Lately I’ve noticed a pattern in my inbox.
Different names.
Same move.

People send questions that look practical on the surface.

“Do you think this idea will work?”
“Is this niche too crowded?”
“Should I wait before I send anything?”

The phrasing changes. The energy doesn’t.

It’s the energy of someone tapping the surface of a cold pool, hoping if they tap long enough the temperature will magically shift.

And the funny part is that they already know the answer.
Because if they didn’t, they’d just test the thing.
Small version.
Quiet send.
See what happens.

Nobody asks “Will this work” when they’re actually far away from action.
They ask it when they’re close.
So close that the stakes finally feel real.

That’s the fog.

Not confusion.
Not lack of knowledge.
Just the moment right before movement when everything gets blurry and heavy for no good reason.

This week I’ve been sitting in my own fog.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a decision I should have made on Monday that I’ve now re-decided six times.

It’s not even interesting.
I’m not wrestling with destiny here.
It’s one small step in a project I already understand.

But right before I take it, my mind gets creative.
Maybe I should rearrange the plan.
Maybe I missed something.
Maybe I should rethink the angle even though the angle wasn’t broken.

Classic fog.
The brain guarding the fantasy version of the idea, because the fantasy version never pushes back.

The real version always does.

The polished version of an idea is painless.
No feedback.
No silence.
No learning curve.
No “oh great, now I actually have to run this thing.”

Meanwhile, the real version brings all the tiny discomforts we pretend don’t count.

Someone misunderstands your point.
A sentence lands soft instead of sharp.
A test flops.
A subscriber ghosts.

None of these are fatal.
They’re just the parts of reality the fog tries to delay.

So the brain reaches for a fake question.

“Will this work.”
“Is this the right angle.”
“Maybe I should think about it a little longer.”

It isn’t thinking.
It’s stalling wrapped in vocabulary.

There’s a cleaner question that actually helps.

“What am I trying not to touch right now.”

Whatever pops up first is the real thing.
Not the headline.
Not the niche.
Not the angle you keep rearranging like furniture.

Usually the thing you’re avoiding is small.
Send the email.
Publish the page.
Pick a date.
Commit to a direction.
Stop circling.

Nothing mystical.
Just movement.

If there’s a part of your project you’ve been avoiding, reply and tell me what it is.
Not the idea.
The actual part.

I’ve seen this enough times to help you name it fast.

If you read the $50k Lesson, reply and tell me which trap nailed you.
I read everything.
Even the long ones.

Because none of this changes until you see the patterns clearly.
After that, it finally stops feeling like you’re circling the drain.

Until Next Time,