seven days of practice at reaching the yes before the fear does.
someone asks, and the yes is out before i've decided — a second later it doesn't feel like mine, because it wasn't me who said it. the fear said it: the guilt, everyone already going along, me not wanting to be the only one who didn't. and the yes was never mine. and the yes isn't even the start of it. i'd been drifting a long time before it. the work, the years, days that just happened. the yes is where the drift finally gets loud enough to catch.
the reason the fear gets to answer is that it's faster. it's been answering for years and it doesn't wait for me — by the time i've thought about it, the yes is already out there being true.
so this is seven days in the half-second before that yes, while it's still a choice. not a detox, not willpower — arguing with yourself starts a second too late every time.
it's one small physical cue, repeated. the hand gets there before the thinking does. that's the whole thing.
the gesture
notice the drift — anything you're doing without having decided it. the yes you don't remember saying, loudest of all.
touch your anchor — one fixed point, the same one every time. the edge of a desk, a sternum, a steering wheel, a watch band.
say "here." — aloud or in your head.
return — the thing in front of you gets you back. you're here again — no move to make.
most reps fail. your hand gets there and the yes is already out. noticing after still counts — that's the rep. the practice is the chain breaking and getting rebuilt, not the chain holding.
the card
a cue card to print and keep on you. nothing to fill in:
pick your anchor point. touch it five times today for no reason.
catch one yes. just one. after it happens still counts.
the miss day. when the touch fails and you say yes anyway, count it anyway. failed reps are reps.
anchor it to a person. one catch while someone you care about is in the room.
the morning catch. first thing, before anyone's asked you for anything — one touch, one "here."
say it aloud once. quietly is fine. the voice makes it real in a way the head doesn't.
count nothing. write one catch down — one sentence about one moment.
if you want a hand through the week —
leave an email and i'll send one line each morning for the seven days. then it stops. that's the only thing it's used for. the practice works without it.
day seven
on the last day, write one catch down and, if you want, send it to me — hello@thesaybrand.com. a miss counts as much as a catch. named or anonymous, your call. some end up in the journal or on the wall — only if you say yes.