Authors: Jon Acuff
But rest assured, this story has a villain too. This story has a dragon.
You knew it had to. As we discussed in the first section of this book, awesome is simple. The path is not complicated. The plan is not complex. So then why haven’t you and I spent more time being awesome thus far in life?
We probably got stuck in the forest of voices.
One day, in a 1920s cabin next to a train track and Norman Rockwell houses, my friend Al Andrews asked me a question.
Al runs a nonprofit called Porter’s Call in Franklin, Tennessee. About ten years ago, he recognized that a lot of the clients who came to his counseling practice were musicians. Some of them were in desperate need of a safe place to restore their stories but couldn’t afford traditional counseling. Others were selling tens of millions of records and needed a place where they could be themselves, not the idea or image of themselves that everyone sees on the Grammys.
So Al met with the record labels in Nashville and told them, “Look: you’re spending millions of dollars creating these superstar musicians. You’re surrounding them with musical talent, stylists, designers, and support staff. But then their lives fall apart in the process. What if you sponsored Porter’s Call and it became a place where musicians and their families could receive free counseling?”
The labels loved the idea, and so for the last decade, Al has been creating a safe haven for artists. It’s an amazing bit of geography in a city that otherwise tends to grind musicians up.
My dad went to college with Al, so he lets me slide around the “Must be a musician on a record label to go to Porter’s Call” rule. One afternoon, Al asked me, “What do your voices tell you?”
I thought that was kind of a crazy question and considered answering it with counseling jargon I’ve learned in the last few years:
“My parents didn’t hug me enough.”
“I’d like to learn how to do some reflective listening.”
“Can we spend this session unpacking some of my father wounds?”
I decided instead to answer his question with a question of my own, so I asked Al what he meant.
He got quiet for a few seconds and probably scratched his beard thoughtfully, because that’s what therapists in movies are always doing. Then he said, “Well, I’ve asked thousands of people that question over the years, and I’ve learned something: no one has a positive internal voice. No one’s internal voice tells them, ‘You’re skinny enough. You sure are pretty. People are going to love that new project you’re working on. It’s going to be a huge success.’ Which makes me curious about what your voices are telling you.
“Most of us tend to think they’re telling us the truth. We’ve heard them for so long that we trust them. We think they’re looking out for us, that they’ve got our best in mind. That they’re trying to protect us or help us. We think our voices are friends, but they’re not. They’re foes.”
I walked out that afternoon without an answer. I drove home thinking about that question, “What do my voices tell me?”
For weeks, the question haunted me. I didn’t write any emo poetry about it or tattoo it in tribal font on my wrist, but it stayed with me.
In order to shake it, I decided to do something really simple. I decided to write down the messages of my voices. I wasn’t going to go on a vision quest or fight a she-bear, but I could at least listen for the voices and write them down if I had any.
The first one I heard was pretty obvious.
For years and years, every morning I’ve heard the same question in my head and my heart. One of my voices always asks, “Are you happy enough?” It’s a small question, but the conversation it causes is anything but small.
Voice: Are you happy enough?
Me: I’m pretty happy. I’m not happy all the time. I mean, sometimes I’m sad.
Voice: Whoa! You’re not happy all the time? You’re working your dream job right now. You write and speak for a living. You work for Dave Ramsey! If you’re not happy all the time right now, I don’t know if you’ll ever be happy.
Me: Yikes! That kind of makes me unhappy just thinking about it. What should I do to fix that?
Voice: Maybe there’s something you can do perfectly today that will make you perfectly happy.
Me: Good idea. Which thing?
Voice: Hard to say. Better play it safe and just do everything perfectly today.
Me: I have to be perfect all day? That’s a lot of pressure. That kind of makes me unhappy.
Spin, spin, spin.
Before I know it, my best creativity, best time, and best energy have been commandeered by this voice. And it’s not the only voice. There are many I hear throughout the days and weeks of my journey.
They are the voices of fear and doubt, and they are governed by a simple truth: they only get loud when you do work that matters. Want to stay on the road to average? Want to rock vanilla right to the grave? Okay, fear and doubt will leave you alone.
However, with the very first step you take on the road of awesome, fear and doubt stir from their slumber. The minute the purpose door creaks on its hinges and you push it open, the pointy ears of fear and doubt perk up. Continue on the road to awesome, and fear and doubt begin whispering lies and confusing statements meant to get you back on the average, safe path. But you should know that these voices are not unique. In fact, they convey pretty much the same three messages to every person who dares start down the road to awesome.
1. Who are you to do that?
The second you choose to be more awesome, fear will ask you a question: “Who are you to do that?”
Fear doesn’t care what your particular “that” is. You could be starting a business or quitting a job. You could be writing a book or becoming a nanny. Doesn’t matter to fear. The specifics never do. Regardless of what you want to do or who you are, fear will always see you as wholly unqualified for anything you ever dream or attempt.
Even the slightest step toward awesome will cause fear to fire into your heart like a warning flare.
“Who are you to do that?”
“What makes you think you can be that?”
“You don’t have the right education, background, or experience to do that.”
“You’re just a mom or a customer call center representative.”
“None of your previous life experiences apply in any manner to this new dream.”
The first argument from fear is that you’re not qualified, and it’s the one I experienced when I wrote my third book,
Quitter
. My first book was a Christian satire, and
Quitter
was going to be a business book. Fear was quick to point that out. Here’s what one of my voices said:
“You can’t write a book like
Quitter
! Your first book doesn’t even count. You’ve never even written a ‘real book.’ That was just some dumb blog that got turned into a book. It’s a collection of loosely tied-together essays, and it’s illustrated! There’s a unicorn prancing through a field of flowers. You didn’t write a book; you published a coloring book. Who do you think you are to write a business book? What makes you think you can jump shelves? You can’t go from the Christian Inspiration section to the Business section. You’re the funny Christian guy. That’s who you are, and no one will ever believe differently. How dare you dream that you could write a business book. No one is going to believe this.”
And I believed the voice. The writing process was torturous, and even after it came out I struggled with that voice.
One day my team leader called me into his office and asked me why I was apologizing for
Quitter
. I didn’t know what he meant, so he explained further.
“Do you believe in
Quitter
? Do you believe it’s a good book that people need to read? Do you believe it can help someone change their life?”
I responded slowly, but my answer was yes.
“Then you’ve got to start talking about it. You’ve practically been apologizing for it, sheepishly sharing about it online and ignoring it. Be brave enough to admit you wrote a good book. Believe in it. Quit apologizing.”
He was right. The voice I’d listened to wasn’t a friend. It was a foe. And in trying to knock me off course, it showed its colors.
If you manage to wrestle through feeling wildly unqualified to do something awesome, fear will change tactics and hand you a calendar.
2. You’re too late.
It was 7:27 a.m. on a Monday. I was sitting in my office at home, in front of the bookshelves my wife reorganized by color. I was trying to write a little, but a chorus of voices filled my head. This is what they were saying:
You’re behind.
You’ll never get ahead.
If you could just get ahead, then you could rest.
It’s too late.
If you had more time, you could get it all done.
Like most of the other voices I struggle with, this was not a new one. But on that morning, for the first time, I decided it might be a lie.
So instead of spinning out, I started to write out what each thought really meant:
“You’re behind.”
Behind what? According to what schedule? Against what measurement? What does that even mean? There is no clock I am on right now. Work hasn’t even started yet. I am not in a race. There is no competitor I am fighting against. What am I behind?
“You’ll never get ahead.”
Ahead of what? What does ahead mean? Who is defining ahead ? I have a sneaking suspicion that ahead doesn’t exist.
“If you could just get ahead, then you could rest.”
Rest is a gift, not a reward. It’s not a hobby that lazy people take advantage of; it’s woven into the fabric of our very biology. The body is designed to rest. I don’t have to earn that with my performance. Rest is not a by-product of my success; it’s a by-product of my humanity. I don’t have to get ahead to enjoy it or need it.
“It’s too late.”
Ridiculous. It’s Monday morning at 7:27. How is it already too late this week? I couldn’t have more week ahead of me if I tried. I refuse to accept that the minute I wake up on Monday morning it’s already “too late.”
“If you had more time, you could get it all done.”
Nonsense. My definition of all would just grow. And why is “done” a goal? If you discover something you love doing, you don’t want to be done. You want to do it every day. Done is dead.
After a few minutes of writing, the absurdity of fear’s view of time started to come to light. And it is absurd, because fear tries to tell you two things about time: “Do it later” or “It’s too late.”
The first delays you with laziness. The second destroys you with regret.
And neither is true.
Unless you’re dead right now, it’s not too late. Don’t give credence to the calendar fear and doubt want to show you. It’s incredibly heavy and never includes a page for “today.” Fear and doubt’s calendar always starts with yesterday or tomorrow.
You’ve got today, and today is all you need to start. The rest will come into view as you go.
3. It has to be perfect.
As I mentioned earlier, fear and doubt are schizophrenic. Their favorite thing to do is argue both sides of the coin so that you don’t have a side to stand on. They love to tell you, “It will never work,” and, “It has to be perfect.”
The first thought tells you that no part of your dream will succeed. The second thought tells you that every part of it must succeed. That doesn’t make even a little bit of sense, but you will hear both voices.
This one is pretty easy to defeat. The reality is that since the dawn of time there hasn’t been a single situation fear thought would work. If you ask fear if something is going to work, the answer will always be no.
Fear would have told the Wright Brothers not to fly. Fear would have told Rosa Parks to change seats. Fear would have told Steve Jobs that people hate touchscreens.
Don’t even ask it for advice. You know its answer. Just move on.
Those are the three most common messages, but you will hear others. I’ve asked thousands of people what their voices tell them, and they’ve had thousands of different answers.
I once asked a group of youth ministers what their voices told them. They told me things like:
“You work with kids; you’ll always be a kid; you’ll never be a real man.”
“You never went to seminary—who are you to teach kids?”
I asked a group of men what their voices told them, and a guy in the front row shouted out, “Wait until your father gets home.” He was in his mid-50s. He hadn’t lived at home for thirty years, and yet that fear still rang loudly in his head.
If you don’t deal with your voices, they don’t go away. They don’t naturally get smaller.
Doubt and fear are like muscles. Every time you believe a lie about yourself, it gets easier to believe it the next time. If you listen to your voices for the next ten years, they’ll only be stronger in ten years. They’ll get louder and closer to the surface. They’ll need less proof to pop up and get all mouthy.
Simply put, if you don’t kill your voices, they will kill you.
But we’re not going to let that happen. We’re not going to become emotional hoarders, storing up anger and bitterness before eventually moving to Florida and assuming that everyone is out to get us and our little dog.
We’re going to beat our voices by doing two things:
1. Documenting them.
Voices are invisible bullies, and they hate when you make them visible. The best way to do that is to dress them up with words. To write them down in a simple notebook. They can’t stand to be documented, because the minute they are, you can see how stupid they are. Lies hate the light of day.
Every time you take a step toward being awesome and a voice gets loud, write it down. Don’t ask, “Is this a voice?” before you do. Just write. Fast and furious and imperfectly. Scribble as many as you can down, and then refute them with truth, like I did with the ones that told me I was too late and already behind. That’s step one.
2. Sharing our voices.
Do you know what fear and doubt fear? Community. One of fear and doubt’s chief aims is to make you feel alone. Like you’re the only one who feels a certain way. Fear wants to isolate you and put you on an island. As long as you keep your fear to yourself, no one can tell you the truth about it.