The Burden of Potential vs. The Curse of Knowledge

How's book launch going?

It's gone.

Done and dusted.
Kaput.
It's over.
Goodnight.

I just gave my very last keynote of the book launch. Three months of pedal-to-the-medal, go, go, go.

And, y'all, I'm tired. Like, emotionally, mentally, physically -- metaphysically -- tired.

It occurred to me to maybe go take a look at this post that I wrote back in 2019, the one where my exhaustion gave birth to Wonderhell. In it, I say that I've never worked as hard for anything as I did for the launch of Limitless. How cute I was, how cute to think that was hard. Wonderhell had Limitless beat by a country mile.

If Limitless brought me the Burden of Potential, Wonderhell was replete with the Curse of Knowledge.

I had no idea what I was doing when Limitless came out. I didn't know bestseller lists were a thing. I didn't really understand the business of speaking. I hardly expected media. I plowed forward into the abyss, not knowing where luck and pluck might deposit me when the world stopped spinning.

This time around, it was different. I knew the stakes. I knew the sacrifices. I knew the sanity-sucking status seeking stupidity. And I did it anyway. Less luck, less pluck, and a whole lot more schmuck.

I knew, and I did it anyway.

Truth be told, I was terrified that it wouldn't work and that I'd be standing there all alone on Day One, nakedly exposed for all the world to see.

Loser!
Fraud!
One-Hit Wonder!

But, that didn't happen. *You* didn't let that happen.

I'd like to say I'm as proud of myself today as I was of myself in writing this post about the Limitless launch. I mean, I am, don't get me wrong. But as I sit here alone in my hotel room in Dallas, more than proud, I am grateful and I am relieved.

It's been a long and bumpy road.

And here is what I know now to be true:

The joys of success at a level I heretofore thought was reserved for others comes at the cost of the heartbreak of friendships I thought solid, dissipating in its wake.

The value of anything is not the money but the time you exchange for it, and try as we might, bending the space-time continuum to be in two places at once sucks the life force straight out of you such that being in neither place is worthwhile.

The rent always comes due, usually in a high stakes moment, when you are the center of attention and everything that can go wrong -- including you, you big, dumb arrogant idiot -- does go wrong. Bonus points for the pain of the self-inflicted wound, especially when you purchased, sharpened, and rusted the knife yourself.

But, on the brighter side:

There is goodness all around us, and people will delight and amaze us if we just look hard enough. Our happiness often rests simply of what -- and who -- we choose to notice, even in this speckled and noisy world where misery all too often invites company over for an extended stay.

Anger is just grief that hasn't yet realized what it's lost, and while grief simmers low and ever-present, it's gift of perspective is, somewhat, less exhausting than full-blown envy, jealousy, or rage. Time heals all wounds or, at least, finds a home for those that decide to remain forever open. Closure doesn't have to be couple's therapy to find its natural conclusion.

Lastly, when the plates are spinning and the ground is swirling, and we can only lunge erratically at the few that actually matter, clarity is salvation. The text, the email, the call that shakes you out of your mad dash -- the one you consider to be an inconvenience -- that's the port in the storm. Don't ignore it. It will be the only part of the journey that matters in the end.

So, if you've gotten this far, well, thank you.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for believing.
Thank you for trusting.

In 2021 I touched the bottom of the well, swimming back up to the light wasn't easy. I gained a lot, I lost a lot. I feel older, so very much older, even though it's been really no time at all.

But I didn't do it alone.

My only remaining wish was that there was a bigger word for thank you than just... thank you.

Eight little letters. It's simply not enough.

So here are eight more: I love you.