I’m not hitting the mic tonight. Thursday night usually means Helium, then Steve’s Hot Dogs, but I’m too damn sick to move. Yesterday I felt a little queasy, blew it off. Woke up this morning fine. Thought maybe I was just tired or a little off.
By mid-morning I was at the office doing my thing, regular day, couple errands, nothing major. Then out of nowhere my stomach turned on me. I ended up in full-blown puke city. I’d barely eaten, so it was all dry heaves and regret.
The thing is, I tried to keep rolling. I even had an interview today, a fucking incredible one. The guy lived through World War II, fled Poland, saw bomber brigades firsthand. It was the kind of story that makes you shut the hell up and listen. And right in the middle of it, I had to stop. I looked at him and said, “John, I’m so sorry, man. I’m fighting throwing up every second of this interview.”
That killed me, because it was a good one. Studio lights still on, gear still hot, I didn’t even clean up. I’ll have Chris shut it down tomorrow.
By the time I got home, I was toast. Nothing left in me but a headache and a fever. I’ve been laying here in bed, dry-heaving into the toilet every couple of hours.
As I sit on the side of the bathtub, head draped over the toilet, staring at the floor, I catch a glimpse of my foot, that weird claw-looking toe that’s been there forever.
Yeah, I’ll probably post a picture of it with this. Looks like my foot’s trying to grab the tile for dear life.
My feet have been through it. I broke them at least seventeen times in one accident. Broke my ankle, broke my heart, broke everything all at once. I’ve got miles of scar tissue and bones that look like bad origami. I laugh at it now, but it’s wild how you can look down at your own body and see a map of your mistakes and the price of getting back up.
That’s kind of been the theme lately: vulnerability.
If you’re going to survive in business or in life, you’ve got to learn to be vulnerable, especially with your banker. I know that sounds funny, but it’s true.
You can’t bullshit a banker. They smell it. They live off it. They know what panic looks like and what hope sounds like. When you walk in trying to puff your chest up and fake it, they’ll nod and smile, but they won’t move a damn dollar. But when you sit down, man to man, look them in the eye and say, “Here’s where I’m really at, here’s what I need, here’s where I fucked up,” that’s when shit starts to work.
I’ve been lucky to find a good one. West Community Credit Union in St. Louis. Solid folks. Saved my ass more than once. I think I’m going to move most of my accounts over there. Because that kind of honesty, that vulnerability, builds trust.
Sometimes it’s just getting funds released a day early. Sometimes it’s floating a check you shouldn’t have written. But when you’re straight with people, they’ll fight for you. That’s what business really is, not numbers, not hustle porn, just relationships built on truth.
Anyway, back to puking.
I’ve been working on this big deal for a while, and it hit today. Closed. Money in motion. And I swear to God, this whole standing my ground and drawing firm boundaries thing? It’s the miracle elixir of life. Every time I think saying “no” is going to burn a bridge, it ends up paving a better one.
Now I’ve got beautiful women fighting to spend time with me, projects that actually excite me, and money flowing from shit that feels good. Real work. Meaningful stuff.
The one-on-one coaching’s growing too. Helping people push through creative blocks, build confidence, actually finish things. The IDEAS Framework is working. It’s turning people into creative powerhouses. The way I see it, if you do the work, it works. If you don’t, it doesn’t. My job is to make you believe it’s possible long enough to try.
Kind of like boxing. I’ve always been a fundamentals guy, stance, breathing, balance. I can see openings in the ring, but my real gift is mindset. Getting a fighter calm and focused. Helping them find that empty place inside where there’s no quit left, just movement and belief.
That’s what I coach people toward now, that mindset.
Tonight, though, I’m not coaching anyone. I’m sick, body wrecked, head pounding, and still somehow thankful as hell. Last time I had this kind of flu, I was miserable. Angry. Couldn’t find the light. Now, I can still smile through it.
Maybe it’s all the laughter I’ve stored up.
Like Tuesday night, two girls in the front row laughing their asses off when I said, “Swipe right on a broke-ass bitch.” That memory’s in the bank now.
That’s the trick. Build a bank full of real moments. So when you’re sick, broke, or broken, and your foot looks like a claw and you’re dry-heaving into a toilet, you can close your eyes and remember the sound of people laughing because of you.
Because that means you’re still alive.
And when you remember that, it’s all worth it.
