Posted
The Protocol
Printed and sent before day one. Everything to do, in order, with the reasons underneath and the tricks that make it work.
Capacity · 90 days · $3,000
You wake rested. Your energy stops arriving in spikes and crashes and starts arriving flat, all day, at a level you can plan around.
You reach for the phone before you are upright. The body reads that as danger, and a body in survival does not let go of anything, including what is around your middle.
Then coffee, into eight hours of dehydration. Petrol on a fire nobody has lit yet.
You have done this every morning for twenty years and nobody has ever told you it was the reason.
Something is not working
Or nothing is wrong at all
It makes no difference whether you run a company, a clinic, a classroom or a household. Everything you do is paid for out of one account, and nobody ever taught you how to fill it.
You wake to an alarm and the first thought is what you owe. By eleven you are sharp. By three you are gone.
You had a good week in June and you have been trying to get back to it ever since.
You are not lazy and you are not weak. Nothing is wrong with you that a diagnosis would explain. There is a floor under all of this and it is missing.
You wake fully rested. The day starts with an hour that works for you instead of against you.
You eat at the same times. You know what a full day of rest is because you have taken four of them. You notice your body’s signals and you know what they actually mean.
You will not be transformed. You will have a floor.
Five hours a week. One entry every day, by hand, four lines. One photograph of the page every Sunday. Ninety days without skipping the entry, including the days you skip everything else.
Alcohol out for the ninety days. Screens after a fixed hour. Eating inside a fixed window. Training at less than you train now — and that last one will be harder than you expect.
If you already have practices, you will be given different ones. Not because yours are wrong, but because you cannot see yourself in something you have already stopped noticing.
Printed and sent before day one. Everything to do, in order, with the reasons underneath and the tricks that make it work.
A bound logbook, one numbered page for each day, written in by hand.
One written instruction each morning. Three lines. They get shorter as you get better.
You write your closing record. I read it myself and answer with one page in my handwriting, posted to you.
No calls. No voice notes. No group. You will not meet me.
And nothing here is written for you personally. This protocol was finished before I knew your name, which is why it costs a fraction of the year with me. It is a fraction of it: the part that fits on paper.
Paid in full. If you later want the whole year, this comes off it. You hold one at a time, so a second is not bought — you move up and this comes off. The year alone →
If this is not the one