Many Talk, Few Do: Building a Better You Takes Guts by Lisbeth Darsh

Many Talk, Few Do: Building a Better You Takes Guts by Lisbeth Darsh

You’re not like the others.

You never were like the others.

If you were like the others, you never would have come here.

trail unsplash

You never would have strayed outside your comfortable, soul-numbing, coma-inducing, beautiful and yet wholly unsatisfying world of safe ennui: the world killing you, year by year, day by day, moment by soul-dulling moment. You ventured from that existence of mere existence: that frustrating endless human pop song with a catchy beat that carved the dull ache of a melody in your soul and yet never filled your hunger for a real beat, for a real pulse, for a real life that you could hold and feel and breathe through.

No, you’re done with that life.

You came here because you are not like the others. You want something more and you’re willing to work for it. You are willing to plunge yourself into the pool of pain for a purpose.

To build a new you.

A stronger you.

A smarter you.

A better you.

That’s why you came here.

rings old cfw bw

You heard the others talk, and at first you thought it was just talk, like grown-up kids on a playground saying they could (or would) do this or that or the other thing.

And you know the reality of this world: Many talk. Few do.

But you are one of the few. You’ve always been one of the few. A little daring. A little bold. With a great deal of fear you hide fairly well.

That’s all right. Everyone has deep mines of feckless fear, whose pathways curl through their cerebrum, turning this way and that, diving deeper and deeper, never toward the light, always plummeting downward. Many people get lost in their mines of fear, some forever. They simply don’t find their way back to the surface, to clear air, to glorious light.

But those people forget what you know, but are always discovering (How is that possible? Yet it is)—that the best way to conquer fear is to drive right through it in a big old Mack truck. To gird yourself for the trip and grip hard the steering wheel no matter how violently your hands shake. Hit the gas. The only way forward is through.

The first venture hurts the most. You think you won’t survive … but you do.

You not only survive, but something else happens: you get used to going into the deep, dark belly of pain. You live. You survive and you learn. And you relish coming out the other side, precisely because you never think you will.

And, after these repeated and countless adventures, you learn the things that the weak never know, those too scared to venture past the guards of glory, those too frightened to thrust themselves like recalcitrant first-graders through the schoolhouse door. You learn the secret granted only to those who traverse the threshold of trepidation, those who try again and again, those who learn not to fear failure but to welcome it like a great and hallowed teacher, those who are unafraid to prostrate themselves on the altar of achievement: you learn that after the first step off the cliff, after the hardest movement of all, after the moment in which you are sure you are doomed, after the moment that you are certain your fear was right and you are plummeting to your death on this preposterous Earth … you learn that you can fly.

So, you’re here. Willing to do the work to become the full and complete person you always wanted to be. Willing to embrace the pain and then abandon it. Willing to shake off the shackles of “good enough” and embrace the best of all that you could ever dream of being. Willing to rise in triumph and be ashamed no more.

Willing to fly.

“Hey World, you say. “Watch this.”

lisbeth thrusters old cfw 2010