I don’t want to serve you.
Serving implies that I fall at your feet, obey your every wish, and succumb to your every whim without question. Serving means I’m the woman who scrubs your feet during a pedicure, or the waitress who doesn’t make eye contact while bringing your food to the table, or the clerk at the store who rings out your purchases without comment.
Serving energy is heavy energy.
I want to play with you.
I want to see what happens when we get together and go exploring, much like reuniting Calvin and Hobbes with their trusty wagon before sending them off for an afternoon in the forest. I’ll take a look at everything you don’t want me to know, then have scary ideas that add up to exactly what you’ve always dreamed of but have never told anyone out loud. I’ll pounce on you with utter delight when I see you coming down the sidewalk after a long day of Adulting, and you’ll trust me like you trust no one else even though it makes no logical sense to those watching.
Because when you meet a Hobbes, you have to Calvin. (The laws of physics are clear, here.)
We’ll go exploring together in your business, and we’ll fall down and biff and also get up and laugh and enjoy the whole process, even though sometimes it’s a real mess and we ended up breaking the wagon but don’t tell anyone, it still works alright if you don’t steer to the right too fast.
What we’ll find together is a more joyful business experience. (Quite often that means you make more money and rekindle your love for your work while we’re together. It always means revealing more of yourself to the world around you.)
I don’t want to serve you.
I want to act as midwife for your ideas and creations, with the added bonus of never having to see your nether regions or blow up a birthing pool in your living room.
I want to find new cliffs to push you off of because hey, you don’t know it, but I attached a jetpack to your shoulders when you weren’t looking and you’re gonna be fine. (You’ll figure this out halfway down, right after your life has flashed before your eyes and you see how much you have to be grateful for.)
I want to see you.
All the way, deep down, see you, which is why selling scalable and endlessly profitable programs involving thousands of people are not my jam. I want to know your name and remember your face and frankly, hold your energetic imprint in my heart. (LOOK I’M A FUZZY FREAKING STUFFED TIGER IN THIS METAPHOR, DON’T GIVE ME THE DOUBTING WOO-WOO FACE.)
Random e-mails full of kind words from strangers are nice, but it’s so much better when I know you enough to see and feel how you’ve changed over time.
Growth is my currency.
Kind words are my currency.
Romps are my most adored currency.
Dollars are a form of currency, and I’ll take them in order to pay bills and handle the assorted muggle aspects of my life, but they’re not my primary form of currency.
Money is nice. What money can get me is nice. But given only money and no kind words or growth or contact with my peeps, my insides ended up emptier than a corn husk in a snowy December field.
I want to deeply know MY people.
I only have so much energy, and I’d rather not waste it on a person who’s busy judging me as childish or not prestige-y enough.
If you need perfection porn, I’m not your girl.
If you can’t handle a few rough edges and a ton of cursing, again: so not your girl.
If you want to make six figures, great! I’ve done that!
If you only want the magical six-figure making formula and aren’t willing to do any of the Calvin-ing that comes with my Hobbes-ing, you’ll only end up hating me.
I want to be the Hobbes to your Calvin.
As you write, because deep down you feel called to…
As you business. (Hey, that’s a verb, whatever.)
I don’t want to fucking serve you. Please, don’t ask me to keep our relationship so one-sided or so fucking HEAVY.
I want to play with you and love you open and then see what happens next.
So, Calvin. Nice to meet you.
Who do you wanna be today?
…also I got a Calvin and Hobbes tattoo at age 21, before tramp stamps had an official title, so no you can’t see it but trust me, my Hobbes-ing goes way back and only gets more pronounced with time. This is what is on my back, only drawn by Bill Watterson instead of traced by a dude in Indiana, Pennsylvania.
You can play with me and get ever so joyfully not-served for the six months of Steer Your Ship or you can work with me 1-on-1 from anywhere in the world because dammit, it’s time to hop on the wagon and roll down the hill, isn’t it?
