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.
Honesty · 60 days · $3,500
You stop performing in the rooms where you always performed.
Something is not working
Or nothing is wrong at all
This one changes what is around you rather than what is inside you, and it does not care whether that is a boardroom, a marriage or a family table.
You have a version for each room and you run it without deciding to.
It is exhausting in a way you have never counted, because it does not feel like work. It feels like being normal.
You are good at it. That is the problem. Nobody is asking you to stop.
Some rooms go quiet. One or two get better than they have been in twenty years.
You say a true sentence to someone who has never heard one from you, and find out what happens — which is almost never what you spent a decade avoiding.
Four hours a week. And six conversations you have been avoiding, one every ten days, each written up the same night.
Real conversations with real people. Not exercises, not letters you do not send. Their order is set by the protocol, not by you, and the easiest is not first.
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