“There Is No Free Lunch”
At the age of 20, I eagerly approached that dojo, seeking to absorb all the knowledge it held. The instructor’s gaze assessed me from head to toe before inquiring about the contents of my pocketbook. With a sense of hopeful anticipation, I revealed nothing but lint.
His response was swift and firm: “So, you expect me to train you for free? Get out.” With those words, he escorted me to the door, leaving me with a simple directive: “Return when you understand the value of my teachings.”
Undeterred, I resorted to unconventional means. Shedding my clothes, I danced and gyrated, earning a few hundred bucks in the process. Returning to his door, determination etched on my face, I made it clear I wasn’t backing down.
“What do you want?” he inquired. “Lessons,” I replied. Presenting the money, I awaited his response. “Go treat yourself to something nice. Now, please leave,” he instructed. I was left dumbfounded, unaware that I had inadvertently offended him.
I tucked the money away and departed. In my youthful naivety, I lacked the understanding of what transpired. Yet, determined to pursue my goal, I made another attempt. This time, with a newfound resolve, I confronted him when he was eating a ham and cheese omellete, nearly choking on it when he saw me approach.
“Here you are again, just go away,” he muttered, engrossed in a cheap paperback novel. Unperturbed, I persisted, “Please, I just need a moment.” Glancing at his watch, he relented, granting me a mere minute.
“I’ve heard you train people. I need your help,” I began earnestly.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“I’m trapped in this endless cycle of misery. I’ve heard you have a knack for helping people escape their personal hells. I find myself standing on bridges, contemplating jumping off. I’ve even tried, but a voice in my head urges me to ‘change.’ I know I need to change, but I’m at a loss for how,” I confessed, desperation evident in my voice.
“Is your life so meaningless that you have to end it today and then bother me while I’m trying to eat?”
“What are your options? You can either jump off the bridge or not jump off the bridge, but is there a third option you’re failing to see?” he queried.
She glanced at him, trapped in her own internal struggles.
“I see you’re preoccupied with something over there,” he gestured to the location. “What’s on your mind?” he inquired. “Is it the fear of failure? Do you keep envisioning yourself failing, messing up, never achieving what you desire?”
“Do you have a clear understanding of what you want? Are you genuinely aware of your own wants? Or are you simply going through the motions, fulfilling the wishes of others?”
“You’re fixated on the idea of yourself fucking up,” he reiterated ten times, shifting the location with his hands to where I was visualizing the scenario.
“Turn that image completely black. Make it fucking black and spin it out. Yeah, spin it out like that because a lot of people are hoping for you to mess up. They want to be there to console you when you do. They want you to fail so they can feel superior, believing they know better. They want you to fail because your success threatens their self-image.”
“What does success look like to you? How will you recognize it once you achieve it?” he inquired.
“Well, for starters, I’ll feel happier, I’ll be earning more money, and I’ll be obtaining the things I desire,” I responded.
“What is it that you desire?” he probed further.
“I want to increase my income,” I admitted.
“And how do you plan to accomplish that?” he pressed.
“I’ll do x, y, and z,” I replied confidently.
He shrugged dismissively. “That won’t necessarily lead to increased earnings. What are you known for? Focus on that — something you excel at and can further develop.”
I hesitated, grappling with self-doubts. “What if people don’t want it? What if I’m seen as a failure? What if it doesn’t sell?”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers and uttered, “Sex sells.”
