's understanding that
(36:30):
success is nothing without itbeing shared.
So, since we're talking aboutthis, you know you guys have
been absolutely incredible, likeI see that you know, a lot of
you guys are going back into myolder stuff, like the death of
you, uh, remembrance, which wasthe one before this, the
(36:52):
confidence protocols.
You guys are giving so muchlove to this show and I can't
tell you how much I appreciateit.
A lot of hard work, time andeffort goes into this, so I
really appreciate that.
Now, since we're talking aboutthat, if you have any questions
on this episode, this series orthe 12 other series that I have
(37:15):
out there, please, please,please, never hesitate to reach
out to me.
Okay, there's three ways.
First way is in the descriptionof this podcast.
If you click on let's Chat, youand I can have a conversation
about this episode or thisseries, okay.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
(37:35):
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can go to my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can go to my Instagram.
My Instagram handle ismygentsjourney.
So, again, thank you from thebottom of my heart for listening
today.
It really means more than Icould ever tell you, okay, more
(37:56):
than I could ever tell you, okay.
But as we close the show asalways.
Remember this you create yourreality.
Take care.
Bye.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode six
to the key to everything.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold opening.
He won something last night.
(00:21):
Not just applause, an actualaward.
Clean lines, black marbles,silver lettering, his name
carved where others used to bethe kind of thing they used to
hand to people.
He studied from a distance andnow it was his.
It was handed to him in asilent, soft-lit room where no
(00:46):
one wore name tags, becauseeveryone was someone, where
smiles were currency andconversation was a ceremony.
They called his name withpracticed reverence, like it had
always belonged on their lips.
He walked up, nodded to someonehe didn't recognize and
accepted the trophy with bothhands.
(01:06):
Cameras flashed, people clapped, he smiled, and yet none of it
felt as full as it should have.
There wasn't a moment ofdisbelief, no spike of joy, just
a strange kind of quiet joy,just a strange kind of quiet.
(01:30):
After the ceremony, someoneleaned in and said you deserve
this.
You arrived.
He nodded, but he didn't feellike he had arrived.
He felt like he departed.
Still, he said thank you, stillshook hands, still answered
questions about his process andhow he knew it was finally
working.
He gave them answers they wereall hoping to hear.
(01:53):
But the answer he wanted togive was different.
It wasn't about process, it wasabout presence.
And there was only one personhe wanted to tell that to.
That was Lena.
Not because she'd be impressed,because she wouldn't, because
she'd look at the award.
(02:14):
Then look at him and asksomething that made the whole
night feel smaller, lighter,more human.
She'll tilt her head and ask Isthat what you wanted?
And he'd pause, consider andmaybe finally tell the truth.
Imagine sitting it down infront of her, no explanation, no
(02:40):
performance, just placing it onthe table between them and
waiting for whatever came next.
He didn't sleep much that night,not from nerves, but from
eagerness, from the desire to beseen by someone who wasn't
trying to make him a brand.
So he woke up early, showered,without music, wore the shirt
(03:01):
she once said made him look likesomeone who doesn't need to try
.
He carried the award in a smallcloth bag, like it might
shatter if he held on too tight,and as he walked the city it
felt different, not newer, notbrighter, just closer, like he
(03:22):
was returning somewhere, not tothe cafe, but to himself.
The early sun shattered goldover the sidewalk.
The wind carried the scent ofbaked cinnamon and quiet
ambition.
He rehearsed how he'd slide theaward out, let her read it in
silence and then say you wereright about me.
(03:44):
She'd smile, not because shewas proud, but because she was
relieved, relieved that hehadn't let the noise make him
forget where he started.
He reached the corner, steppedoff the curb His heart was
beating a little faster.
He turned the handle and openedthe door and she wasn't there.
(04:13):
The sound hit him first.
Not silence, not music, justunfamiliar the low whirl of a
new espresso machine, the wrongplaylist.
The barista behind the counterlooked up and gave a
professional smile.
The barista behind the counterlooked up and gave a
professional smile.
Hey there, what can I getstarted for you?
He blinked.
Hey, where's Lena?
The barista's smile fadedslightly.
(04:34):
Oh, she left a couple days ago,graduated, I think.
She left behind a box of booksin the back.
Manager put them out free totake.
(05:00):
He just stood there, no breath,no movement, like someone,
paused the scene but forgot totell him.
He turned slowly.
The chair by the window wasn'tempty.
A man in headphones sat there,scrolling, obliv, irreversible.
He didn't order.
(05:29):
Anything didn't sit.
He just walked outside, stillholding the award, and for the
first time since winning, hefelt it.
Not pride, not joy, justabsence.
The kind that doesn't declareitself, the kind that lets you
(05:55):
realize it slowly, alone.
And as he walked he whispered.
And as he walked he whispered.
She didn't even say goodbye,but the city didn't answer.
It never does.
(06:18):
He didn't go far.
After leaving the cafe, he saton a bench across the street, a
ward still in hand, blinkingagainst the sun.
That suddenly felt too proud.
He kept glancing at the door,waiting for something to change,
for her to walk out, forsomeone to call his name, for
(06:40):
this to feel temporary.
It didn't.
It felt like he was late tosomething sacred and it had
closed without him.
He thought about texting her,thought about asking where she
went when she left, why shedidn't say goodbye.
But then he remembered hehadn't asked about her
(07:01):
graduation in weeks, hadn'tasked about the paper, hadn't
asked anything that wasn't abouthimself.
So he sat, watched, like thecafe might rewind itself.
He waited 20 minutes, then gotup, crossed the street again,
(07:29):
walked slowly to the side tablewhere the books were stacked
Half-bent paperbacks, titles ona line and fading sharpie.
He scanned the spines.
There it was the denial ofdeath Dog-eared, annotated,
familiar.
He picked it up, opened thefront cover and her handwriting
(07:52):
For anyone brave enough to diebefore they forget themselves.
No name, no note, just that heheld the book like it might fall
apart.
Then he looked around.
The barista was helping someoneelse, the special machine
whirled again.
Someone laughed near theregister.
(08:13):
Life had moved on.
He needed to be performing forthe wrong crowd.
He left without speaking.
This time he walked slower.
Each block felt heavier.
He replayed the last week infragments, her reading quotes
(08:37):
out loud but not waiting for histhoughts, the half smiles that
didn't reach her eyes, thenapkin that went unread.
For three days she had beensaying goodbye the whole time.
He just didn't hear it and nowthere was no one left to hear
(08:58):
him.
Back home.
He set the book on the tablenext to the ward.
Two kinds of recognition, oneexternal, one internal, and
somehow the book felt heavier.
He opened it again, chose aparagraph at random, started
reading it out loud, not toremember the words, to remember
(09:22):
her voice, the way she spokeabout life like it wasn't linear
, the way she found clarity inthings most people avoided, the
way she stayed.
Even as she left.
He sat on the floorcross-legged, still in his dress
shirt, reading her underlines,reconstructing the sound of her
(09:45):
thoughts, and somewhere betweenthe page 42 and 43, he whispered
.
I should have stayed at thetable.
But no one was listening nowNot the crowd, not the city, not
even her.
He didn't touch the ward fordays.
(10:07):
It stayed exactly where heplaced it, next to the book,
facing slightly towards the door, as if it were waiting to be
noticed by someone who neverarrived.
He kept rereading the paragraphshe underlined, not because he
didn't understand it the firsttime, but because some sentences
don't change when you rereadthem.
(10:28):
You do by the third day.
He had the line memorized.
It followed him everywhere inthe elevator, in the shower, in
the silence, between calendarreminders.
The fear of death is not onlythe fear of no longer existing,
it's the fear of never havingreally existed at all.
(10:50):
He started checking the cafe'sInstagram again, looking for her
.
Nothing, the stories haveshifted new baristas, seasonal
drinks, no more quotes on cups,no photos of books next to black
coffee.
It was like she'd been erasedgently, without malice, like she
(11:14):
had asked not to be rememberedby accident.
He finally went back on Thursdaymid-morning no line, no welcome
.
Just a new girl behind thecounter reading something he
couldn't make out.
He ordered.
He asked carefully hey, um,what happened to?
(11:39):
Uh?
To Lena Debrisa shrugged, Idon't know.
I think she graduated.
She left like a week ago Ithink.
No ceremony, no post, no, no,no.
He almost asked did she?
Did she leave anything?
But he had already knew theanswer.
(11:59):
What would she have saidGoodbye to someone who stopped
saying hello?
She said everything she neededto.
He was just too loud to hear it.
As he waited he wandered towardthe little shelf by the wall.
It used to hold flyers andlocal business cards.
(12:19):
Now it held a small woodencrate books, some dog-eared,
some pristine, some herecognized from their
conversations and taped to theside of the box a note in her
handwriting free to take.
I hope something in here findsyou before you forget yourself.
He didn't reach for anything,not at first, just stared at the
(12:41):
box like it was breathing, likeit might whisper something if
he had waited long enough.
Then he saw it a thin volume,no title on the spine, just a
blue navy cover with a whiteribbon bookmark.
He pulled it out it was ajournal, blank, except for one
(13:03):
page in the middle in herhandwriting.
A life you don't write downisn't yours, it's a costume.
He didn't take the book, heleft it there.
But he memorized the pagenumber Page 47.
That night he opened his oldnotebook, the one he hadn't
touched in weeks, turned to page47.
(13:26):
It was blank.
He stared at it for a long time, then, slowly he wrote.
I forgot to say thank you Forthe silence, for the attention,
for the seat by the window, forthe seat by the window.
He closed the book, didn't post, didn't speak, just sat in his
(13:52):
apartment surrounded by theechoes of a story that only he
knew how to finish.
And for the first time inmonths he didn't feel like
performing.
He just felt unfinished.
And maybe that was closer tothe truth than anything he'd
(14:13):
said on stage.
He didn't mean to read it outloud, it just happened.
A sound, a half whisper slippedpast his lips, like his eyes
were just barely scanning thepage, like memory was speaking
before he could stop it.
The book was heavier than heremembered.
(14:34):
He had seen it a dozen times onher table, in her hands,
underlined in different pens,the denial of death.
It used to intimidate him.
Now it felt like an apology.
He found the passage in seconds, page 103.
The margin had a faintcheckmark and pencil and below
(14:55):
it a scroll.
This is a thing he doesn't wantto know.
He read the paragraph once insilence, then again, but slower,
and before he realized what hewas doing the words were out
loud.
What man really fears is not somuch extinction but an
(15:15):
extinction with insignificance.
He paused.
The silence after was enormous,like the room had exhaled.
He closed the book, set itbeside him on the couch and for
a few seconds he let himselfwander.
(15:38):
What she would have said if shewere here?
Not Lena the barista, not Lenathe quiet witness to his ascent,
but the Lena who saw throughthe applause.
She wouldn't have told him tostop.
She would have asked him ifhe'd given anything up.
She would have asked does itstill feel like you?
(16:03):
He wouldn't have known how toanswer.
That was the part that scaredhim, not the loss, not even the
silence, but the uncertainty.
He wasn't sure who him wasanymore.
It wasn't that he waspretending, it was that the
performance had taken on its ownrhythm, like he'd repeated a
(16:27):
line so many times, they startedsounding true and no one had
challenged him, except her.
That's what he missed the most,not her voice, but her pause,
the moment before she spoke,that little space where she
thought, where she noticed,where she asked questions, not
(16:50):
because she didn't understandbut because she wanted him to.
He hadn't heard that kind ofsilence in weeks, maybe months.
All the other rooms were fullof agreement.
He picked up the book again, notto read, just to hold.
It smelled like ink and warmth,like memory.
(17:14):
He opened to the inside flapand there, in tiny handwriting,
returned to Sandra Flost thenher initials LW.
He stared at it, wondering ifthat meant the book wasn't
really meant to be taken.
(17:34):
If it was just another message,another breadcrumb left behind,
He'd have taken it anyways.
He wasn't ready to give it back, not yet.
That night he went to dinnerwith two men in suits.
They asked about his originstory.
He gave them the polishedversion, left out the silence,
(17:57):
left out the cafe, left out her.
After they toasted hisauthenticity, he went home and
re-read the same paragraph outloud twice this time, not
because he missed her, butbecause the words sounded like
they knew more than he did.
And maybe, just maybe, if heread them enough times, he'd
(18:22):
remember the version of himselfwho asked better questions, not
to get applause but to feel real.
He didn't go to the cafe thenext morning, didn't even
consider it.
There was nothing waiting forhim there, not the chair, not
(18:45):
the quiet, not the eyes thatonce listened without needing
explanation.
Instead, he stayed in bedlonger than usual, not to sleep,
just still.
The book sat on his nightstandlike a relic.
He had reached for it again,opened it slowly no new notes,
(19:12):
no second voice whisperingbehind the author's words.
But it felt like her.
Every sentence, every markedpassage was like being gently
interrogated, not accused, justobserved.
(19:33):
He flipped to a random page,found another underline.
This one wasn't a quote, just asingle word Disassociation,
circled three times in blue pen.
You don't remember her evertalking about it, but now it
felt like a map.
(19:55):
He got up, didn't shower, didn'tcheck his phone, just pulled on
a hoodie and walked.
It was colder than he expected.
The air felt thinner, likesomething had been removed from
it.
He passed the cafe but didn'tstop.
He couldn't.
Instead, he kept walking untilhe found himself in a
neighborhood he didn't recognizeSmall houses, older fences, a
(20:25):
community bulletin board withhandwritten notes, piano lessons
, free compost, missing cat.
Everything felt slower here,unconcerned with the version of
him that gave talks aboutclarity.
He liked that.
He sat on a bench and watched acrow pull something from a
trash bin, watched two kidsargue about which Power Ranger
was stronger.
He took out his phone once,typed her name, didn't hit
(20:48):
search, he put it back.
He didn't want to find her thatway, didn't want to reduce her
to a location or a status update.
She'd always existed beyondreach anyways.
More like a weather patternthan a person Always felt, never
predicted.
That night he lit a candle, notfor ceremony, just to avoid the
(21:15):
overhead lights.
He sat in the middle of hisapartment and opened the book,
again this time not to read,just to listen To whatever quiet
part of him she used to speakto.
He thought about how he used totell her everything, even the
things that didn't matter, howhe once spent 15 minutes
(21:36):
explaining why he hated thesound of certain phone alarms.
And she listened, not becausethe story was interesting, but
because he was telling it.
Now, when he spoke, peoplelistened because they wanted
something from him Insight,clarity, a headline, to quote.
She never asked for any of that, she just wanted to know where
(22:00):
he went when he got quiet.
He missed that, missed beingheard without being useful.
He stood up, walked to hisdrawer, took out the key, held
it in his palm Not reverent,just curious.
He didn't feel like the sameman who found it.
(22:22):
He didn't feel like the sameman who used to sit across from
her pretending not to care aboutwhat she thought.
He looked at the key, then atthe book, then at the mirror.
This time he didn't see himself, not the version people clap
for, not the version who knewwhat to say.
He saw a man standing in theaftermath of momentum, not lost,
(22:47):
just finally still.
And that scared him Because itmeant that the silence was real.
And if the silence was real,then so was the part of him that
missed her.
He didn't post that day, notbecause he was taking a break,
(23:11):
but because he had nothing tosay.
Every sentence hadn't beenpraised for, every clipped
phrase about presence, focus,becoming.
It all felt hollow now, notfalse, just untethered.
He opened the folder of videoclips on his laptop, watched one
(23:32):
of his old speeches, the onethat went viral, the one who
made him the guy who gets it.
He watched himself walk acrossthe stage With confidence.
He was measured.
He watched himself tell thestory about the first time he
felt like he mattered.
He remembered the applause, notthe feeling.
(23:56):
The clip ended.
He closed the laptop.
The signs afterwards feltlouder than it used to.
He picked up the book again, theone she left.
Let it fall open.
A phrase caught his eyesSometimes the self you protect
is the one asking to be let go.
(24:17):
He sat with that, not as aquote to use, not as content,
just as truth.
He poured himself a glass ofwater and sat back down.
Then he did something he hadn'tdone in weeks.
He picked up a pen, not towrite something clever, just to
(24:43):
write something true.
He wrote I'm still here, but Idon't know who's reading.
He stared at the words.
They didn't solve anything, butthey made him feel less alone
and that was enough.
He put on his coat.
(25:04):
He stepped outside, didn't bringhis phone, didn't bring the key
.
He just walked, this time notto escape anything, just to find
where he stopped feeling.
He turned down a street.
He didn't recognize An oldbookstore at the corner.
Green awning closed signcrooked in the window, but the
light was on.
(25:25):
He walked closer, peered in,books stacked in awkward towers,
a cat asleep on a reading chair.
He smiled, not for anyone, justfor himself.
He thought about her, about howshe always marked pages without
telling him how she would markpassages and say read this.
(25:50):
How she trusted him to figureit out.
He missed that kind of trust,not given, just assumed.
He walked back home slower, notbecause he was tired but
because he was remembering Everyquiet morning, every quote on a
(26:14):
cup.
Every time she didn't sayanything Because she knew he'd
understand it better if he foundit on his own.
He opened his door, lit thecandle, opened the book, one
last time.
This time the underlyingsentence was in the back no
(26:38):
quote, just her own handwriting.
You won't find me in a speech,but you might find yourself in
the quiet.
He closed the book.
For the first time in a longtime he didn't feel like someone
who needed to be heard.
He felt like someone who neededto listen and this time he was
(27:02):
ready to that night.
He was ready to that night.
He couldn't sleep.
It wasn't the usual racingthoughts or inbox guilt.
It wasn't regret either.
It was emptiness, a strangesuspended kind of quiet, like
the feeling after a concert,when everyone leaves the room
(27:23):
and the all they left is theecho of what used to be
important.
He got up, didn't bother withshoes, just slipped into the
hoodie she once gave him acompliment on.
The city was quieter than usuala Tuesday kind of quiet
streetlights blinking like theyweren't sure if they were needed
(27:45):
.
He walked, no destination, justdirection.
His feet moved before his mindcaught up and then somewhere,
somehow, he was standing infront of the cafe.
It was closed, of course it was, but the lights were on the
(28:07):
inside.
They were dim, soft, the kindof glow that used to feel like a
welcome.
Now it just felt finished.
There's no trace of her.
No book stack against theregister, no silver charm tucked
into the tip jar, no cup withhis quote on it, just a room.
(28:34):
He stepped back from the window,felt the cold settle through
his sleeves and then he reachedfor the book, not one of hers,
just something from the free boxhe brought home.
He'd forgotten it was still inhis coat pocket.
He opened it, folded a page,underlined and noted the margin.
(28:56):
Most people chase, meaning likeit's a destination, but the
truth is it's more like astreetlight.
It only shows you what'salready there.
He stared at that, let thesentence sit.
He didn't look up, thestreetlight above him flickered,
(29:18):
and in that flicker he saw it.
Not a memory, not a vision, butrecognition Of how long he'd
been narrating his life like acharacter instead of living it.
How much he'd missed listeningwithout waiting to speak, how
much silence, real silence, wasin a void.
(29:41):
It was a return.
He walked home slower, like thesidewalk might offer answers if
he moved quietly enough.
Back at his apartment, he openedthe drawer with the key, held
it again, this time not to askanything of it, just to witness
it.
Still heavy, still cold.
(30:04):
It was still heavy, it wasstill cold, it was still silent.
But this time it wasn't asymbol of something to unlock,
it was just a reminder that He'dbeen holding it all along, not
because he needed it, butbecause he didn't know how to
let go.
He placed it back in the drawer, didn't close it, let it sit
(30:27):
open.
Then he sat at the table, wrotea single sentence she didn't
leave me.
I had to stop being someone shecould stay with.
He stared at it, let it breathe, didn't post it, didn't caption
(30:47):
it, just left it there.
A sentence, a streetlight, astart.
And this time he didn't try tomake it profound, he just let it
be true.
I know what you're thinking.
Right, let's slow this down fora moment, because you're
(31:12):
probably thinking how do we gethere?
How did something that felt sogood we get here?
How did something that felt sogood, so real, so grounded
become a series of miswarningsand unopened messages?
How did the warmth in her voiceshift to silence that felt like
(31:33):
consequence?
See, the truth is, most of usdon't notice the moment when
presence becomes performance.
It starts small.
You win something right, you'reseen, you get asked to speak,
to post, to advise.
You feel needed, admired,necessary and slowly, without
(31:58):
malice, without warning, youstart curating.
You speak less from the soul,more from strategy.
You stop showing up fully,because now showing up has
stakes.
It's not that he stopped caring, it's that he got rewarded for
(32:20):
becoming a shinier version ofhimself, and that version kept
winning.
And see, and here's the partthat no one tells you, success
can make you louder, right, butlove, love needs you quiet.
Lena didn't leave in anger, sheleft in honesty.
(32:43):
She watched him get everythinghe said he wanted and lose the
one thing he didn't realize hewas still becoming, and it
wasn't loud.
There was no fight, no dramaticgoodbye, just a new barista, a
different quote, and a chair nolonger saved.
(33:05):
That's how life ends things,when it's trying to teach you
something deeper, and if you'relistening now, maybe you know
what I mean.
Maybe there's a version of thisin your own life.
Someone you didn't mean todrift from A space that used to
hold you A quiet joy.
You traded for performance.
(33:28):
So let's talk about what thisepisode really showed us, right?
It's not about the cafe, it'snot even about Lena.
It's about what happens whenyou confuse momentum with
meaning.
See, he thought the awardsmattered, he thought the
platform proved something, butin the quiet that followed, all
(33:53):
he had left was a chair with noone in it, and a box of her
books, with no one in it and abox of her books.
The truth is, we don't often,as she said, we often don't
realize how much someone meantto our becoming, until they're
no longer a daily part of it.
(34:15):
I need you to understandsomething this isn't about blame
.
It's about return, because ifhe's brave enough, he can still
find her, or at least theversion of himself that she
believed in.
And that's what I want you tosit with right now.
I want you to ask yourself thisright what part of you?
(34:37):
Are you leaving behind just tobe seen what part of you, or I
should say what part of yourlife feels like it's fading, not
because it wasn't real, butbecause you stopped watering it?
There's still time, there'sstill mornings waiting to be
(34:58):
reclaimed.
There's still people hoping youwalk through the door like you
used to.
So breathe with that, be honestwith that and maybe tonight
reach out to someone you driftedfrom, not with an apology, but
with presence, because that'show we begin again.
(35:19):
All right, so let's get intoyour reflection prompts.
Okay, reflection one who inyour life have you
unintentionally drifted fromwhile chasing something external
?
Number two what version ofyourself did they reflect back
(35:41):
to you?
Have you lost sight of thatversion?
Number three can you identifymoments where performance
started replacing presence inyour life?
That's a huge question.
Number four what space, habitor person used to center you but
(36:06):
now feels distant?
And number five what would itlook like to return, not in
words, but in constant presence?
You know this was this is apretty big, pivotal episode for
him because, realistically, youknow he's understanding that
(36:30):
success is nothing without itbeing shared.
So, since we're talking aboutthis, you know you guys have
been absolutely incredible, likeI see that you know, a lot of
you guys are going back into myolder stuff, like the death of
you, uh, remembrance, which wasthe one before this, the
(36:52):
confidence protocols.
You guys are giving so muchlove to this show and I can't
tell you how much I appreciateit.
A lot of hard work, time andeffort goes into this, so I
really appreciate that.
Now, since we're talking aboutthat, if you have any questions
on this episode, this series orthe 12 other series that I have
(37:15):
out there, please, please,please, never hesitate to reach
out to me.
Okay, there's three ways.
First way is in the descriptionof this podcast.
If you click on let's Chat, youand I can have a conversation
about this episode or thisseries, okay.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
(37:35):
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can go to my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can go to my Instagram.
My Instagram handle ismygentsjourney.
So, again, thank you from thebottom of my heart for listening
today.
It really means more than Icould ever tell you, okay, more
(37:56):
than I could ever tell you, okay.
But as we close the show asalways.
Remember this you create yourreality.
Take care.
Bye.
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Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Special Summer Offer: Exclusively on Apple Podcasts, try our Dateline Premium subscription completely free for one month! With Dateline Premium, you get every episode ad-free plus exclusive bonus content.
On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!