The service ended an hour ago. The last car has pulled out of the lot, and now it is just you, a mound of soft dirt, and the ground telling you the truth.

It's past midnight and the only light in the room is the phone in your hand. You're doing the thing again. Rewriting tomorrow's list.

You keep scheduling the man you're supposed to be. He was never on the calendar. He was always in the choice you're making right now.

The phone buzzes on the counter. Face up. The name glowing there belongs to a man who believed in me before I gave him a single reason to. A mentor. And I let it ring.

The service ended over an hour ago. The lot is empty. Mine is the last car, and I still haven't turned the key. And I am thinking about a rope.

We confess our failures but hide our confidence behind false humility. Here is why the confident man must stop shrinking, and how to drop the mask.