Dear Andre, (6 min read)

Sunday night, December 21st, 2025 8:47 PM.

Hailey and Heather are sitting across from me, and they say something that keeps echoing in my brain:

Hailey said,

"We don't need anything from you. We don't want anything from you. We just actually enjoy being your friend. And if you never do anything for us again, we still want you around."

I should feel relief. I've been sitting with these words for two weeks—words I KNOW are true.

Instead, I feel... skepticism? (Man I wish I could simply accept good things that people say about me)

There's a part of me that's like, "But what about the dinners? The thoughtfulness? The trips? The stories?"

And here's the thing I'm realizing—maybe the reason I do all those things isn't just generosity. Fear. Maybe if I'm thoughtful enough, kind enough, interesting enough, then when I inevitably mess up or miss something or hurt someone, there's a buffer. A bank account of goodness I can withdraw from.

But that's not service.

That's performance.

In scripture, 1 John 4:18 says this: "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."

And I'm exhausted by my own show. But there's power in vulnerability. Even in sharing this newsletter... this feels like a risk. But the benefit of integration? That's worth it.

Here's what no one tells you about wanting to be excellent: it costs you acceptance.

Not always. Not completely. But there's a price. Sometimes it means leaving places that feel like home to find your next "home."

When I was 16, I got a job before my older brother. He was 18. I felt terrible about it. Like I'd broken some unspoken rule about order and fairness.

I went to my dad and he reminded me of this truth: It wasn't about my brother at all. I got this job because I wanted to pay for a trip for my sister and me. It had nothing to do with my brother.

But I still felt bad for "passing him."

That tension hasn't gone away—it's just gotten more complex.

I travel more than most of my friends. A lot more. This year alone, I've flown somewhere almost every month. New cities. New people. New ideas. And a big part of why I do it is some of my best creative work happens when I'm in motion, around people doing different things, seeing the world from angles I can't see from Sacramento.

But it's not really about doing more than them.

It's about the gap.

The distance between who I'm becoming and where they still are. The fact that I've changed and they haven't. (They may eventually—who knows.)

And just like with my brother, I feel bad about it. Like I'm leaving people behind. Like my growth is making them feel bad for not growing.

But there's also this sadness underneath it all.

These were people I was really close to. People who knew me. And in the new spaces I'm stepping into, I just may not be as close to them anymore.

I don't like "passing people" in life.

But here's the part I don't say out loud:

Sometimes I wonder if I'm manufacturing an interesting life because I'm afraid of being boring.

Like if my life isn't exciting to other people, then no one will care.

And if no one cares, then I'm irrelevant. And worse than that, I'll not be loved.

My friends who know me well can see a clear distinction between "work Daniel" and "not work Daniel."

In any room, I ask myself: what does this room need? Then I fill that role.

But what I actually want? Integration. I want to be the same person in every room. I don't want to code-switch based on who I'm around. I don't want to feel like I'm performing one version of myself at work and another version at home.

But here's the tension: I also want to keep growing. Changing. Becoming.

And that means some people won't come with me.

Not because they're bad people. Not because I don't love them. But because the version of me they know and accept isn't the version I'm becoming. And they won't see what I can see until I've already done the thing I'm thinking about doing.

To be exceptional, you have to be willing to be the exception.

That means being on the outside. Being misunderstood. Being the guy who's "too much" or "too intense" or "always doing something."

And some days, when I'm sitting in my car after a long day and honest with myself, I'm just tired of it.

I've been recording the audiobook for Just Start the last few weeks.

My producer asked me, "There's not a lot of emotion in your voice as you share other people's stories. What happened once you started telling yours?"

I replied, "This story feels boring. Who wants to listen to this much of my life?"

Which is ironic.

Because I spend most of my time convincing other people that their story matters. That it's interesting. That it's worth telling.

But when it comes to my own? I just don't care about my story.

(I'm not supposed to say that. But I feel this way at points.)

It feels insignificant. I can list off all the things I've done this year—the travel, the clients, the book, the media work—and it just feels... underwhelming. Like there's so much more I could have done. Should have done.

And the frustrating part? I know exactly what I'd say if I were coaching someone else through this.

I'd say: "Your story does matter. The fact that you don't see it yet doesn't make it less true."

But it's so much easier to believe in other people than it is to believe in myself.

Because I know all the ways I'm imperfect. I know the manufactured parts. I know the performance. I know the exhaustion and effort required behind the highlight reel.

Here's what I'm learning (slowly, painfully):

This tension between acceptance and excellence might not be something to solve. It might be something to manage.

A spectrum. A continuum. A process I'll be working through for most of my life, if not all of it.

And maybe—just maybe—there's freedom in accepting that.

Because the alternative is what I've been doing: setting the bar so high that I exhaust myself jumping over it. As I was thinking about 2026 I felt fear. Because 2025 in so many ways was so good. I ask myself, how do I top this?

Then setting it even higher the next year. Rinse and repeat until I'm so tired I just want to sleep and not wake up.

(Which is me literally sleeping through my life. And that feels like a waste.)

So here's the reframe I'm testing:

The biggest gift I can give to other people is believing my own story is interesting.

Not because I need the affirmation.

Not because I'm performing.

But because when I remove the focus from self and shift it toward service, my story becomes interesting by default.

I've always been interested in people. After writing a book, for the first time (in my opinion), I've had people be interested in me. And I think at moments I talk too much without realizing it. I get excited and have a million thoughts to share.

(But here's the truth: it's much more important to be interested and listen to people than to be interesting. Two months of genuine interest in people will give you more friends than two years of trying to be interesting.)

When my story stops being about me and starts being about what I can offer—when it's done from that place of serving, based in the foundation of the inherent value I bring—it becomes incredibly powerful.

That's what's so hard about this. The healthiest version of me loves to serve, loves to create these epic moments for people. But it has to be focused on serving, not on performing or doing it to gain love and acceptance.

And ironically, that's when people actually accept you—not for what you do, but for who you are.

Even when you mess up.

Even when you're boring.

Even when you're tired.

Even when you're broken hearted.

Your Assignment This Week:

I want you to ask yourself two questions:

1. Where am I performing instead of serving? (What am I doing to be accepted that's actually just exhausting me?)

2. Who am I trying to take with me that isn't ready to come? (And can I give myself permission to let them stay where they are?)

Write them down. Don't overthink it. Just notice.

Because maybe the path to excellence doesn't require giving up acceptance from the right people.

Maybe it just requires accepting yourself first.

Well, that's all for now.

-Daniel

P.S. If you know someone who’s going through a hard time. Please send this to them.

P.P.S. Next week I'll be sharing about my word of the year. I'm quite excited for 2026 in a lot of ways... but I've had 4 people in the last two days share really hard moments with me. And my sense is this is the message that I need to share today. That if you feel these emotions... you aren't alone.