How to find Peace

I’ve been thinking a lot about peace, recently.

And motivation.

And everything in-between.

I believe there are two ways to self-motivate:

1. Fueled by anxiety. Tight deadlines, demanding clients, a looming financial obligation that you can’t pay unless something magical happens. They work. I believe in places like New York and other major cities, that form of motivation fuels everyone a little bit.
   
   It keeps the rats (us) nibbling at the cheese wheel.
   

2. Fueled by deep connection. To something far greater and more meaningful than just you. Some big-picture thing where you go, “I need to usher this into existence.”

I believe that’s why someone like Musk was so captivating to watch back before he went absolutely fucking mental: he was clearly fueled by something and we were excited to watch it unfold.

Maybe it was hope for humanity; maybe it was fear for his children (regardless of how shit a father he is); maybe he just wanted to see cars go VROOM! VROOM! without smogging up our beautiful planet.

But it was great, and it got me.

It got me excited for the future; it got me excited for electric cars; it got me excited to make things and to tell stories and to create art and to build communities.

That’s worth something, at least.

I read about it all the time; I followed the company; I invested — I know, I know, I created a monster.

But whatever it was, it got me.

The Art of Panic.

In my first sales jobs, I remember frantically scrambling for every single sale.

I was panicked all the time.

I could feel my chest caving in on me in the bathroom in the morning and I just had to remind myself to breathe.

It seemed like everyone else had it easier. They were closing deals; they didn’t seem to be so panicked.

They could breathe.

How?!

Maybe it was the city. Maybe it was my rent. Maybe it was just me.

Whatever it was, I was fuckin’ panicked.

And in sales panic = no sales = more panic.

It’s a bad cycle.

Only when I left that environment did the panic go away.

And that’s when the sales came, too.

Like, literally — working from home one day; with family in the Smokey Mountains the next.

Inevitably, that fuel stopped fueling me, and now it seemed like anxiety had taken over.

Success seems to break it, because when you’re making what feels like God Money and you believe a banana costs $8 and nobody tells you “No, that’s wrong, Elon!” — well, that’s the definition of insanity.

The Art of Slowing Down.

It’s hard to slow down, because it often means embracing the discomfort of those “in-betweens.”

When I settle in-between — not fresh off a high or a low, or fully wrapped up in bringing something to life — fear settles in.

During a recent therapy session, I decided to look into that void.

It was dark. Heavy. Ugly. And scary. It made me feel out-of-control.

Then something happened — I started to think about all of the things that could fill me up when I’m totally empty: friends, ideas, inspiration, relaxation, love.

The darkness felt less like an endless tunnel, and more like a warm blanket.

I started to smile.

“I don’t want to die,” I thought. “When I feel lost or stuck — I just want to get back to who I am or who I was.”

We lose that when we’re striving, or deep in ego — hopped up on ambien and amphetamines and Tweeting into the wee hours of the morning like psychopaths.

So much of our suffering can be attributed to our environment, but also a deep, profound unwillingness to just slow the fuck down.

If we run, drink, yell, buy, buy, buy! 

Well, the darkness never comes.

Until, inevitably it does — a parent passes, our mental health skydives into oblivion, something traumatic happens.

A stabbing. A shooting. An explosion.

That’s life, they say.

And then the darkness storms in.

But what if we didn’t fear it so much?

How would that feel?

For me, weird, honestly.

Anything new feels weird and yucky.

The Art of Hope

Depression is familiar. Anxiety too. But faith? Trust? Hope?

Nobody taught me how to Hope.

To Trust.

To Believe.

Those are new to me.

But maybe life is as much about facing fear as it is learning to believe in something that doesn’t yet exist. Something that you can’t yet see or feel.

And to sit in the warm blanket of discomfort and just exhale and go,

“This blank space isn’t a threat — it’s a blank space for me to create meaning out of. And I choose to view it as that canvas, nothing more.”

Using that canvas as an opportunity to paint something new.

Maybe that’s a different version of you that has clearer boundaries.

Or a better friend, partner, parent.

Maybe even a more patient version of yourself who views uncertainty less as an existential threat, but instead as a beautiful space to draw inspiration from.

I think that’s truly what “Peace” is.

It’s not nothing — it’s knowing that even when we’re all empty space, we can always be filled back up.