“Yeah, now people don’t mind. We all feel this way sometimes.
Gotta let your soul shine—shine ’til the break of day.”
—Warren Haynes, “Soulshine”
By the time you read this, my newest book will have launched.
You might think I’d be celebrating—maybe popping champagne, lighting a sparkler, doing my best impression of an indie author who has it all together.
Don’t get me wrong, I am…but it’s deeper than that.
If you’ve ever launched a book solo, you already know. It’s not glamor. It’s grit. It’s caffeine-fueled sprints, 3 a.m. editing binges, and praying your audiobook gets approved in time. It’s juggling twelve spinning plates, one of which is probably on fire and two others are laughing directly at your self-doubt.
And yes, I record and edit my own audiobooks. That process alone would make Wes Craven blush. Buy me a coffee and I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes horror show.
But in the middle of all that creative chaos, one brutal truth hit me like a line drive to the chest:
I’d let my day job slide. And not just a little. I was drowning.
I work in retail sales—mattresses, adjustable bases, all the stuff people buy when they want to sleep better. Meanwhile, I was helping people rest while quietly burning myself out.
If you’ve seen an MLB game lately, I’m sure you’ve seen an ad for my employer.
Now, I’m salaried, but commission makes up the biggest chunk of my paycheck. And when sales dry up, so does the income.
And lately? My numbers were ugly.
To borrow a phrase from WWE Hall of Fame announcer Jim Ross, they were bowling shoe ugly.
Then came the moment.
A quiet Tuesday. My district manager rolls in for a routine inspection—with two corporate higher-ups in tow. Of course, as we’re talking, a high-potential customer walks in. My chance to show up, show out.
And I blew it.
It was like I chased a breaking ball in the dirt with the bases loaded. Swing and a miss.
No connection. No close. Just me flailing while three company execs watched with polite discomfort.
To their credit, the feedback was kind. Constructive. But I still walked out of that meeting feeling like I’d been flattened by a truck full of rejection letters and cracked in the back by a metal folding chair.
And the kicker? The day before, I’d written nearly $10,000 in sales.
Didn’t matter. A few days later, I was officially placed on a Performance Improvement Plan.
If you’ve never been on a PIP, just know it’s not quite a pink slip… but it’s not exactly a pizza party either. It’s more like corporate purgatory: a ticking clock and a not-so-subtle reminder to get your act together—fast.
To be clear, it wasn’t just that one store visit. It was a culmination of things.
But it didn’t help.
Now, this is where things could’ve unraveled.
I could’ve panicked. Spiraled. Blamed myself. Started updating my LinkedIn and Googling “how to sell knives door to door.”
But I didn’t.
Instead, I made a different decision.
I stopped pretending to be “Sales Guy.”
You know who I’m talking about—polished, pushy, always closing. Basically Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross yelling “Coffee is for closers!” like his life depends on it. Wielding that set of steak knives like a threat.
I stopped trying to be that guy. And I just showed up as me.
Warm. Curious. A little messy. A little funny. Present.
I stopped chasing perfection and started leaning into connection. I listened more than I pitched. I focused on serving, not selling.
And something shifted.
I started closing again.
One Monday, I wrote over $9000 in business—more than double my daily goal. A week later, I cleared $14,000 in a single day. One ticket alone was over ten grand.
No tricks. No grind set hustle. No “fake it till you make it.”
Just me. Showing up. Being real.
And somewhere in that return to self, I remembered a line that’s followed me for years:
“Act as if ye have faith, and faith shall be given to you.”
For most of my life, I thought it meant to perform faith until it becomes real. Which…to be transparent…I thought was bovine excrement.
But now?
Now I think it means something quieter. Something braver.
It means aligning with the part of you that already believes. Even when the rest of you is unsure. It means showing up with integrity, even when you don’t have all the answers. It means trusting that the honest, grounded version of yourself isn’t just enough—it’s the answer to all.
So here’s what I want to say—especially to the men reading this:
If you feel like you’re stuck in a performance: if you’re worn out from pretending to be the guy you think the world expects…
Let it go.
Let go of the mask. The act. The outdated playbook.
The world doesn’t need another CEO impersonator or a TikTok bro yelling from a rented Lambo.
It needs you.
The grounded, honest, vulnerable, capable you.
The one who’s tired of the mask.
The one who’s been quietly wondering if it’s okay to be real again.
It is.
Your family needs that you. Your team needs that you. You need that you.
I used to think success required performance.
Now I know it requires presence.
So let me ask: what could shift if you stopped performing?
Your job? Your marriage? Your purpose? Your peace?
Because when you stop pretending and start believing…
When you stop performing and start aligning…
You unlock something that’s been there the whole time.
Let your soul shine. It’s damn sure better than the rain.
And when you do, don’t be surprised if your life starts shining, too.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
