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The Protocol
Printed and sent before day one. Everything to do, in order, with the reasons underneath.
Capacity · The Body · 90 days
You sleep without an alarm pulling you out of it. Your energy stops arriving in spikes and crashes.
You reach for the phone before you are upright. Your 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 you have not lit yet.
You have done this every morning for twenty years and nobody has ever told you it was the reason.
You wake to an alarm and the first thought is what you owe. By eleven you are sharp. By three you are gone. You take something to get going and something else to come down, and you have stopped calling either of them a habit.
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. You are unbuilt. There is a floor under all of this and it is missing.
You wake fully rested. You start the day with a morning that works for you instead of against you. Your energy stops arriving in spikes and crashes and starts arriving flat, all day, at a level you can plan around.
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 full ninety days. Screens after a fixed hour. Eating inside a fixed window. Training at less than the volume you train at 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. Because you cannot see yourself in something you have already stopped noticing. You are not asked to give yours up.
Printed and sent before day one. Everything to do, in order, with the reasons underneath.
A bound logbook, one numbered page for each day.
One written instruction each morning. Three lines. They get shorter as you get better.
You write your closing record. I read it myself and write you one page back, by hand, and post it.
No calls. No voice notes. No group. You will not meet me.
And nothing here is written for you specifically. This protocol was finished before I knew your name, which is why it costs a fraction of the year — it is a fraction of the year, the part that fits on paper.
If this is not your first, and you finished the last one inside thirty days, it is $1,400. That price cannot be bought, only finished into.
If this is not the one