I have no degrees.
I do have certifications. One of them took me almost ten years and several attempts to finish. A Degree in Funny. Improv comedy. And honestly, it might be the most useful thing I’ve ever learned. Yes-and. Real team support. The reminder that at any moment, you always have options. It taught me to say yes to the scene even when the scene is a disaster.
Especially then. Those scenes turned into gold.
The rest of my education happened in other ways. I’ve been divorced. I’ve been broke. I moved back into my mommy’s house at thirty years old and had to figure out what kind of man I was going to be about it. I’ve touched the hot stove after being told it was hot. Not once. Several times. Different stoves. So stupid.
Same but different burn.
So no. You probably shouldn’t be listening to me. I’m not a therapist. I’m not a doctor. I can’t prescribe you anything or sit you down and help you process your childhood. I mean, I’ve sat with people and listened to some heavy things. We do that too. But that’s not what this is.
What this is, is stories.
My stories. The ones I lived, the ones I survived, the ones I’m still figuring out. The patterns I noticed in my own life that turned out to be patterns in everyone else’s life too. The things I got wrong for a long time before I got them a little less wrong.
That’s it. That’s my credential.
I’m going to tell these stories anyway. I feel compelled to share them, and I hope somewhere in here something lands for you. Take what makes sense and leave the rest on the table.
You’ve been warned.
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