When I went to Paraguay, a man called Harry changed my life.

He was a friend of a friend, and just so happened to be setting up his residency too. We organised a steak dinner. He turned up in an open button shirt, slicked back ginger hair, a big beard, and blu-blocker glasses so thick I could barely see his eyes.

…Precisely the type of guy I wanted to meet in a random country in South America.

Harry was a world-class performance coach for athletes. He was bloody good at his job—the guy the coaches called when they needed help. But he was semi-retired, and exploring setting up a pharmaceutical import/export company.

We hit it off.

“Dude, you’re f**ked”

A few weeks after meeting, we were walking through a neighbourhood. I was limping, and rubbing my hands and neck. He asked me what was up.

“Oh, nothing.” I told him dismissively. “It’s just my Sciatica, and my hands, back, and neck are killing me because I have been writing so much over the past two months.”

He went quiet. He could see how much I was in pain.

“Dude, you’re fucked.” He said, his voice filled with sympathy that I did not expect or enjoy.

“Nah, it’s all good man.” I say on autopilot. “I’ve dealt with this for over a decade now. There’s not much I can do about it.”

For context, I had a brain tumour at 16 and a broken neck, plus a 56 degree bend in my spine. I needed 20 hours of operations. My body has been a war-zone since, chronic pain a familiar friend.

I’d explained this to Harry when we first met. But he then asked the question that changed my life:

What have you tried?

I stumbled through my answers, feeling defensive. I thought I knew my shit, but Harry blew apart my world.

He explained that I needed to test everything. From diet to desk setup to deconstructing every movement to find triggers. I’ll be honest, my first thought was I do not have time for this. But he framed it perfectly:

“You might not be an athlete, but you wanted to be a world class writer, your body is just as important.”

A crack had opened.

Later that night, we sat on a popular street filled with restaurants. As people strolled by, dressed up for Saturday night, Harry taught me how to move. I was stumbling through single-leg rotation deadlifts while he smoked a cigar and encouraged me on, not a single shit given about what people think.

(probably: what are these crazy gringos up to?)

A week later, I started waking up without back pain - the first time since I could remember. I gave him the good news, and then we worked on my neck and hands, and these improved too. It was the first time I’d felt hopeful about the lump of flesh and metal I call my body.

One day, he asked if I’d like to go deeper.

“Yes.” I said, worried I was about to enter a cult.

As we munched on more steak (there’s not much else to do in Paraguay), he began explaining about how much modern society was poisoning itself. I already believed this with regard to the mind, but he explained that physiology is the baseline of everything. How you think is downstream from how your body operates. And what you put into your body is the most important part.

I’d heard this before, but it sounded like tinfoil hat stuff.

This time, I listened.

I implemented his diet and lifestyle advice. Despite it being pretty inconvenient (there is so much crap in everything), when I began seeing results, I knew I could never go back.

I thought I was healthy and driven, with my cold showers, protein bars, and constant calorie deficits. But after a month of Harry’s protocol, I knew the truth. The only way I could describe it was that I started to feel like I could f**k everything, fight everything, and take on the f**kking world.

“Yeah buddy, welcome to the other side.” He laughed.

Your job as a writer

Harry and I parted ways in Brazil 6 months later.

Last week, I met my original friend who introduced us. I jokingly said to him:

There’s before Harry, and after Harry.

He laughed, saying he knew precisely what I meant.

Harry changed my life. Before him, I was stuck with problems I had resigned to wrestle with until I was too crippled to keep going, which I’m scared to admit, feels sooner than I’d like.

But he gave me hope. He showed me a different path, and gave me the tools to walk it. As a result, he is someone I will love for the rest of my life.

And that, my friend, is your job as a writer, too.

You may not be galavanting around South America like the pirates we are. But when your ideal reader finds you in your weird corner of the Internet, it’s your job to change their life.

Because they are like me:

In pain.

Tried things before.

Hoping for a solution.

Stuck with unhelpful beliefs.

You need to meet them where they are at, then take them where they want to go. Do it well, and they will love you for it. You want them to say:

There was before my friend, and after my friend.

You’re in the business of transformation.

Write like it,

Kieran