You know, I spend a lot of time standing right here. Just watching. It’s a good spot. You see a lot of things when you’re the guy holding the door. You see people rushing out, late for something they probably didn’t want to go to in the first place. You see people coming home, shoulders slumped, carrying the weight of the day in grocery bags that are about to rip.
But the ones I notice the most? The ones that really make me scratch my chin? They’re the ones standing just outside.
I see you. I see you standing on the sidewalk. You’re looking at the building. You’re looking at the door. It’s one of those big, heavy revolving doors. You know the kind. Glass and brass, moving with a steady, heavy rhythm. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
And you’re standing there, timing it. You’re waiting for the perfect gap. You’re doing that little shuffle with your feet, getting ready to jump in, but then you pull back. “No, not that one. That one’s spinning too fast. Not that one either, there’s someone else in there. I’ll wait for the next one. I’ll wait until it slows down just a tick. I’ll wait until the light hits it just right.”
And while you’re waiting for the perfect rhythm, you’re freezing. It’s cold out there. The wind is whipping around the corner, biting at your ears, but you won’t move. You are paralyzed by the idea that there is a perfect way to enter the building.
That’s what I want to talk to you about today. That paralysis. That heavy, heavy door of perfection you’ve built in your mind.
We’re talking about fresh starts today. New chapters. Turning the page. Whatever fancy greeting card phrase you want to use for it. Everyone loves the idea of a fresh start. It tastes like peppermint, doesn’t it? Crisp. Clean. Hopeful.
But I reckon most of you are terrified of it. And because you’re scared, you complicate it. You make it into this giant, insurmountable event. You convince yourself that a fresh start requires a marching band, a ribbon-cutting ceremony, and a completely different version of you to show up.
I see folks treat a fresh start like a fireworks show. The “Grand Gesture.” You know what I mean. You decide you’re going to get in shape, so you don’t just go for a walk. No, that’s too simple. You buy the three-hundred-dollar sneakers, the matching outfit, the expensive gym membership, the blender that sounds like a jet engine, and fifty pounds of kale that’s going to rot in your fridge. You set the alarm for 4:00 AM because you read somewhere that billionaires wake up at 4:00 AM.
You stack all this stuff up against the door. You build a barricade of expectations. And then you look at it and say, “Man, I can’t push that open. It’s too heavy.”
Well, of course it’s heavy. You piled all that junk against it.
You’re looking for the Grand Gesture because you think change has to be loud to be real. You think if you don’t kick the door down SWAT-team style, it doesn’t count. You think if you don’t announce your arrival with trumpets, nobody will know you’re there.
Let me let you in on a secret. I’ve been watching people come in and out of this building for a long time. The people who actually make it inside? The ones who actually get where they’re going? They don’t kick the door down. They don’t wait for the drumroll.
They just walk up, grab the handle, and push. It’s boring. It’s quiet. It’s unglamorous. It’s just… turning a handle.
See, real change isn’t a montage. It’s not that scene in the movie where the music swells and the guy runs up the museum steps and suddenly everything is fixed. Real change is usually pretty dull. It’s saying “no” to the second slice of pizza on a Tuesday when nobody is watching. It’s writing two sentences of that book you’ve been talking about for ten years, instead of writing the whole chapter, and then closing the laptop. It’s saving ten dollars instead of spending it on a coffee you didn’t really want.
It’s small. It’s so small that if you told your friends about it, they wouldn’t be impressed. They wouldn’t clap. And that bothers you, doesn’t it? You want the applause. You want the validation of the “New You.”
But the “New You” is a myth. That’s another thing that keeps you stuck out in the cold. You think a fresh start means you have to kill off the old you. You think you have to unzip your skin and step out as a shimmering, perfect being who never procrastinates, never gets angry, and always flosses.
I got news for you. The “Old You” is coming through that door with you. You can’t leave him on the sidewalk. He’s got your social security number. He’s got your memories. He’s got your scars. And that’s okay. You don’t need a new person to walk through the door. You just need the old person to make one slightly better choice today. Just one.
Let’s talk about shoes for a minute. I like shoes. I judge a man by his shoes—not by how much they cost, but by how he walks in them.
A fresh start… it’s like a brand-new pair of leather boots. High quality. Sturdy. They look beautiful in the box, don’t they? You take them out, smell that leather, admire the stitching. You think, “Man, I’m gonna look sharp in these. I’m gonna march right into my new life.”
So you put them on. And what happens?
They hurt. They’re stiff. The heel rubs against your skin. The toe box is a little tight. After an hour, you’ve got a blister forming. Every step is a little reminder that these aren’t your old shoes.
Your old shoes… those beat-up sneakers with the holes in the toes and the soles flapping off? They’re ugly, sure. They smell a little funky. But man, are they comfortable. Your foot knows exactly where to sit. You don’t have to think about walking in them.
So, the first time that new boot pinches your heel, what’s the instinct? The instinct is to say, “These are the wrong shoes. I made a mistake. These aren’t for me.” And you want to reach into the closet and grab the old sneakers.
That’s what happens when you try to start something new. It feels uncomfortable. It feels wrong. It feels clumsy.
Maybe you decide you’re going to be more organized. So you sit down to plan your week. And it feels restrictive. It feels tight. You feel like you’re in a cage. Your brain starts screaming, “This isn’t freedom! I need to be spontaneous!” That’s just the blister. That’s just the stiffness of the new leather.
It doesn’t mean the planning is wrong. It means you haven’t broken it in yet.
You have to walk through the pain of the blister to get to the part where the boot molds to your foot. And that takes time. You can’t fast-forward that part. You have to walk a mile, then two, then ten. And eventually, those boots—the ones that hurt you today—they become the most comfortable things you own. They become a part of you. But you have to wear them through the stiffness.
Most of you folks take the boots off the second you feel a pinch. You say, “Well, I tried. Guess I’m not an organized person. Guess I’m not a runner. Guess I’m not a writer.” And you go back to the old sneakers. And sure, your feet stop hurting, but you also stop moving forward. You’re just standing still in comfortable shoes.
I want to go back to that revolving door. The one you’re staring at.
You know why you’re scared of it? You’re scared because you think once you get in, you have to go all the way to the top floor. You’re looking at the directory in the lobby. You see “CEO,” “Mastery,” “Enlightenment,” “Rich,” “Famous”—all those penthouse suites. And you look at yourself, and you think, “I don’t belong in the penthouse. I’m just… me.”
So you don’t even enter the building.
Here’s the deal. I’m not asking you to climb the stairs to the penthouse. I’m not asking you to run a marathon. I’m not asking you to write the next Great American Novel by Tuesday.
I’m just holding the lobby door open. Just the lobby.
The lobby is a nice place. It’s warm. It’s out of the wind. There’s a place to sit. You can catch your breath.
A fresh start doesn’t mean you have to finish the journey today. It just means you have to start it. It means getting out of the cold.
Stop thinking about the destination. Stop thinking about the person you want to be in five years. That person is a stranger. You don’t know them yet. Focus on the person you are right now, standing on the concrete, shivering.
What does that person need? They need to take one step.
And let me tell you about the timing. There is no perfect timing. The door is always spinning. Life is always moving. There will always be a reason to wait. “I’ll start on Monday.” “I’ll start when work calms down.” “I’ll start when the kids are older.” “I’ll start when I feel more motivated.”
Let me tell you something about motivation. Motivation is a fair-weather friend. Motivation is that guy who shows up to the party when there’s free beer and leaves the second you need help cleaning up. You can’t rely on him. He’s flaky.
If you wait until you “feel like it,” you’re going to be waiting a long time. The people who get through the door don’t do it because they feel like it. They do it because they decided to move. They moved before they felt ready.
Action comes first. The feeling comes later. You turn the handle, you push the door, and then you realize, “Hey, I’m inside. That wasn’t so bad.”
But you have to beware of the “All or Nothing” trap. That’s a big one. I see a lot of people fall for that. It’s this idea that if you can’t do it perfectly, you shouldn’t do it at all.
Imagine if you came up to this building and the door was stuck a little bit. Would you turn around and go home? Would you say, “Well, the door stuck for a second, so I guess I live on the street now”? No. You’d jiggle the handle. You’d push a little harder. You’d find a side entrance.
But with your lives? Oh, you’re brutal with your lives. You eat one donut when you’re on a diet and you say, “Well, I blew it. I’m a failure. Might as well eat the whole box and then burn the gym down.”
That’s nonsense. That’s absolute nonsense. You slipped. You tripped. The door got stuck. So what? Reset. Keep pushing. The only way you actually fail is if you sit down on the curb and refuse to get up.
A fresh start isn’t a one-time event. It’s not something you do on January 1st and then forget about. A fresh start is a recurring decision. It happens every morning when your alarm goes off. It happens every time you choose water over soda. It happens every time you choose to listen instead of shout.
You’re going to mess up. You’re going to scuff those new shoes. You’re going to get caught in the revolving door and go around in a circle a few times before you pop out in the lobby. That’s fine. That’s just being human.
I want you to think about what you’re actually afraid of. Are you afraid of failing? Or are you afraid of being seen trying?
That’s a big one, isn’t it? We hate being seen trying. We want everyone to think we just woke up like this. We want it to look effortless. Because if we try and we fail, we feel foolish. If we try and it’s hard, we feel weak.
But let me tell you, from where I’m standing, the most foolish thing you can do is pretend you don’t care. The most foolish thing is to stand outside in the rain, looking in the window, wishing you were warm, but being too proud to open the door because you might look clumsy doing it.
Come inside. Be clumsy. Trip over the mat. Push on the “Pull” door. I don’t care. Just get inside.
You know, sometimes I think about why we make it so hard on ourselves. I think it’s because we judge our insides by other people’s outsides. You look at someone else’s life—someone who seems to have it all together—and you see their Highlight Reel. You see the promotion, the vacation photos, the happy family. You don’t see the arguments. You don’t see the debt. You don’t see the nights they cried themselves to sleep.
You compare your messy, chaotic reality to their curated storefront. And you think, “I can’t go in there. I’m a mess.”
Listen to me. Everyone is a mess. The CEO in the penthouse? He’s a mess. The lady in the nice suit? She’s a mess. Me? I’m a mess. We’re all just figuring it out. The only difference is that some people are figuring it out inside the building, and some are stuck outside waiting to be perfect.
Perfection is the enemy of done. Perfection is the enemy of start. Perfection is a heavy, iron door that has been welded shut. You aren’t getting through that one.
You need to look for the service entrance. The humble door. The one that’s open a crack.
So, here is the practical advice. I told you I’m practical. I’m not here to give you a mantra to chant.
Pick one thing. Just one. Not ten. Not “fix my whole life.” Just one thing.
Maybe it’s “I’m going to make my bed every morning.” That’s it. That’s the whole fresh start. It sounds stupid, right? It sounds too small to matter. “How is making my bed going to change my life?”
It’s not about the bed. It’s about the promise you keep to yourself. It’s about proving to yourself that you can control one small square of your universe. When you make that bed, you are turning the handle. You are stepping into the lobby.
And once you’re in the lobby, once you’ve made that bed, maybe you look around and say, “Okay, I’m here. What’s next? Maybe I’ll do the dishes.”
Momentum is a powerful thing. But you can’t get momentum if you’re standing still.
And if you miss a day? If you don’t make the bed? Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t tear the house down. Just make it the next day. The door is still there. It didn’t lock just because you stepped away for a minute.
I want you to stop romanticizing the struggle, too. We love the “tortured artist” idea or the “grinding entrepreneur.” We think if we aren’t suffering, we aren’t working. That’s the “new shoes” pain again. Some pain is necessary—the breaking in period. But don’t walk on broken glass just because you think it makes you tough.
Be kind to yourself. That’s something we forget. We talk to ourselves in a way we would never talk to a friend. If your friend was trying to start a new business and they had a bad day, would you scream at them? Would you tell them they’re worthless? No. You’d say, “Hey, it’s alright. Dust yourself off. Try again tomorrow.”
Why can’t you say that to yourself? Why do you have to be the drill sergeant from hell inside your own head?
Be the Doorman for yourself. When you see yourself struggling with the bags, don’t yell. Open the door. Hold it open. Say, “Here, let me get that for you. Take your time.”
Kindness gets you further than criticism. I’ve never seen anyone hate themselves into a better version of themselves. It doesn’t work.
So, look. The streetlights are coming on. It’s getting dark out there. The traffic is picking up. You don’t want to be standing on this corner all night.
The gap in the door is coming around. It’s right there. You don’t need to jump. You don’t need to sprint. You just need to step.
Forget about next year. Forget about next month. Forget about the rest of the week. Just look at the rest of today. What is one small, boring, quiet thing you can do that moves you an inch closer to the warmth?
Maybe it’s drinking a glass of water. Maybe it’s sending that email you’ve been dreading. Maybe it’s just turning off the TV and sitting in silence for five minutes.
Whatever it is, do it. That’s you walking in.
I’m standing here. I’m holding the space for you. I’m not judging you for how long you waited. I’m not judging you for the muddy shoes. I’m just glad you’re coming in.
It’s warmer inside, folks. It really is. The music is better. The company is better. And the best part? You don’t have to be perfect to be here. You just have to be present.
So, stop looking at the top of the building. Stop worrying about the revolving speed. Just catch the handle. Push. And walk in.
I’ll see you in the lobby.
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