About a week ago, I sat down and wrote a post.
A shouty, ranty, thoroughly pissed off kind of post.
This isn’t it.
I felt justified in my rantings. It’s been a tough few months. In fact, I’d call it a properly rubbish few months. So rubbish that I finally snapped and, with my angriest playlist blaring in the background, unleashed my frustrations in my journal. A proper spleen-venting session releasing months of pent-up anger and disappointment.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
That very day, I’d launched a new programme about managing your self-talk—mastering your inner voice so that your negative soundtrack stays firmly in its box. Talk about hypocrisy.
Yet despite recognising the contradiction, I couldn’t silence the soundtrack hammering in my mind. A soundtrack telling me I was a failure.
A failure as a dad. As a husband. As a provider.
A failure as an employer, a colleague, a friend.
A failure, period.
I’d allowed that soundtrack to become dominant for all sorts of reasons. Tiredness, battle weariness, and family pressures all contributed to an ever-shortening fuse and growing mental fog. Space to catch my breath remained frustratingly out of reach.
As fatigue set in, the negative voice grew louder, its taunts eroding my resilience.
“You let that person down.” “You missed that opportunity.” “You screwed up that meeting.” “You didn’t see that coming.” “You’re losing your edge.”
Gradually, almost surreptitiously, ‘you’re losing your edge’ became ‘you’ve lost your edge.’ Then ‘you’re finished.’ Then ‘you’re a failure.’ And eventually, this became my truth.
Only it wasn’t the truth. It isn’t the truth.
For me, writing is catharsis. And, as my keystrokes continued and words took shape on the page, I began to regroup and call out these messages for what they were—lies. I’d been duped, fallen into a trap.
And so, not for the first time, the fight-back began.
You know what I’m talking about. You’ve been there too—cornered in moments where, no matter how hard you try to silence that voice of doom, the lies prevail. But silence it we must, for its sole desire is to torment us until we’re crushed into mere specks of who we truly are.
If we’re going to live full lives, that’s simply not an option.
So how do we beat such a persistent and devious foe?
Start by letting it all out.
I know from bitter experience how toxic holding everything inside can be. You might think you’re doing yourself and everyone around you a favour by pushing on, but you’re not doing anyone any favours. Least of all yourself.
When you speak it out or write it down—whatever works for you—there’s instant catharsis. As thoughts flow from your brain, you create space. Space to breathe. Space to think clearly. In that clarity, your negative voice loses its power. Its screams become whispers, and you see the lies for what they are.
Then take time to refresh and recharge.
Unless you fill that newly created space with goodness and guard its entry points, it will soon become crowded again. Fatigue and battle-weariness once allowed your negative voice to take charge; it will do so again if you let it.
Eliminate tiredness. Recharge yourself. Move, breathe, be present. Allow the world around you to engage your senses. Experience the air, sounds and smells that surround you.
Finally, reset and reboot.
Learn from what has gone before (yes, I know, note to self). Don’t simply pick up where you left off—start over. Begin afresh, free from the toxins that contaminated your thoughts, ready to step forward knowing you are worthy, you are anything but a failure, and you were made to live a full life.
Easy to say. Tough to do. But worth the struggle.
