The Drama Diet

The Drama Diet: Quite possibly the only “diet” that ever feels good to start.

First, a clarification: I’m not so big into “diets” in the conventional sense (ahem. Anyone who follows me on Instagram knows how often I take a picture of beautiful food…before I devour it).

I don’t support the diet industry, preying on making people feel insecure in order to purchase a product, especially when those products/regimens/systems ultimately hurt people and don’t fix what’s really at the core. When I’m using the term “diet” here, I’m using it in the context of “cutting out what doesn’t work.”

Drama doesn’t work.

Earlier this year, I had a “fuck it” moment and in a very organic way I said to myself: “I’m going on a drama diet.” What followed thereafter was a systematic evaluation of where I was both tolerating drama and perpetuating it with my responses. I’ve left no stone unturned in examining the drama. I’ve taken loads of stuff to Goodwill, stopped justifying why it was or wasn’t okay to take a particular action and just gone with “It doesn’t feel good, and that’s a good enough reason,” told the truth and told it clean, and I’ve stopped hustling to make relationships/business ventures/commutes/collaborations work when they just…didn’t.

And somewhere along the way, I found more time for sleep and meal planning and exercise, and managed to do the same amount of work in less time.
Want to get on board?
I thought about creating a paid course that helped people to systematically examine and remove drama from their lives. Then my internal gyroscope said, “Nope. Feels like drama. Feels like hustlin’. Feels like taking on too much, because I’ve got other big things happening.”

Also, something within me recognizes that for a great many people out there, a certain level of drama is being created by the never-ending, constant, and ceaseless taking of courses, e-programs, signing up for workshops, reading of self-help articles…and on and on.

So here are the details. Check yourself. Is this course right for you?

  • The course runs for four weeks, starting September 5th
  • To participate, you’ll need to be a YCL subscriber. If you’re already a YCL subscriber, you’ll automatically get the course, starting September 5th. If you’re not a current YCL email subscriber, click one of the hot pink icons within this blog post to sign up.
  • You’ll want to make sure you click the opt-in email. If you don’t, you won’t get the course.
  • Are you a Gmail user? It’s also helpful if you pull the YCL newsletters into your “Primary” tab, so that you don’t have to remember to check your Newsletters/Promotions tab. Everyone else? It’s helpful if you mark any messages that come through as “not spam” just to ensure that everything arrives in your inbox.
  • Plan to set aside 30 minutes each week for the lessons, which will arrive every Thursday in September (the 5th, 12th, 19th, and 26th).
  • Do a gut check: Is participating in this course going to be more drama? It’s okay to sit this one out, you know.
  • Want to get others involved? Click to tweet: “Join me and @katecourageous this September for the free Drama Diet e-course.”


Ready to join? Head here:




The scarcity of “just being lucky”

I’d worked hard for something I wanted. I had sacrificed. Made tough choices. Worked long(er) hours. I’d done all the things that people do when they want some seriously big shit to happen.

And–I’d succeeded! I was having a flat-out fantastic day, the kind where months of work were culminating in being supported and loved, more cash in one twenty-four hour period than I’d ever seen, and a flow of thank-you emails. I had given a lot, and I was receiving a lot.

It was a perfect day, the kind that will always be memorable because it was so damned good. I went out to grab a kombucha and played Katy Perry’s “Fireworks” on auto-repeat (and sang aloud, devil-may-care if anyone saw me. Whatevs! Joygasm, baby!).

A few months later, someone asked me about the experience. The high had faded, but the day was still fond in my mind. I told them all about it. They wanted this experience, for themselves.

“I was lucky with how everything came together,” I said, but from the second I said it, I noticed that something in my body reacted to that statement.

It was the sort of statement that I had always casually tossed off, before: “I’m really lucky” or “I got lucky” or “I was lucky that it all worked out.”

I began playing around with it. But…I am just lucky, aren’t I? I thought. So many people suffer due to circumstances that they have no control over. I see so clearly how the challenges that come into their lives could just as easily have befallen mine. Death, illness, car crashes, natural disasters–no one is immune. Isn’t that…just lucky?

There was a strange energy on my chest, over my heart. Sadness, tightness. So I asked that sad tightness: “What do you need me to know? What are you trying to tell me?”

I took a deep breath, and listened. I replayed the conversation I’d had where I’d initially told someone that I was “just lucky.”

Yes, of course. I’m lucky. It’s true. My life’s challenges haven’t buried me. I have a reasonable trust in the support structures I’ve created that I can face future challenges that arise. I have no illusions that I’m immune from the possibility of deep grief that throws a black cloud on everything, illness or car crashes that make taking one simple breath a Herculean effort, or natural disasters that astound and confound with their awesome power.

Yes, and–it hit me that there’s a scarcity in “just being lucky.”

It hit me that I’d first said this because I’d felt afraid of burning too brightly for the person I’d been speaking with.

I was minimizing my work and every choice that I’d made that had supported my success.

I was minimizing the support of all the people who had rallied to help.

I was still wounded by the times when I’d hustled and worked hard, and not seen success, and turned those experiences into personal assaults: I should have worked harder, I should have done it better, I should have should have should have…

We can be so hard on ourselves when we fail. “Just being lucky” is how we are hard on ourselves when we succeed.

Sure, on one level, all of us can look at our lives and see where we are “lucky.”

On another level, though? The level I want to live from?

Radiate from the place of knowing that you did what it takes, that you dared to hope, that you had the courage to face fear, that you and an entire network of people in the world contributed to the fulfillment of your dream.

And if you haven’t tasted the kind of success I’m talking about, radiate in knowing that you’re rocking the journey of it all. It’ll come. And some seriously good stuff is happening right here, right now.

There’s scarcity in “just being lucky,” but there’s abundance in owning what we had the courage to create.

Click to tweet: “There’s scarcity in ‘just being lucky,’ but there’s abundance in owning the courage to create.”


Three courageous approaches for your Big Dream

I recently finished work on a book proposal. This is a proposal that I’d spent most of 2012 knowing I needed to write, and…just not writing. This is a proposal that I ended up completely finishing in early January of 2013…and then I promptly sat on it.

Why? The work wasn’t ready.

Also? There was some fear that I wasn’t really being conscious about.

An interviewer recently asked me how one tells the difference between actual, true, “not being ready/it’s not the right time,” and when fear is telling you that it’s “not ready” as a delay tactic.

This is a really, really good question. To answer it, I turn to the concept of “Somatic Awareness.”
Somatic Awareness

Somatic Awareness is learning to recognize what sensations in your body mean what. You can actually learn that the sensation of fear in your body has a slightly different flavor than the sensation of “not right timing.” Get present enough, and you’ll start to see how guilt and shame are different sensory experiences. Attachment/ “wanting to be right” feel different in the body than being frank or straightforward. Integrity feels different than rationalizing.

Some people would call this “trusting your gut” or “using your intuition.” Whatever you call it, it all has to do with getting present to what’s happening within you. What the sensation feels like in my own body is different than yours, so I can’t propose a road map (i.e., it would be impossible for me to say “that sensation in your upper right stomach means XYZ” for all people). What I can do is guide someone in practices that help them to tap into that somatic awareness and learn what it means, for them.

What’s your truth? And instead of trying to verbalize it, what sensations do you notice? What do those sensations in your body “tell” you? This is the type of thing that I love to work on with coaching clients, particularly because…well, I just don’t think our bodies lie. They’re pretty accurate with giving us feedback. When one of my clients gains confidence in her Somatic Awareness, I know that she’s just gained a powerful tool in totally trusting herself.

Wasting Time

I mentioned that there was a part of me that was experiencing fear that I wasn’t really conscious of. I’ll share how I know that this was happening for me, in the hopes that sharing will help you to see any places in your own life where this happens.

First things first: I consider not acknowledging fear to be a huge waste of time. Whether you acknowledge it or not, it’s there. So pretending not to be afraid, or noticing fear and not dealing with it? That’s not efficient.

I know that fear must have been operating on some level in the eight-month span between when I finished the proposal and when I finally sent it out, because there were times where I thought about sending out the proposal and I thought, “I’ll do that later.”

I’d be working on other projects. It would occur to me that I hadn’t sent out my proposal. I’d think, “Oh, yeah, I need to do that! But I’ll do that later. Right now I need to…”

I’ve talked about how chronic forgetting can be a sign of ‘faux fear.’ I was experiencing chronic forgetting. It was slipping off of my radar that I had intended to do this thing that I had said I would do, over and over and over.

I was also procrastinating (“I’ll do that later.”)

So here’s the takeaway: Examine what you notice yourself chronically forgetting. If you tell yourself that you’re going to start meditating for five minutes every morning, and day after day it’s lunchtime when you suddenly think, “Oh, gosh! Right! I was going to do that, wasn’t I?” then you’re chronically forgetting. If something within you considers meditating right then and there, and then you think, “I’ll start, tomorrow,” then–bingo!–fear is totally at work.
So What’s Next?

Let’s say that right now, you’re seeing how you’ve done this in your own life. You’ve told yourself a million times that you’ll start.. being more patient with your partner, stop comparing yourself to other people on the internet, start a yoga practice, or…write a book proposal. Everyone’s got something. You have all the good intentions, but then you don’t do it. Fear is totally at work.

So what do you do?

I wish that I could say something less glib, but it’s this: you simply start. That’s what I needed to do. I set a deadline for submitting the proposal (today) and then I blocked out time on my calendar, and then I started.
Three Courageous Approaches

Here are three things I did that made “starting” much easier:

#1: Reframing the idea of a “deadline.” My definition of “deadline” is anything that I do my absolute best to finish by an intended date. I rarely beat myself up with future-tripping over the possibility of missing a deadline, because I have released (most) of my internal narratives that it means anything bad about me if I miss a deadline. Paradoxically, this means that I make 99.9% of all deadlines, because I don’t spend a lot of time in fear or overwhelm about them.

Set a deadline. Do your best. Understand that no children in third world countries die if you do miss your deadline. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or a failure, either. You do your best, and you let go.

#2: I made it fun. I listened to Daft Punk’s Get Lucky a few times before writing. I went out for a chai before I settled in to write. I used Danielle LaPorte’s Your Big Beautiful Book Plan and kept feeling filled up and inspired by all of the amazing examples of totally ordinary people who had written their proposals and now had published books, and this excited me.

Also fun? Reveling in all that I’ve done. Actually going through the process of assessing all the places where I’ve guest posted, all the times I’ve had a speaking engagement, the collaborative interviews, and all the people I’ve worked with, made me feel puffed up n’ proud.

There’s a little girl within who grew up wondering what she was capable of, and perpetually feeling inadequate and afraid. There was a sense of tender celebration as I realized just how much I have done.
#3: I was grounded in my truth: acceptance of the proposal does not equal my success or worth as a person.

Lemmetellyasomethin’: This is the third book proposal I’ve ever submitted. Translation: I’ve been rejected…twice before. First was in 2006; a work of fiction, rejected outright. Second was sometime in 2008; I received a personal response from the editor, who liked the idea but who felt my platform was not sufficiently big enough.

This is my third proposal submission…and this is the first time that I’ve ever been open about submitting one. Why? Because the thought of making big announcements about such things before, and potentially having to admit months later that the book wasn’t picked up? That horrified me. I would have been too embarrassed to admit to anyone who asked that I’d been…rejected.

Today, I understand that whether the proposal is accepted or not has nothing to do with my worth as a person. If it’s not accepted, my day-to-day life changes very little. I still canoodle with my husband, perpetually fight the good fight of trying to get myself into a better groove about cooking meals instead of going out to dinner, and go on drives through wine country on a Saturday afternoon.

If it is accepted…my day-to-day life also changes very little. I still work with clients, write blog posts, and have Skype coffee dates with friends who live far away. (I just might *also* have a little PR tour somewhere in the midst of all of that and get to meet some of you lovelies in person!)

We take ourselves with us, wherever we go. My pleasure in an accepted book proposal would only be genuine if it were rooted in excitement about the work itself, and it would always be false if a published book would equal “something” about me: That I were smart enough or talented enough; that other people would like me or look up to me; that it would mean I’d get money or recognition.

I like being smart, talented, loved, and receiving money and recognition, but the moment I attach to it, that becomes externalized happiness. It would just have me on the perpetual hamster wheel of trying to do more, to prove more, so that I could feel like I was more.

I’ve lived that way, before. It’s an exhausting way to live.

(“So you won’t be disappointed if it isn’t accepted, Kate?” Answer: Hmmm…in this moment, I don’t feel connected to that as being true. If it’s rejected, it’ll just mean that what I currently offer isn’t a match for the publisher. That’s okay. I’m sure there is a day, a time, or a publisher somewhere for whom my work is a match. And, of course, I’m not reliant on a publisher. Hundreds of people have received The Courageous Living Program and The Coaching Blueprint, all without a traditional publisher.)

It’s not the actual doing of the thing that causes us so much fear, as it is all of our Stories about what it means if we do or don’t finish, or if we are or are not “accepted” by some external standard.

Go within. Get present to the truth of what you feel (meditation is a great path to Somatic Awareness, as is presence practice during yoga or other forms of movement). Question your Stories. You’ve got nothing to lose–except some extra time spent suffering.

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