I built something, and I want you to break it.

It’s called the P3Test. It’s a 10-minute assessment that tells you your PivotType. It unlocks how you’re wired to see change, what drives you through it, and how you actually make it happen.

I need data. You need self-awareness. Seems like a fair trade.

[Take the P3Test here — it’s free]

One favor: when you’re done, hit reply and tell me if it felt accurate. That feedback is worth more to me than almost anything right now.

I have been writing another book.

The idea came to me because of the conversations that kept coming from my first book, A Row With Two Chairs. It’s a memoir, so it’s a section of my life story, and people keep asking, after they read it, about taking so many risks. Some even align risk-taking with spirituality and more. This was an interesting angle to me, because that is not how I lived it. I lived those stories as someone just trying to get the most out of my life, and I made decisions accordingly.

With some deep inner work and heavy introspection, we mined the methods I had used and turned them into decision-making frameworks that I still use to this day.

After showing this to some people I deeply respect, the suggestion came to put this in book form, as maybe it could help some other people who were looking to do something similar, to maximize the opportunity they have to live in this life, whether through business, relationships, or anything else that is worth experiencing more of. So, I did it. I wrote a new book to deliver these frameworks to the world, and the feedback has been great, but we need more. In fact, we need readers.

This is what I need from you: we already have rapport, and you have seen so many iterations of my ideas in different forms that you have a unique perspective that could be really valuable in the next phase of this book’s life. We need readers, and we need feedback from those readers.

The ultimate goal is to sell the digital version at a super affordable $5. I don’t want to just give it away; I am already risking communicating a lower value on the book just by pricing it so low. But I really want to remove the barriers and get it in as many hands as possible. So, to the world, it is $5 on my website. You can also buy a physical copy on Amazon for $19.95, but for you... The Substack crew, who have been there for so much, I have a coupon code that makes the digital edition free.

I would love it if you could read it, and even if you hate it, let me know what works and what doesn’t for you. My email is inside the book and in the download email. Use it :)

Here’s the link:
https://www.scottmocha.com/store/p/no-permission-required-digital-edition

Use the discount code SSWIP to make it free.

One last thing, could you let me know in the comments that you downloaded it?

Every time someone messages me after reading A Row With Two Chairs, I’m humbled.
Not just that they read it, but that they took the retelling of those moments and found something completely unique that I never knew could grow from it.

It just validates what I’ve been learning for the last twenty-one years: our stories are never just ours.

When we share them, they become seeds. Then seedlings. Then saplings.
And eventually they grow into the kind of trees that help others find shade, rest, or direction.

But here’s the thing about trees.
We get to choose which ones we keep holding onto.

Some were planted for us before we ever had a say.
Some we’ve outgrown but still cling to.
Some we hold onto out of habit, fear, or just the comfort of the familiar.
And some, perhaps the most sacred ones, are new seeds waiting to be planted.

For a long time I thought my book would be the ultimate tree.
The stories inside it provided a home base and a reminder of what’s possible.
And yes, it has been that for a long time.

But lately I’ve realized its most valuable gift isn’t the tree itself, it’s the seeds that come from it.

When someone else hears their own story in mine, they plant new seeds in their own lives, and they grow in ways I never could have imagined.
That’s the part I can’t control, and the part that excites me most.

But maybe it’s not just stories that work that way.
Maybe our entire lives do.

Because we all have something we’ve treated like a tree, something we thought was finished, complete, mature.
But over time, that tree stops growing, and the life it has to give is beyond it.

I’ve held tightly to a job, a relationship, a perceived calling, even a dream, only to find later that it was never where I was supposed to sit and stay.

So what happens when we stop guarding our stories and start planting them?
What happens when we stop worrying about how other people see us, and instead stand tall in the truth of who we actually are?

The world doesn’t need another perfectly polished tree.
It doesn’t need fake resolve.
It needs you.
It needs me.
Sharing who we really are, how we’re growing, failing, learning, blowing it, and beginning again.

The world needs more seeds in the soil.

Reflection:
What have you been treating like a finished tree, an anchor in your life, but deep down you see it is no longer growing?

What might happen if you planted it again?

Watch the commentary here:

If you’re new here, I am releasing the entire audiobook for free as a serial podcast. The first eight chapters launched last week, and I will continue releasing a new chapter every weekday at 5am. This is perfect for commuters or anyone who wants a meaningful story to start their day. I recommend starting at Chapter 1 and listening in order. Make sure to subscribe to get all bonus material.

Chapter 9 is already live and it begins week 2.
This is the point where everything shifts. The story moves out of triage and into possibility. It is a gripping, hopeful stretch of the journey.

More tomorrow. Thanks for being on this journey with me.

Each anniversary, I write something about that time, that season, trying to show it from a new angle. But this time, as I sat down to write, I remembered that I was still holding something back.

Quietly, last year, I recorded the audiobook version of A Row With Two Chairs, the memoir that tells the story of that impossible adventure. I spent hours alone in a dark booth, re-living every scene—the wreckage, the grace, the slow rebuilding of a life. When it was done, I had this perfectly mastered version of the book.

And then I did nothing with it.

Nothing.

Maybe I was afraid it wasn’t ready. Maybe it was me that wasn’t ready.

I told myself I was saving it for the right launch, or the right partnership, or the right “moment.” The truth is, I didn’t know if my vocal performance could really carry such a weighted story, and didn’t know how to release it without feeling like I was putting a price tag on something sacred.

I mean, how do you put a price a story about grace?

How do you monetize your own rescue?

Every time I thought about publishing, I felt an ache I couldn’t explain. I’d been saved by something freely given, and yet here I was, trying to package it. The story that once rescued me now felt trapped—not behind a paywall, but behind my hesitation and a world of expectation.

This just didn’t fit.

So this week, on the anniversary of the day everything changed, I made chose a different path.

I would give the audiobook away.

No launch plan. No funnel. No transaction.
Just grace, given freely, the way it found me.

Chapter by chapter, I’m releasing A Row With Two Chairs as a podcast. It’s raw, imperfect, and honest. You can listen anywhere podcasts live.

The story began in grace, it should be released in grace.
Maybe someone needs it today who can’t buy it.
Maybe you know them.

Maybe it’s you.

Twenty-one years ago, that someone was me.

🎧 A Row With Two Chairs: Creating a Life Worth Saving is now streaming everywhere you listen.

For years I thought success meant arrival.

Eventually I’d get there—wherever there was—and I could finally exhale. Mission accomplished. Hey... cake for everyone.

But I had it all wrong, and it cost me.

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Take food, for example. I would diet to lose weight so I could finally get to my goal—and then go back to eating whatever I wanted again.
Big shocker, I never really hit the goal. I would just gain it all back.
Yo-yo dieting, anyone?

Then I joined the gym to 'get fit'—figuring I’d hit the weights for a few weeks, unlock Brad Pitt’s Fight Club body, and coast from there.

Another shocker: that didn't work. The gym was hard, and progress was slow.
So I would quit.

Until I got sick of being out of shape again.
Then I would sign back up.
Has anyone else collected gym memberships without showing up?

Then, a few years later, I got married.
I thought that was the finish line.
Find the woman of my dreams. Put a ring on it. Ride off into the sunset. All the hard work behind us...

(We can all roll our eyes together on that one.)

The work was just getting started.

It took me way too long to realize this:

The arrival was never the point.
The destination was always a myth.

Eating healthy?
It’s not about a number on a scale.
It’s about momentum—the daily choice to treat your body like it matters. The joy of feeling stronger, clearer, more alive. It’s not something you “arrive” at. It’s something you keep choosing.

Going to the gym?
Same thing.
It’s not about chasing an aesthetic. It’s about showing up and pushing your body to uncomfortable places—so you can get the most out of life. It’s about stacking little wins. Building motion. Staying in motion.

And marriage?
It’s not the wedding. It’s not the rings. It’s not the sunset.
It’s the grit of choosing each other again, and again, and again.
It’s learning to fight for resolution instead of being right.
It’s vulnerability, honesty, growth—and yes, sometimes pain.

But the fruit of it?
A connection worth fighting for.
A relationship that moves with you,
that grows with you,
that makes you better—together.

So yeah.
Here’s the real confession:

I failed for years because I thought success was a destination.
But it’s not.
Success is motion.

It’s choosing to move.
To grow.
To show up.
Even when it’s messy.

Especially when it’s messy.

Success isn’t where you land.
It’s how you keep going.

So stop aiming to arrive. Just move.

Been there? Living it now? Hit reply or drop a comment—I’d love to hear what finish line you’re finally ready to burn.

I did Kegels on the gym floor today.

Not because I wanted to.
Not because I felt strong.
Not because there was anything heroic about it.

I did them because I said I would keep moving.

I spent several years behind a keyboard and snacking on my emotions.
While they were pretty tasty, they were not low calorie.

You can imagine the resulting lack of physique or shape.

Not to mention, being a man who was then turning 50, and a dad of two young boys, I knew I had to get to work, or my time on this earth would be severely limited.

So I made a commitment: to be a person who moves.

A commitment to move every day — even if the movement is so internal no one can see it.
Even if I look ridiculous. Even if it feels like failure in slow motion.

Today, that meant laying on the floor of my favorite gym, quietly clenching for my future.

And no, it wasn’t cool.
But it was real.
It was honest.
And it counted.

I’m not training for a marathon.
I’m not trying to win a bathing suit contest.

I’m trying to stay connected —
to my body, to the people I love, to the life that keeps calling me forward.

Which means that sometimes, showing up looks like sweat and power and pushing through.
And other times, it looks like a back injury, a yoga mat, and a desperate attempt to activate a few half-forgotten muscles.

Cue the video montage...
Oh wait — I said I’d spare you that horror.

Here’s what I’ve learned to believe:

Our comfort with discomfort is directly relational to our growth, our success.

Not pain tolerance.
Not hustle.
Willingness.

Willingness to stay in the awkward, quiet, ordinary work that no one else sees.

Because every time we choose to keep our word to ourselves — when it would be easier not to — we build something.

Maybe not abs.
Maybe not performance.
But trust.

And that might be the strongest thing we can carry.

→ What’s the quiet rebellion you’re fighting today?
I’d love to hear it. Hit reply or drop it in the comments.

And if you want to see the 60-second reel this came from, it’s right here:
Instagram Post →

Until then —
Keep showing up. Even for the smallest movements.

— Scott
a quietly clenching human being

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Scott Mocha is the founder of Impossible Path and author of A Row With Two Chairs: Creating a Life Worth Saving. He helps people reconnect to their true voice and path — not with hype, but with presence.

Woke up this morning to water dripping from our kitchen ceiling.

Not a gush. Not a flood. Just a slow, steady drip — the kind that tells you there's a pool of doom quietly waiting above the sheetrock.

Directly overhead? Our bathroom.

This is where we all gasp in unison.

Cue the montage: ceilings collapsing, walls buckling, a biblical flood crashing down — straight out of The Poseidon Adventure. Total carnage. Emotional ruin. Cinematic chaos.

Too far? Probably.

Anyway, I did the responsible thing at 5:45 in the morning with no coffee — checked the pipes, the sinks, the toilet. All dry. All suspiciously… normal.
and then I made coffee...

And still, the drip continued.

Cue the sound of irony.

As the ceiling and the coffee both dripped, I imagined the worst: a hidden pipe quietly betraying us from the subfloor above.

A leak so elusive it takes a battalion of experts weeks to locate, all while camped out in our kitchen, billing by the hour like it’s their full-time job, and they're aiming to collect a pension.

Just like The Poseidon Adventure — minus the ship, the ocean, and the 1970s disaster film budget.

(Okay, still too far — but I had to try one more time)

But then — a ray of sunshine breaks through a cloudy day. In our weekly meeting, my business coach Jennifer drops this gem: “It might not be a pipe.”

She says it like a plot twist.

Wait, what?

“It could be your air conditioning unit. A clogged condensation line. A system doing its job… With nowhere for the water to go, it finds the weakest point in the ceiling and escapes. That drip? It might not be anywhere near the actual problem.”

She sips her tea like she’s solved all of the world's plumbing.

“Check the condensation line first,” she adds, equal parts sage advice and mic drop.

How many of us do the same thing?

We feel the drip — the exhaustion, the irritability, the sadness we can’t explain —
and we assume something major is broken.
So we start tearing open ceilings.
We start rethinking old decisions, uprooting jobs, blaming spouses, our past, even God.

But what if the drip isn't anywhere near the actual problem?

What if we've just been holding too much — for too long —
and the pressure finally found the easiest way out?

Not to destroy us.
To escape.

The truth we held inside.
The grief we never grieved.
The story we kept quiet for everyone else's comfort.
They won't stay silent forever.

It's not random. It's release.
And it is sacred.

Sometimes healing doesn’t start with a breakthrough.
It starts with a drip.

Maybe you don’t have to tear everything down to heal.

Maybe it’s not the pipe.
Not the past.
Not the spouse.
Not the job.
Not even God.

Maybe you’re just full.

And the drip?
It’s your soul whispering:
There’s still work to do here.
Please make space.

👣 Keep going. You’re not alone.
Subscribe to the Impossible Path for reflections like this.
It’s free — and always will be.
If it spoke to you, feel free to share it —
or just take a deeper breath today.

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I didn’t set out to make a reel.
I set out to tell the truth —
to reach into my own discomfort
and grab hold of the identity that keeps trying to slip away.

To name the ache we carry when our creativity gets hijacked by expectation.
To call out the slow erosion of our voice when it’s forced to sound like someone else’s.
To label the quiet courage it takes to make something that might not work… but feels undeniably true.

“Conformity Sucks” isn’t a brand statement.
It’s a soul cry — from me, and maybe from you too.

I made this for the ones still in the fight.
The ones who haven’t given up, even if they’ve gone quiet.
The ones who still believe that creating is a sacred act —

even when it’s messy,
even when it’s lonely,
even when no one claps.

This is what Impossible Path was made for.
Not the highlight reel. The real reel.
The moment someone says,
“I think I’m ready to be myself again.”

If that’s you —
you’re not alone.

I’m on this journey too.

In fact, my adventure into Impossible Path is a re-centering of who I am —
in a very public-facing way.
Which is weird.
But necessary.

I’m not just trying to inspire people to stretch into the scary moments
and be true to themselves.

The posts asking you to do that?
They’re being sent by someone doing that, too.
In real time.
In reels.
In whispers.
In whatever form my own story chooses.

👇
Let me know what this stirred in you.
And if you’re still creating, still listening,
still daring to make what’s honest —

tag it #beimpossible
so we can find each other again.

Yeah, me too.

People say that all the time — about dreams, about change, about healing. About faith. About purpose. About art.

And when you’re in a season of transition — when the ground is shifting under you and nothing quite fits anymore — those words start to echo. Impossible.

Maybe your faith is expanding in ways that look, to the outside world, like it’s falling apart. You’ve outgrown the box you were handed, and the idea that there could be a spiritual path wide enough for what you now feel… it just seems impossible.

Or maybe things on the outside look great. The job is solid. The family is good. The LinkedIn is clean.

But inside? It’s hollow. There’s a gnawing question you can’t shake: Is this all there is?

And the thought of disentangling from the life you’ve built — to chase meaning instead of momentum — feels impossible.

It could be that you’re a creative — a writer, a musician, an entrepreneur, a designer, or just someone who sees things differently. You’ve learned how to play the game, how to fit in, how to wear a version of yourself the world will accept. But it’s killing something inside you.

Maybe your best work — your truest work — is still buried beneath the surface — waiting. And the idea of being seen for who you really are? That might be the most impossible thing of all.

I get it. Every one of those paths has been mine.

So a few years ago, I started looking for a way through. I worked with coaches and spiritual guides, with pastors and skeptics, with artists and thinkers and wanderers of every stripe. And over and over again, I kept hearing one quiet, persistent truth:

Do the thing your heart is aching to do. Do it scared. Do it slow. Do it now.

And that’s how I ended up here — on this path.

Maybe you’ve seen the whispers — quiet reflections scattered along the way.

Or maybe you’ve noticed the spiral — quiet but unignorable, asking to be recognized, even in silence.

Maybe you sensed they were part of something larger. A trail of breadcrumbs. A map forming in real time — leading somewhere not yet uncovered.

Today, I’m renaming this Substack. Two Chairs is becoming Impossible Path.

Because what once felt impossible… doesn’t anymore.

I’ll keep sharing what I’m learning — and doing my best to spark motion. But this isn’t just about me — or my journey. My deepest hope is that this becomes a sacred space for all of us — the ones in between, the ones becoming, the ones unsure but still moving.

If you’ve been here for a while, thank you. You’ve been walking this path with me already. And if you’re new — welcome. You belong here too.

Stay close. There’s more to come.

Let’s see where this leads.

Welcome to the Impossible Path.

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🌿 Day 7: The Motion of Becoming
If every twist and detour was part of the design — what truth might your life be trying to teach you now?

Some roads don’t unfold all at once.
They curve.
They climb.
They vanish into trees
and reappear on the other side of wonder.

We pull over at a scenic overlook,
let the wind hit our faces,
tell ourselves: this is it.
But something ahead keeps calling.

I have thought I was about to arrive so many times—
only to find another curve,
another hill,
or even a tunnel.

So we keep going.
Through the tunnels,
through the fog,
past the seasons that blind us
to everything but the next few feet.

And then the hill we have been climbing levels out,
we crest the top,
and the view opens —
familiar mountains,
but somehow deeper now.
Wider.
More holy.

They haven’t changed.
But maybe we have.

That’s how it goes.

We don’t always know what we’re becoming
until we see it.
Until we live it.
Until we feel it.
And realize:
this — all of this —
was the road
that shaped us.
Each curve, each harrowing moment,
each bump, each long stretch of vast quiet...
they all came together to make the journey.

The only real failure
would have been
never taking it.

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This post is part 7 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.
WE DID IT!!!!

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

DAY 6 — The Voice That Sounds Like Yours

Prompt:

What does peace sound like?

And how do you trust it?

There is a voice inside of us.
Some call it God.
Some call it the Holy Spirit.
Some call it instinct, or intuition, or maybe it’s just gut.

It doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t beg.
But somehow, it brings clarity in the cloudiest of times.
Light in the darkest of moments.

And the real question isn’t whether it exists—
but whether it can be trusted.

There are scriptures about this.
Maybe I’ll unpack them someday.
But this isn’t that.

This isn’t teaching.
It’s just me.

How do I know I’m not just filling in the void with what I want to hear?

The voice sometimes convicts
and it sometimes stings—
but thats usually because I’ve tried to bend things—
things that were never meant to hold me.

So—how do I know?

My test is easy.
At least, it looks simple on paper.

If the voice leads me toward light—
toward wholeness, peace, and love—
especially when it stretches me—
I credit it to something beyond me.
Something sacred.

If the voice is negative, judging, belittling, or mean,
I assume it’s coming from my own head.

And let’s be honest—
I can be a real jerk to myself.
I can also be an anarchist.
I can rationalize almost anything
and I can make it all look good on paper.

So how do I know those thoughts aren’t mine?

The truth?
I don’t.
Not in a provable way.
All I have is experience.

And experience tells me this:

When I listen to the voice that leads me,
and encourages me
to help more,
to love deeper,
to risk,
to be vulnerable,
to share,
to show up with care—
When I listen to that voice,
when I trust it,
I end up in better places.

And when I yield to the voice that justifies anything,
the one that fuels fear,
forecasts doom,
isolates me—
I shrink.
I spiral.
I forget who I am.

I get taken out.

So is it God,
or is it me?

Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
Maybe that question matters less than I thought.

What I know is this:
When I listen to the voice that leads me toward light,
toward love,
toward the kind of surrender that makes me more human—

I feel closer to me than I ever can get by myself.

It doesn’t yell.
It doesn’t shame.
It doesn’t rush.
It knows my pain.

When I am falling off the path—
the one that was said to be impossible—
it reminds me
of another journey.
Different starting places,
Different turning points,
Different moments of trust,
Different moments of surrender.

And when I listen—
really listen—
what comes next
feels like grace all around me.
A whisper becomes a step.
A step becomes a path.
And the path—
quiet, sacred, impossible—
somehow always worth taking.

I guess there are two voices inside of us.
One pulls me inward, toward fear and control.
The other pushes me outward, toward love and light.

I choose the one that gives me life.

This post is part 6 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

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DAY 5 — The Ink Beneath the Edits
Even after the erasing, the first draft still bleeds through.
Prompt:
What have you kept trying to outgrow, bury, or evolve past — only to find it’s still shaping what you do?

Years ago, at the very beginning of my faith journey, I went on a Christian men’s retreat expecting to be handed some kind of spiritual job description.
I was maybe three months in, still figuring out how to pray without sounding like I was writing a bad poem.

But I went with the full expectation that I’d walk away with a title.
My calling.
My sword.

Hilarious, right?

After a long day of intense teaching and personal revelation, I found myself sitting in a hot tub with a group of men, sharing our hearts.
A stranger I had never met came up to me, hesitated, and said he felt like God wanted him to share something about my spiritual gifting.

I perked up.
This was the moment.
The big reveal.

He looked at me sincerely and said:
“Your spiritual gift is Encouragement.”

And that was it.
Encouragement?

It hit like a wet noodle on a soggy pancake.
I didn’t say anything, but inside I was thinking:
Really? That’s the gift?
I wanted something with danger and grit.
I wanted to be a warrior —
not a cheerleader.

For years, I tabled the thought.
I didn’t reject it outright.
I just quietly filed it under “maybe it’ll make sense someday,”
and kept chasing other things — shiny, strong, impressive things.

Encouragement didn’t feel central.
It didn’t feel sacred.
It didn't feel like me.

But here’s the thing:

The gift grew in me anyway.

It wove itself into how I showed up —
in one-liner texts,
in hallway moments,
in offhand comments that turned out to matter more than I expected.

Not the “You’ve got this!” kind of encouragement.
Not cheerleading.
Something quieter.
Something truer.

And it wasn’t until maybe two months ago — no exaggeration —
that I saw it clearly for what it was.

I was doing a journaling exercise, trying to name the mission behind my work —
my writing, my book, everything I’ve been building.

The prompt was to name it in one word.
So I did.

Encouragement.

Immediately I was overcome with a wash of knowing,
a breath of revelation:

That’s it.
That’s what I’ve been doing all along.
I just didn’t get it.

There have been moments — more than I can count — when I almost stayed silent.
I figured someone else would say it better.
Or that my input wasn’t really needed.

But something in me pressed forward —
just a few words.
Not grand.
Not polished.
Just… true.

Not “You’ve got this.”
More like:
“I see you.
I know how hard that was.
And what you did — and what you're still doing — matters.”

It’s not about inspiration.
It’s about recognition.

Not the kind that stirs a crowd —
but the kind that steadies a soul.
The kind that reminds someone who they are,
before they even realize they’ve forgotten.

That’s the real meaning of encouragement:
not hype, breath.
Not noise, presence.

When the words land, there is always this moment —
a shift in the eyes,
a spark in the spirit,
like something heavy just got put down,
and something holy picked back up.

That’s when I know it’s real.
That it mattered.
That it was worth it — all of it.

It's what I’m here for.

Encouragement isn’t just what I do.
It’s the current I move in — whether I mean to or not.

It’s what stirs to life in me when I sense someone slipping —
losing their footing,
their vision,
their sense of who, or why they are.

It is the ink that keeps bleeding through every edit —reminding me that what I once called soft
was actually sacred.

And it was always me.

This post is part 5 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

Subscribe now

DAY 4 — The Longing That Called You Forward Before you had a plan… before you had a dream… what deep longing stirred you into motion?

For a long time, I told people I didn’t have dreams.
And I didn’t.

Not because I was hopeless —
but because I was just so damn grateful to still be breathing.

After all I had been through, simply waking up felt like enough.
Some days, that was everything.
Survival was sacred.
But it, by itself, wasn’t sustainable.

Gratitude without movement eventually calcifies—
it becomes rituals that try to repay the miracle
while sidestepping the risk of hope.

Something inside me groaned—
a low, ancient, and undeniable recognition—
when I first saw a trailer for the film Into the Wild.
It wasn’t intellectual. It was cellular.
It was a tug I couldn’t explain,
like something old and true was waking up from a long sleep
brought on by decades of detachment and numbness.

Overcome with anticipation, I found it in theaters as quickly as possible.
As the story unfolded, I felt it in my bones—like I knew this character—I knew Alex.
His longing to disappear, to test himself, to prove his worth apart from the systems that shaped him—it hit me like a mirror.
Not the clean kind—
The kind you find cracked and buried in a locked chest,
in the back room of a forgotten attic at the edge of the world.

As the film ends, Alex dies, and I wept.
It was a deep, guttural cry — the kind that comes from the depths of human existence.
I wasn’t crying just for him though —
It was also for the part of me that ached to be alive—
And finally knew: I had to go.

I didn’t know where.
I didn’t have a dream.
But I did have fire.

Something in me needed to be tested.
To be emptied.
To be redefined.
To be set free
in the wild.

I didn’t know it yet, but that moment planted the seed:
Paris.
Departure.
The long unraveling of everything I thought I needed to survive.

And now — years later — when I look back on that season with more clarity and less romanticism, I realize the part that speaks to me even louder now:

The wild was never meant to be endured alone.
It was the story being shared that made it sacred.
Moments don’t just grow when shared—
They take root.
They live longer and wider
in community.

I used to think the longing was about escape.
Now I see it was about connection.

Even then, I wasn’t trying to disappear.
I was trying to be found—
not by a crowd,
not by a cause,
and not by God.

He already had me.

I was trying to find the me He saw.

It wasn’t rebellion.
It wasn’t even escape.

It was grace pulling me into the wild—
not to prove I was worthy,
but to show me I already was.

This post is part 4 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

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Day 3 — The One Thread You Kept

This is the second of seven daily prompts. Nothing fancy—just a few quiet moments to reconnect with the voice beneath the noise.

Follow along.
Reflect privately.
Journal.
Or share what rises.

I’ll be walking through the prompts too—writing what stirs, what moves, what returns.

And if you’re just finding this now, you’re not behind.

The invitation still stands.
Start wherever you are.
Or circle back to Day 1.

Wherever you feel the tug…
that’s where you begin.

Today’s Prompt:

What part of you refused to disappear?

I overdosed in 2004.
I survived. But you probably guessed that.

Six days later, I found myself inside a church.
Destiny Church.

I sat in a row with only two chairs.
I was raw and deeply skeptical.

Reluctantly, I decided to give this Christian thing a try.
But for only thirty days.

That was the deal I made with God: thirty days.
Just to see what could happen.

Those thirty days turned into months. Then years.
Then I was ordained in that very church and sent out as a missionary.

Me? A missionary?

I was sent to help start a new church in Paris—but it was so much more than that.
It felt like destiny—literally and figuratively.

In Paris, I embraced the wildness and unpredictability of it all.
Eventually, I met a guy. A pastor.

We actually met in Germany, but the point is—he was a pastor of a prominent church.
Someone I already admired. Someone I put on a pedestal.

I loved what they taught at that church.
How they taught it, framed it, understood it.

Eventually, I was invited to come serve there—learn how they did church in Los Angeles.

There, I could be discipled.
Be a protégé.

Who knew where it might lead?
I thought I did.

I had visions. BIG visions.
Ideas of how it would unfold.

I thought I was watching my sacred story climax into some kind of ministerial ascension.

Instead, it collapsed.

The church that brought me to LA laid me off.
Ended my job and put my dreams to rest—or so it seemed.

"You can still volunteer, though."

Ouch.
Not exactly a hero’s moment.
More like a polite exile.

Pedestal gone.

It felt like everything I had built—everything I had trusted—crumbled.
The great story I was decoding didn’t end in glory.
It ended in grief.

But did it?

I tried to walk away from it all.
From church. From ministry.
From whatever calling I thought I had.

But the need to help people kept knocking.
Louder. More chaotic.

Other churches needed someone—someone who could help them get over a hump.
I helped.
I got burned.
Again. And again.

A pattern was forming—one I was painfully forced to notice:
I’d give my whole heart to a church… and they’d eventually, graciously, decline it.

More ouch.

So I pivoted.
I started businesses. Got good at other things.
Found new ways to contribute. New crafts to master.

Every so often, the old pull would rise again—the pull to just help people.
And every time, I’d try to whack it down—like some eternal game of whack-a-mole with a gazillion credits still to burn.

I thought I had finally become bitter enough to leave it,
like my arms had whacked the last mole.
It was time to let someone else burn the credits.

Then I started writing a book.

It was meant for my kids—a way to preserve the true story,
the nitty-gritty details,
for when I’m no longer here.
But it became something more.

My book coach warned me: It’ll be like therapy.

She wasn’t kidding.
Two years. 150,000 words. Fourteen edits.
And something sacred—something bigger than me—emerged.

Yes, it was a book.
But it said more than just what happened.
It whispered what mattered.
It traced the shape of a soul that still believed.

Someone who actually believed there could be more—
That God, or the universe, or a higher power was really in it with them.
Or at least, they lived like they believed that.

And that person… was me.

But what happened?

Preparing to publish it to the world, I caught enough glimpses for it to finally register:

The thread was still there.
Even after the heartbreak.
Even after the disappointments.
Even after I tried to bury it.

I was still a missionary.
I was still in ministry.
I was still living my life for something greater than me.

The calling didn’t vanish.
It evolved—just like I did.

I needed to redefine what that meant for me.
Without pulpits or pews or permission.
I needed to claim it as my own.

The thread never broke.

It wove itself deeper—
into everything I am,
everything I’ve been,
and everything I still dream of becoming.

Through all the loss and reinvention—
I was still being sent.
Just not where I expected.

And maybe that was the point all along.

This post is part 3 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

A 7-day return to your sacred story

This is the second of seven daily prompts. Nothing fancy—just a few quiet moments to reconnect with the voice beneath the noise.

Follow along.
Reflect privately.
Journal.
Or share what rises.

I’ll be walking through the prompts too—writing what stirs, what moves, what returns.

And if you’re just finding this now, you’re not behind.

The invitation still stands.
Start wherever you are.
Or circle back to Day 1.

Wherever you feel the tug…
that’s where you begin.

Today’s Prompt:

What parts of your story come from someone else?
What are you ready to set down?

When I was twelve, I strapped a 10-speed bicycle to a self-propelled lawnmower.

Not because I was trying to be funny.
Not because I was bored.
But because I genuinely believed I could make a better machine.

Spoiler: I could not.
It sucked. It was a mess.
But it was mine.

That one failed experiment earned me a nickname I carried for decades:

Shortcut.

My dad gave it to me—and not in a fun, movie-montage kind of way.
He said it with a smirk. A sigh. A warning.

“Always looking for the easy way out.”

And honestly?
He wasn’t wrong.

I was cutting corners.
Making messes.
Trying things that didn’t work.

It got me in trouble.

But it also became my blueprint.

Because here I am now—three companies deep, working with clients all over—
still building things ‘better.’
Still asking:

Is there a smarter way to do this?
A more elegant execution?
A cleaner, kinder, more human solution?

I was handed a script:
Shortcut = lazy.

But I rewrote it:
Shortcut = innovative. Relentless. Possibility-minded.

Today’s prompt asks what storyline we were handed.

But I’m not here to lay mine down.

I picked that story up and made it mine.

Not every inherited subplot is a lie.
Sometimes it’s a truth waiting for new language.

So here’s to the twelve-year-old misfit who believed there was a better way.
Here’s to the clunky, glorious failures that taught me how to see sideways.
Here’s to the name that once stung—now stitched into my legacy.

I’m still Shortcut.

But now?

It’s a badge. Not a bruise.
A mark of mischief and innovation.
Maybe even… worth putting on LinkedIn.

This post is part 2/7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

Leave a comment

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Day 1: The Silence

Welcome to The Voice Between the Lines — a quiet, 7-day return to the parts of your story that never stopped speaking.

Each day offers one whisper, one prompt, and one gentle invitation to listen beneath the noise.

There’s no pressure to share.
But if the words rise… trust them.

I’m sharing this series across a few spaces —
but this is where I’m answering the prompts for real.
Right here. In real time (well… sorta.)
Only on Substack.

✍️ Today’s Prompt:

What silence have you been avoiding?
What might it be trying to say?

I spent ten years working as a professional nightclub DJ.

From the age of 22 to 32, I stood in front of some of the most insanely loud sound systems you can imagine — four or more nights a week, for hours at a time. And I loved it.

I always figured I’d lose some hearing eventually, but now that I’m in my fifties, I’m living with the cost. The hearing loss I have is so specific, so oddly focused, that hearing aids don’t really help. They amplify the confusion more than the clarity.

It’s frustrating for me — but even more so for my family. And I feel for them.

You see, I’m not your average hearing loss case. In order to understand things, I have to turn the volume down. I know — it’s counterintuitive. But when things are too loud, they bleed together. The kids talking, the TV, phones, dishes clinking — they all compete. And the louder they get, the less clear they become.

So I’ve learned to find peace in the quiet.

Right now, as I sit and write, it’s silent. I hear the tap of my fingers on the keyboard. The faint sound of our fountain outside. And then… this ever-present pitch.

It’s not a sound exactly. It’s more like something I experience.
A frequency just beyond the reach of my ears.
And strangely enough — it changes when someone enters the room.

It’s like I’m tuned into the resonance of solitude.

I’ve always considered myself an extrovert. But this silence? That subtle pitch? It brings comfort. It brings clarity. In the quiet, my mind works better. My dreams come easier. The ideas don’t trickle — they roar.

So what is my silence telling me?

Right now, it’s saying that I’m alone.
Literally, sure — but also something deeper.

It’s telling me that I’m alone in the process.

And that’s both comforting and confronting.

Because as much as I’ve always identified with connection and external energy, I’m realizing that the silence is not just an absence — it’s a presence of its own.

It’s here, now, inviting me into something.
Into clarity. Into mystery. Into God.

As I try to figure out what’s next — as I try to hear the divine reminder of who I am — the pitch remains.
Not quite sound. Not quite imagination.
A yearning.

A yearning for the elevated pitch —
the one that occurs
when another soul enters the room.

Thanks for being here. If you’re following along, feel free to journal, reflect, or simply notice what this stirred up in you.

And if you’re just now seeing this — you’re not behind.
The invitation stands.
Start wherever the whisper finds you.

I’ll be back tomorrow with Day 2.

This post is part of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

🌀 Following along?
Subscribe to stay with the journey — and feel free to share your own reflections in the comments.

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Something Sacred starts Monday. Be ready.

#SpiritualAwakening #ReturnToYourStory #TheVoiceBetweenTheLines #ModernPilgrimage #InnerJourney

The invitation is constant.
And it’s still for you.

I used to think there would be a sign.
Like… an actual sign.

The clouds would part. A stranger would say something eerie.
A song would play at the exact right moment and confirm that
this was the turning point.

And here’s the thing: I’ve had all three.

But it’s more often subtle.
Borderline unremarkable.

It’s that quiet discomfort when everything seems fine.
That feeling like you’re late for something—but you don’t know what.
That moment in traffic when a lump rises in your throat,
but you can’t say why.

It’s not a summons.
It’s a signal.
A pervasive signal that only breaks through
when everything else goes quiet.
And it’s always on.

The invitation isn’t rare. It’s constant.

It’s not reserved for the enlightened.

It’s for the exhausted.

The unsure.

And yes—even the awakened.

Because the invitation never stops.

You haven’t missed it.
It wasn’t a one-time offer.
It’s still calling us deeper—
into the mystery.

This signal isn’t for the broken moment.
It’s for the blurry one.

Like a lighthouse cutting through the fog,
your ship seems on course—
but something inside keeps asking,
Is this the way?

We talk about purpose like it’s a destination.
Like it’s waiting at the end of some perfectly timed sequence of brave choices.

But what if it’s not a place? What if it’s a direction?

What if calling doesn’t come with a map—
but with a rhythm?

A signal. A pattern. A breath.

Not “Go here.”

Just: “This way. Keep going.”

Say yes to the quiet thing.
The blurry nudge.
The moment that doesn’t make sense yet.

You don’t have to be ready.
You just have to be listening.

The only thing required
is that you keep going—today.

The invitation is constant.
And it’s still for you.

Scott is a maritime philosopher, husband, father, and a human radar dish—doing his best to live by the signal in all things, at all times.

Reclaiming the life I lost—and giving the pen to God.

The world is loud with plotlines.

Get richer. Get thinner. Get busier.

Get even.

Build a brand. Find your tribe. Monetize everything.
Look Strong.

Be visible. Be excellent. Be liked.
Be divisive. Be abrupt. Be right.

Don’t feel. Don’t stop. Don’t need. Don’t drop.
Don’t age. Don’t fall. Don’t make mistakes. Don’t ever apologize.

The irony?

We’re surrounded by stories

But starved for meaning.

Me?
I woke up barely clinging to life.
I don't know what exactly happened,
but I can piece it together from the wounds,
the blood,
the chaos stopped in time.
It was an overdose—or something very much like it.

I should not have survived.

But I did.

I did because I was living in a story I wasn’t writing.

I had become a ghost in my own life. Not haunted.
Just empty.

I wore the face of someone going through the motions.

A shell performing a life, not living one.

Fixes replaced friends. Fog stood in for faith. And the stunt double for heart was hustle.

I simulated connection, drowned and strangled the ache, trying to stay numb. To convince myself
this was as good as it gets.

My life had become a complete limiting belief—
an impossible story with no way forward.

Until I woke up.

We all live inside a story. Not metaphorically. Literally.

From the moment we can form thoughts, we start writing the lines of the script inside our heads:

Who am I? Why did that happen? What does it mean?

Stage Directions, Subtext, and motivations all form from that script.

But there’s a twist:
that script is not written by us.

We inherited it. Absorbed it. Maybe even tried to outrun it

Until we found ourselves relishing in the role of the B-character.
The sidekick.
The comic relief.
The tragic subplot.

We settled for being the footnote
in a different epic.
With the world happening to us.

Never realizing we were meant to be the protagonist, the hero of this story.

When, in fact, the world is happening around us.

We get to choose how to respond.

How to shape the character arc

How to ride the transitions

And when to turn the page.

You were always the main character.

Even when you forgot.

Even when you handed off the pen.

Even when you sat in the background, hoping someone else would carry the plot.

But then something shifts.

You take it back

word

by

word.

You say yes
to things that scare you.
You say no
to things that shrink you.

You trust when people speak to your soul over image.

And little

by

little,

the story begins to shift.

After I woke up, I didn’t feel powerful.

I didn’t have clarity or a sense of purpose.

I didn’t reclaim my story with poetic determination.

I could barely form a sentence.

The only thing I could do

was keep showing up

to this imperfect, still-in-progress church

where I felt safe.

Where no one asked for explanations.

Where my wounds didn’t have to be hidden.

There, in the gentle rhythms of community,
I was slowly taught how to write again.

I was taught how to live again.

How to make choices that weren’t just reactive or survival-based.

How to risk something better.

Not because I had finally become
strong or healed or wise,
but because I started to trust something
something more stable than myself.

Not my strength.
Not my instincts.
But my creator.
I learned to trust God.

I began making bolder decisions,
not because of how risky they were,
because of the trust and reliability they assumed.

It was story not rooted in performance, but in grace.

Over time, I realized I didn’t need to hold the pen so tightly.

God wasn’t waiting for me to figure it all out.

He was waiting for me to trust
Him
With the next sentence.

So I did,

And the story didn’t get easier—
but it became real.
It stayed Honest.
And it was so much better.

Because when God writes with you, He doesn’t erase your voice. He amplifies it. He doesn’t scrap the story. He redeems it.

You name it. You own it. You write it.

And then… You lay it down.
So it can become more than yours.
So it can become holy.

That’s when the impossible starts to happen.

That’s when the path begins to unfold— not paved, not always clear— but healing, rich, and unmistakably real.