Memoir

Everything is made up

It happened again last week.

I was standing near the coffee counter after a long workshop day. One of the participants lingered back. Mid-career. Sharp mind. Good instincts. He spoke softly, almost apologetically, about a project he’d been postponing for years. A startup idea. A book. A change he could feel in his bones but hadn’t yet acted on.

He listed the usual reasons. Timing. Family. Market. Readiness.

I listened. I always do.

Then, without much thought, I said what I often say in these moments.

“Everything’s made up. And nothing matters.”

He laughed.

They always laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

But because it lands somewhere uncomfortable. Because part of them recognizes the truth before the mind rushes in to negotiate.

Crossing small inner bridges

I remember staring at the cursor blinking on my laptop screen.

The report had been pending for three days. Not because it was difficult. Not because I didn’t know what to write.

I had already written it twice in my head.

Still, I found myself arranging files, replying to unimportant messages, wiping the desk. Moving, but not moving forward.

I told myself I needed better clarity. A quieter moment. The right mood.

All gentle lies.

3

Waiting with Folded Wings

“He’ll join in five minutes,” the coordinator whispered, eyes fixed on her phone.

The room was already full. Forty chairs. Forty expectant faces. My slides were ready. My microphone was clipped. Five minutes stretched into ten. Someone in the front row adjusted his notebook. A woman near the aisle checked her watch. I stood there, holding a marker I didn’t need, rehearsing an opening I suddenly didn’t believe in.

I’ve done this hundreds of times. Boardrooms in different cities. Workshops with ambitious teams. Executive rooms where the air smells faintly of carpet cleaner and authority. Normally, I move easily into those spaces. I know how to carry the room. I know how to make people lean forward.

That morning, I couldn’t.

3