For accessibility and ease, you can listen to this blog post narrated by Mike:
When I started this blog over five years ago, I wanted to write when I had something to say, but, more importantly, when I didn’t.
I wanted to know myself. My Soul. My genius. And that’s rarely the tip-of-the-tongue, most obvious thing that comes forward.
No, we usually have to wade through all of the rules and all of the conditioning before we hit on what is truly us—that genius that only we can share with the world.
It’s swimming way deeper. Forcing ourselves to go deeper. To move beyond the obvious. What we see daily. And onto what is hidden in plain sight.
It requires struggle. It requires us to swear we have nothing to offer. To swear we’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel. And that’s when we actually see that there’s a whole hidden reserve just below.
So I wanted to write and write and write. Until I’d exhausted all of my top-level ideas. All of the same superficial bullshit conversations I had and heard out there. Until the point where I could hit on something real. Something that set my heart on fire. My genius.
I write to explore the depths of my Soul just as much as I write to share with others. From this knowing that there’s a genius within me. One buried down, hidden in plain sight. And it always has deeper layers of wisdom. That will shock us if we have the courage to swim that deep.
And it takes immense courage. And faith. That we have something deep down in there. Even if we can’t see it or know it yet.
As visionaries—as people who’ve by-and-large felt “not good enough” and “too much”—it can be incredibly challenging to believe we have something that profound hidden inside of us. A genius.
We might question if it’s worth the effort. If we’re worth the effort. If we do all of this work to keep sharing ourselves, keep digging deeper, only to realize there’s no genius at all.
It takes profound faith in ourselves that there is a genius there. Even if a lifetime of stories have told us that we’re really not good enough. And we’re too sensitive and deep. And no one is interested in what we have to say.
In the world of polite conversations and touched up Instagram photos, depth rarely feels prized. It’s scary and intimate and vulnerable to swim to the blackness of the ocean floor in desperate hopes that we’ll find something worthwhile.
What if we can’t make it? What if we can’t breathe in the density of that depth? What if we lose ourselves in the process? What if no one cares to hear what we find? And worst—what if we find nothing at all?
It’s a risk. A gamble, for sure. Where we have to bet on ourselves with nothing but blind faith.
And we’ve been told again and again that we can’t trust ourselves. That we can’t trust our emotions. So it’s a bet against what we’re told are overwhelming odds.
We’re stepping into complete darkness with not much more than the tiniest sliver of faith. And no ability to see what lies before us.
But isn’t that what we visionaries always do? Isn’t that how visions are created in the first place?
We don’t see into the darkness. We just have the courage to venture into the dark spaces others are afraid to enter because we have faith that bigger possibilities exist. Because we envision a better world for everyone. And then we illuminate that path for everyone.
Our genius doesn’t hang out in the obvious, easy-to-grab, “follow everyone else’s rules” places. We have to work for it. We have to cut through the bullshit of all of the stories and rules and conditioning that make us want to conform to what everyone else is doing.
It’s our genius, for fuck’s sake. Our genius. The thing that only we have. The unique contribution that only we can share with the world.
Of course it’s going to take courage and conviction and faith to access. It’s going to call us to be the deepest, rawest, most sensitive people we can be. Because, truthfully, our genius is the deepest, rawest, most sensitive part of ourselves.
We can choose to keep playing at the surface level out of fear. But we’ll never see our genius then. We’ll never step into the darkness and shine a light back for all others to see new possibilities.
Genius can only ever hide in darkness. Because it’s the parts of ourselves we can’t yet see. And that’s the real role of a visionary. To have a vision even in darkness. To continue stepping into that darkness and shining a light for the rest of the world.
We only ever access more of the world, access more possibilities, because someone was brave enough to see what was inside of them beyond the superficial bullshit.
Maybe we have to paint 1,000 paintings to get there. Or write five books. Or have dozens of late-night conversations with friends. Or try every fucking business model under the sun.
It’s infuriating. And terrifying. And, quite frankly, ludicrous to think it’s reasonable to have that much faith in something we can’t see at all. To keep getting up again and again. To want to go deeper. To share when we swear we’ve reached the bottom of our barrel.
And yet that’s the only way visions have ever been shared with the world. Because, when we swear we’re tapped out, that’s when we’re just getting started.
That’s when we’re accessing something real. And vulnerable. And intimate. And scary. And challenging. And potent.
That’s when we’re accessing our genius.
It’s always deeper than we expected to go. It’s always more than we expected to have. It’s always darker than we could ever venture before. We’re always more than we let ourselves believe.
I’ve never known anyone to access their genius with less than incredible courage, conviction, and faith. Diving well beyond the place where we can still see. And traveling on blind faith alone.
That’s the role of the visionary. The one with a genius to rock the world.
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:
How deep do you have to go to access your genius?
— Do you ever doubt that you really have a genius inside of you? Do you think that maybe you’re just not “good enough” or you have nothing new to contribute? Are you frustrated that you’ve tried so many things and yet you’re not really accessing that true depth you know could be in there?
— Do you feel like you’ve shared so much that you’ve exhausted a lot of your “good ideas”? Do you wait for new inspiration to hit you? Are you afraid to do what is unknown or totally outside of your comfort zone?
— What if genius only ever exists in the darkness—that which the world hasn’t seen quite yet? What if you need to wade through all the conditioned stories and ideas before you really hit onto what is authentic and true for you? What if the pathway to your genius always feels vulnerable, scary, intimate, and real?