Ignite Story Sampler

IGN TE STORY SAMPLER

Hello, writer!

We are privileged and honored to have you joining us as part of the IGNITE community of authors, and we want your journey to best-selling author to be exciting and fun!

Within these pages, you’ll find a sampling of Ignite stories by past authors to help inspire your own writing as you craft your unique, powerful, and authentic story. We share these stories so you can get a feel for the way our writers dig deep, get vulnerable, and share the life lessons and Ignite Moments that have the greatest impact on their lives. The stories you’re about to read are the final polished versions that went to print in each of their respective books. They are the result of many drafts and hours of work with our team of talented and highly experienced editors. Your story, like the ones in these pages, will take hard work and multiple revision cycles, and once complete, it will shine brightly for all the world to see and be inspired by.

At IGNITE, our mission is to produce inspiring, motivational, and authentic real-life stories that will Ignite your life and the lives of everyone on the planet.

Each book we publish contains unique stories told by exceptional authors like you who share engaging, profound, and life-changing moments that will impact the reader. We aspire to make the experience of writing your story one of your most special, unique, and transformative moments, just as it was for the authors whose stories you are about to read.

With love, JB Owen and the IGNITE Team

Contents JB Owen

- When She Stood Up, Everyone Rose

1

Chris Plough - Revelation in the Gobi Desert

13

Diana Lockett

21

- The Space Between the Words

Damian Culhane

- You Must Reach Beyond Your Limitations

Stacey Yates Sellar Albert Urena

- Once Upon an Old Story

- Moment of Clarity

29 37 49

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Rebel

JB O w e n “Find the will to be completely you.”

This is a story designed to awaken your Inner Spirit. It may not be an easy story to read. Others in the book may be more fun, introspective, and intelligent. My story shows how at times in our lives, when we are on the verge of emerging, we often have to crawl over broken glass to get to the other side. We have to swallow the heartache and endure the fury of the storm before there is calm. I wish for you to know that it is often through the most difficult moments that we traverse our reality and connect to the inner side: the side of self, of worth, peace, joy, understanding, and regard.

The side where our spirit rules and our hearts follow suit, allowing us to rise up and be who we were created to be.

When She Stood Up, Everyone Rose June 16, 2015 It has been a long and grueling day of dealing with all the drama and chaos that comes with being in a relationship with an addict and an alcoholic. My ex-husband is on another bender; on another runaway train down the long corridor of repeated relapses and alcoholic behavior. Despite my hellish day, I desperately try to smile and look as though I am listening to my children, who have just come home from school and desire my attention. I want to be

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attentive, but my mind is racing; adrenaline is still surging through my body from my visit to the police station less than 30 minutes ago.

I had hurried home to make sure I was waiting as they both got off the school bus. I act overly happy and exaggerated to camouflage the uneasiness I still feel inside. I plaster a fake smile on my face while making my voice singsong-like to mask the trembling in its tone. My hands are still shaking. I feel the tumultuous aftermath of having been forced to deal with a situation no one ever expects to face; but like I have so many times before, I function as best I can so that my children will have little to no idea that I have spent my day dealing with another relapse, another bender, another week filled with unbearable circumstances and agonizing events at the hands of my alcoholic ex.

Early this morning, after the children went to school, I had gone to the closet and started packing my ex’s clothing for the umpteenth time. It is almost comical how many times I have done this. We have tried to reconcile so many damn times, and I have put these same damn clothes in these same damn suitcases a dozen times already. The first few departures, I folded his clothes neatly so as not to be vindictive or spiteful. I never wanted him to unpack his items and be angry at me. I would gingerly arrange them, sometimes crying at their departure, always regretting the events that had pushed him so far that he was leaving… again. However, today, I pack with a vengeance, shoving and stuffing his clothing into a black plastic trash bag with little regard. Not folding or sorting, just jamming everything in as fast as I can to get them out of my house and out of my sight.

Yet before I discard them, I hastily rifle through each pocket. It is a habit I have formed after finding crumpled receipts for liquor stores and pubs he swore he never visited hidden in his gym shorts or his hiking vest. Today, though, I am on the hunt for a different piece of paper: a pawnshop receipt.

Last night, intoxicated and gloating, he confessed he had stolen my jewelry.

He knows where I hide the diamond wedding ring my first husband gave me that I have been saving to give to my son. He has ogled over the many gold chains, gold coins, and 18-karat gold crosses my children have received from their grandparents at their baptismal day and on their birthdays. And now he has sold them all.

I am both frantic and furious, praying and pleading to God that I will find the ticket that will allow me to regain my children’s heirlooms. I cannot find it in his clothing, so I flip open his AA book, his Bible, his Big Book study guide, all superficial signs of a goodly recovered alcoholic. I search every dresser drawer, pushing past a plethora of pills he uses to be able to sleep. I look in

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the bathroom behind the alcohol-laced mouthwash and find more pills, broken in half; his way of rationing the harder, more potent ones he has conned the doctor into prescribing. I have been here before — a dozen times; purging his things from my home, cursing him, and cursing myself for yet another round because I did not learn my lesson the last time.

This is not a new story in my life. The proverbial fly on the wall watching me for the last few years has seen it all before: the crying, the pleading, the shame and regret interwoven with hatred and spite. Yet that same fly also sits back in amusement to witness the romance, the love affair, the endless hours of canoodling amid star-filled promises during each reconciliation. Our backand-forth relationship is like whiplash; the on-and-off-again is utterly dizzying.

We are like ice and fire trying to live in the same space — and it is exhausting.

I sit on the edge of the tub to stabilize my body while my mind whirls frantically, thinking of where to look next. I am barely able to breathe from the sickening despair I feel at the thought of how much he has robbed from us. I can hardly live with myself for allowing him to return and inflict such horrific cruelty. I thought — like the last time and the time before that — that this time would be different. I desperately wanted this time to be different. To be better. To be filled with hope. But within weeks, his lying, grumpy, blame-filled attitude returned and I was busy appeasing him once again. It was a pattern I was used to, a constant downhill slide, and I’d give in, diminishing my spirit just to keep the peace and shield my kids from him.

The interesting thing is that if you met me face-to-face, you would probably never guess that this is my life. People say I am assertive and well put together.

When they hear about my work, most are impressed with my business success.

I have been acknowledged by organizations and awarded among my peers. I have traveled the world, done business overseas, built numerous homes, and took the clothing company I started with my kids’ father to a million dollars in just four years. I am blonde-haired with a nice figure and I am told I have an infectious laugh. As a Gemini, I have great charm and retain cute little facts about lots of stuff. Most people enjoy being around me. Some have said they admire me; others have complimented me on my tenacious work ethic, creative energy, and beautiful life. From the outside, it all looks quite good — but behind closed doors, it is like an ominous freight train plowing its way through a parade route and leaving endless amounts of destruction and chaos in its wake.

There is my outside life and then my home life. The life I share with everyone and the life I can share with no one. I wear the mask of a divorcee at most social functions and I hide the truth that he is secretly back in the picture. I toggle

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between being with him and being without him. I look forward to his homecoming and I wish that he was gone. I want to be in love — but then question how living with a full-blown alcoholic can possibly be love? I want to be loved.

I want it so desperately that no amount of lectures or parental advice, friends rolling their eyes, or therapists charging me hundreds of dollars has stopped me from being like a bee to honey for his charming yet destructive nature.

This recent reuniting was relatively nice. After five months of no contact, we resumed exactly where we left off — acting as if nothing had happened and he had simply been gone for the weekend. It amazes me, to be honest, the blank slate I offer every time he returns. I commit to a new beginning and somehow just brush away the past. I forget the lies, the assault, the hookers, the stealing, the threats. I see only the good or the calm and ignore the storm clouds I know are gathering on the horizon.

When anyone asks me why I take him back, I simply tell them that it is because I love him. I forgive him as God asks me to. I see his pain, where he came from, the horrors of his childhood. I am the only person he has; and since our on-again-off-again relationship first started when we were teenagers, I tell myself it’s destiny and that we were pulled apart only to be reunited decades later. I believe I can cure him. That my love will heal him. That if I get it right, he will find the happiness that has eluded him his entire life. I feel it is my role, my job to support him; and I accept his disease as one would accept epilepsy or diabetes. No faithful person leaves someone who is afflicted and cannot help their condition. “Addiction is manageable,” I recite; and if I were smarter, nicer, or more understanding, he would have no reason to be anything but happy and never want to drink again.

That was my thinking until today. It was the ‘stinking,’ ‘stupid’ thinking that brought me right here: packing, crying, fuming, and abused by him once again.

It is the untrue, unrealistic, and undeniably incorrect dialogue that has continued repeatedly in my brain, justifying his return and forgiving his transgressions.

I have sugarcoated, glossed over, and allowed the most deplorable behavior one person can do to another. And… I have endured it over and over again.

Seeing the stack of empty jewelry boxes pulled apart, broken, and strewn across my hiding place become the final straw. Others would assume the cheating, shoving, disappearing, or torrent of verbal insults would have got my goat; but like a single drop of water that finally tips the bucket, this was the denouement. Sweating with panic and fueled by rage, I drove to the station to file a police report. I give them all the details as I admit, furious with myself, to once again letting him back into my life. The police take down all the

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particulars and tell me they will issue a warrant for his arrest. I feel humiliated as they look over his record and see that this is not the first time I have been to the station about him. However, this is the first time I have decided that his actions are beyond excuses, and the first time I do not blame myself or believe that I had somehow caused it.

Instead, this time, with every fiber of my being aching from self-loathing and disgust, I feel something inside of me finally wake up. My Inner Spirit, the one that had been hammered down by his belligerence and torn to shreds by his assaults, finally starts to speak up and demand my acute attention. It begins as a whisper of doubt, rejecting his blame and rises to a wail of injustice, not tolerating his lies. There is no in-between. There is no soft, slow rise in volume. My Inner Spirit goes from total silence to wretchedly unfettered primal screaming. A deep will inside swells up to declare I do not deserve this, nor will I stand for it a millisecond longer!

While the kids do their homework, I bitterly gather all his belongings from this morning’s packing and take them to the car. I try to be as quiet as possible, aware and ashamed that my children have seen me do this so many times before: stuffing their stepfather’s things into my trunk and driving them to whatever house, hotel, or hellhole he is living in now. I can’t keep track of all the reasons I have invented to explain to them why he’s gone, where he is this time, or why I am removing his things. They have seen it before. Even at their young ages, they no longer believe that he is ‘going to get help’ or he ‘needs time by himself.’ Relapse, addiction, and alcoholic are words they commonly comprehend.

As I return to their adorable and loving sides, I curse myself once more. I keep playing over and over in my mind the disbelief I feel toward my situation.

I cannot believe he has swindled me. He knows I was saving that ring for my son to one day give to his bride, and that the gold jewelry and coins were from their father’s family ancestors. It seems unfathomable that he would steal these things from my children; but I do not have an addict’s mind full of twisted rationale. I am cut from a different cloth. I am the enabler, the one who makes it easy for him to be wicked and destructive. I am the one who always blames myself so he is free to do even more.

Sadly, the kids are aware of my distress but say nothing, pretending to be happy. They know all the trappings of his antics. They are conscious that he has done something to hurt me, they just don’t know what. I feel numb all over.

My throat is so tight I can barely speak without wanting to SCREAM at his behavior that was more against the children than it was me. After putting them

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to bed, I crawl under my own covers, completely devastated. Although every cell in my body is hurting, my mind is racing, reaching, grasping at anything it can do to rise above these feelings. Between the tears, muffled by my blankets, I plead to a higher power to release me from this devastating pain. I ask Spirit to give me the inner strength to live a better way. I surrender every part of my knowing, asking God to teach me what I need to learn so that I can be the woman and mother the world needs me to be.

Like a beautiful wish granted from the most gracious and divine Source, something in me begins to awaken. I feel a deep stir; a driving desire. A fundamental need to shift. I feel compelled to stop hurting, to stop hiding, to stand up and be strong. I suddenly choose to no longer feel what I am feeling. I tell myself it is time. Time to connect to the will I have within and make the changes that will change everything. It is time to find a way out of this constant abuse.

It is time to embrace my inner strength.

June 17, 2015 The next morning, I decide that today is the day when my healing must begin. It will be the first time I take a stand; the first time his departure marks my own arrival. While yesterday was filled with the fury, today is more about the reality that comes after the rage. There is a truth that sets in now that the anger is subsiding and a new inner conviction is percolating to the surface. I know that if I am to honor these new emotions, I need to do something productive. In fact, I feel a great sense of determination to take back my power and stand up for my own self-worth.

Yesterday, when I could not find the pawnshop slip, my rage was insurmountable, clouding all my hope. But today is different. While making breakfast for the kids, I devise a strategic and masterful plan. I know which pawnshop he frequents, as he has been pawning stuff for months. His camera. The racing bike I bought him. A 55-inch Smart TV. The $3,000 wristwatch I gave him as a wedding gift. He uses pawning as a source of income. It has been supporting him during the times he does not live with me. He pawns an item in order to pay his rent, then does just enough work to buy it back. Drink, pawn, sober up, buy it back. He is very proud of his ingenious way of keeping himself afloat; he takes all the valuable possessions I gift him and pawns them back and forth.

Privy to his pawning system, I decide to use it to my gain. A drunken alcoholic and a pawnshop owner can’t be smarter than me, and I know if I am intelligent about it, I can get my items back. When my ex was boasting of

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his theft, he revealed that he received $5,000 from the pawnbroker for all my jewelry. He told it to me in a threat, demanding I give him the cash or I’d never see my items again. Knowing this, I go to the bank and take $5,000 out of my safety deposit box. I return home and, meticulously, in my craft room, cut the exact amount of blank paper to resemble the size and thickness of the cash. I put each stack in two identical white envelopes: one with cash, the other only paper. I empty my purse and refill it with only the two envelopes, my marriage certificate, my divorce papers, and my police report.

With the children safe at school, I go straight to the pawnshop. Walking in, I can feel the pounding of my heart coinciding with the clacking of my high heel shoes on the dirty cement floor. I feel grossly out of place. My sporty office dress sticks out among the fringed leather biker jackets and camouflage hunting coats hanging on the coat racks. Maneuvering past the drum set, row of power tools, and muddy mountain bikes, I approach the register. Immediately I take the envelope holding the $5,000 cash out of my purse and lay it, splayed open, for the man behind the counter to see. I tell him that I am here to pick up some items pawned by one of his regulars. Seeing the money and my fashionable attire, the man eagerly types the name I give him into his database. On the dusty old computer screen, I see the descriptions of my jewelry pop up in a neat little list. My heart starts thumping. My hands tremble slightly. I use my right foot to step firmly on the left in an attempt to get my body to toughen up and not be afraid. He glances down at the bills lying on the counter and shifts into being a delighted pawnshop owner — happy to meet me and delighted I am paying the entire amount for a customer he knows so well. He makes idle chitchat, having no idea that one of his favorite clients even had a wife, and only glances half-heartedly at the marriage certificate I provide. I share how excited I am to have my things returned and he scurries off into the back room to grab them from the safe. Holding my breath, I very casually take the opportunity to put the $5,000 in cash back into my purse and replace it with the other envelope filled with blank white sheets.

Seconds after completing my task, the man returns with all my items in tiny Ziploc™ bags and places them on the counter in front of me. I imagine my heart can be heard thumping from across the street. I am elated to have found my things, but seeing my valuable possessions in that disgusting place, in his sleazy hands, knowing that they were stolen, raises my emotions to a boil. I feel furious and violated! My disgust at his involvement takes over and gives me the courage to totally switch gears. I pick up all the baggies and step back from the counter to start dialing my phone. The man looks at me, perplexed.

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I quickly ask for the police officer I was speaking to the day before, the one who was handling my report, then I look at the owner and boldly announce: “These items are stolen and I am calling the police.”

What happens next is all a blur. As soon as I make my declaration, the man lunges across the counter, grabbing the hand that is holding my jewelry, and yanks me toward him, twisting and hyperextending my wrist clutching all the goods. The phone falls out of my other hand and lands face up on the counter.

I almost topple over and have to bend at the waist as the shop owner pulls me toward him, across the counter, clawing at my closed fingers in an effort to release my grip. I start yelling into the phone, knowing that the police are listening.

“Help, I’m at the pawnshop! The owner is assaulting me! He’s hurting me!

He won’t let go! Help! Help! Help me,” I scream as he continues using all of his physical force to try and unclench my fist.

I yell the name of the pawnshop and the street it is on, all the while squealing in pain to emphasize that I am in one hell of a tug-of-war. I hang onto my jewelry with all my might, bracing my legs against the counter. Folded forward, I use my left hand to hang onto the arm that is extended outward and in his grip. I keep shouting as loud as I can into the phone, giving whoever is on the other side a play-by-play of the attack. The store owner realizes the police are listening and that he’s creating bigger problems by accosting me, so like a wrestler giving up a fight, he finally lets go. I step a few feet back, out of breath from exertion, and immediately shove the little baggies of jewelry down into my bra. Huffing like a savanna rhino, I stare at him boldly, squaring off and waiting to see what he will do next.

With both of us panting heavily, the man starts yelling, “You’re stealing from me! This is a domestic disagreement between you and your husband.

How do I know you didn’t give your husband that jewelry to get money out of me? You can’t take it; it’s communal property if you are married. He sold it to me and I legally own it!”

With a surge of righteous indignation and a tsunami of inner will, I reach inside my purse, yank out my divorce certificate, and slam it down on the counter like the catcher slams down his glove after the World Series winning catch.

“It’s not communal property. It’s stolen property! I divorced him two years ago,” I shout.

To add to my claim, I pull out the police report and toss that to him, too. He looks over the papers, speechless and dumbfounded that some blonde-haired woman in open-toed heels is carrying this kind of paperwork in her white, patent leather purse.

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As we stand there catching our breath, unsure what to do next, two police cars come tearing down the street and skid to a screeching halt on the sidewalk outside the front doors. Lights flashing, sirens blaring, four officers rush in with their hands gripping their guns, each one shouting at us to, “Freeze!” I comply. I don’t even breathe.

I spot the officer I had spoken to the day before. He gives me a disapproving glare, a mixture of ‘what the hell are you doing’ and ‘you should not even be here!’ Yet I also recognize a flicker of concern across his brow. The situation is pretty precarious, I have to admit; a million things could have easily gone sideways.

The pawnshop owner immediately starts defending himself like a bully in a schoolyard playground. I say nothing, knowing better than to do so. My officer takes less than a minute to shut him up. He has no time for a third-rate dissertation by a pawnshop owner who thinks he knows the law. Already aware of my side of the story and that the jewelry was taken, the officer has us retrace our most recent events.

I meekly retrieve the stolen evidence that is hiding inside my bra and hand it to the officer. He lets us know that all of the items will be seized and be placed directly into police lockup. The officer explains to the pawnshop owner that he could lose his business license, be heavily fined, and face serious consequences for buying stolen merchandise and not doing his due diligence on whom he purchased it from.

I keep quiet. All that matters to me is that I eventually get my jewelry back.

The pawnshop owner apologizes, knowing his attack on me could be added as an assault. He wipes his sweaty forehead, mumbling about losing five grand to my lying ex. Acting on instinct, I use my phone to take pictures of them rebagging and cataloguing my items. I want proof to send in the next scathing email that comes from my ex. I want him to know that the cops are involved and that I have my jewelry back.

Once everything is in order, I am escorted out of the store. At the curb, I am given a warning not to come back to the pawnshop and leave things to the police from now on. I am also told not to mention this to anyone, especially my ex, because now that the items have been recovered, there will be additional charges added to the warrant issued for his arrest.

I want to hug all the officers but stop myself from doing so. I say my goodbyes and walk to my vehicle — the white mommy-van parked down the street.

I feel a little like Tom Cruise’s character in the movie Jerry McGuire as I drive home, flipping through the radio to find the song that will match my mood. I

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want some rap number that has a bunch of “Don’t f**k with me” and “Look out mother-f***er, don’t steal my s**t.” My body is surging with adrenaline and I feel empowered and slightly giddy. Banging to the beat on my steering wheel, I turn the music up as loud as the volume will go. I bask in the prideful feelings of taking my power back, reclaiming my things, and outsmarting both the thief and a slimy pawnshop owner.

That evening, I want to tell everyone about my crazy encounter at the pawnshop; how I cleverly outsmarted my deceivers. In reality, though, I feel silly taking pride in those actions. Instead, I curl up under a blanket and watch a Disney™ movie with my kids. They have no idea what has happened and a long-sleeved sweatshirt covers my tattered wrists. Yet I can feel a new sense of calmness in them; they can feel a new sense of strength in me. My Inner Spirit has risen and it has brought a surge of comfort to each one of us. I feel stronger, clearer, and deeply resolved in who I’ve become. What was dormant is now awakened. I am content watching over them, giving them the love they deserve. Freeing myself of the shackles of the past and knowing that while it may not be easy going forward, it is going to be on my terms.

We never know what will stir our Inner Spirit to rise triumphantly to the surface. In my case, it was what one might consider the lowest and most horrible of experiences a person could go through. Except, I have found the gratitude and gifts that came from enduring that and they have enabled me to connect to and honor the spirit I have within. We all have a magnificent, powerful, benevolent part of our being that wants to be known, and in knowing it, we become it. We step into the strength, conviction, and reverence for who we are meant to be.

You have a will in you that you can call on at any time. A strength. A power.

A pride that stems from your Inner Spirit. Allow it to come forth. Let it surge like an excited volcano and shower down on you like a beautiful array of fall leaves. Awaken your greatest strengths. Bring forth your inner determination, your genuine spirit, and your complete power. It isn’t easy, but it is worth it.

You are worth it. Tap into the rebel, the dreamer, the adventurer, the warrior, and the visionary who guides your Inner Spirit. My darling friend, be all that you can be.

Ignite Action Steps Purge your home of all the things that you no longer enjoy or that hold unhappy ghosts and painful memories of the past. Things have energy, and when we hold onto old items, momentos, and possessions that are intertwined

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with negative energy, we keep that energy in our lives. Get rid of anything that no longer makes you feel good. Thank it for being in your life, say goodbye, and recognize the lessons it taught you. Have a ceremony if you need to, and then send it on its way, cleansed and purged of all the old vibrations that no longer serve you.

Many of us hang onto items, possessions, memories, and even people that no longer serve us. Habit, comfort, and convenience keep us holding onto an old story or a limited, outdated belief. Be mindful yet discerning. If something doesn’t feel good when you wear it, get rid of it. If you feel uneasy about having a dutiful gift or guilty about owning an item, allow yourself to remove it from your life. Your space is sacred and deserves to be filled with positive energy so you can create enjoyable thoughts and have a supportive purpose in your life.

When everything around you is in harmony with your beloved Inner Spirit, it will create pure and utter happiness.

JB Owen – Canada Speaker, Author, Publisher, CEO of Ignite, JBO Global Inc. & Lotus Liners www.jbowen.website www.igniteyou.life www.lotusliners.com  jbowen  jbthepossibilitymaker

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A dv e n t u r e r

C h r is P lo u g h “Curiosity is a seed of liberation, allow it to grow.”

I want to help you know yourself and learn to trust your inner voice. We have multiple voices that consciously and unconsciously drive us. They can be confusing and some lead us away from ourselves. Your inner voice is your Intuition — listen to it and you will live your life well. It will guide you to places that you wouldn’t expect — yet exactly where you need to be.

Revelation in the Gobi Desert I am alone for the first time in 42 days. Lying on the floor in the back of Volga, a hulk of an ambulance spray painted in fluorescent rainbow colors. The engine has seized, and I’m stuck on the only paved road I’ve seen for weeks in this desolate landscape within the Gobi Desert of central Mongolia. My friends have left. Dan is gone. Steve is gone. For the first time since we began this adventure, almost six weeks ago, I am surrounded by my own silence. It is suffocating.

I smell the scent of the desert after it rains. I’ve known it most of my life.

It tickles a deep part of my brain. I’m brought back to a memory of standing in the New Mexico desert when I was a teenager. Just outside of my parent’s double-wide mobile home...

“No. I’m not going there.” I sit up and scramble out the back door of the ambulance. The sun is moving high in the sky. I look down the long stretch of open, barren road — nothing. I peer around Volga in the other direction

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— nothing. All I see is the vastness and the mirage waves on the horizon as the desert begins to heat up.

I slam my hand against the side of Volga and shout. “Fuck!” My thoughts begin to spiral. I feel myself looking for someone to blame. “How did I end up here? Why am I alone?”

The victim in me surfaces.

And, somehow, I immediately knew… Because I chose this. After nearly 10,000 miles and several days of crawling through broken gravel roads, we found this stretch of asphalt. In my excitement, I pushed the pedal down and cruised this pristine stretch of open road. Flying along at highway speeds!

Running with the windows down. Feeling the wind blowing across my face. I had this sense that everything was going to be okay. That all of the challenges and the obstacles we had encountered throughout the UK, Europe, Russia, and Mongolia would be worth it. We were going to make it! There would be a crowd of people cheering us on as we…

BANG! I slammed back into reality. The engine misfired and then stopped. I remembered that the radiator had been leaking for days. Now, with the weather warming back up… Shit.

I coasted Volga to the side of the road. Maybe it wasn’t bad. Maybe she just overheated. Pour some water in the radiator — pee in it if we have to. We’ll be back on the road. Come on! By this point we had overcome incredible odds.

The front suspension had broken and was held in place by nylon straps and spare bars from our gurneys. We lost our brakes over a thousand miles ago.

There was the electrical fire that destroyed the starter and killed the headlights.

The frame cracked when we fell down a ditch in the dark and slammed into a runoff pipe. A door had fallen off. The windshield was shattered like a spiderweb. Then there was that bumpy Russian road where the left rear wheel literally flew off! After all that, there was no way we were going to give up!

“Are you fucking kidding me, 9700 miles in and now we're stuck?” The engine was seized. Steve got out, yelled, and slammed the driver mirror in rage. I simply accepted the facts. Hmm, a change of roles. Last week, I was screaming up a storm and he was the voice of reason. I reached that point of overload, where all I could do was resign, knowing there was nothing we could do but move forward.

In a turn of luck, a vintage Land Cruiser™ approached and without thinking, we jumped up and flagged it down. Immediately we decided that Steve would be the one to jump into the truck packed with strangers, and I would stay with Volga and our gear. He would find a way to get us the remaining 250 miles to

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the finish line in the final city, Ulaanbaatar. I felt torn between my obligation to watch over the gear and my determination to make it to the end. The truth, though, was deeper than that. That quiet voice inside spoke and I, not fully knowing why, simply listened and stayed.

I walked around our unkillable yet broken friend. Gliding my hand across her side. She carried us and sheltered us for weeks. I couldn’t leave her here in the desert… Yet, how long would it take Steve to find help. Hours? Days?

Without a phone or network, all I could do was stay there and wait.

My stomach rumbled. I stepped back inside and sat on the floor beside the gurneys. I liked the floor — and had taken to sleeping on it weeks ago, just after we entered the Czech Republic. The gurneys were padded, but the floor was longer and I could stretch out. I pulled down one of my duffel bags and reached in for some local mystery meat snacks that we had scored at our last stop. After my belly was filled, I laid down and pulled an old T-shirt over my eyes to block out the light.

I began to reflect on the last few days and how Dan left. It was unexpected.

I appreciated all of the times he had helped me. How useful his Boy Scout knowledge and sense of “do-it” had been. I also thought of how he quit. A few days before, he decided to leave and headed for the airport, to make it home before his classes started. I loved him like a brother, but felt betrayed and couldn’t understand how he could leave when we were so close to the end.

Stranded here, I wondered if he was right to leave.

Shaking myself awake, I stretched, walked around Volga to the shade, plopped down into the dirt, and leaned against her side. I remembered the choice I made four years ago. The choice to quit a safe and secure job, working with a team of people who were like family. Yet how boring and unfulfilling each day felt after we were acquired by a large billion-dollar corporation.

Going from leading a rockstar team to being a cog in a bloated machine. I once spent an entire day ignoring email and surfing the web. No one noticed.

No one cared. And that was the day I heard that quiet voice. I knew I had to leave… but I had no idea what to do.

With the bright-eyed naivete of a 29-year-old, I quit. No real plan. I cashed out my 401k and decided I was a consultant. I knew technology like the back of my hand. Yet I knew nothing about business plans, networking, sales, marketing, or accounting… but I was inspired and determined!

My saving grace was that I had a stellar reputation from the start-up I had left. Consulting with a large company selling logistics software, my skills became in demand. I was often the only one who could solve the technology

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problems that many of their customers were having. Soon I was being flown around the world to fix things. The UK. Sweden. Singapore. Australia. All across the US. I couldn’t keep up.

There were also many parts of the software that I had no idea how to configure. I needed help. The business grew dramatically after I partnered with my friend and colleague, Sam, so that we could run our company together.

He knew how to configure and use the software, and I knew how to to install and optimize it. The best of both worlds. More importantly, he understood processes, procedures, and deadlines, while I was a by-the-seat-of-my-pants and envision-the-future guy.

Together, we grew. The first year ate up my savings. The second put us in the low six figures. The third in the high six. The fourth, in seven. Now, we had a dozen friends working for the company and I began to design our first hosting infrastructure. Everything was going straight up!

And then… it happened. Friday morning after Christmas, there was an early phone call. I was tired and grumpy. As soon as I answered and heard my grandmother’s voice… my heart sank. It was about my parents. I went numb. I barely heard her speak. The next few weeks were a blur. Each time my emotions came up, I told myself, “Not now.”

Soon enough, I was back in Philly and focused on work. After all, I had this company that depended on me. We were growing and I was so close to living my dreams. I went heads-down for months, working 60, 70, 80-hour weeks.

Waking up in the middle of the night to solve problems. I began to sleepwalk through life. I traveled, laughed, and took funny photos in all the hotels. I convinced myself I was having fun too.

Then the economy tanked and the recession began. I wouldn’t admit defeat.

I began to work even more. I stopped exercising. I stopped hanging out with my friends. Nearly everything I ate came from a convenience store. Payroll made my stomach churn. I sunk every penny I had into the business so that I wouldn’t have to fire my friends. I couldn’t look like a failure. Unwilling to ask for help, I was going to pull us through with sheer willpower.

I began to spiral. Downward. At night, I would take my motorcycle out recklessly — jumping railroad tracks and riding into oncoming traffic. One night I totaled it and limped away with a fractured ankle. I laughed it off. My friends thought I was adventurous, but I knew the truth. I had stopped caring about my life.

A few months later, at a Halloween party that my dear friend Zita was throwing, a seed was planted. Another friend, Bob, told me about the Mongol

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Rally, where these crazy folks drove insane vehicles all the way from Bristol, United Kingdom to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. I laughed it off. Yet, my inner voice wouldn’t let it go. Soon enough, I was convinced that one way or another it was happening. I recruited Steve and Dan to come along and spent the next nine months preparing my company to run without me. This time I was able to ask my team for help, and was amazed and relieved at how well they stepped up to the challenge.

That is how I ended up here — sitting against a fluorescent ambulance, alone, on the other side of the world. It was getting late and I knew from experience how cold the desert could get. I stood up and walked through the back door.

Reaching into my duffel bag to grab a long-sleeved shirt. And that’s when my hand grazed it. That cold and angular piece of glass that I had been avoiding this whole time. I had stuffed it away, in the bottom of the bag, and banished it to the back of my mind. I knew it was there and yet I had tried to forget about it. Until now. Through all of the challenges, the blowouts, getting lost, breaking down — it was what I had really come for.

I wrapped my hand around this precious memory and pulled it out. Beams of light prismed through the glass and cast rainbows on the floor. I ran my fingers over the etched letters, “In Loving Memory of Rob and Louise Plough.” I allowed myself to look deeply into the photo of my parents embedded within. I remembered the day my sister gave it to me and thinking then that they looked like ghosts, trapped in glass. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to hold it together… I didn’t want to break down. I felt my inner voice speak deeply, telling me it was time.

I am ready. This is why I am here. I know what I have to do.

I left Volga, crossed the road, and kept walking. I walked and I walked.

Until Volga looked like a toy truck behind me. I came to a mound of dirt that seemed out of place. I knelt before it and closed my eyes. Holding the memorial, I plunged into all the memories that I had locked away. That call from my grandmother. Flying to Montana for my parents’ funeral and living in their home for the week with my grandparents, uncles, aunt, sister, and friends. Enjoying their company yet feeling disconnected. Unsure of every step. Moving as if the floor beneath me was crumbling away. Entering the church. Standing before their caskets. Looking at them. Mom first. Then dad. They didn’t look like them anymore. They were empty. I didn’t know what to feel or how to feel.

Clutching their memorial to my chest, I felt a wave of grief roll through me

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and I cried. Tears streaming down, no longer held back, falling into the desert dust. I surrendered to my emotions. I sobbed and wailed. I yelled out at the Universe. I felt all of it. Pain, rage, sadness, and hurt. Abandoned, left behind, unprepared, and terrified. Stuffed down for years, pushed away by work and keeping busy. All coming up and all coming through.

I couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours as my tears waned. I came back to myself and felt a deeper peace. One that I had forgotten. I dug into the soft earth of the mound and laid my parents’ glass tribute in the hole. I thought back to the last time I had seen them and their smiles. The spark in their eyes.

Unconditional love and support. I spoke some words softly to myself and covered them up. I let them go.

As I stood up, I felt different. I knew that I had experienced an inflection point. A culmination of events from which the trajectory of my life would be forever altered. I decided to aim away from self-destruction and toward a meaningful life. Then I realized that I had no idea how to live such a life. Right there, I promised myself that I would keep exploring until I understood how.

As the sun began to set, casting pink hues across the clouds, Steve returned with something I never would have imagined — a large truck with a ‘whocan-fuckin’-believe-it’ crane! Steve was a hero. We stood there and watched Volga get picked up by a crane and loaded onto the flatbed. We made it to Ulaanbaatar, and, though everyone else had already finished and gone — Steve and I celebrated.

The decade since that revelation in the Gobi desert has been incredible.

Beyond my previous dreams. Some amazing — my company continued to grow into eight figures, giving me the financial freedom to explore. Others were hard — I chose to face many fears, traumas, and uncomfortable truths along the way — yet always worthwhile. Fortunately, I chose not to do it alone. The first step was finding communities where I was accepted as I am and encouraged to continue growing. Ones where I could share my lessons and help others.

Relationships that are mutually caring and invested in.

I explored traditional and non-traditional means of understanding myself.

Journaling, meditation, psychedelics, adventures, travel, and nature. Plus all the therapies you can imagine — talk therapy, hypnosis, NLP, EMDR, brain scans, group retreats, yoga, physical trauma release, philosophy, spirituality, plant medicines, indiginous rituals, energy work, and more. They each helped me understand myself in different ways. These gave me the tools to understand my conscious and unconscious. To feel decades of emotions that had been repressed.

To break out of cycles of depression and suicidal thoughts. To clear away the

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confusion and noise. To see myself clearly, accept, and integrate. To trust and love myself, then my community, then humanity. To help others do the same.

To live a meaningful life. To more clearly hear that voice inside and trust it.

Now I share my experiences to help a sleeping generation wake up and understand themselves, be themselves, listen, and express themselves. As you become curious about yourself, you’ll learn to differentiate the voices and patterns that guide you. The inner voice, Intuition, is often quiet and patiently guides you toward experiences and relationships that will help you grow. Be open to hearing your inner voice and know that it will guide you to exactly where you need to be. Trust that it will help you live your life — the one only you are capable of living. A fulfilling and meaningful life that is uniquely yours.

I wish that for you. Big Love.

Ignite Action Steps: Be curious about yourself. Imagine what’s possible. Feel it. Allow it, don’t judge it. This is how you learn from everything that happens in your life. If you do only this, you will continue to grow and evolve.

Listen to your inner voice. Do whatever helps you tune in. Journaling.

Walking. Meditation. Playing with your pet. Driving. Just don’t tune out. Don’t distract. Give it time. Three minutes, an hour, a day — whatever is right for you.

Find a community where you are accepted as you are. Be exposed to new ideas, continue to grow, and help others with your wisdom and experiences.

Explore different ways of understanding yourself. Stick with the ones that work for you and be willing to try new modalities as you grow and evolve.

Be gentle and patient. Treat yourself as you would treat a loved child.

Guide yourself with compassion. Accept your stumbles. Celebrate your wins, including the tiny ones.

Chris Plough – United States of America I help us know, accept, and be ourselves.

Conscious Pioneer / Chief Soul Officer https://chrisplough.com

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D i a n a L oc k e t t “Our experiences do not define us; they inform us and can catapult us toward our deepest purpose.”

My longing is that you, the reader, will remember that in spite of, or perhaps because of, your history, you have the power to heal, to connect to your soul’s purpose and to become your own unique Change Maker in the world. You are a miracle and your voice matters. May my story help you unlock the potential of your life, encourage you to turn your pain into your purpose, and use the gift of your voice to Ignite a difference in the world.

The Space Between the Words As a little girl, I loved talking, singing, and making up stories. I spoke so much that my twin sister didn’t need to speak until she was almost four years old, as I not only spoke for myself, I also spoke for her. That’s how vocal I was as a young child. I don’t recall the specifics of it, but I grew up hearing that narrative… a lot. And talking and singing were some of my favorite things to do during exciting events, holidays, and family gatherings, and especially at Christmas time.

I loved Christmas. I adored everything about it: the way the lights danced on the tree, the excited feelings of the little girl in me, waking up Christmas morning, and opening the carefully wrapped presents. I enjoyed the feeling of my family coming together in celebration and singing carols, both in our community, at church, and at home. My father would put on his favorite Christmas

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songs and we would sing as we decorated the Christmas tree while my mother prepared a feast for our family. I would sing along at the top of my lungs, even if I didn’t know the words or was out of tune. These are some of my earliest joyful memories and they included me using my voice as a self-expression instrument, until one Christmas day when my voice was silenced.

My family used to call me ‘Chatterbox.’ I’m sure it was meant to be funny, but I received the message that my voice was too much with each passing joke about “Diana is the chatterbox of the family,” and “We can never get a word in when Diana is around.” This didn’t feel like a badge of honor to me.

As a little girl, I received the message that I was too much, my voice was too eager and was not welcomed. I felt ridiculed and shamed. I would come home excited to tell my mom about my school day to find her asleep, medicated, on the couch… again. In time, I learned that, as a good little girl, it was best to be seen and not heard. I would retreat quietly to my room with my excitement crushed and my words swallowed.

I remember one particular morning when this conditioned belief was reinforced. I was seven years old. I woke up with the excitement that always engulfed me on Christmas morning. The tree was decorated, the carols playing on the record player, the smell of Christmas dinner filled the house. I was excited to open my stocking and see what Santa had left for me. Chocolate, socks, candy and… a wind-up chatter teeth toy. The red and white plastic ones that you wind-up and they chomp up and down.

My family laughed as they affirmed that this reflected ‘Diana the Chatterbox.’ I remember the feeling of my shoulders drooping, the deep contraction in my heart, the sense of my throat closing. I remember the beliefs that arose at that moment when that mocking gift confirmed what I had been told and what I began to believe about myself. My voice was too much. My voice was not welcomed.

That was the day I began to silence my words. In that moment, I told myself my voice didn’t matter. And over time, I allowed that belief to create my identity, my thoughts, my feelings, behaviors, and habits. I learned that it was best to be quiet. That was my initiation into the journey of the powerlessness of silence.

I kept quiet during childhood physical abuse with silent tears as my Dad expressed his fury. I kept silent during teenage sexual assault where I didn’t dare make a sound, not even a tear. I kept to myself during infidelity and betrayal. I kept quiet when I was forced to have an abortion. I kept silent through an acrimonious divorce, even when I was locked out of my house.

I kept to myself when my ‘friends’ started a public slaughter on Facebook,

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questioning my worthiness to open a new business after previous failures. I lost all words when everything I owned was taken away and I had to declare bankruptcy. Each of these experiences in my life led me to swallow my voice, dismiss my pride, and relinquish my power a little more. I put a lid on all my feelings and instead of expressing myself, I held it in as shame.

The shame grew until it became a dark monster that threatened to swallow me whole. In time, I felt incapable of holding the humiliation anymore and my feelings and thoughts turned to hopelessness, depression, and suicide. Some days it took everything I had to negotiate with the demons in my mind. The need to feed my children and take them to school was the only thing that could lift me up and give me purpose, but still, all this in silence. I was unable to share my fears, my anguish, my darkest secrets. What I had to say, after all, didn’t matter.

Even though my relationship with my own voice was not a powerful one, I went into a profession to help others find theirs. I became a Speech Language Pathologist in my early 20s and, for 30 years, helped children who were minimally verbal or nonverbal. My mission was to match their voiceless needs with a communication system to give them a voice. I didn’t realize that in doing so, little by little, I was finding my own.

Throughout this time, I started practicing yoga for self-care. I fell in love with the healing properties of yoga and the hope it brought to my life. I became a Yoga Instructor and eventually opened up a Yoga Teacher Training Academy.

Every day, I felt like an imposter. When I taught, I was simply regurgitating what my teachers had taught me, which I realize now we all do at the beginning until we find our own voice. In the quest to go deep and find my authenticity, I started sharing my story. In the quiet moments between my words, I began to notice that people listened. They listened and they used my teachings to inspire their own lives, to find their genuine voice. The more I shared my story, the more it impacted my community, my students, my friends. And myself.

Teaching yoga brought me back to my purpose and allowed me to access gratitude for the blessings in my life. In spite of having hit rock bottom, even with a leaky roof over my head, I recognized that I had my health, my kids were thriving, and I had an impactful message to share. I knew with certainty the Universe had my back and I was ready to trust that and welcome change.

It was a profound revelation.

The transformation that followed allowed me to make a conscious decision to turn my pain into my purpose. I became resolute in my steps to create a personal evolution and my daily mantra became “Life is happening for me.” I began to find my own words. To appreciate my own unique voice. In love and gratitude,

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I patiently allowed my words to come forward and be expressed through me.

I realized that I had been standing in my own way for so long and holding myself back. I hadn’t trusted myself. I had allowed myself to be defined by… everything and everyone! My parents, my schooling, my religion, my society, my friends (the not so good ‘friends’) and my experiences. I began to evoke questions such as “Who was I?” and “What legacy did I want to leave behind?” along with “What was my purpose in my life?” These became my North Star questions and the inquiry brought me to explore my beliefs, thoughts, feelings, actions, and the results that I was longing for in my life. I saw the misalignment in who I was and who I wanted to be. I made a commitment to myself that if I wanted to change my life, it was up to me. And it would begin right now.

There were many changes made that year and one of the biggest was to have a compassionate relationship with my feelings as part of my plan to reclaim my power. I decided that if I longed to find my voice, to express myself, I had to have the courage to feel my feelings as the thermometer that would allow me to recognize how I was showing up each day. I knew that I longed to release the tension of shame that I held inside. The shame that had engulfed me for most of my life. I learned how to express my grief and release a lifetime of sorrow. I discovered how to use my breath as a tool, to connect with my body and its sensations and to trust it as my inner guidance. I did the deep practice of forgiveness, for myself and others. I noticed tension began to leave my body and create space for clear intentions. That work guided me to a new and present path and I began to feel my own inner goodness.

Well almost... I was now confronted with the one emotion that I avoided for so long. It called to me. I heard my inner voice: “Do it.”, “The idea of it is scarier than the experience.”, “You deserve it.” I knew from the research that touching my anger would release my shame and allow me to connect to my passion. My default response to anger was to shut it down, to put on meditation music and calm myself. I am a Yogini, after all, and I did not have a healthy childhood imprint of anger.

On a gray day in Amsterdam during a Heart IQ™ circle, I let go. I surrendered to my anger and my shame. I witnessed these expressions leave my body as messy, loud, primal sounds of uncontained rage that had been confined for decades. I moved my body… I found my voice… and I fell in love with it.

The most beautiful gift was how the strangers in my circle received my anger and shame with love, encouragement, and celebration. I felt an immediate relaxation in my entire nervous system and a spaciousness in my throat. I felt my wholeness and completeness.

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I learned that day that my self-expression was a gesture of self-love. I discovered that forgiveness is a practice and I have all the tools I need inside me. I decided that I am worthy to feel and express myself and embraced that power comes from my heart.

I knew from the teachings of many wise leaders that when we numb one feeling, we can numb all feelings and begin to live a life of mediocrity. I knew that the unwillingness to touch any part of my pain and my emotional ranges leads to them being suppressed and showing up at the most inappropriate times and in harmful ways like judgment or rage (we call these ‘shadows’). I had been living that life and was very good at numbing out (with ‘good’ habits like yoga and exercise) but had not allowed myself to fully feel the spectrum of my embodied emotional range. I now realize that was a ‘spiritual bypass.’

When I welcomed the time to stop and feel all my emotions AND express them in a healthy manner as they came up, what came out wasn’t scary anymore.

It was clear, it was on purpose, and it was veiled with passion. And from that passion grew the increasing clarity that I was on the path toward exploring my life purpose. Touching the emotional ranges of anger allowed me to find my voice to express my excitement, joy, love, and gratitude.

When I went home at the end of that powerful experience, I brought along an old, reclaimed friend. I found my voice and welcomed her home. From that day on, my purpose became uncrushable: to help people to find their voices so they realize that they matter, what they do matters, what they feel matters, what they say matters. My mission was ignited with passion and clarity.

Within a year, I was invited to speak on a stage with The Global Changemakers™ with a commitment to help entrepreneurs to become healthier in their emotional and energetic systems. I went on to co-create powerful communities through my Yoga Teacher Training program, helping people find and express their unique gifts and voices. I began to offer my powerful teachings with humility and love, merging the ancient teachings of yoga philosophy with current neuropsychology, Shadow work, positive psychology, and coaching.

I now find so much joy in my work coaching others to help them become clear in their lives, to access their joy and purpose and to express their own words with clarity and love. I find myself so energized when I help businesses create cultures that are transparent, mindful, joyful, and cooperative to increase productivity and become conscious Change Makers in the world. And I have stopped filtering my thoughts and now allow the Universe to use me as a vessel and let Grace speak through me.

Today, when I share, I share with the conviction of someone who has turned

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her deepest pain into a fiery mission in her life. I feel my resilience, power, and strength. I feel my joy, purpose, and immense gratitude for all that I have gone through. This is my new thermometer as I move through life.

We all have gifts. We all have powerful voices and messages. What I say matters. Just like YOU. With that assurance, I can sense the vastness of the ocean in me, as it is in you. I can ride the waves of Grace when life takes its unexpected turns and I know that I am not defined by my experiences. I made the choice to change so that, as Alan Cohen says, “My history is not my destiny.”

What genuine expression is needing a voice in your life? I believe that when you touch your truth and meet your pain with compassion, there is a vulnerability that allows your authenticity to shine through. As the Sufi poet Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” When you learn to hold space for your pain, you can remember that, in that space, you can realign with your truest vision for your life and go from a path of barely getting by to a path of unfathomable joy. I’ve learned that if I don’t like the answers in my life, I have to change the questions and I have to challenge my beliefs. When I change the lens of my perspective, I am met with clarity, ease, and purpose. Today, my deepest question is no longer “How will I quiet my voice,” but “How can my words change the heart of the world?”

Ignite Action Steps Here are some steps that I have developed and practice that I call “Be REAL and RE-ALign to Thrive™.” They are designed to awaken you to take responsibility in your life and find your own unique gifts, power, and voice.

R= Remember that you are a miracle and be willing to see the miracle in others. When tension, stress, and life get in the way of remembering the gift of your life, ask yourself: “If I was to take 5% more responsibility to show up with love in my life today, what would I do?”

E= Explore what emotions and energetic experiences are present in you.

Practice daily meditation to quiet your mind and be able to tune into the sensations of your body. Sensations are the language of the body and can inform you about how you are doing. Rather than attach to the emotions, label the sensations and sit with them for a few moments (e.g. instead of “I’m sad.”, tell yourself “I notice my heart feels heavy and my shoulders are drooping.”).

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A= Allow whatever surfaces to be part of your experience. Soften and hold space for all of your sensations and experiences. Trust that it is all part of your embodied journey. Release what needs to be released through movement, sound, in circles, etc.

L= Love yourself no matter what comes up; your life experiences do not define you. Use a mantra: “Life is happening FOR me.” or “I am the loving creator of my life.”, or “I can realign to thrive in my life.” Recite these daily.

When you practice being the REAL you, it will take you on a journey to be: I= Inspired: to stay with the moments that are painful and trust that they will show you the path to your deepest purpose.

G= Grateful: for all the experiences, as they are the catalyst for change in your life.

N= Nonjudgmental: with yourself and with others as you cultivate loving compassion.

Diana Lockett, M.Sc., E-RYT - Canada Realignment Coach, Founder of Realign To Thrive™ Dianalockett.com

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Damian Culhane “To truly make a difference and serve others with your unique gifts and talents, you must have the courage to overcome your ingrained fears and win the battle of the soul.”

I invite you to rise up and reach beyond your fear; to connect with what your heart wants and create a legacy beyond your unconscious ego. My desire is that you are inspired as a Conscious Leader to triumph over your self-imposed limitations, defeat the boundaries of your beliefs and create a life you love.

You Must Reach Beyond Your Limitations It was a winter morning. The journey to London’s specialist hospital felt eternally long and I felt ill-prepared for what lay ahead. On the hospital ward, I sensed awkwardness in the staff bustling around us, softening the moment and distracting from the impending news. We were there to receive lab results.

I felt sick, my mouth dry, my whole body tense, similar to when the doctor had taken the muscle biopsy several weeks before. The specialist, in her early fifties and slightly aloof, dressed to match her age and disposition, engaged in a few moments of polite and gracious chat before coldly announcing the news my family had been dreading: “There was no dystrophin present in the muscles.” The announcement was like an ambush, poised in silent preparation for its strike as it exploded rudely into our world. Just like that, the fatal disease established its impenetrable stronghold. The destructive muscle wasting

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condition was relentless and unwaveringly determined to take a life: The life of my six-year-old son Ben. I comforted my sobbing wife, tears rolling down my cheeks as I soothed and reassured her. Ben’s diagnosis of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD) was a hammer-blow to our hearts. The brutal enemy was upon us. The challenges Ben would face were unknown, unexpected, uninvited and unwanted. DMD was an utterly agonizing and unwelcome guest.

On the way home, we visited my Mum who had been looking after our eldest son, Conor. He was joyfully playing with his cousin Joe, both now joined by Ben. My Mum moved away from the boys and as I told her the outcome, her eyes filled with tears; she was distraught. During her physiotherapy career, she had treated many patients with DMD. She knew what to expect. I hugged her for a moment, already acclimatizing to my new role of soothing others – a role reluctantly thrust upon me.

Overcoming the emotional trauma of a child being diagnosed with a life-limiting condition takes a significant depth of character. My shallow life experiences up to that point revolved around trying to persuade people to buy goods and services. None of what I had done was particularly meaningful, but I had been using my skills and talents in a productive way. I had experienced moderate success in my career but had struggled lifelong with binge eating and junk food.

Like most parents of a disabled child, I was determined to confront the monster full on and deflect my sadness, launching into solution mode. I had to focus on being positive, a natural disposition that now intensified and escalated into a hard protective shell. I made contact with a charity who guided me through the current scientific research. At that time, it didn’t take very long to read the full dossier of research. It was a small list. I attended the annual conference to receive scientific study updates and meet other DMD parents on the same loathsome journey. Back home, my loved ones, still reeling from shock, were coming to terms with the new reality of Ben’s diagnosis while DMD relentlessly and silently continued the slow erosion of Ben’s body and our hope.

On the surface I was thinking positively, but I was crumbling inside. I concealed my fears, frustrations and sadness under my brave coping mask. I would lie awake at night, the overwhelm gripping me. Why was this happening to Ben? I longed to swap places with him. DMD was unaffected by my thoughts or emotions; it ignored my endeavors. It was winning. To soothe my suffering, I sought comfort in the addiction I knew: junk food. Nothing else existed outside of those secret binges.

DMD is brutal, unrelenting and never wanes, retreats or surrenders. It just

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pushes on. Its unstoppable bluntness is a cold and sobering reality. But it also has a polarity – gently awakening people to new possibilities. Just when you feel exhausted from the struggle to cope, a tiny glimmer of hope emerges. I got involved in a campaign to lobby for more funding into scientific research.

Encouraged by the responses and the momentum the campaign had achieved, I shared the campaign with family and friends. I felt I was achieving something. I was so grateful for the support of others and, for the first time, I had an awareness of the depth of human kindness. There were new comrades willing to join in the battle. I was NOT alone.

A family friend suggested we organize a 300 kilometer cycling event to raise funds for a power wheelchair for Ben; another suggested a fundraising tea party.

The local press picked up on the story, providing great coverage along with an article featuring the tea party. During the tea party, a man walked in, very unassuming and unknown by the other attendees. He approached me to confirm I was Ben’s Dad. As he handed me a folded napkin, he said four words, “This is for Ben.” After he left, I opened it to see a cheque; my jaw dropped. I walked over to the friend who had organized the event and she gasped at the generous total. We were both amazed, touched by the kindness of a complete stranger.

The bike route offered some challenging conditions and we trained hard as a team. I felt awkward being responsible to get a large group of enthusiastic cyclists safely across the UK. I was nicknamed ‘Captain Clipboard’ for my part in the event and we bonded well. In spite of getting lost and random mechanical issues, we made it from the West Coast to the East Coast of England with tears and laughter. My own mixed emotions arrived with me on the beach, watching the riders safely reach the final destination. Relief flooded me; I turned to the friend next to me, placing my head on his shoulder, and started crying. I was so grateful for the depth of human kindness I had just witnessed and shared.

The next leg of my journey as I continued on my personal quest to fight the dreaded DMD was becoming a Trustee of the charity I had contacted when Ben was first diagnosed. There were a few moments that required strong and conscious leadership, but it was largely a collective effort by everyone. Two years later, I was invited to participate in a 1,600 kilometer ride from the most southerly point of England to the northern tip of mainland Scotland. I started preparation and training months before departure. During one of the early training rides, my nutrition and fitness were out of balance. I had been drinking alcohol and up late the previous night. When we stopped for a break, I indulged in a lemon drizzle cake. For the remainder of that ride, I found myself trailing behind. I was embarrassed, apologizing to my fellow riders for falling so far

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back. I knew I was riding for an important cause and I was determined to never experience that again. I resolved to change my behaviour and habits immediately.

It was a difficult and challenging period. I was constantly meeting the needs of my family, training for long distances, running my business, learning about maximizing my nutrition and visiting my seriously ill Dad in hospital. I juggled the competing demands, relieving the stress by cycling. On a personal front, my wife and I had been growing apart for some time. The changes in my eating had become an obsession for me. I was determined to be fit and ready for the big event, and was preoccupied with avoiding old habits. Nearer to the event, I was fit and lean, ready and committed to the ride. I had made a promise to myself that went beyond the bike ride. I’d shifted the unresolvable tension of serving others first to focusing on what I needed. This was new, putting myself first.

Changing nutrition habits was minor. Adapting and shifting to stand up for myself in relationships – that was prickly. Holding my ground in my new self-imposed leadership meant I was becoming more aware; more resolute in what I needed.

On the morning of the event, we gathered early at the starting point in Land’s End. There was horizontal rain and strong headwinds. The organizers were asking us to be patient whilst they evaluated the safety for all. There was a mixed group of abilities, about twenty cyclists in total. After a short delay, it was a ‘go’. We set off with great spirit and enthusiasm, soon tested by the severe conditions. By no means the strongest rider, I steadied into a good rhythm and settled in for the first leg. I was easily able to match the pace in the lead group.

At the first stop, it was obvious that the delay between the front of the group and the back was widening. We had two to three days of relentless hills on our way out of Cornwall. I saw the look of exhaustion on the faces of the rear riders and I decided at that moment that I would position myself at the back, for support. I knew how they were feeling.

There was a mother of a young lad with DMD, and a grandfather too. We were all there for the same reason – to do something to help our loved ones.

We made steady progress and it was nice to get to know them. I settled into my new position of leading from behind – offering emotional and mental support while ‘pulling’ them up the hills. At the end of each day, they thanked me, grateful for the support.

On day three, we were heading away from the hills. The pace was fine and the weather improving. During the afternoon break, I received the dreaded news: My father had died. I shared my pain with some friends on the ride and just started crying – finding the familiar shoulder from the beach to rest my

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head as I sobbed. My immediate thought was that I must call my step-mother and sister to see if they were okay. They were together, both had been prepared for the outcome. I asked, “Do you need me to come and help with any arrangements?” There was a resounding and reassuring ‘no.’ We all agreed that Dad would want me to continue my sponsored bike ride and complete my goal. I did it for both him and Ben! I went to visit my dad at the Chapel of Rest as soon as I returned home.

When I saw him on that final occasion, I realized he was on a new journey. It occurred to me that he had created a life he loved and his passing would be no different. He had spent his life traveling, reading, learning and enjoying the experiences life offered. I learned so much witnessing this and I was ready to follow that lead.

Whenever you raise your game, inner and outer tension arise while you create a life you love. I was determined to ignore unsupportive comments. To stand up for who I was becoming, not fall back to what I had left behind. I needed to stick to my new identity. At times I felt lost; confused and uncertain; caught between the old me and the new, still not powerful enough to overcome my ego resisting and flaring up. I was suffering like a helpless victim around certain people, powerless in their shadow. At times, I would separate myself from them, enjoying my new freedom to be who I wanted to be.

With my new perception, I saw that parents in the DMD Community handle the continuum of acceptance differently. At some stage, ALL parents become desperate to do something as their child’s quality of life slowly deteriorates.

High levels of stress and depression in the community often erode family ties.

An idea to help heal DMD suffering first came to me in a meditation. It took me a while to process what that meant. I developed a grand vision as to how the program would work. But when I introduced the idea to DMD parents, it fell flat. I felt deflated. My idea was to empower others and help heal their suffering. The challenge: Parents were not ready for the message. Burdened by the weight of sorrow and grief, so many parents detached from their own personal dreams. Not knowing where to start, my vision was overwhelming.

I felt sad that I was not able to do more for the community. I wanted to help, yet I was alienating myself and abandoning my vision. My ego was in full unconscious sabotage mode.

It became obvious that those in the DMD community were at different stages of processing the change caused by the diagnosis. Some people were actively seeking how to be positive whilst others were in stages of shock, denial, anger, frustration or even despair. I had experienced these stages myself. To

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build engagement with the community would require a different approach. I was so frustrated, knowing that I could help this group of people but having limited resources and no prior knowledge of how to reach a larger audience.

It was obvious that I would need to give them added value. Creating a series of webinars, I knew the title had to be “Healing DMD Suffering.” I gathered feedback, observed themes and developed a structure. I put together a unique program for the benefit of the parents. To maximise impact, the content included experts with informative knowledge and expertise. I knew the cause was much greater than me and that to honour the community would require transformational content.

When a person adopts change, their mindset can swiftly adapt to a new way of thinking and manifest a new life. They flow in the river of life between the banks of pleasure and pain. Getting stuck on one of the banks is the issue. Life is about how we transform and alchemize our thinking. There is a Buddhist saying, “Pain is part of life. It does not have to rule your life.”

Thanks to my own awakened journey and what I learned, I have formed a vision of building a bridge for others to follow. This requires courage and determination. I have to lead myself first, to beat a path so others can flourish.

I reached beyond my own fear and sadness to rise up and allow my light to shine, and I’m inspiring others to do the same. No one should be defined by DIS-ease. My desire is for you to win the battle for your soul and create a life you love, a life worth living.

Ignite Action Steps For anyone who has a desire to rise up above their unconscious ego, the action steps below will be a guiding light. The ego has an inconspicuous driving force, alienating you from what your heart desires. It aims to keep you safe and to survive. To truly master your ‘self’ and become a mentally powerful and strong person, you must have a greater awareness of ‘self’ and connect with your purpose to create what you love. Pay attention to the whispers of your soul. Listen and be aware – your ‘self’ has unknown potential, wisdom and capability to create everything that you dream about. To move your ego, reach beyond the mountain of your self-imposed limitations and go deep within.

Whatever challenges you experience in your life, no matter how difficult, to be a Conscious Leader, you must connect with your purpose. Your journey is what ensures you will cope with the bigger cause. You were born to create and share your unique gifts and talents to benefit humanity. You have a responsibility

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to transcend and make a difference. Here’s a recipe for success in becoming a Conscious Leader: • Connect with your Purpose: Know what you can do to serve humanity and make a difference in the world. Map out your true purpose (see resources).

• Stakeholder Map: Know who all your connections are; the people in the community, and beyond, who you wish to impact.

• Add Value to Stakeholders: This seems pretty obvious, but make sure you understand and have empathy with your stakeholder. What can you do to make their lives better?

• Allow others to contribute: Be authentic in your praise for the people who contribute to your success. Notice the depth of human kindness inside the hearts of individuals you have the pleasure to work with.

Enjoy the ride.

• Focus: Regularly remind yourself of your vision. Have accountability buddies or a structure where you can be challenged by a trusted peer or coach.

• Lead from your heart: Always connect with what your heart wants in any given situation. When I wanted to give up and scrap the idea of the webinar series, I meditated and reflected on my highest desire. What did my heart and soul want? The answer was simple: To heal emotional suffering.

Damian Culhane - United Kingdom CMgr, FCMI, FISM, MIOD, MEMCC Teacher. Coach. Speaker. www.damianculhane.co.uk

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S tac e y Y at e s S e l l a r “You’ll find happiness when you stop being the victim of your old story and become the hero of your new one.”

Come on a journey with me to release the stories and beliefs that no longer serve you. They only hold you back from venturing out into the exciting unknown.

Once Upon an Old Story Every Tuesday evening at 5:00 PM for a year, I would drive a few blocks from my office to sit on the edge of a faded red velvet couch, some ugly mismatched orange and brownish pillows at my sides. A large floral-print Kleenex™ box sat patiently on the small wooden coffee table in front of me. Another sat on a glass side table between the couch and a small window that hadn’t been opened in years. Dr. Julia, my therapist du jour, always made sure there was plenty of Kleenex ready for me.

I had an on-again off-again relationship with therapy since I was a teen, trying to solve the one problem that had kept me from being successful, famous, talented, confident, stunning, rich, and happy. I couldn’t believe I was back on another couch, still searching for the cure 20 years later.

She sat across from me, legs crossed, with a sharp number two pencil sitting gently between her fingers, at the ready to document something profound — or telling — on her yellow legal pad. I thought it was interesting that she used a pencil, as if she could record and then erase what I said. And if she erased it, did it mean that it didn’t happen? Or that it wasn’t important?

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On this day, 18 minutes into this session, she was going to put her pencil down and say something that would change my life.

First, let me take you back in time to a dusty farm in northern California. My parents took us all to the house of a friend of a friend who had made a custom ‘haunted house.’ As my cousin and I crawled our way through the dark, small, cramped maze, we laughed when a fake claw tried to grab our legs from a hole in the wall. The design of the narrow corridors successfully made our slight 12-year-old frames feel Alice-In-Wonderland big. We maneuvered our way through hallways that seemed like a string of large cardboard boxes but made of plywood, twisting and turning, surprised by strobe lights around one corner, a fog machine in the next, and another arm reaching out to grab us beyond the fog. We scraped our knees as we made our way up a makeshift ramp and came upon my 3-year-old cousin Peter at a dead end. We had all gone into the maze two at a time, yet my younger sister, his ‘maze buddy’, was not with him. Because there was nowhere my sister could have gone without running into us, as we were behind her, finding him alone was the scariest part of the feeble haunted house so far.

Just as we approached and asked Peter where cousin Kimmie was, a hidden door barely big enough for the three of us to crawl through opened. We were amused that they had decorated the walls of this miniature hallway with tiny antique photo frames and faded Victorian wallpaper. But eight feet into this passage, there was another dead end. As little Peter and my other cousin bumped up behind me, the door we had just come through slid shut. There was no way back and no way forward.

Peter began to cry and I could immediately feel the air getting thinner. I had a quick thought that, “Of course we aren’t trapped; I just need to find the trick door in front of me.” When it didn’t appear, my neck stiffened and my mouth felt like I had just eaten a pack of cotton balls. Whatever the temperature was when we entered, it had just gone up by 20 degrees. The light was faint, but I could clearly see the fearful face of my young cousin, his tears streaming down his cheeks as his loudening cries expressed the panic we were all beginning to feel. There was no way to adjust our positions in the tiny space, but I tried to put my hand on his back, getting moist with sweat. I banged on the wall in front of me and yelled, “Help! How do we get out of here?!”

Just then, a deep voice came into the confined space through a hidden speaker. “Is everyone OK in there?”

“No! We are trapped in this tiny hallway, the doors on both ends are closed,

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and we can’t get out!” I tried to temper my anxiety so as to not add any more to the rising tide.

I banged on the wall ahead of me so hard that I am surprised I didn’t break through the cheap plywood. Peter’s cries got louder and the feeling that his tears were taking up valuable space in the shrinking room added frustration to my escalating fear.

“We hear crying, so we want to make sure everyone is OK,” the mysterious male voice piped in again.

“No, we aren’t OK. He is crying because we can’t get out! How do we get out?!” My tempered fear was not so tempered anymore.

“But is he hurt?” The mysterious voice asked with less concern than I would have expected in this circumstance. If I had been a swearing kid, I would have let loose worse than a sailor who had just gotten their arm bitten by a shark.

I screamed, “He just wants to get out. How do we get out?!”

Anxiety, crying, frustration, and anger filled the pseudo-hallway like water rushing into a room with no exit. Fear replaced blood and it pumped through every vein. At the peak of both flight and fight, the floor opened up beneath us and we fell six feet down into a pile of soft foam blocks.

My mom came running into the room, laughing, and swooped up the little cousin who had stopped crying but wasn’t sure what had just happened. She looked at him and said, “Wasn’t that fun? You’re OK, sweetie, that was a fun ride.”

She carried him into the control room that was just beyond the foam pit and sat him down in front of a small black and white TV monitor that could see into the maze of mini halls. She sat next to a man who must have been the mystery voice. He shot me a big wasn’t-that-awesome smile. My other cousin dusted off her pants and ran on to the last section of the haunted house apparently unphased.

I stood up, light-headed and confused. I felt an odd sensation. What I didn’t know then, but came to realize many years later, was that it was the feeling of debilitating anxiety seeping into my neural pathways like a milkshake spilled onto a keyboard. This was the starting gun of a lifelong uphill marathon with no end in sight. This would be the protagonist of my story for years to come.

Anxiety crept into my life slowly — and then quickly — over the next 10 years until daily panic attacks made me too afraid to leave my apartment. I couldn’t go beyond my front door for six months. Anxiety consumed my life.

If I could have had the parasite of panic surgically extracted with a butter knife and no anesthesia, I would have done it myself. I knew that if I could just stop

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the torture of the panic attacks (and maybe stop eating so many cupcakes), I would be happy.

But that’s the problem with happiness. It is conditional; destinational — “If I can just get to _______, then I will be happy.” That was the story I kept telling myself.

Other stories about happiness were being written into the margins of my life story as well. I knew they were there, but it was as if the words were written in invisible ink and they weren’t as obvious as the panic. If the story about anxiety was a horror, the story about happiness was a fairy tale.

Chapter one: Happiness comes from ‘nice’ things. It wasn’t stitched into a sampler or calligraphed on a sign above any doors in our home. It was my interpretation from living in a big house complete with a pool, tennis court, and horse barn; having fancy cars, and only wearing name-brand clothing. [reference: big castle, glittery carriage, fancy ball gown, glass slippers]. Dad always warned, “You get what you pay for; get the best.”

Chapter two: Giving and receiving gifts will make others happy [reference: fairy godmother, aforementioned luxuries]. If happiness was the commodity, gifts were the currency. My mom’s subliminal messaging was, “More was better” — if one chocolate made you happy, then a whole bag of chocolates would make you happier.

Chapter three: Making other people happy was more important than our own happiness, even if that meant we had to suffer. [reference: every Disney® heroine willing to give up her own life for love moments before the beast/prince/ sister dies] My mom was that mom who would selflessly wait until everyone else had eaten before she served herself; giving up her comfortable seat, her warm coat, her last bite, her only spare minute to make other people happy. To worry about and even take responsibility for other people’s happiness was so incessant that it became ingrained into my genetic code.

My teens and twenties were spent traveling through an allegorical dark forest chased by an evil nemesis called panic, seeking a happiness worthy of cartoon bluebirds landing on my shoulder during musical interludes. I sought figurative glass slippers from abusive boyfriends (a string of princes arriving on high horses rather than white ones). Relationships with them gave me false purpose as I tried to buy them a way out of their own poorly written stories.

Unconsciously, I sacrificed my self-worth, my dignity, and my trust fund to buy their love and my consequential happiness. ‘Nice things’ drained my bank account and my exhaustive efforts to make other people happy offered pathetic returns on both financial and emotional investment. I didn’t know who I was

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or where I belonged. I was stuck in the quicksand of anxiety, uncertainty, and insecurity. I was mummified in the duct tape of doubt and blind to my value and worthiness. Each mistake, rejection, and humiliation I suffered added another layer of tape, a little less air, and no hint of happiness.

I spent the next 20 years chasing happiness with the help of an extensive cast of characters and via a myriad of means, including therapists, spiritual practices, self-help books, medications, 12-step meetings, a dabble in white magic, personal development workshops, psychics, acupuncturists, hypnotherapists, past life regressionists, hair stylists, and even a soul retrievalist.

Although I never came upon a genie in a bottle, I did come out on the other side of the forest with the anxiety tamed and a real ‘prince charming’ (whom I married in a castle in Scotland — insert wink emoji). We have the big house, fancy cars, two beautiful children, and way more ‘nice things’ than we need.

And they lived happily ever after. Record screech… Not yet.

There was still something missing. The subtitles didn’t match the story.

There was another audiobook on constant repeat in my head. It was a story of a heroine who was still held captive by anxiety, blame, and old beliefs about how happiness comes from ‘nice things’, more is better, and being responsible for other people’s happiness.

Let’s go back to the scene on the couch in Dr. Julia’s therapy office. I was not actually crying about my own suffering this time. I went into an 18-minute monologue lamenting about how worried I was about my parents, their relationship, their lack of happiness, and all the tactics I had tried to help rekindle their 50-year marriage gone stale. They had grown apart, but the deep need and responsibility to help them be happier has always been an unspoken, yet understood, part of our family obligation. I shed tears for their individual pain and the pain it was causing my siblings.

Dr. Julia cocked her head in confusion and asked, “Aren’t your parents on a four-week cruise around the Greek isles? Have they said they are suffering?

Why are you the one crying on a couch about their unhappiness?”

That question hung in the air like a 3-day-old helium balloon slowly being pulled to the floor by gravity. In my head, all my manic beliefs about happiness paused for the answer. My face flushed, my neck felt stiff, and my breathing began to quicken. I wasn’t sure if I was having a panic attack or if 35 years of illusions were cracking open… or both.

“Well… because I love them, and I don’t want them to hurt. I want them to be happy,” I responded with a tone of obviousness.

She leaned toward me and spoke slowly, as if she was speaking a language

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I didn’t understand, “You do know that you can’t feel enough love or pain to relieve someone else of their suffering, right?” Clearly, I did not. “You can’t want them to be happy more than they want it for themselves.”

With a rather annoying hint of don’t-you-see-how-crazy-this-is, she continued, “Everyone has to do their own work on happiness. And that time you spend worrying about other people is valuable time you could be spending healing and improving yourself. Then when they see how far you have come, they may ask what you are doing and then you can share it with them.” (Like… in an Ignite book many years later.)

Always known for being very talkative, I got quiet. I have spent the last 10 years studying intensely. I meditated. I listened. I journaled. I studied some more. With a full-time job and two boys under the age of six, studying became my side hustle late into the nights. I earned certifications in Applied Positive Psychology, Positive Psychology Coaching, and Conscious Parenting Coaching.

I learned so much, but most importantly, I learned the power of being either a slave or master to our thoughts. It is not events that define who we are; rather, it is our thoughts about those events that define and direct our lives. When we repeat a thought enough times, it becomes a belief. Unfortunately, we are wired biologically and conditioned socially to build up an arsenal of negative beliefs.

The negativity we carry about every moment in our life — and about ourselves in those moments — is what leads to unhappiness. And that becomes our story.

The stories we create about beauty, money, health, respect, love, marriage, education, God, parenting, and literally everything around us, even happiness itself, come from our society, our family, our religion, and especially great product marketing. Those stories are all powerful, like Oz, until we pull back the curtain and see those stories are just an illusion. Happiness isn’t found in anything or anyone outside of ourselves, and neither is unhappiness. It finally sank in that neither hero nor villain was coming for me. As long as I kept searching for the Disney ending or blaming anyone for causing my suffering, I would stay an unsatisfied victim. I learned how to deepen gratitude and focus on what’s good. I became maniacally aware of my thoughts and my stories, and consciously held back my habitually triggered responses.

Stripped of fairy-tale fallacies, happiness was a naked word void of a solid definition for me. It took 30 years of research and 50 years of experience to bring me to the conclusion that happiness is simply an expression of inner peace. Sometimes it manifests as joy, sometimes pride, sometimes awe; often in laughter. It is a sense of worth regardless of external approval and confidence that is needless of an award, degree, or certification. It is a knowing

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that you are having a human experience with a range of human emotions, and that you can survive — even thrive — through the worst ones. Happiness is not the absence of challenges but rather what you feel when you can convert grief into growth and pain into power. Happiness is not the binary opposite to unhappiness but rather a deep, internal optimistic essence. While we can enjoy ‘nice things,’ happiness never comes from them; it is blind to money.

If suffering is being attached to unmet expectations, then happiness is being attached to nothing. Happiness knows that success is capricious and has fickle meanings, and so is not dependent on it. It denies denial and rejects rejection.

Happiness enjoys the process, not the perfection, without engaging judgment of the self or others. Because the past and the future are an illusion; happiness is being grateful in the present moment. It does not come from loving another or being loved by one (or a million and one). It is instead a manifestation of how much you love yourself.

There is no ‘happily ever after’ when we search for happiness because whatever you find outside of yourself will never be enough. The truth is, happiness isn’t about enough of anything other than feeling that YOU are enough.

I found happiness when I exchanged my volumes of victim-led stories with one simple short story: “I am enough.”

Ignite Action Steps 1. Make a conscious choice that you no longer want to be a victim. You truly can’t move forward without this step. This is the ability to look back on everything that you thought was done TO you and see that it happened FOR you. Now that you know, you can’t unknow.

2. Smoke out the old stories. If you TRULY want to move from where you are now, you must pause (stop doing so much and being so busy), get quiet (literally stop talking so much), and listen (really hear the voice in your head). With no distractions, get a clean new journal and write down all the negative beliefs, judgments, and stories that repeat in your head. Take note of who and what you blame. Any justification that begins with ‘Because she/he/they/it’ carries blame. Write it down.

Spend a few days carrying this awakened consciousness journal around and every time you have a negative thought about yourself, someone else, or a situation, write it down. Become AWARE. You will not find happiness if you are asleep.

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3. Bring in the new story. I believe 100 percent that visualizing and vision boarding my happiness supercharged my dreams and manifested them into reality. I was able to achieve all of the material ‘nice things,’ but they don’t mean anything (I promise). The real key to a vision board that results in greater happiness is building it around the FEELINGS you want to feel. Find pictures in magazines or online that represent how you will feel when you are living the life of your dreams one to three years from now. Don’t put a Mercedes on the board because it reflects success or status; nor a fit body or wedding ring because those will make you happy if you manifest them. When you align with an authentic state of happiness, those material possessions and socially-driven markers of success truly do not mean what you thought they would.

When you have made your board, post a picture of it and tag me IG/@ happierbyminute or FB/happierbytheminute to proclaim your vision! #yougotthis #happierispossible 4. Do the work. One journal plus vision board will not create lifelong change. It takes work. There are a myriad of ways to work on letting go of distorted past stories, anchoring lies, and unserving beliefs. (I know; I have tried most of them.) A few practices that are well-known to ignite change are: meditation (I like Transcendental Meditation), online courses (The Year of The Awakened Heart with Dr. Shefali), a Positive Psychology Course (free online from Yale University), a coach (happierbytheminute.com), a therapist, exercise, yoga, hypnosis, or books (look for books about awakening consciousness). Pick one (or all) and start today! One last reminder: You are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with, so find a positive tribe of friends and let the rest go.

5. I am good enough. I am worthy. Take the following page of affirmation cards and put/tape/glue/cement them around where you will see them frequently throughout the day. This could be your nightstand, bathroom mirror, car dashboard, or your refrigerator. Repeat these short stories often to yourself and your children!

Stacey Sellar – United States of America Happiness Hacker, Child Whisperer, Conscious Parenting Coach happierbytheminute.com

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I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

I AM GOOD ENOUGH!

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I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

I AM WORTHY!

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A l b e rt U r e n a “Inevitably, everything that happens to us, happens in our favor.”

My intention in writing this story is to awaken in you the spirit of wonder, to question everything around you, so you can then express who you really are.

Moment of Clarity Waiting to board an airplane at the airport has become something familiar in my life. In the span of two years, I have been on 14 trips of which eight have been to countries on different continents around the globe. My network of friends has expanded. I manifested my childhood dream of getting recognized on stage in the City of Angels: Los Angeles, California. All is aligned and getting better every day. I have people in my circle that push me continuously to become a better Albert Urena. It is good to feel like I have it all! Yet, it wasn’t always like this.

Let me take you back to a time where it seemed that everything in my life was getting out of control.

I constantly lived with a victim consciousness and complaining attitude all the time, “Why is this happening to me? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this?” Those were the phrases that constantly rumbled in my mind and came out of my mouth. It all started when I was a little boy with rosy, chubby cheeks, only four years old, and my father pulled on his worn and muddy leather

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work boots one morning, went to work and never came back. As a small child, I didn’t comprehend what was going on. All I could remember is the loud crying and shouting happening in the room and I started crying myself. The next thing I knew, I’m visiting my dad in a cemetery box that has his picture on it. My immediate reaction was to ask my aunt, “Why did God take him? Don’t people leave with God only when they’re old?” My childhood innocence was robbed by this event and my doubt about there being a higher power began.

This catastrophic situation led us to live a humble life, considered by many to be below middle class and my mother had to now play both parental roles in my life and the lives of my siblings.

Traveling had always been a foreign word to me. As a widowed mother of three kids, Mabel Alba couldn’t take us or herself around the globe as she desired. We were constantly living paycheck to paycheck; getting on an aircraft seemed like a dream too far to reach at that time. Regardless of the obstacles, my mom did her best to take us to the resorts in our country. I remember enjoying the palm trees and swinging in the hammocks while drinking pina coladas. It was as if I was sitting on a cloud with happiness all around me, a smile that extended from ear to ear, a sensation of freedom and joy simultaneously. Ever since then, I knew I wanted more of this in my future.

Growing up, I’ve observed that everything falls into place for me during the fall. New jobs appear, new beginnings… autumn was always a time of rebirth and renewal for me. Right after college, on an October night, in my favorite season: Autumn. This time around, it was quite a different scenario and not what I was expecting at all.

I was sitting next to my critically sick mother as she rested in a hospice bed.

Suddenly, I remembered her telling me that her dream was to visit Mexico.

Our ancestors came from there. My intuition started whispering to me. It told me I had to honor my mother’s desire to visit the land of our ancestors. My stomach started churning and I just knew I had to do it. I leaned close to where her head lay on the crisp white hospital pillow and gave my mother my word that, when she got out of the hospital, we were going to take that trip. I was convinced she was coming home soon, but unexpectedly, a few days later, my mother passed away. I felt crushed and heartbroken. I was filled with disbelief, shame and guilt for all the memories we didn’t get to create together, all the promises made to her left unfulfilled. In an instant, I saw the woman who knew me best take her last breath in front of my very own eyes and my faith shattered in pieces like a broken mirror.

I fell down the rabbit hole of doubt and confusion about my place in the

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Universe and what happens to us when we die. Do we go to Heaven? Is there really a Hell? Do we just cease to exist? All these questions were like bombs that destroyed the foundations of my life. The months following her death were emotionally intense for me. I had been grieving my father for the past 24 years; now, at the age of 28, I also had to grieve my mother’s death. I was officially an Orphaned Adult.

The mere idea of going back to work to only pay bills and deal with regular life was a psychological torture in itself. I didn’t know what to do. Frustration crept through my skin. I felt afraid to relapse into drugs again, as I did in my early 20s. For many days, all I could do was stay home and read.

The New Year brought a new dawn into my life. I received a letter in the post box and opened it; there was a life insurance check, the beginning of changes that would allow me to stay off work for half of the calendar year. Checking my email, I noticed a headline that mentioned my all-time favorite teachers would be together somewhere I had always wanted to visit: sunny California.

My impulse guided me to book a flight to San Diego.

Travel awakened new thoughts and ideas in me. In San Diego, I had the honor of meeting my favorite author, Neale Donald Walsh. It was a surreal experience. I felt euphoria rushing through all my veins. I took a picture with him, the two of us standing side by side with our smiling faces close together.

I also had the honor of meeting the boy with the broken brain, super genius and brain coach, Jim Kwik. We spoke about Alzheimer’s disease, how it affected our grandparents and the reasons we are both passionate about Brain Health.

I was finally able to speak up about the agony of seeing my grandparents not remembering my name, or who I was. Jim Kwik understood that pain. His empathy was healing for me. I found the tribe I had been praying for my entire existence.

As a teenager, I always felt like I didn’t belong. In high school, I expressed that through drugs and fighting. After San Diego, I was on the verge of transformation. I met the most extraordinary people who today I’m blessed to call my friends and who make me feel accepted for who I am.

While in San Diego, I had the opportunity to enroll in the biggest adventure of my life: moving to a foreign country for a month with other students from all over the world. The location… Tallinn, Estonia! It’s a cold northern country that used to belong to the Soviet Union and it’s one of the most progressive countries in the world today. I thought to myself, “This is crazy man!

I don’t speak their language and this is totally something out of my comfort zone.” I had never lived by myself before. I had never even been to another

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country other than my native island, the Dominican Republic. I felt anxious and scared, but the enrollment window was about to close and, again, I heard a whispering voice in my gut that insisted I go enroll. It told my Self that this was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, a phase that would push me to become a better version of me. Listening to that voice with everything in me feeling on fire, I walked over and enrolled in the program. It seemed like by Divine Appointment. While I was filling out my application, another person was enrolling in the same program. I had no idea that man, Yoram Baltinester, would end up becoming my Life Coach! Or that a year later, he would encourage me to share my story with the world.

Life was giving me a great opportunity to re-create myself anew. While Estonia was still many months away, I was filled with hope and possibility.

Back home in the southern heat of Florida, inspired by the promise I had made to my mother, I started a home-based business. In just the first week, I earned an all-inclusive trip to Cancun, Mexico. I’m not a person to believe in coincidences, but I couldn’t ignore this synchronicity! It was an attraction to my intention. Filled with a rush of excitement and goosebumps, I went ahead and booked the trip for myself and my siblings.

The Universe kept speaking to me, whispering in my ear that travel was the key to my healing and growth. My best friend works for a major airline and he invited me to fly with him to Milan, Italy, for a soccer World Cup friendly match between Colombia and Egypt. Fascinated by the idea of going to Europe, I decided to go early in May. The buildings in Italy were amazing, a huge contrast to the small cement structures I grew up in. My favorite building in Milan is the Duomo di Milano cathedral, which is the largest temple in Italy. It’s heavily decorated and I was in awe of the art on the walls and doors. I fell in love with Milan because of the Gothic style architecture that I could see all around me.

The day of the soccer match, I met some nice people from Egypt. The only connection I had with Egyptians prior to that interaction was reading their stories in the Old Testament and the Hollywood movies. It was pleasant to find out they are regular human beings like I am. We spoke about the political issues and the division going on in their territory and we celebrated the Unity that Football brings to humanity. Standing side by side, we took a picture holding the Egyptian flag high in the air. After a weekend in Italy, my intuition started whispering in my ear, “Go to Thailand! Go to Thailand!” Once again, I listened.

There, I visited many of their holy temples and experienced the Buddhist religion up-close. It was a beautiful sight, seeing altars all across the city... seeing silent monks walking in their orange robes. Inside the temples, we had to take

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our shoes off out of respect for the Universal Presence. Meditating there was truly a Divine Experience.

After Italy and Thailand, it was time to go to Tallinn. Estonia was transformative and caused a great shift within me. I was surrounded by people from all ethnicities and religions and we connected in profound ways. I could relate to their stories, even though we each came from different parts of the world. The more individuals I met from different parts of the world, the more I identified myself as an Earth Citizen.

I came back from Tallinn, Estonia with a healed heart and an open mind and ready for the next adventure: the trip I had won to Cancun. It had been five years since I had last been on a plane with my brother and sister and I felt truly excited to be taking them on a dream vacation! We arrived at the resort and were immediately upgraded to the presidential suite. It was like the Universe was saying, “Your dream trip isn’t dreamy enough without a little extra luxury!” I was stunned by the glamorous apartment. We had a private pool in our balcony!!!! I thought to myself, this is what we work for! To make a living... LIVING! Fascinated by the Mayan civilization and their culture, I went to explore the Quintana Roo area. Mexico, like most Latin America countries, comes from two of the major ancient Meso-American cultures, those being the Aztecs and the Mayans. My Adventurous Spirit took me to the Chichen Itza ruins, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. I was definitely filled with a spirit of wonder!

I found myself standing in the middle of a ball court about the size of a football field with a massive stone border. The ball courts were intentionally placed in ceremonial centers of ancient Mayan cities and the games were serious affairs solving political and social issues. Losing the match meant decapitation, with the heads of the losing team displayed on a skull rack beside the entrance to the courts. Talk about a way to spread fear and obedience!

At that time, I couldn’t comprehend how in the world these people were able to play a game like that. The court was enormous with huge, circular stone rings on the top jutting outwards. The objective was to get a round, heavy ball into those rings without using your hands. Those people must have been in great physical shape!

The ball courts are an amazing piece of architecture in the most surprising of ways. When you are standing inside them, you can make the song imitating the Quetzal bird (the bird featured on the Guatemalan peso) and the sound from the northern wall would be heard on the southern wall. Listening to the

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echoed sound of my own voice gave me chills. It was the most profoundly amazing experience. Being in that space opened my eyes to understand what Steve Jobs said in his legendary interview, “Everything around us was made up by people no smarter than us. Once you understand, you will never be the same again.” At that moment I knew I would never again follow life blindly.

On the way to the Cenote (an underground purified watering hole), walking through the jungles of Mexico, we encountered a priest preparing for a beautiful Mayan ceremony. He invited us to participate in this powerful spiritual practice where you go down to the mouth of the earth to symbolically die and rise up again as a newborn believer.

My last stop was the city of Coba where another pyramid stood tall. Everything in my past had brought me to this ‘Golden Moment in Time.’ Inspired by the Divine within me, I decided to climb all the way to the top. The pyramid is made up of huge stepping stones. Each step demanded that I really stretch my legs to reach the next one. It took tremendous balance and endurance. By half way up, I was wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to turn around and go back. But once I reached the pinnacle, I had the entire Northern Peninsula in front of me. I could feel the wind on my skin and the heat of the sun. My body relaxed into the moment with a huge sense of relief. Looking down, I felt like I could see all of North America in a single glance. I felt like I had the eyes of a god, looking down over every building and person on the continent. It was a symbolic climb to enlightenment.

That’s my Ignite moment. In that instant, I felt my soul being freed from the bondage of bullshit rules and beliefs I grew up following. In that moment, I became what my mentor Vishen Lakhiani calls ‘Culture Hacker.’ My eyes could see the Culturescape for what it is, just a web of ideas and systems to live by, a Matrix that I just been unplugged from. I could feel the Love of my parents, honoring the promise I made to my mother. I could feel my siblings by my side. I could feel the support of all my ancestors. I was connected to everyone and everything that had influenced who I was up until then. And in that moment, I knew I was ready to make my dent in the Universe.

I am forever grateful for my mother, being wise with her finances and being prepared for the worst case scenario. Trauma can take years to heal and can take unexpected turns. For me, traveling was the cure for my grief and the means by which I discovered who I really am and unlocked my connection to the Oneness of the Universe.

My Ignite Moment came during a time of Kensho. Kensho is a term defined

by Rev. Michael Bernard Beckwith where he states that we awaken through

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pain and hard situations. Your life may see many hardships and much pain; it is a part of life designed to uncover your growth. I received an ‘aha’ moment in the deepness of my soul with a sense of peace in my heart that surpasses all understanding. I learned a fundamental truth of life: Inevitably, everything that happens to us happens in our favor. You can get through anything, no matter how difficult it seems to overcome. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. You are not alone and you exist in relation to all that is around you. There is more that unites us than what separates us. Life is always working for you and aligning people, situations and circumstances to help you express who you really are.

Ignite Action Steps • Honor your feelings. Listen to the whispering voice within you (Your Intuition) and act on its guidance.

• Question everything! All the rules and beliefs you grew up following, you can use the Brule Test by Vishen Lakhiani. Get clear on your Heart Virtues, Super Power and Life Purpose. A Life Coach can help.

• Travel as much as you can and experience the diversity of cultures around the world. You are more alike than you realize. Embrace the concept of Unity.

Albert Urena - United States Transformational Leader realalberturena@gmail.com  alberturena2transform  albert-urena

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