Last week, I sent a story explaining how my phone was stolen, banks robbed, and my book deleted.

It was my most popular email. I got what I asked for when I said I wanted to travel the world for more stories!

A lot of people congratulated me on my attitude. It was lovely to read, but I felt like a fraud. I hate how personal brands only share the polished side, so I want to update you on how things went, starting with the truth:

I felt f**king rotten.

The phone and fraud stuff was annoying, sure. But I’m hoping I’ll get a refund.

It’s the book that killed me. For context, the thief wiped my Macbook, and Einstein over here forgot to change his Scrivener autosave to the cloud, so I lost everything.

It was around 600 hours of writing spread over a year.

I was so close to getting it out, so it being ripped away felt raw.

Every morning, I woke without energy or enthusiasm. Every time I thought about starting again, I felt a visceral kick in the gut. The gap between the first and final draft had never felt so wide. I tried to think positively, but it was a fragile shell. It only took one bad phone call to knock me for six (and there were many!).

I was torn between punching something and crawling into bed, and I spent a lot of time moping around.

…Not exactly aspirational behaviour.

What pulled me out

After a week of wallowing, I hit a serious low point. I was still locked out of my laptop. Apple hadn’t reset my account. They wanted my old phone number, so I needed a new SIM card. This was delivered to a city in the UK (I am in Buenos Aires). I argued with a friend who was too busy to pick it up for me. I couldn’t snap out of my bad mood, but nor could I sit on the sofa and feel sorry for myself for another day.

So I did the only thing I could think of:

I began to write.

I sat on my balcony and scrawled in my journal. The relief was immediate. The weight lifted from my mind as the words poured out of me. When you write about your problems, they don’t disappear. But they do get lighter. You get a better perspective when you see your shit on paper, instead of clouded by chaotic, unhelpful thoughts.

That’s when I realised the book situation was a gift.

I was suffering because I felt like I had lost a result I hadn’t even achieved. I was focused on a launch that never happened. When actually, the reason I loved the book was that writing it has been the best project of my life.

I have never felt more motivated, creatively challenged, or inspired.

I didn’t lose that joy. I was just choosing to ignore it.

It’s why I love writing.

It is not about putting words on the page. It’s about who you become in the process.

The reward for writing is the writing itself.

It slows you down when the world speeds up. It makes you think when the crowd does not. It builds character. It builds awareness. It gives a deep sense of meaning and purpose. These qualities begin long before the external results roll in. And stay with you long after, too. They make every word worth it. The wins are just the icing on the cake.

The next morning, I began writing the new version of the book.

A question worth asking to do your best work

The benefit of beginning from scratch is that I was staring at a blank canvas.

That’s a gift in itself. Often, we just keep repeating past decisions with slightly different conditions, trapped by previous efforts.

So I used this as an opportunity to ask:

What would I do differently if I wasn’t scared to fail?

Because I’ll be honest, I was terrified. I’d become so attached to the idea of being an author that I began taking the book too seriously. Gradually, I began writing what I thought I had to write, what was expected from me—a book on how to grow your business through writing.

But the core of me wanted to speak about other topics too, such as:

• Using writing as a tool for reflection and self-awareness
• How to reclaim your creativity when everyone is obsessed with productivity
• How to clear your mind in a world that constantly bombards you
• How to align your mission and message so you build a career you genuinely love

And of course, more about how goddamn good writing is (and not just for making money).

I had stripped out the philosophical stuff because I thought I needed to ‘earn’ the right to speak about deeper topics. I feel ashamed to admit it, but buried within this decision, I began treating my first book as something to get out of the way.

But if I’m going to write it again, I can’t go in with that energy.

Not just because of the time I’ll reinvest. But because of the truth with writing:

You write your best stuff when you build what you wish existed.

You need to listen to the ideas that sing to your soul, especially if they go against the grain. Because how you feel seeps through into the page, and there’s a group of people out there who love the same stuff you do. But you only find them when you follow your curiosity.

Call it fate, but losing the first book feels like a call to action to go deeper.

I’ve been writing the new version for a week now. I’ve never felt more excited. If I can help just one other person feel the way I do about the skill, then I consider my job a success.

You can join 1000+ people on the waitlist here.

Appreciate your attention,

Kieran