July 17, 2025 • 42 mins
That moment when everything finally clicks - not with fanfare, but with a quiet certainty that feels like coming home to yourself. This episode explores the transformative power of authentic connection and the courage to stop performing.
Through a captivating narrative about a writer who finds unexpected peace in his daily visits to a local cafe, we witness how genuine conversations with a thoughtful barista named Lena gradually reshape his understanding of success and fulfillment. Their exchanges over coffee become a masterclass in presence - in being fully available to the moment without trying to capture, define, or leverage it.
What makes this story resonate so deeply is how it challenges our conventional metrics of achievement. The protagonist experiences professional success - publications, speaking invitations, lucrative contracts - yet finds himself valuing the quiet moments at the cafe far more than these outward symbols of accomplishment. His journey reminds us that peace isn't necessarily found through achievement but through alignment, when our external actions finally match our internal values.
The recurring napkin notes exchanged between the characters become breadcrumbs guiding the protagonist back to himself. "You feel more like yourself when you're not explaining who you are," reads one - a powerful reminder about the exhaustion of constant self-justification and the freedom that comes with authentic being.
As you listen, consider your own life: When was the last time something worked and you didn't try to turn it into proof? What would your days look like if you stopped chasing and started choosing? What moments have you kept private, not out of fear, but because they felt too sacred to share?
Join me in exploring how stillness becomes not the goal, but the gift - and how sometimes the key to everything isn't in striving for what's next, but in fully inhabiting where you already are.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
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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
three to the key to everything.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold opening.
There are mornings that wakeyou like a bell, not loud, just
(00:29):
clear.
He didn't set an alarm, hedidn't need one.
His eyes opened on their own,the way windows do when the
breeze is soft enough.
There was no thought waiting tobe wrestled, no weight waiting
to be wrestled, no wait waitingto be explained.
It was just stillness.
He sat up, not because he had to, but because it felt like
(00:54):
something in the world hadalready begun and he didn't want
to miss it.
There was a thin beam of lightcutting through the blinds.
Not golden, not poetic, justhonest, like the day had nothing
to hide.
And for once he didn't feelbehind.
(01:16):
He didn't feel like he had tocatch up with himself.
The mirror didn't accuse, theto-do list didn't snarl.
Even the coffee brewed withoutthat desperate undertone, the
one that says Please fix mebefore 9 am.
Outside, the city moved like aslow tide.
Trucks whispered down thestreet.
(01:36):
Someone laughed too hard on aphone call in front of his
building, the kind of laugh thatdoesn't apologize.
And when he stepped out,someone held the door open for
him, not in a dramatic way, justlike it was normal.
That's what stayed with him,Not the quiet, not the light,
(02:01):
but the fact that the worlddidn't resist him this morning.
It didn't push back, it didn'task him to approve himself
before letting him through.
And that's the part that no onereally warns you about.
When it stops being hard, whenthe gears stop grinding Because
(02:23):
when things start to work, youstop asking why you stop
checking the cost you forgetwhat you traded to feel this
right.
And in that moment, walking tothe cafe, not knowing what was
waiting, you thought he'dfinally figured it out.
But peace never shouts, itwhispers just loud enough to
(02:49):
keep you from noticing what'smissing.
He went back the next morningand the next and the next, not
because of a schedule, not outof routine, but because
something in the air around thatplace felt different.
The cafe wasn't special.
(03:09):
It had a cracked tile near thefront entrance, a flickering
bulb above the espresso machine,the window seal gathered
condensation too easily, makingthe corner table feel colder
than it should have.
But it was alive, not loud, notcurated, just present.
(03:30):
And Lena was always there.
She didn't greet him withrehearsed cheer or exaggerated
warmth.
She didn't try to remember hisname.
She remembered his drink, blackcoffee, no sugar, served like
it was a little secret.
The second morning he walked inshe was already pouring it.
(03:53):
He blinked how did you?
She shrugged.
People don't change their orderunless they're trying to
impress someone.
He smirked.
Wait a minute.
Are you calling me predictable?
No, I'm calling you consistent.
She slid the cup across thecounter like it was an offering.
It's not the same thing.
(04:14):
He sat by the window wonderinghow many people she said things
like that to.
But when he looked up she wasreading again A thick book, no
cover art, margins filled withpencil marks.
He didn't ask about it, not yetthat day he opened his laptop
(04:35):
and wrote more than he had inweeks Just three paragraphs, but
none of them were pretending.
By Thursday she was alreadysetting the mug out before he
even opened the door.
You always come in five minutesafter the rush, she said
without looking up.
I used to think it was acoincidence.
Now I'm wondering if it's astrategy.
(04:58):
He chuckled, can't it be both?
She tilted her head.
Chuckled Can it be both?
She tilted her head.
That's what people say whenthey don't want to admit that
they need quiet.
He looked down.
She wasn't wrong.
That morning he asked about thebook Golder, asher Bach.
(05:20):
He said she was holding up twofingers, like it weighted more
than it should.
It's about strange loops,self-reference and consciousness
.
He blinked.
You had me lost at strangeloops.
She grinned.
Good, that means you're honest.
Then she turned the page andkept reading.
(05:41):
By the end of the week he had anew rhythm.
Then she turned the page andkept reading.
By the end of the week he had anew rhythm.
Wake up without panic, showerslowly, dress, like someone
might notice, walk two blocks,enter the cafe at 8.37am, Sit
near the window, talk to Lena.
(06:01):
They never talked for long, butsomething about the cadence
made him feel more himself thananywhere else.
It wasn't about flirting, itwasn't about being seen.
It was about being real,someone who didn't need an
explanation.
She never asked what he did.
She never asked where he wasfrom.
(06:21):
She asked questions like do youthink people outrun their
patterns?
Or Do you notice when your bodyspeaks before your brain does?
Or when did you stop beingsurprised by yourself?
He didn't always have answersfor her questions, but she never
(06:43):
rushed the silence thatfollowed that weekend.
He skipped a network brunch,slept in, walked to the cafe
just to see if she workedSaturdays.
She didn't.
The barista that morning didn'tknow his order, didn't ask him
a question that made his brainstretch, didn't underline
anything in a book.
He still stayed, but he didn'topen his laptop.
(07:08):
Instead he thought about whatit meant to miss someone you
hadn't let yourself need.
Yet the next morning he cameearly, earlier than usual, and
when she walked in than usual,and when she walked in hair had
pulled back, mit sweatshirt,half-zipped, earbuds still in he
(07:31):
felt something quiet shift.
She saw him, paused, smiled.
I didn't think you were aSaturday kind of guy.
I'm not.
He said, tapping the side ofhis mug.
I guess I just wanted to bearound something.
I understand.
She arched an eyebrow you thinkyou understand me With a
(07:58):
playful laugh.
No, he replied.
But the coffee's always thesame, so that helps.
She laughed.
It was soft and it was real.
And for the first time in a longtime he didn't feel like he was
waiting for life to begin.
It was already happening, righthere, in this moment, in a cafe
(08:21):
with a chipped tile, under badlighting, with a girl who reads
books heavier than most people'sself-esteem, and for now that
was enough.
There was no declaration, nopivotal moment, no scene where
one of them leaned in too longor said something that changed
(08:43):
everything.
But something was changingDaily, quietly, in the way most
true things do.
They talked more, not becausethey had to fill the air, but
because silence had alreadyproven it could hold them.
He stopped bringing his laptop.
He started bringing a notebookinstead.
(09:03):
Sometimes he'd write, othertimes he'd just sit.
Lena never interrupted him, butshe always noticed when he was
stuck.
One morning he tapped his penagainst the table five times in
a row.
She walked over, gently placeda napkin between his coffee and
his hand.
(09:23):
A quote was written in blackink we're always becoming
someone.
The question is, who gets todecide?
Al?
(09:43):
He looked up.
She was already walking away.
Later that week he told herabout his dad, not in a
vulnerable, cinematic way, justcasually.
He was talking about voices andhe said my dad used to tell me
the loudest person in the roomwas usually the weakest, and
that stuck with me.
Lena, without missing a beat,replied that's probably why you
listen so well.
(10:04):
He didn't know how to respondto that, so he didn't.
He just sipped his coffee andlet it land.
She never rushed his silences.
The next morning she saidsomething too.
My professor thinks identity isrecursive, she said, sitting
(10:25):
across from him before his shift.
What does that mean?
She smiled tired.
It means your idea of who youare is built from feedback loops
, of who you think others thinkyou are.
He blinked.
That sounds like a trap.
Only if you forget to opt out.
(10:46):
He paused.
Do you ever forget?
She looked at him long still.
Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Then she stood, walked behindthe counter and he realized she
had told him something real, notrehearsed, not academic, but
(11:10):
personal.
He wrote it down when he gothome, didn't know why, but he
did.
On Thursday she brought over twocookies, don't argue.
She said I'm celebrating foryou.
He raised an eyebrow.
Wait, what am I beingcelebrated for?
You didn't check your phonethis morning.
(11:31):
He laughed.
Maybe I was trying to impressyou, she grinned.
Well then he failed.
Impressing me would have meantnot mentioning it.
Meant not mentioning it.
They shared the cookies anyways.
Sometimes they talk aboutnothing, like how no one ever
(11:52):
orders lemon pastries or whyearly morning sun feels more
honest than noon light.
Other times they went deep.
She told him about a childhoodmemory where her brother asked
if dreams were other versions ofyou.
Waking up, he told her aboutthe day he realized ambition and
anxiety, felt like twinswearing different jackets.
(12:13):
Neither of them tried to soundsmart, but the conversations
always went somewhere sacred.
One morning he asked if shewanted to hear something he'd
written.
She nodded.
It was a single paragraph, raw,non-edited.
She read it twice, then lookedat him and said You're different
(12:37):
when you're not trying to bebrilliant.
He nodded.
So am I trying too hard?
She shrugged no, just, you'recloser when you stop aiming.
He didn't know what to do withthat, so he wrote another
paragraph the next day, one thatdidn't aim at all.
It was the best thing he'dwritten in years.
(13:02):
They started having standingsilences, moments where he'd
come, come in, she'd pour thecoffee and either one would
speak until the other one brokethe spell.
Sometimes the silence lastedminutes, and yet it always felt
full.
One day, during one of thosesilences, she placed a napkin on
(13:24):
the counter.
You feel more like yourselfwhen you're not explaining who
you are.
One day, during one of thosesilences, she placed a napkin on
the counter.
You feel more like yourselfwhen you're not explaining who
you are.
Now he looked up.
You always write these thingsjust for me, no, walking away.
I write them for whoever needsthem.
You just seem to keep showingup when they're ready.
(13:46):
He smiled, tucked it into hisnotebook.
It was subtle, but the threadbetween them had become a cord
Taunt Steady, unspoken, notromantic, not yet, but
undeniably real.
And in a world where mostpeople talk past each other,
(14:09):
this felt like being seenwithout a spotlight.
He started sleeping better, wokeup without alarms again and
began each morning with a senseof not arrival but presence,
like maybe, maybe, just maybe.
Life wasn't trying to hand himsomething quiet and for once he
(14:31):
was actually receiving it.
It was strange how easy itbecame to wake up with clarity,
to move without rushing, to walkthrough the door of a cafe and
know what kind of silence he'dbe met with.
Some mornings she spoke first.
Other mornings she didn't say aword until she handed him the
(14:53):
mug, but the rhythm was there.
There's no need to name it.
That week everything in his workbegan to shift.
His writing got picked by amid-tier magazine than a larger
one.
A friend forwarded one of hisessays to someone on a speaking
panel.
A brand asked if they couldquote him.
(15:14):
He got offered a ghostwritingdeal for a name he wasn't
allowed to mention.
He didn't say yes to all of it,but the doors were opening and
for once he didn't feel like hewas kicking them down.
He was being invited in.
He told Lena about the writingdeal over coffee.
(15:35):
They want me to help someonetell their story, he said.
Except I can't tell anyone,it's mine.
She nodded.
That must feel strange.
Strange good or strange bad.
She tilted her head both, butmostly like someone else is
(15:57):
trying to wear your voice.
He blinked.
You always say things like that.
No, she said, stirring her tea,just around people who sound
like they're about to forgetthemselves.
He didn't know if that was acompliment or a warning.
Maybe it was both.
Either way.
It made him pause, made himwrite later that night with more
(16:20):
attention, made him edit less,let the words be crooked and
whole.
On Thursday she brought out acookie without asking.
He smiled.
I didn't earn that.
She shrugged.
You look like someone whoremembered something true today.
He didn't Well, not consciously.
(16:42):
He didn't Well, not consciously, but the night before he found
an old letter from his brother,one he never responded to, and
instead of feeling guilt.
He just felt like mayberemembering was its own reply.
He told her that she didn't sayanything at first.
(17:06):
Then maybe not replying was theonly honest thing you had done
at the time.
He really looked at her whenshe said that, really really
looked.
She was wearing the MITsweatshirt again.
The sleeves were fraying theleather soft from too many
(17:30):
washes.
You're not just a barista, hesaid.
She grinned.
You're not just a writer.
They both slipped their drinks.
That afternoon he closed acontract, the kind that paid
more than his last three jobscombined.
It came with a six-monthretainer, a publishing credit
(17:54):
and a clause that allowed him tostay anonymous if he chose.
He celebrated alone that night,not because he didn't have
anyone to call, but because thewind felt internal.
No champagne, no announcement,just the quiet sense that he'd
been building something for along time and the bricks were
(18:17):
finally starting to hold.
The next morning he walked intothe cafe with a different kind
of energy, not louder, justfuller, she noticed, didn't say
anything, but he could see it inthe way.
She lingered for a secondlonger before handing him his
drink.
(18:37):
He sat in the window, opened hisnotebook and wrote without
effort Two pages, then three.
Then he paused and looked up.
Lena was reading the Feeling ofwhat Happens.
He asked her once why shealways read the heavy ones
during shifts.
She said because if I read athome I'd never stop underlining.
(18:59):
I'd never stop underlining here.
I have to pick my moments.
He asked if she underlinedanything today.
She tore a slip from a notepad,wrote slowly, then handed it to
him.
Emotion is the key tocontinuity of the self, damaso.
He read it twice.
Then he tucked it in the insidecover of his journal.
(19:24):
I don't always understand you,he said.
She smirked.
That's okay.
You don't talk like someone whoneeds to.
That night he skipped thestrategy dinner, turned off his
phone, ate tech out on the floor, watched an old movie without
(19:45):
checking the time and as heclosed his eyes, the last thing
he thought of wasn't thecontract, it wasn't the money,
it wasn't even the words he'dwritten.
It was the moment her fingerstouched the edge of the cup
before handing it to him and theway she looked at him without
(20:07):
expectation.
On Sunday he arrived early.
She walked in with wet hair andheadphones, looked surprised to
see him, but happy, I didn'tpeg you for Sunday again, he
shrugged.
I guess I've been wrong aboutmyself lately.
(20:29):
She poured the coffee, satacross from him, didn't say
anything for a while.
She leaned forward, elbows onthe table, eyes soft.
You know you're different whenyou stop trying to land the
sentence, the sentence.
(20:50):
He smiled.
I don't know what that means.
She smiled, you will.
Then she got up, put her apronon and started her shift.
He watched her from the window,didn't feel behind, didn't feel
ahead, just in it, the day, themoment, his life.
For the first time, maybe ever,it all made sense.
They still hadn't talked aboutattraction, but the space
(21:18):
between them had started humming.
He wasn't imagining it.
The way she looked at him whenhe was lost in thought, the way
she leaned in slightly whensomething he said made her eyes
squint with delight.
The way neither of themmentioned the growing softness
in their pauses.
Some mornings they sat insilence for nearly ten minutes.
(21:40):
It wasn't awkward, it felt likethey were listening to someone
no one else could hear.
He stopped scheduling callsbefore noon he started
rearranging his calendar withoutneeding to explain it.
The team he was working withdidn't question it.
He still delivered, still metdeadlines, but he always seemed
(22:04):
to vanish between 8.30 and 10.
They joked about it once on ateam call, you always disappear.
In the morning someone saidYou're not in love, are you?
He laughed and shrugged, saidsomething deflective.
He shrugged, said somethingdeflective.
(22:28):
But a part of him wondered, notif he was in love, but if he
was finally inside of somethingthat didn't require performance.
One morning she handed him a newnapkin.
The realest parts of you arethe ones you hide when you feel
seen.
Now he read it, then looked itup.
I think I'm scared of beingunderstood.
(22:50):
She tilted her head.
That's because you're used tobeing useful, not known.
He opened his mouth then closedit.
That felt like a gut punch.
He said Good.
She replied it means it'slanded.
There was a new rhythm now.
It wasn't just the cafe.
(23:13):
She'd walk with him to thecorner after her shift.
They'd stand there too long,not wanting to break the moment.
One moment she said have youever felt like you're becoming
someone without even trying?
He nodded Lately yeah, that'sthe version I like, the one who
(23:36):
doesn't need a script.
He started telling her abouthis dreams, not the lofty kind,
the real ones, the kind thatleft him shaken for hours after
waking.
She listened like someonedecoding a language, only asking
questions when he reached formeaning, even then only gentle
(23:59):
ones.
One day she admitted somethingtoo.
I used to want to be aneuroscientist, said you still
could?
She shook her head.
I don't think I wanted thetitle, I just wanted to
understand why people leavethemselves.
He stared at her.
That's the best reason I'veever heard.
She smiled, not proud.
(24:21):
Just present.
They shared music now quotes,occasional memes, scribbled on
napkins like ancient jokespassed through a secret order.
But the air was changing Onceshe brushed past him behind the
counter, their hands touched.
It was nothing and it waseverything.
(24:43):
He didn't flinch and she didn'tpull away.
Just two people with fullawareness of how warm
electricity can feel when it'snot forced.
A Thursday came where he almostcanceled a major call to stay
longer, but he didn't.
But he thought about it all day, not out of guilt, out of
(25:03):
wonder at how easy it wasbecoming to want nothing more
than this.
That Sunday they walked alittle further together down the
block past the bookstore.
She pointed out her favoriteapartment, top floor.
She said you can see the waterfrom the corner window if you
(25:23):
lean out far enough.
You ever go up there once.
She said friend of a friend.
We listened to ban evar song anddidn't say anything for nine
minutes.
He smiled.
Sounds like you looked at him abeat too long.
Then you're not in a rushanymore.
(25:47):
I still have deadlines, he said.
She stopped and turned towardhim.
That's not what I meant.
And in that moment the airbetween them wasn't friendship.
The air between them wasn'tfriendship, it wasn't flirting,
it wasn't anything simple, itwas recognition.
(26:07):
And just for a second hewondered if this was the kind of
peace people spent their wholelives trying to name.
He didn't say anything as hewalked back, neither did she,
but as she reached the cafe doorshe turned.
Don't ruin it by trying todefine it Then softer, just be
(26:29):
here while it's here.
He nodded and she disappearedinto the building and he
realized he hadn't thought abouthis old life in days.
The version of him that chased,the one who always fell a few
steps behind, that versionhadn't been showing up lately,
and maybe that was the point.
(26:49):
He didn't think about successthe same way anymore.
It wasn't about gettingpublished.
It wasn't about being followed.
It wasn't about a rival.
It was about alignment, wakingup and not flinching, spending
time with people who didn't needhim to prove anything, writing
words that I didn't try too hard, having mornings with Lena that
(27:12):
didn't demand a narrative.
He was still getting invitations, podcasts, panels, features,
and he said no to most of them,not out of fear but out of peace
.
He no longer needed the noiseto confirm his value.
(27:33):
One afternoon he and Lena saton the curb behind the cafe.
It was her break.
They both had coffee.
She was humming something, asong he didn't realize.
You hum when you're calm, hesaid.
She smirked.
I hum when I forget anyone'slistening.
That's the same thing.
They sat for a moment lettingthe warmth of the sidewalk seep
(27:54):
through their clothes.
Then she said You've beenquieter lately, quieter how,
less trying and more arriving.
He smiled.
You sound like a mindful apt,she laughed.
Well, you sound like someonewho used to run from stillness,
and now you're not.
He thought about that.
(28:16):
He didn't say she was right,but she was.
That night he journaled for thefirst time in weeks, not because
he needed to dump thoughts, butbecause he wanted to remember
the feel of the season, the waythe cafe smelled when the beans
were fresh ground.
The way Lena sometimes held hercup with both hands like she
(28:38):
was protecting something sacred.
The way his own shouldersdidn't hurt as much.
In the morning he wrote untilthe pen ran out and he didn't
replace it right away, he juststared at the page, let the
stillness speak louder than hiswords.
He started dressing differently, not fancier, just clear
(29:02):
Sweaters with intention, shoesthat fit well and didn't scream
for attention, the kind ofclothes that said I know who I
am and I'm not auditioning.
Lena noticed You're softening,she said one morning.
He raised an eyebrow.
Is that good?
That's real, she said.
(29:23):
They had a moment Wednesdaymorning, 9-12 am.
The cafe was quiet and he wasearly.
She was distracted thumbingthrough a dense article printout
and he watched her just for asecond.
She looked up what Nothing, hesaid.
Looked up what Nothing, he said.
(29:51):
She tilted her head.
What he paused?
Just, I think this is the firsttime in my life where things
feel like they fit.
She didn't smile, she didn'tnod, she just reached across the
counter, touched the edge ofhis hand.
She didn't nod, she justreached across the counter and
touched the edge of his hand.
Then stay in it, she said Don'ttry to capture it, don't try to
name it, just be in it.
(30:17):
He felt something press behindhis eyes, a kind of ache, but
not sadness, gratitude, like hewas being given something he
didn't have to earn.
That weekend he turned on a highprofile writing assignment.
Could have paid more thananything else he's ever done,
but it required flights,deadlines, eight weeks of
(30:40):
interviews.
It would have pulled him out ofthis rhythm, out of this city,
out of this life.
He emailed them back it's notthe right season.
I'm building something slower.
No one understood what thatmeant, but he didn't care,
(31:01):
because Lena would.
He was beginning to trust thatshe was the mirror he needed.
Sunday afternoon she handed hima folded napkin before he left.
Maybe peace isn't found, maybeit's remembered.
Now he looked up.
You always give me these, notalways, she said, just to people
(31:30):
who might forget.
That night he opened a drawerfull of these napkins, read
through each one and realizedsomething.
They weren't notes, they werebreadcrumbs.
A quiet path back to himself.
He didn't know what came next.
He didn't feel he needed to.
(31:52):
For the first time in his life,he wasn't waiting to arrive
somewhere.
He was already there.
It was Tuesday when he took thephoto.
Late morning, the cafe wasnearly empty.
Sunlight spilled through thefront windows like something
intentional.
Lena stood at the counter, herback to the glass.
(32:12):
She laughed at something aco-worker said, half-turned arms
crossed, one leg bent slightly,like she wasn't aware of her
own softness.
The light hit her hair likegold that didn't know it was
valuable.
The sleeves of her sweatshirtwere pushed up.
Her journal was half open nextto her hand.
The corner of a napkin stuckout words barely visible.
(32:36):
He lifted his phone and tookthe picture.
Just one, no filter, noframings, no thoughts of
captions, just the need toremember something exactly as it
was.
He looked at the photo thatnight and again the next morning
, but it never posted it, notbecause he didn't want to, but
(33:01):
because some moments feel likethey would dissolve if spoken
too loudly.
That photo became a kind ofproof, not of love, not of
possession, but of presence, ofa season that didn't need to be
shared to be real.
That week his name was mentionedin a major article.
(33:23):
A mentor called to congratulatehim.
He was invited to dinner withimportant people.
Someone asked if he could speakat a creative summit in New
York.
He said maybe, but he didn'tchange anything.
He still showed up at the cafe,still ordered the same thing,
(33:45):
still read the book she passedto him, still answered her
question with half thoughts andwhole honesty.
One day she handed him a bookwrapped in a paper bag.
Wait to open it until you'rehome, she said he did.
It was a used copy of being inTime.
Inside the front cover she'dwritten you don't have to
(34:08):
understand this, just know Itrust you with things I haven't
figured out yet.
Al, he stared at thehandwriting for a long time, not
because it was beautiful, butbecause it looked like someone
who wasn't trying to impress him, just someone being real, even
(34:28):
when the words were borrowed.
That weekend he was invited toan off-site retreat.
It was hosted by a company thathad followed his writing since
the early days.
They promised exposure, a fullcrowd, a private suite.
He read the itinerary Threepanels, four mixers, no silence.
(34:54):
He declined.
Instead he sat in the cafe withLena on a slow Sunday.
She was off-duty.
They were sharing a pot ofloose-leaf tea, a single cookie
broken into two between them.
He told her he used to chasemeaning, but lately he was
trying to make space for it.
She didn't respond, just leanedher head against the window,
watched people pass and thensaid I think the loudest love is
(35:19):
the kind that never asks to benoticed.
He nodded, looked at the cookie, then broke off a small piece
and handed it to her.
They didn't talk for another 20minutes, didn't need to.
That night he looked at thephoto again, still didn't post
it, but this time he wrotebeneath it in the Notes app.
(35:43):
This is what stillness lookslike when it trusts you back
Then locked his phone, turnedoff the lights and slept without
dreams.
You know, some seasons aren'tmeant to be preserved, they're
(36:07):
meant to be lived.
You know, if you look at himright now, he was waking up
before the alarm right, notbecause he had somewhere to be,
but because, you know, the dayitself felt like something to
meet, not outrun.
You know his work was moving,money was coming in.
You know people were quotinghim, forwarding his writing,
offering more, and yet it wasthe space between the milestones
(36:37):
that felt full for him.
The way he, you know her eyeslooked when she underlined a
sentence, the rhythm of herwalking towards the register and
back, the weight of the bookshe gave him, wrapped in paper.
The cookie split in two.
The photo he never posted, itwas all so quiet, but it was
(37:05):
undemanding, and maybe that'swhat presence really is, not the
stillness of.
You know, I should say as thegoal, but stillness as a gift.
You know, if you think about it, he wanted everything and he
got everything he wanted so far,you know.
But what grounded him werethese.
(37:25):
It wasn't these yeshes, Ishould say, it was the mornings
with no performance, thesilences that didn't need
filling.
He didn't know what wouldchange, he didn't know how long
the rhythm would last, but fornow, the key sat untouched in
the drawer, not forgotten, justnot needed, because for the
(37:50):
first time, he wasn't trying tounlock anything, he was already
inside.
So as we're talking about that,let's go ahead and get into
reflection prompts.
When was the last timesomething worked and you didn't
try to turn it into proof?
Man?
(38:10):
That's a really big one, right?
Reflection prompt two Is theresomeone in your life who helps
you feel more like yourself justby being around you?
Number three have you ever keptsomething private, not out of
(38:33):
fear, but just because it feltsacred?
Number four what would yourdays look like if you stopped
chasing and started choosing man?
That's a huge question, hugequestion that I still have
(38:56):
problems with.
And number five what's thephoto you never posted?
What's the moment you're holdingon in your heart quietly
(39:29):
writing this is is that momentwhen two people start to feel
each other.
You know, not out of love, butout of mutual respect and
honesty.
You know, and if you thinkabout it, every time you enter a
relationship either a greatfriendship or a great romantic
relationship they always kind ofstart like this.
They start off slow, they havelike a slow burn, and then you
realize that you can learn fromthem and they can learn from you
(39:51):
, and that they're the yin toyour yang and vice versa.
You know that essential.
In a lot of ways they completeyou but they push you.
That's what we're starting tosee here.
We're starting to see him beingfulfilled personally and being
(40:11):
fulfilled professionally, andthat's usually something that
doesn't happen.
It's a very rare occasion andhe's living that rareness right
now.
So I'm definitely excited aboutthis series.
I'm excited for you to listento it.
But as we continue forward,here's the thing we got to talk
(40:32):
about how you can get a hold ofme.
So there's a couple differentways.
First way is going to bethrough the chat function.
On the description of thispodcast, it'll say let's chat.
Is going to be through the chatfunction.
On the description of thispodcast, it'll say let's chat.
You click on that and you and Ican have a conversation about
this series, this episode, theother eight series that are out
there and the other 250 plusepisodes that I have out there
(40:56):
now.
Second way is through my email.
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom, so please feel
free to email me there or get ahold of me there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
My Instagram is Anthony.
I'm sorry, it's not Anthony,it's mygentsjourneycom.
(41:17):
Holy smokes, I'm leaving thatin there.
I'm not editing that outMygentsjourneycom or
mygentsjourney Jesus.
I'm leaving that in there.
I'm not editing that outMyGentsJourneycom or my Gents
Journey Jesus.
But anyways, guys, I justappreciate all your support, all
the love you give me.
It just means the world to meand I'm definitely excited where
this series is going and seehow this is all going to work
(41:38):
out.
So again, guys, thank you somuch for listening today and
remember this you create yourreality, take care.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode
three to the key to everything.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold opening.
There are mornings that wakeyou like a bell, not loud, just
(00:29):
clear.
He didn't set an alarm, hedidn't need one.
His eyes opened on their own,the way windows do when the
breeze is soft enough.
There was no thought waiting tobe wrestled, no weight waiting
to be wrestled, no wait waitingto be explained.
It was just stillness.
He sat up, not because he had to, but because it felt like
(00:54):
something in the world hadalready begun and he didn't want
to miss it.
There was a thin beam of lightcutting through the blinds.
Not golden, not poetic, justhonest, like the day had nothing
to hide.
And for once he didn't feelbehind.
(01:16):
He didn't feel like he had tocatch up with himself.
The mirror didn't accuse, theto-do list didn't snarl.
Even the coffee brewed withoutthat desperate undertone, the
one that says Please fix mebefore 9 am.
Outside, the city moved like aslow tide.
Trucks whispered down thestreet.
(01:36):
Someone laughed too hard on aphone call in front of his
building, the kind of laugh thatdoesn't apologize.
And when he stepped out,someone held the door open for
him, not in a dramatic way, justlike it was normal.
That's what stayed with him,Not the quiet, not the light,
(02:01):
but the fact that the worlddidn't resist him this morning.
It didn't push back, it didn'task him to approve himself
before letting him through.
And that's the part that no onereally warns you about.
When it stops being hard, whenthe gears stop grinding Because
(02:23):
when things start to work, youstop asking why you stop
checking the cost you forgetwhat you traded to feel this
right.
And in that moment, walking tothe cafe, not knowing what was
waiting, you thought he'dfinally figured it out.
But peace never shouts, itwhispers just loud enough to
(02:49):
keep you from noticing what'smissing.
He went back the next morningand the next and the next, not
because of a schedule, not outof routine, but because
something in the air around thatplace felt different.
The cafe wasn't special.
(03:09):
It had a cracked tile near thefront entrance, a flickering
bulb above the espresso machine,the window seal gathered
condensation too easily, makingthe corner table feel colder
than it should have.
But it was alive, not loud, notcurated, just present.
(03:30):
And Lena was always there.
She didn't greet him withrehearsed cheer or exaggerated
warmth.
She didn't try to remember hisname.
She remembered his drink, blackcoffee, no sugar, served like
it was a little secret.
The second morning he walked inshe was already pouring it.
(03:53):
He blinked how did you?
She shrugged.
People don't change their orderunless they're trying to
impress someone.
He smirked.
Wait a minute.
Are you calling me predictable?
No, I'm calling you consistent.
She slid the cup across thecounter like it was an offering.
It's not the same thing.
(04:14):
He sat by the window wonderinghow many people she said things
like that to.
But when he looked up she wasreading again A thick book, no
cover art, margins filled withpencil marks.
He didn't ask about it, not yetthat day he opened his laptop
(04:35):
and wrote more than he had inweeks Just three paragraphs, but
none of them were pretending.
By Thursday she was alreadysetting the mug out before he
even opened the door.
You always come in five minutesafter the rush, she said
without looking up.
I used to think it was acoincidence.
Now I'm wondering if it's astrategy.
(04:58):
He chuckled, can't it be both?
She tilted her head.
Chuckled Can it be both?
She tilted her head.
That's what people say whenthey don't want to admit that
they need quiet.
He looked down.
She wasn't wrong.
That morning he asked about thebook Golder, asher Bach.
(05:20):
He said she was holding up twofingers, like it weighted more
than it should.
It's about strange loops,self-reference and consciousness
.
He blinked.
You had me lost at strangeloops.
She grinned.
Good, that means you're honest.
Then she turned the page andkept reading.
(05:41):
By the end of the week he had anew rhythm.
Then she turned the page andkept reading.
By the end of the week he had anew rhythm.
Wake up without panic, showerslowly, dress, like someone
might notice, walk two blocks,enter the cafe at 8.37am, Sit
near the window, talk to Lena.
(06:01):
They never talked for long, butsomething about the cadence
made him feel more himself thananywhere else.
It wasn't about flirting, itwasn't about being seen.
It was about being real,someone who didn't need an
explanation.
She never asked what he did.
She never asked where he wasfrom.
(06:21):
She asked questions like do youthink people outrun their
patterns?
Or Do you notice when your bodyspeaks before your brain does?
Or when did you stop beingsurprised by yourself?
He didn't always have answersfor her questions, but she never
(06:43):
rushed the silence thatfollowed that weekend.
He skipped a network brunch,slept in, walked to the cafe
just to see if she workedSaturdays.
She didn't.
The barista that morning didn'tknow his order, didn't ask him
a question that made his brainstretch, didn't underline
anything in a book.
He still stayed, but he didn'topen his laptop.
(07:08):
Instead he thought about whatit meant to miss someone you
hadn't let yourself need.
Yet the next morning he cameearly, earlier than usual, and
when she walked in than usual,and when she walked in hair had
pulled back, mit sweatshirt,half-zipped, earbuds still in he
(07:31):
felt something quiet shift.
She saw him, paused, smiled.
I didn't think you were aSaturday kind of guy.
I'm not.
He said, tapping the side ofhis mug.
I guess I just wanted to bearound something.
I understand.
She arched an eyebrow you thinkyou understand me With a
(07:58):
playful laugh.
No, he replied.
But the coffee's always thesame, so that helps.
She laughed.
It was soft and it was real.
And for the first time in a longtime he didn't feel like he was
waiting for life to begin.
It was already happening, righthere, in this moment, in a cafe
(08:21):
with a chipped tile, under badlighting, with a girl who reads
books heavier than most people'sself-esteem, and for now that
was enough.
There was no declaration, nopivotal moment, no scene where
one of them leaned in too longor said something that changed
(08:43):
everything.
But something was changingDaily, quietly, in the way most
true things do.
They talked more, not becausethey had to fill the air, but
because silence had alreadyproven it could hold them.
He stopped bringing his laptop.
He started bringing a notebookinstead.
(09:03):
Sometimes he'd write, othertimes he'd just sit.
Lena never interrupted him, butshe always noticed when he was
stuck.
One morning he tapped his penagainst the table five times in
a row.
She walked over, gently placeda napkin between his coffee and
his hand.
(09:23):
A quote was written in blackink we're always becoming
someone.
The question is, who gets todecide?
Al?
(09:43):
He looked up.
She was already walking away.
Later that week he told herabout his dad, not in a
vulnerable, cinematic way, justcasually.
He was talking about voices andhe said my dad used to tell me
the loudest person in the roomwas usually the weakest, and
that stuck with me.
Lena, without missing a beat,replied that's probably why you
listen so well.
(10:04):
He didn't know how to respondto that, so he didn't.
He just sipped his coffee andlet it land.
She never rushed his silences.
The next morning she saidsomething too.
My professor thinks identity isrecursive, she said, sitting
(10:25):
across from him before his shift.
What does that mean?
She smiled tired.
It means your idea of who youare is built from feedback loops
, of who you think others thinkyou are.
He blinked.
That sounds like a trap.
Only if you forget to opt out.
(10:46):
He paused.
Do you ever forget?
She looked at him long still.
Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Then she stood, walked behindthe counter and he realized she
had told him something real, notrehearsed, not academic, but
(11:10):
personal.
He wrote it down when he gothome, didn't know why, but he
did.
On Thursday she brought over twocookies, don't argue.
She said I'm celebrating foryou.
He raised an eyebrow.
Wait, what am I beingcelebrated for?
You didn't check your phonethis morning.
(11:31):
He laughed.
Maybe I was trying to impressyou, she grinned.
Well then he failed.
Impressing me would have meantnot mentioning it.
Meant not mentioning it.
They shared the cookies anyways.
Sometimes they talk aboutnothing, like how no one ever
(11:52):
orders lemon pastries or whyearly morning sun feels more
honest than noon light.
Other times they went deep.
She told him about a childhoodmemory where her brother asked
if dreams were other versions ofyou.
Waking up, he told her aboutthe day he realized ambition and
anxiety, felt like twinswearing different jackets.
(12:13):
Neither of them tried to soundsmart, but the conversations
always went somewhere sacred.
One morning he asked if shewanted to hear something he'd
written.
She nodded.
It was a single paragraph, raw,non-edited.
She read it twice, then lookedat him and said You're different
(12:37):
when you're not trying to bebrilliant.
He nodded.
So am I trying too hard?
She shrugged no, just, you'recloser when you stop aiming.
He didn't know what to do withthat, so he wrote another
paragraph the next day, one thatdidn't aim at all.
It was the best thing he'dwritten in years.
(13:02):
They started having standingsilences, moments where he'd
come, come in, she'd pour thecoffee and either one would
speak until the other one brokethe spell.
Sometimes the silence lastedminutes, and yet it always felt
full.
One day, during one of thosesilences, she placed a napkin on
(13:24):
the counter.
You feel more like yourselfwhen you're not explaining who
you are.
One day, during one of thosesilences, she placed a napkin on
the counter.
You feel more like yourselfwhen you're not explaining who
you are.
Now he looked up.
You always write these thingsjust for me, no, walking away.
I write them for whoever needsthem.
You just seem to keep showingup when they're ready.
(13:46):
He smiled, tucked it into hisnotebook.
It was subtle, but the threadbetween them had become a cord
Taunt Steady, unspoken, notromantic, not yet, but
undeniably real.
And in a world where mostpeople talk past each other,
(14:09):
this felt like being seenwithout a spotlight.
He started sleeping better, wokeup without alarms again and
began each morning with a senseof not arrival but presence,
like maybe, maybe, just maybe.
Life wasn't trying to hand himsomething quiet and for once he
(14:31):
was actually receiving it.
It was strange how easy itbecame to wake up with clarity,
to move without rushing, to walkthrough the door of a cafe and
know what kind of silence he'dbe met with.
Some mornings she spoke first.
Other mornings she didn't say aword until she handed him the
(14:53):
mug, but the rhythm was there.
There's no need to name it.
That week everything in his workbegan to shift.
His writing got picked by amid-tier magazine than a larger
one.
A friend forwarded one of hisessays to someone on a speaking
panel.
A brand asked if they couldquote him.
(15:14):
He got offered a ghostwritingdeal for a name he wasn't
allowed to mention.
He didn't say yes to all of it,but the doors were opening and
for once he didn't feel like hewas kicking them down.
He was being invited in.
He told Lena about the writingdeal over coffee.
(15:35):
They want me to help someonetell their story, he said.
Except I can't tell anyone,it's mine.
She nodded.
That must feel strange.
Strange good or strange bad.
She tilted her head both, butmostly like someone else is
(15:57):
trying to wear your voice.
He blinked.
You always say things like that.
No, she said, stirring her tea,just around people who sound
like they're about to forgetthemselves.
He didn't know if that was acompliment or a warning.
Maybe it was both.
Either way.
It made him pause, made himwrite later that night with more
(16:20):
attention, made him edit less,let the words be crooked and
whole.
On Thursday she brought out acookie without asking.
He smiled.
I didn't earn that.
She shrugged.
You look like someone whoremembered something true today.
He didn't Well, not consciously.
(16:42):
He didn't Well, not consciously, but the night before he found
an old letter from his brother,one he never responded to, and
instead of feeling guilt.
He just felt like mayberemembering was its own reply.
He told her that she didn't sayanything at first.
(17:06):
Then maybe not replying was theonly honest thing you had done
at the time.
He really looked at her whenshe said that, really really
looked.
She was wearing the MITsweatshirt again.
The sleeves were fraying theleather soft from too many
(17:30):
washes.
You're not just a barista, hesaid.
She grinned.
You're not just a writer.
They both slipped their drinks.
That afternoon he closed acontract, the kind that paid
more than his last three jobscombined.
It came with a six-monthretainer, a publishing credit
(17:54):
and a clause that allowed him tostay anonymous if he chose.
He celebrated alone that night,not because he didn't have
anyone to call, but because thewind felt internal.
No champagne, no announcement,just the quiet sense that he'd
been building something for along time and the bricks were
(18:17):
finally starting to hold.
The next morning he walked intothe cafe with a different kind
of energy, not louder, justfuller, she noticed, didn't say
anything, but he could see it inthe way.
She lingered for a secondlonger before handing him his
drink.
(18:37):
He sat in the window, opened hisnotebook and wrote without
effort Two pages, then three.
Then he paused and looked up.
Lena was reading the Feeling ofwhat Happens.
He asked her once why shealways read the heavy ones
during shifts.
She said because if I read athome I'd never stop underlining.
(18:59):
I'd never stop underlining here.
I have to pick my moments.
He asked if she underlinedanything today.
She tore a slip from a notepad,wrote slowly, then handed it to
him.
Emotion is the key tocontinuity of the self, damaso.
He read it twice.
Then he tucked it in the insidecover of his journal.
(19:24):
I don't always understand you,he said.
She smirked.
That's okay.
You don't talk like someone whoneeds to.
That night he skipped thestrategy dinner, turned off his
phone, ate tech out on the floor, watched an old movie without
(19:45):
checking the time and as heclosed his eyes, the last thing
he thought of wasn't thecontract, it wasn't the money,
it wasn't even the words he'dwritten.
It was the moment her fingerstouched the edge of the cup
before handing it to him and theway she looked at him without
(20:07):
expectation.
On Sunday he arrived early.
She walked in with wet hair andheadphones, looked surprised to
see him, but happy, I didn'tpeg you for Sunday again, he
shrugged.
I guess I've been wrong aboutmyself lately.
(20:29):
She poured the coffee, satacross from him, didn't say
anything for a while.
She leaned forward, elbows onthe table, eyes soft.
You know you're different whenyou stop trying to land the
sentence, the sentence.
(20:50):
He smiled.
I don't know what that means.
She smiled, you will.
Then she got up, put her apronon and started her shift.
He watched her from the window,didn't feel behind, didn't feel
ahead, just in it, the day, themoment, his life.
For the first time, maybe ever,it all made sense.
They still hadn't talked aboutattraction, but the space
(21:18):
between them had started humming.
He wasn't imagining it.
The way she looked at him whenhe was lost in thought, the way
she leaned in slightly whensomething he said made her eyes
squint with delight.
The way neither of themmentioned the growing softness
in their pauses.
Some mornings they sat insilence for nearly ten minutes.
(21:40):
It wasn't awkward, it felt likethey were listening to someone
no one else could hear.
He stopped scheduling callsbefore noon he started
rearranging his calendar withoutneeding to explain it.
The team he was working withdidn't question it.
He still delivered, still metdeadlines, but he always seemed
(22:04):
to vanish between 8.30 and 10.
They joked about it once on ateam call, you always disappear.
In the morning someone saidYou're not in love, are you?
He laughed and shrugged, saidsomething deflective.
He shrugged, said somethingdeflective.
(22:28):
But a part of him wondered, notif he was in love, but if he
was finally inside of somethingthat didn't require performance.
One morning she handed him a newnapkin.
The realest parts of you arethe ones you hide when you feel
seen.
Now he read it, then looked itup.
I think I'm scared of beingunderstood.
(22:50):
She tilted her head.
That's because you're used tobeing useful, not known.
He opened his mouth then closedit.
That felt like a gut punch.
He said Good.
She replied it means it'slanded.
There was a new rhythm now.
It wasn't just the cafe.
(23:13):
She'd walk with him to thecorner after her shift.
They'd stand there too long,not wanting to break the moment.
One moment she said have youever felt like you're becoming
someone without even trying?
He nodded Lately yeah, that'sthe version I like, the one who
(23:36):
doesn't need a script.
He started telling her abouthis dreams, not the lofty kind,
the real ones, the kind thatleft him shaken for hours after
waking.
She listened like someonedecoding a language, only asking
questions when he reached formeaning, even then only gentle
(23:59):
ones.
One day she admitted somethingtoo.
I used to want to be aneuroscientist, said you still
could?
She shook her head.
I don't think I wanted thetitle, I just wanted to
understand why people leavethemselves.
He stared at her.
That's the best reason I'veever heard.
She smiled, not proud.
(24:21):
Just present.
They shared music now quotes,occasional memes, scribbled on
napkins like ancient jokespassed through a secret order.
But the air was changing Onceshe brushed past him behind the
counter, their hands touched.
It was nothing and it waseverything.
(24:43):
He didn't flinch and she didn'tpull away.
Just two people with fullawareness of how warm
electricity can feel when it'snot forced.
A Thursday came where he almostcanceled a major call to stay
longer, but he didn't.
But he thought about it all day, not out of guilt, out of
(25:03):
wonder at how easy it wasbecoming to want nothing more
than this.
That Sunday they walked alittle further together down the
block past the bookstore.
She pointed out her favoriteapartment, top floor.
She said you can see the waterfrom the corner window if you
(25:23):
lean out far enough.
You ever go up there once.
She said friend of a friend.
We listened to ban evar song anddidn't say anything for nine
minutes.
He smiled.
Sounds like you looked at him abeat too long.
Then you're not in a rushanymore.
(25:47):
I still have deadlines, he said.
She stopped and turned towardhim.
That's not what I meant.
And in that moment the airbetween them wasn't friendship.
The air between them wasn'tfriendship, it wasn't flirting,
it wasn't anything simple, itwas recognition.
(26:07):
And just for a second hewondered if this was the kind of
peace people spent their wholelives trying to name.
He didn't say anything as hewalked back, neither did she,
but as she reached the cafe doorshe turned.
Don't ruin it by trying todefine it Then softer, just be
(26:29):
here while it's here.
He nodded and she disappearedinto the building and he
realized he hadn't thought abouthis old life in days.
The version of him that chased,the one who always fell a few
steps behind, that versionhadn't been showing up lately,
and maybe that was the point.
(26:49):
He didn't think about successthe same way anymore.
It wasn't about gettingpublished.
It wasn't about being followed.
It wasn't about a rival.
It was about alignment, wakingup and not flinching, spending
time with people who didn't needhim to prove anything, writing
words that I didn't try too hard, having mornings with Lena that
(27:12):
didn't demand a narrative.
He was still getting invitations, podcasts, panels, features,
and he said no to most of them,not out of fear but out of peace
.
He no longer needed the noiseto confirm his value.
(27:33):
One afternoon he and Lena saton the curb behind the cafe.
It was her break.
They both had coffee.
She was humming something, asong he didn't realize.
You hum when you're calm, hesaid.
She smirked.
I hum when I forget anyone'slistening.
That's the same thing.
They sat for a moment lettingthe warmth of the sidewalk seep
(27:54):
through their clothes.
Then she said You've beenquieter lately, quieter how,
less trying and more arriving.
He smiled.
You sound like a mindful apt,she laughed.
Well, you sound like someonewho used to run from stillness,
and now you're not.
He thought about that.
(28:16):
He didn't say she was right,but she was.
That night he journaled for thefirst time in weeks, not because
he needed to dump thoughts, butbecause he wanted to remember
the feel of the season, the waythe cafe smelled when the beans
were fresh ground.
The way Lena sometimes held hercup with both hands like she
(28:38):
was protecting something sacred.
The way his own shouldersdidn't hurt as much.
In the morning he wrote untilthe pen ran out and he didn't
replace it right away, he juststared at the page, let the
stillness speak louder than hiswords.
He started dressing differently, not fancier, just clear
(29:02):
Sweaters with intention, shoesthat fit well and didn't scream
for attention, the kind ofclothes that said I know who I
am and I'm not auditioning.
Lena noticed You're softening,she said one morning.
He raised an eyebrow.
Is that good?
That's real, she said.
(29:23):
They had a moment Wednesdaymorning, 9-12 am.
The cafe was quiet and he wasearly.
She was distracted thumbingthrough a dense article printout
and he watched her just for asecond.
She looked up what Nothing, hesaid.
Looked up what Nothing, he said.
(29:51):
She tilted her head.
What he paused?
Just, I think this is the firsttime in my life where things
feel like they fit.
She didn't smile, she didn'tnod, she just reached across the
counter, touched the edge ofhis hand.
She didn't nod, she justreached across the counter and
touched the edge of his hand.
Then stay in it, she said Don'ttry to capture it, don't try to
name it, just be in it.
(30:17):
He felt something press behindhis eyes, a kind of ache, but
not sadness, gratitude, like hewas being given something he
didn't have to earn.
That weekend he turned on a highprofile writing assignment.
Could have paid more thananything else he's ever done,
but it required flights,deadlines, eight weeks of
(30:40):
interviews.
It would have pulled him out ofthis rhythm, out of this city,
out of this life.
He emailed them back it's notthe right season.
I'm building something slower.
No one understood what thatmeant, but he didn't care,
(31:01):
because Lena would.
He was beginning to trust thatshe was the mirror he needed.
Sunday afternoon she handed hima folded napkin before he left.
Maybe peace isn't found, maybeit's remembered.
Now he looked up.
You always give me these, notalways, she said, just to people
(31:30):
who might forget.
That night he opened a drawerfull of these napkins, read
through each one and realizedsomething.
They weren't notes, they werebreadcrumbs.
A quiet path back to himself.
He didn't know what came next.
He didn't feel he needed to.
(31:52):
For the first time in his life,he wasn't waiting to arrive
somewhere.
He was already there.
It was Tuesday when he took thephoto.
Late morning, the cafe wasnearly empty.
Sunlight spilled through thefront windows like something
intentional.
Lena stood at the counter, herback to the glass.
(32:12):
She laughed at something aco-worker said, half-turned arms
crossed, one leg bent slightly,like she wasn't aware of her
own softness.
The light hit her hair likegold that didn't know it was
valuable.
The sleeves of her sweatshirtwere pushed up.
Her journal was half open nextto her hand.
The corner of a napkin stuckout words barely visible.
(32:36):
He lifted his phone and tookthe picture.
Just one, no filter, noframings, no thoughts of
captions, just the need toremember something exactly as it
was.
He looked at the photo thatnight and again the next morning
, but it never posted it, notbecause he didn't want to, but
(33:01):
because some moments feel likethey would dissolve if spoken
too loudly.
That photo became a kind ofproof, not of love, not of
possession, but of presence, ofa season that didn't need to be
shared to be real.
That week his name was mentionedin a major article.
(33:23):
A mentor called to congratulatehim.
He was invited to dinner withimportant people.
Someone asked if he could speakat a creative summit in New
York.
He said maybe, but he didn'tchange anything.
He still showed up at the cafe,still ordered the same thing,
(33:45):
still read the book she passedto him, still answered her
question with half thoughts andwhole honesty.
One day she handed him a bookwrapped in a paper bag.
Wait to open it until you'rehome, she said he did.
It was a used copy of being inTime.
Inside the front cover she'dwritten you don't have to
(34:08):
understand this, just know Itrust you with things I haven't
figured out yet.
Al, he stared at thehandwriting for a long time, not
because it was beautiful, butbecause it looked like someone
who wasn't trying to impress him, just someone being real, even
(34:28):
when the words were borrowed.
That weekend he was invited toan off-site retreat.
It was hosted by a company thathad followed his writing since
the early days.
They promised exposure, a fullcrowd, a private suite.
He read the itinerary Threepanels, four mixers, no silence.
(34:54):
He declined.
Instead he sat in the cafe withLena on a slow Sunday.
She was off-duty.
They were sharing a pot ofloose-leaf tea, a single cookie
broken into two between them.
He told her he used to chasemeaning, but lately he was
trying to make space for it.
She didn't respond, just leanedher head against the window,
watched people pass and thensaid I think the loudest love is
(35:19):
the kind that never asks to benoticed.
He nodded, looked at the cookie, then broke off a small piece
and handed it to her.
They didn't talk for another 20minutes, didn't need to.
That night he looked at thephoto again, still didn't post
it, but this time he wrotebeneath it in the Notes app.
(35:43):
This is what stillness lookslike when it trusts you back
Then locked his phone, turnedoff the lights and slept without
dreams.
You know, some seasons aren'tmeant to be preserved, they're
(36:07):
meant to be lived.
You know, if you look at himright now, he was waking up
before the alarm right, notbecause he had somewhere to be,
but because, you know, the dayitself felt like something to
meet, not outrun.
You know his work was moving,money was coming in.
You know people were quotinghim, forwarding his writing,
offering more, and yet it wasthe space between the milestones
(36:37):
that felt full for him.
The way he, you know her eyeslooked when she underlined a
sentence, the rhythm of herwalking towards the register and
back, the weight of the bookshe gave him, wrapped in paper.
The cookie split in two.
The photo he never posted, itwas all so quiet, but it was
(37:05):
undemanding, and maybe that'swhat presence really is, not the
stillness of.
You know, I should say as thegoal, but stillness as a gift.
You know, if you think about it, he wanted everything and he
got everything he wanted so far,you know.
But what grounded him werethese.
(37:25):
It wasn't these yeshes, Ishould say, it was the mornings
with no performance, thesilences that didn't need
filling.
He didn't know what wouldchange, he didn't know how long
the rhythm would last, but fornow, the key sat untouched in
the drawer, not forgotten, justnot needed, because for the
(37:50):
first time, he wasn't trying tounlock anything, he was already
inside.
So as we're talking about that,let's go ahead and get into
reflection prompts.
When was the last timesomething worked and you didn't
try to turn it into proof?
Man?
(38:10):
That's a really big one, right?
Reflection prompt two Is theresomeone in your life who helps
you feel more like yourself justby being around you?
Number three have you ever keptsomething private, not out of
(38:33):
fear, but just because it feltsacred?
Number four what would yourdays look like if you stopped
chasing and started choosing man?
That's a huge question, hugequestion that I still have
(38:56):
problems with.
And number five what's thephoto you never posted?
What's the moment you're holdingon in your heart quietly
(39:29):
writing this is is that momentwhen two people start to feel
each other.
You know, not out of love, butout of mutual respect and
honesty.
You know, and if you thinkabout it, every time you enter a
relationship either a greatfriendship or a great romantic
relationship they always kind ofstart like this.
They start off slow, they havelike a slow burn, and then you
realize that you can learn fromthem and they can learn from you
(39:51):
, and that they're the yin toyour yang and vice versa.
You know that essential.
In a lot of ways they completeyou but they push you.
That's what we're starting tosee here.
We're starting to see him beingfulfilled personally and being
(40:11):
fulfilled professionally, andthat's usually something that
doesn't happen.
It's a very rare occasion andhe's living that rareness right
now.
So I'm definitely excited aboutthis series.
I'm excited for you to listento it.
But as we continue forward,here's the thing we got to talk
(40:32):
about how you can get a hold ofme.
So there's a couple differentways.
First way is going to bethrough the chat function.
On the description of thispodcast, it'll say let's chat.
Is going to be through the chatfunction.
On the description of thispodcast, it'll say let's chat.
You click on that and you and Ican have a conversation about
this series, this episode, theother eight series that are out
there and the other 250 plusepisodes that I have out there
(40:56):
now.
Second way is through my email.
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom, so please feel
free to email me there or get ahold of me there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
My Instagram is Anthony.
I'm sorry, it's not Anthony,it's mygentsjourneycom.
(41:17):
Holy smokes, I'm leaving thatin there.
I'm not editing that outMygentsjourneycom or
mygentsjourney Jesus.
I'm leaving that in there.
I'm not editing that outMyGentsJourneycom or my Gents
Journey Jesus.
But anyways, guys, I justappreciate all your support, all
the love you give me.
It just means the world to meand I'm definitely excited where
this series is going and seehow this is all going to work
(41:38):
out.
So again, guys, thank you somuch for listening today and
remember this you create yourreality, take care.
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