I help driven people
stop chasing the life they dream of, and start living it instead.
If you’re being really honest, you’re pretty bored with the success you’ve created.
You can’t talk about this with many people (who imagine you should be thrilled with your life), but you’re bored, at work, at home, as soon as you come back from vacation, or break in your newest job/toy/car/great pair of shoes.
You’re disappointed with Life. Each time you climb a new mountain (literally or figuratively speaking), achieve a new goal—or even crush an old/longtime one, all you can think is “Come on, Life—is that all you’ve got?”
Every time you succeed at getting to where you wanted to be, the sense of accomplishment has a shorter shelf life. You are disappointed to discover that what you were looking for—the magic, the adventure, the sense of feeling alive you weren’t able to forget—never seems to be where you were so sure you would find it.
You’ve got it all, but you still want more.
You have everything you once wanted, and then some that you didn’t even know you wanted, but it isn’t enough. You want more, even though you feel greedy admitting it.
You know there is more to this life, yet the harder you try to find it, the further away it seems to be.
Fortunately, you are very good at trying harder, even if it’s at the wrong game.
Slowly (or maybe quickly, even), the weeks and months became years, the opportunities became shackles, and you almost wish you could forget the adventure you dreamed your life would be.
But you can’t forget, can you? You know there’s more, and you can’t stop wanting it, no matter how hard you try to snuff your desire, if only for a moment’s peace.
You don’t need to stop wanting more. You need to remember who you are.
You need to remember you can fly.
Meet Bay LeBlanc Quiney
Growing up, I was your typical, happy little kid, though, given the circumstances, there were lots of reasons not to be (a traumatic divorce and custody battle, my big brother growing up in foster homes, poverty that meant we lived off of welfare and food bank donations).
In the face of everything going wrong in my family, I was a model of grit. Literally. I have been referred to as a model of extraordinary resilience in child psychology textbooks.
I played outside, making up fantasies, talking to animals and mostly living in Narnia, Neverland, or any land where I wasn’t limited by my circumstances.
The most impossible thing I believed was that I could be perfect. That if I could do everything just right, I could make everyone happy, and then I’d have earned my place in a magical world where my life would finally be perfect, too.
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