For accessibility and ease, you can listen to this post narrated by Mike:
Last week, I was out to dinner with a friend, and she said, “I don’t know how you get up and write every day. I’d run out of things to say.”
And my first thought was—Exactly. That’s the point.
I run out of things to say all the time. It’s been years since I’ve had any idea what I was going to write about before I sit down at my computer.
And—to be honest—Sherri and I haven’t planned out our Friday Faire topics beyond a generic title. In fact, I’d say the conversation always goes a totally different direction than what I thought that topic title was about.
Because we are geniuses.
The truth is we’re saturated with the superficial. We swim at the surface level all day long. We hear the same messages over and over again. We’re inundated with other people’s ideas, beliefs, and conditioning. We’re being marketed to all the time. And whatever little mental space is left over is usually filled by old stories, frantic worries, daily obligations, and small talk.
We are so caught up with the busyness of the shallow end that we never get to actually go deep.
Most of the time, we talk about genius like it’s something we need to work for and achieve. Like we have to go outside of ourselves and find this genius.
But it’s not about finding anything. It’s about discovering. And there’s a big difference. All we have to do is take off the covering and see what’s always been there.
The covering of other people’s thoughts and beliefs. Our insecurities. Our old traumas. Our frantic anxieties. Our busy schedules.
Our genius is just below all of those layers.
So I write until I run out of things to say. Because I know I’m a genius. I trust that I’m a genius. And when I’m all out of the pre-scripted lines, that’s when I know I’m hitting on something real.
When I can’t control the process, when my words aren’t perfectly coiffed, that’s when I surrender to what’s actually inside. My genius.
The great irony for us visionaries is that we try so hard to present an idealized version of ourselves to the world—and, in doing so, we end up blocking ourselves from ever accessing what is truly magical about us.
We’ve spent our whole lives being told we’re “too much” and “not enough,” so we want to control and curate how people perceive us. We want to tone down the “too much”-ness and prove ourselves against the “not enough”-ness until we seem good enough.
And good enough is the antithesis of genius.
Good enough means following the rules. Good enough for whom? On whose terms?
Genius is about something bigger than ourselves. Bigger than the way we currently see ourselves. Bigger than the superficial conversations we usually hear out there all the time.
It’s about swinging for the fucking fences. Taking big risks. Going until the point where we don’t know where we’re going anymore. Until we have to let go of control. Until we have to surrender.
And knowing that it’s only in those moments—when we have nothing left to cover it up—that our genius really gets to shine.
It’s why I journal for 30 minutes every day. And why I go to therapy every week. And why I meditate twice a day.
Honestly, most days, I get stuck journaling. Where I feel like I’ve said everything. And I start writing things like, “I don’t know what else to reflect on.” And those are the moments that something real and profound begins to come up. Something I didn’t even know I was thinking or feeling. Way deeper than the usual complaints about busyness or money or that particularly annoying person.
It’s when we have nothing left to say that what we say starts to matter.
We access the part of ourselves we rarely get to see or rarely have to contend with. Because there’s plenty in today’s world to distract us from what we really feel and who we really are.
Which is, by the way, a genius.
The greatest shame is that most of us live our whole lives thinking we’re mediocre because we never got to see our own depth. The most tender, sensitive, vulnerable parts of ourselves. The parts that we will hide and protect—even from ourselves—at all costs. The parts that only come up when we have nothing left to cover them up with.
If we spend our whole lives just dipping our toes into life, we’ll never know how deep we can really swim.
So, exactly, I write until I have nothing left to say. And sometimes it’s a total dud. But then there are those days where I see and access something so much deeper and more profound than I ever knew was in there.
I see just a little bit more of my genius. And I keep excavating.
Because we visionaries need to be fierce excavators. In a world that is constantly shoveling new distractions at us, we’re buried all the time. We’re busier than ever. We process 5x more information than we did just a generation ago. There’s always a new social media trend, Netflix show, or obligation to pick up.
To be a visionary is to see more of the world than others can see. And that starts with seeing ourselves.
So we need to excavate. Dig up our Truth. Share all of the obvious, superficial shit until there’s none left. Until we can access what’s real. And honest. And genius.
If you could actually see the level of depth in your genius, you’d never doubt yourself again. You’d realize that your struggles aren’t because you’re “not good enough.” It’s because you haven’t swum deep enough to access your real magic. And the world is begging for it.
When we finally tire of what we thought we believed, we get to access what we actually believe. The deep thoughts that may or may not align with society’s conditioning. But are 100% our own. Our genius.
When we have nothing left to say, that’s when we get to see what we really needs to be said.
Questions for Reflection:
*Answer in a journal, in the comments right here, or take it over to the Sacred Branding® Facebook group where we can support one another:
Do you ever not know what to write about or say?
— Do you ever lack clarity or come up tongue-tied after you feel like you’ve shared yourself fully? Do you feel like you have nothing interesting or new to add? Do you doubt that you can contribute to the conversation any more?
— Do you like your brilliance to be something planned out and controlled? Do you feel like you have a clear idea on how deep your conversations can go? Do you struggle when you don’t know what to do next?
— What if the moment when you run out of things to say is actually the moment when you’re finally accessing your genius? What if the vulnerability of that surrender allows you to access a new part of yourself? What if you could trust that you are a genius, and you never need to plan your next words—only trust that a deeper depth than you know is in there?