I’ve been buried alive several times. What I didn’t realize is that it was always me holding the shovel.
I wanted to help others, but I let societal constructs and family pressure bury me. Everytime I began to see a glimpse of sunlight, I told myself to find a real job.
So there I was: your typical obese, suit-wearing, stressed-out American stuffed into an office chair in a grey cubicle with a fancy degree. I was gulping down my second cup of coffee when my father called. He had found my brother in his bath tub with a shotgun and a bloody note in his hand that read ‘Do Not Resuscitate. Sorry about the mess.’
Everything suddenly looked different. My career, my family and my life no longer had the same meaning. They were imposters. I was a fake. It took me years to untangle the emotional knots.
Once all of the shoulds were gone, it was obvious what I must do. I was made for it. I climbed out of the hole, put down my shovel, dusted myself off and committed my life to helping others find their path.
For me, life itself is creating awareness or a new reality in others simply by asking the right question.
I am a catalyst. I help people to ‘get it.’ The only problem I have to solve, the only anxiety that I feel every morning asks ‘How can I do more?’