3 Days + 1: Day 3

Solangelo Spring Ball 2020 collaboration with @solangelover

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4

We've been working on this together for a while now and we finally get to post!! I'm linking all the parts together so make sure you reblog them when the links are up and running! You can also find this on my AO3 and FF.N for my collab partner!

@solangeloweek

-

Nico couldn't sleep. He'd tried- and by tried, he meant closed his eyes for two hours, but his thoughts wouldn't stop racing. It was finally hitting him what a diagnosis of a chronic pain condition would truly mean. It meant pain wasn't temporary. It meant he wouldn't recover. It meant he was disabled. And that wasn't a bad thing, or a new thing- but it changed how he viewed his capabilities. He'd always had aches and pains in general, from fatigue and malnourishment he was sure, chronic nausea too. He knew he'd need more tests to determine the exact condition- there was a fair amount of damage to his limbs from the various injuries, nerve damage that flared up, and aches from the constant fatigue made worse by the damp, but his back had started to really hurt more over time, especially in the mornings. It was a deep, dull ache. His back and hips and shoulders ached and his dumb eyes were prone to inflammation and light sensitivity and blurred vision and his posture was terrible but honestly some days his pain stopped him getting out of bed of a morning.

He reached across his bed for the notes Will had made, skimming them. There were vague notes about watching out for fusing vertebrae and fractures and curvature and further breathing issues and future heart issues- something to do with the aorta and a risk of the valve- something going wrong with it, and that Arthur thing old people get in their joints (arthritis) and some other thing Nico wasn't even going to pretend to understand. Will's writing was terrible, and Nico was confused about ankles and spores written on the page (it did not, in fact, say anything about ankles ankles and spores, just that Will predicted it may have been ankylosing spondylitis, but he'd to run way more tests because onset was usually early adulthood and he couldn't rule out other conditions yet).

Nico put the notes away- he could barely understand them, and honestly, he didn't really want to. Especially because he'd barely been here a few days and Will couldn't accurately diagnose something that fast. He rolled onto his side, although rolling onto werewolf scratches was apparently horrendously painful, so he rolled back onto his back with a huff, gave up, and sat up in bed. Insomnia was here to stay and Nico craved death. 

He reached for his water, ecstatic to find a small collection of pills- he didn't bother checking what they were- he just hoped they took the pain away. He stared at the wall, contemplating his life from now on. Maybe he'd have access to mobility aids that would help him get around easier, but also he might have to cut down on his training. He didn't know what to think. The idea of finally having answers appealed to him greatly, but he wasn't sure if he was going to get the answers he truly wanted. That wasn't anybody's fault, though. He decided not to dwell on it until he knew more. 

Given the fact he'd be awake a while, he decided to make his way to the bathroom to take a long shower- and he realised he didn't even remember the last time he had showered, or really even stripped his clothes off completely for more than a few seconds. The water was so warm on his body, yet the patter of water was an intrusive sensation he wasn't used to. He was used to sink washes and river washes and bucket washes by now.

His skin was grey. Grey with patches of clean skin where he'd scratched, but otherwise otherwise a flaky grey brown tinge masked the olive skin beneath. He knew his hair was badly matted, and regretted that he'd most likely have to cut it out, both out of shame and pain prevention. He remembered the time when he was a little younger and his hair hadn't been brushed for a while, and it took five hours and a lot of crying to get his hair smooth again. 

Nico was shaking. The dirt was so ingrained in his skin that this was his third time soaping himself up, flannel white with dead flakes of skin, trying to make his skin as clear as possible, although he was beginning to suspect that some of the mottled grayish tone over his olive brown skin was more to do with poor health. He'd been in the shower for so long his legs were aching and he was shaking despite the aid of a shower chair, and as Nico cupped his hip joint in his hand, he let out a shaky sob at the realisation that he'd lost weight. He felt fragile, weak, scared- because this wasn't healthy, he wasn't healthy, and he'd been so caught up in the trauma of war that he hadn't noticed the toll it was taking on his body. 

He wanted to be healthy. He wanted his skin to return its usual healthy rich tan, he wanted the dull shade of pallor to fade. He looked like a ghost, or like a fresh corpse, drained of colour like there was no blood beneath the darker melanin of his skin. He was paler than he had been as a bouncy kid, sick.

As soon as he was clean enough he exited the shower, looking in the mirror whilst he leaned against the sink to catch his breath. His eyes were sunken, the delicate flesh below looking almost bruised in its grey/purple discolouration, and he looked… normal.

It surprised him. 

Because he was so sure his distress was obvious, but he could only really see it in the dull pleading expression he wore in his eyes, the rest of his face neutral, maybe angry at best. He experimented with a pained expression, one so deeply ingrained into muscle memory that it almost felt more natural than resting, and almost cried when he saw he looked angry- or at least, what people told him angry was supposed to look like. He slowly closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath before towelling himself off and picking up his clothes.

His clothes… now they were off his body and his sinuses were full of steam and the pleasant aroma of carbolic soap, he was finally able to detect that his clothes smelled like sour milk at best. The pits of his shirt were stained and particularly pungent, and Nico felt so ashamed that he hadn't noticed. The shirt was stained with various foods, months old, and there were small holes everywhere, like it was mothbitten or badly worn. His jeans smelled like eyeball dissections, a weird smell that whilst not exactly intense certainly wasn't pleasant by normal standards, a slight smell of rotting fresh too- and Nico supposed his skin had been flaking and rotting, confirmed by the inside of his jeans, which was coated liberally in dead skin cells that seemed stubborn to shift despite the copious amounts that fell to the floor. The denim was shiny and worn in some parts, and he decided not to give any more thought to the state of his jeans after thinking about all the lack of sanitation and choice that came with tartarus and the jar. 

Nico never wanted his clothes to be discovered. He never wanted anybody to see the state they were in, the stains he didn't want to think about, or the smell of bad hygiene. He scrubbed them furiously in the sink, but he never wanted to wear them again, too small and too worn and too tight and too dirty and too traumatic- he'd endured so much trauma whilst in these clothes. He threw them in the bin, pulling off as much tissue as possible to shove over the top of his clothes in the bin, hoping the weight of them wouldn't raise suspicion.

And then it dawned on him that almost everything he owned was now in the bin so he scrambled to fetch them back out and scrub them until his skin was irritated, but he could swear that he could still smell every unpleasant stain and every unpleasant sweat patch and every unpleasant smell from the garbage. He hadn't realised that the blur to his vision was significantly worse, hindered and impaired and impeded by the hot rush of tears and panic as he pulled on his wet clothes. 

He eventually sat back in the bed, cold and wet and hair still matted, his curls damaged and matting worse after months of no care and Nico using the wrong soap. He was shivering violently, but the cold felt almost comforting, a chilled relief he never had in Tartarus. It granted him some relief from the encompassing heat spreading through his body at patchy memories of Tartarus, but he had so much racing through his heads that it wasn't even a prominent thought or a flashback. 

The cold soon became insidious, like the cold of the shadows, the dark, the sensation of fading, numb, intangible. His focus still didn't pick just one thought, but now he was hyperaware of them- from the burning throat from the waters of the Phlegathon to the icy nothingness of shadows, to the intrusive thoughts of graphic violence and horrifyingly strange acts of self mutilation to mental bombardment with his triggers.

He felt like existence was this room, was the bedsheets he voila numbly trust and a door with a light void upon the other side. It felt like the rest of the world didn't really exist, like it couldn't exist, because he couldn't perceive, interact with, or process and comprehend that it was real. It felt like he wasn't real, dissociated, seeing and suffering but not there, like he was in a dream or a coma. Was he?

He didn't have time to dwell on it, the sudden nauseous drop in his gut and the lump in his throat and tightening in his chest signifying the start of a panic attack.

The problem was, Nico was either terrible at controlling them, or did not outwardly react at all. The first option usually involved lots of zombies and dead plants, whilst the second usually meant people trying to hug him and talk to him during sensory overload. This time, Nico was alone and he needed to scream it out, but when he tried, he found himself non-verbal.

Everything felt off and it was too bright, too loud, too dark, too clinical- although he'd lost his sense of smell and taste, so thankfully, the clinical scent of antiseptic and blood couldn't assault his senses. But that didn't stop the shrill metallic beep of the heart monitor from giving Nico sharp jolts of pain, the small lights on the various monitors far too bright whilst the electric buzzing of the electrical outlets filled his head- and they all sounded different, because of different devices, which made it worse. And it was blindingly dark in the room now, which made the shadows whisper in a way that had his head pounding, trying to process if they were even real, and it was all just too much-

He clamped his hands painfully over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that he could feel the strain in his cheeks. He tugged at his hair, not even a distressed whimper or a cry for help able to escape, trapped by his own lack of voice in a time of distress.

His brain was shutting down and melting down, the racing thoughts unable to process like a browser with too many tabs open, nothing pausing but nothing closing, frozen with plenty of horrifying podcasts and videos playing with no pause at the same time, only it felt like they could touch him, and he couldn't shut them off.

He had nothing left to comfort himself, no way to voice his distress, only able to rock back and fourth in a vain attempt to soothe himself as the onslaught continued, and all he could do was sit there and cry hysterically for hours, hours of distress until…

How long had he been… staring at the wall for?

Nico shivered, emotionally and physically drained. He knew he was still non-verbal, so he didn't call for help. He briefly considered the panic button, but he didn't want to be a burden over a now resolved emotional breakdown of some kind. There had been flashbacks and sensory overload and he was pretty sure he'd experienced some kind of meltdown or shutdown, but he wasn't exactly a stranger to them.

He sat in his bed until the sky began to turn blue and the smallest hints of light eased the crawling feeling of the insidious, suffocating dark of a confined space, a closed door room, a claustrophobic nightmare.

-

Much to Will's chagrin, he woke to find several of the infirmary's plants officially dead, although as his sleep induced haze lifted with the stabilising buzz of caffeine to help organise his thoughts, he processed that Nico must have had a bad night. He grabbed a quick breakfast and some for Nico and rushed there as quick as he could. 

Nico most certainly hadn't slept, his face puffy with both exhaustion and crying. He took a moment to observe, and Nico didn't seem to notice his presence, dissociated. It wasn't until Will moved his hand and little too fast that Nico suddenly snapped out of it, his hypervigilance kicking in as he flinched harshly, looking just about ready to put up a fight. 

"It's okay," Will began gently, backing away slightly to show his intentions weren't to violate Nico's personal space boundaries. He waited until Nico visibly relaxed enough to hunch his shoulders before he proceeded to step fully into the room and take a seat on the chair besides him. Nico looked up at him with what looked like hope, or maybe a pleading expression- maybe something mistaken for anger in different circumstances, and whilst Will struggled to read people's emotions sometimes, he'd begun to learn Nico's, folding his expressions away neatly in a mental schema full of flowcharts amend checklists designed to accurately mentally code for different emotions. 

Will had certainly observed levels of hypervigilance in Nico, but the way he would glance between the door and the shadows had Will distinctly concerned for his mental wellbeing- he appeared paranoid, skittish, and Will had on occasion poked his head around to find Nico mumbling to the shadows. Will had no way of knowing if that was because of genuine shadows or some form of psychosis that Nico seemed familiar with handling well on his own. He'd considered asking Hazel, but she may not have the exact same powers as Nico, and may not have been able to reliably tell Will whether the whispering shadows were normal or not if she didn't experience them herself. He'd have to ask Hades somehow. But not right now.

Will also didn't need a professional to tell him that Nico was severely depressed- he'd experienced it enough himself to know how to recognise it, and given the trauma that Will already knew about Nico, there was no logical way that Nico could be okay. 

Most demigods presented with symptoms of PTSD, and he recognised the most similarities between Percy and Annabeth and Nico's symptoms and severity, most likely because to some degree they had the shared trauma of Tartarus. Some demigods with traumatic backgrounds had gone on to develop some form of psychotic disorder, or OCD or eating disorders, and there were a few traumagenic systems at camp who Will had gotten to know personally. So Nico having C-PTSD wasn't a surprise. Of course, Will needed a lot more time than a few days to accurately assess and diagnose Nico, but he was fairly confident that Nico was presenting with many symptoms of PTSD and likely had been long enough to officially meet the criteria for a PTSD diagnosis.

And then there was Nico's overall neurodivergence- of course, the ADHD and dyslexia were confirmed, but Will suspected that Nico could be on the spectrum, like Will was. Autism wasn't uncommon in demigods either, sharing many similarities to ADHD. They were practically brain cousins. 

Will pulled himself out of his musings, focusing on how to talk to the trembling boy before him. His clothes looked wet, and Nico made as if to speak before looking sadly down, shrugging and offering a half smile greeting that Will had become familiar with during Nico's quieter days. Nico struggled anyways with communicating and expressing his emotions, and he was even worse at reading them- as a general rule, unless he knew you well, Nico didn't appear to pick up on body language cues indicating someone's distress unless they cried or explicitly stated how they felt. Yet, once Nico was clued in, and was able to rationalise the situation by drawing parallels and drawing from his own personal experiences, Nico tended to grasp a very nuanced and deep understanding of exactly how somebody was feeling, allowing him to better empathise- what was Will's point again? 

Will let out a frustrated huff, wishing his brain to just do the focus thing on his patient. And then he realised he hadn't taken his meds in a few days and oh. That explained it. Will realised he definitely hadn't showered in like- at least a week, and he definitely needed a shower but his usual soaps were in his cabin and he couldn't be bothered to get them- but he could use that deodorant, the musk one with the cinnamon and citrus undertones in the black spray can or he could just use old spice but what about his strawberry shampoo would it go-

Will took a deep breath, looking back to Nico. Right. Doctor, patient, mental health- Will absolutely needed to suddenly start a full on a case study project- no, never mind, focus. Somehow. Please. Right. Okay. Breathe.

Will gave Nico a gentle smile, taking out his stim putty to squish in his hand to ground himself and focus better. Nico usually would have spoken by now, so Will figured that he must have gone non-verbal- and now Will's focus to do that case study project was gone forever, great, well done, you're a failure Will, oh great, now your mood's dropped, just great- Nico must have had a meltdown maybe, although that didn't explain the damp clothes.

"Hey Neeks," Will began gently, "do you want some fresh clothes?" Nico looked at him pleasingly, before curling in on himself with his knees bunched up and gripping his shirt as though it was a comfort to him. It took Will a moment to decipher, but he figured Nico wanted dry clothes but was reluctant to part with his clothes. 

"I can get you some pyjamas," he said softly, quietly- he didn't want to overwhelm Nico if the guy had just had a meltdown, because sensory overload sucked. "You could put your clothes on the chair to dry." Nico seemed to consider that, before giving a slight frown and pout, but a slight smile. He was considering it, but still reluctant.

"The pyjamas are cotton," Will continued, "with the labels cut out, and the seam is sewn down so it isn't scratchy." Nico nodded jerkily, and Will smiled reassuringly, standing up slowly with a determined look in his eye. "I'll go get those for you, we don't want you catching hypothermia now, do we? You don't need pneumonia with the state of your lungs right now."

Will fetched the pyjamas and granted Nico the privacy to change whilst he quickly took his meds- which reminded him to set about figuring out a treatment plan for Nico going forwards- then returned to see the pyjamas fitted well and Nico looked comfortable, discreetly rubbing the soft fabric against his cheek, eyes closed. Will liked the smell of the fresh linen more than he liked the feel of them, but Nico appeared to be touch sensitive, perhaps explaining why he was so easily overwhelmed by touch. Will had a sense of smell like a sniffer dog, and hearing that left him unable to find silence or sleep without loud music blaring through his headphones.

"Does that feel any better," Will asked, and Nico nodded, turning pink and smiling slightly. "Is it okay if I ask you some questions and you can nod or shake your head? Nod if yes, shake your head if you need some time first, it's okay. Nico nodded gingerly, and Will gave a gentle smile.

He went through the standard questionnaires first, looking for markers of depression and anxiety levels, and finding, unsurprisingly, that Nico was at crisis point. Will briefly considered keeping Nico in the infirmary, but he didn't see Nico as particularly needing that kind of treatment. Nico would be better coping in comfort. 

Nico gradually became verbal again, and finally Will was able to investigate deeper. Nico was slowly beginning to open up, and Will was more than happy to listen, perhaps a little intrigued.

"It feels like… I'm not here, like I don't exist. Like I'm just… observing, but I'm not… feeling. It feels like I'm in warm heavy water, and I'm stood outside, and inside is bright and colourful, but I don't have the energy to move my limbs and step inside. Sometimes I'm able to say hello but I can't move when I'm invited in, I can only stand there. And I want to, I want to go inside. But I can't, and instead of coming outside to me, people carry on the party, and I'm just… outside, creepy. To them, I'm a disembodied voice, and ghost in the dark. An apparition with a slightly off centre smile and an unsettling artificial expression. I'm in an alley and I beckon them and they freak and run. I'm like something from The Magnus Archives to them, like the Angler Fish episode. And I don't feel empty, I feel… heavy, but like I'm on cotton wool. Everything feels off, all of the time, too dark and too bright all together, like shining objects in low light. I want to scream for help, and I am screaming, but nothing comes out. And when I scream I scream loud and their eyes turn in and their ears fold back and their mouths seal shut and their hands become bound and they carry on as though everything is perfectly normal, like I never even existed in the first place. They turn a blind eye because I make them uncomfortable, not realising how uncomfortable they make me too. And it buries me in a warm coffin, scratching to be let out whenever somebody uses me."

Will didn't know how to respond to that. There was no sane way to respond to that. Partly because Will had a vivid imagination and now had a horrifyingly graphic  mental image in his head that was guaranteed to give him nightmares tonight. But Will loved horror, so he ended up distracted thinking of Nico as a horror podcaster. Occasionally his voice took on a velvet husk with a slow manner of speaking that made his voice perfect for horror. The other times, it was horribly squeaky and breaking. Then Will remembered that he was procrastinating assessing Nico's mental health. "You should be a horror writer," Will said, to buy himself some time to process and respond.

"I wanna do scare acting or horror podcasts," Nico replied, "so people are supposed to find me creepy. It hurts when I'm not trying to be creepy and people find me creepy. But if I'm intentionally creepy, I can make it fun, and maybe, when I reveal the real me, it's such a far cry from my scaresona that they don't register me as creepy."

"Scaresona-" Will repeated, trying to fully process that like it was a cursed post on tumblr.

"Yeah," Nico replied casually, "maybe a zombie because I feel like one. I wouldn't be a ghost, because I'm already invisible."

"You're not invisible to me, Nico," Will cemented in ages firm but gentle tone. "You matter, I'm listening to you, and I believe everything that you are saying to be true. You're not faking or attention seeking- actually scrap that, the term should be support seeking- I believe that your struggles are valid and I would like to support you through this."

"Thanks, Will…" Nico began, mouth open as if to say something when the infirmary doors burst open. There was yelling, and Will's pager beeped not soon after, and he had to prioritise the medical emergency first. 

"I'll try be back later, definitely in the morning, okay? Take care, death boy!" And with that, Will switched to clinical cold emergency combat medic. Didn't mean he was quite used to the bad smells, though. Nobody ever really was. He vaguely remembered the joke spray liquid ass was used by the military to train combat medics for the smell of the battlefield, and with one last thought to the ironic hilarity of that, Will was at the side of the patient and ready to save a life.

Dancing On My Own

(Silvia...)

Yes, Mickey?

(How do you call your loverboy?)

Come 'ere loverboy!

(And if he doesn't answer?) Oh, loverboy!

(And if he STILL doesn't answer?) I simply say…

I was six years old the first time I draped my father’s after-shower wrap around my waist and lip-synched for my life. In the living room of my family’s single story, ranch style home in Walnut Creek, California, I performed to “Love is Strange.” The audience, comprised of my father, stepmother, and brother, laughed hysterically at my hijinks – oh how silly to see a boy wearing a skirt and singing the woman’s part of a song! At literally the same time RuPaul was gaining notoriety working the Atlanta Circuit Parties, I, at only six years old, was slaying the Bay Area suburb living room scene and living for it, Mama!

A year later, I performed live in an oversized sweatshirt dress and leg warmers on a leather ottoman stage. Another number from this genderfuck child prodigy that resonated with my home audience was my original drag parody based on a hit Crystal Gayle song “Donuts Make My Brown Eyes Blue.” Again, I was rewarded with laughter and applause. My family truly loved me, and I was beginning to know that I was born to be a performer.

Cut to a few years later: it was a dress-up day at school for Halloween and I had no idea what to be. My stepmother came in for the heroic rescue with a waist length straight brown wig, a bandanna, a peasant skirt, and a liberal application of lipstick and eyeshadow. I looked in the mirror and instantly fell in love with myself in what would now be considered a very problematic “fortune teller” Halloween look. I can’t even imagine the accent I spoke with. Suffice it to say, if repeated today that ensemble would most definitely result in a cancel culture call out.

Year by year, I learned that I was definitely different. As a “creative” child, I was prone to talking out of turn and disrupting the class. I did not know what “being gay” was, and I had certainly never seen an “out” gay person that I knew of. The closest thing to a drag queen I knew was my Grandmother, Beatrice. She was a Portuguese powerhouse that lived larger than life in an assortment of caftans, wigs, fur coats, costume jewels, fire red fingernails, and her ever-present cocktail of choice in her hand. I lovingly called her world’s cheapest screwdriver the “Popov and Donald” after its two main ingredients: Popov Vodka and Donald Duck orange juice. The constant, comforting refrain of clinking and tinkling ice surrounded her as she stirred it steadily with her nicotine stained index finger. With parents who blasted Elton John, Neil Diamond, Bette Midler, Barry Manilow, and let’s not forget the beginning of this story, the soundtrack to “Dirty Dancing” when I was but six years old, it would seem as if the Universe was surrounding me with the perfect, magical, organic tools I would need to live my best faggotty life. Yet, In the summer of fourth grade, it all coalesced into understanding that I was truly different. Not just a creative type but there was something else, something more that separated me from the rest of the kids around me. The person who taught me this was Mr. M.

Mr. M. was my summer school theater teacher. When I saw him, I could just tell that he had the same thing that I had. That thing – the one that made me different – it was in him too. I immediately recognized it, and it was beautiful, and it made me feel so good that I wasn’t alone. It was the first time that I truly could see that there were actually adults like me too. Mr. M. had created a 4th through 6th grade summer-stock follies masterpiece that combined the story of Rapunzel with the music from Hair. It was everything my queer little heart desired rolled into a masterpiece for the stage, dusted in fairytale glitter, and laid out like a prize before me. I was cast in the dream role I could have never imagined I needed. My character was “Jacques,” Rapunzel’s best friend, confidant, and (though unspoken) very, very flamboyantly gay hairdresser. I was obviously the comedic relief – and I knew that at the time – but I didn’t care. I loved the role and despite having no idea what camp meant at the time (and certainly wouldn’t have cared if I did). I knew that this part had been created just for me, to let me shine, and I was not going to let Mr. M. down.

My stepmom stepped up like a hero again and made me look like everything that a 10-year-old, fabulous hairdresser should look like. Remember that waist length wig from my fortune teller look? Well she lovingly cut off a little 6 inch snip and braided it into the back of my big ass, blown out hair. I didn’t know or care that this was being “gay,” but I knew that I had never in my life felt more right.

In what will be a surprise to no one, I can humbly confirm that I stole the show. The audience loved me, seeing this fabulous child, living his truth, loving himself and not being afraid to shine in all his homo-glory in only the fourth grade? I was years ahead of the world and it felt amazing. In fact, before the show, we had joked in my house about the mannerisms of being gay, the flouncy walk, the limp wrists, the sassy lisp. I genuinely loved them all so much that after the performance, I began to adopt these affectations officially into my daily life, from lisping from the breakfast table: “Plleathe path the theareal” to my bedtime prayers, “in Jethus name we pray, amen”.

And that’s the moment. The moment where things changed.

“Sit down here next to me,” my father asked as he patted the bed politely. He called in my stepmother. “We should probably talk.”

After everyone assembled, my father asked thoughtfully “Do you know what homosexuality is?”

“No,” I responded quietly. I could tell immediately from his tone that 1) I was whatever that thing was and 2) that it was absolutely not okay.

“Well, it’s when two men do the things together that only a man and a woman are supposed to do together,” he lectured me. “And it is very wrong. You know how you played that part in the play, and how you have been walking and talking that way since? That’s not okay anymore. That’s how these homosexuals really act. It’s okay to act like them and laugh at them as a joke, like in the play. But it’s completely unacceptable to do those things in real life. In fact, men who do those things, well, the Bible says that they are going to hell. Do you want to go to hell?”

I did not want to go to hell. I slowly shook my head turning red, the furnace of shame stoked hot inside me.

“Good,” he said finally. “Then it’s time to stop acting like that. Back to being normal from now on.” He said goodnight, kissed me on the forehead, clicked off my bedroom light and shut the door behind him.

10…9…8… I counted down in my head. When I got to one, I thought Okay, he can’t be by the door anymore. That’s when the tears started flowing.

I still didn’t truly understand what being a homosexual was, but now I knew that I could never be one. Not only would it upset my father, but Jesus too? Well, that was just too much pressure. I was going into the fifth grade and the one thing I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was that I did not, under any circumstances, want to go to hell.

My life was never the same from that moment on. As a child, I certainly never saw a dress or wig again. I spent the next twenty-five years pretending that I was not who I knew I was inside, trying my best to hide the traits as I got older but still knowing I had a funny voice and walk. Within a few years, I knew deep, deep inside that I was definitively the very thing I had been mandated not to be. I hid it further by marrying a woman and pretending even harder for many years that I was just a regular ol’ straight guy, just bein’ straight and actin’ straight and livin’ my best straight life. You know, lying.

I dated only women in my adolescence and finally, at age 18, I started dating my best friend. I guess we “fell in love,” though it was honestly more a relationship born of co-dependence, self-preservation, and convenience - and married at 21. For fourteen years I “played house.” To be honest, it wasn’t terrible. I had married my best friend and technically she knew I was gay as she had actually been the first and only person I had come out to up to that point. We pretended like that conversation had never happened. I thought I did an amazing job playing this role of dedicated straight husband contrary to many of the reviews on my role when I finally came out.

Everyday was a mental battle of epic proportions. Imagine a voice in your mind that has one job to do all day every day, and that job is to remind you that you are living a complete lie. I struggled with mental health issues, doing everything I could to manifest destructive patterns and catastrophes so that I could distract myself from my terrifying inner demons. As each year passed, the voice got louder and more distracting. But now I was in too deep. What would even be the value in listening to the voice and taking action? Destroying my marriage, my life and for what? I didn’t even know if what was on the other side would be better.At least I was safe in my cocoon as long as I played the part.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t prepared to come out, but I also knew I couldn’t keep ignoring the voice the way I had been. I just needed something to quiet the voice. At the same time, I was also looking for a new fitness regime to help get my weight under control. When I drove by Padme Yoga in Sacramento, CA on a drizzly October afternoon, it seemed like kismet. Yoga could help me with my fitness, but I had also heard lots of friends talk about how much it helped them quiet their minds. Perfect! I signed up for my first yoga class, and though I was scared shitless, I actually showed up. At the end of the class, the instructor came up to me and asked me if I enjoyed the class, which I told her I did. Then she said “Come back tomorrow, this practice will change your life.” So I did. And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that.

The weight came off of my waist and my thighs, but there was a different kind of weight coming off of my shoulders as well. I felt happier and more joyful. People seemed to want to be around me more and I felt more authentic. I just kept showing up and my teacher from that first class was right - my life was changing. Strangely enough, the voice about my hidden sexuality was a bit quieter but I had new voices as well - ones telling me that I was perfect the way I was in that moment and that in or out of the closet, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I began to feel this love for myself I had not felt in a very long time; not because I was skinny or more energetic, but because I was doing exactly what I needed for myself.

One Friday evening in May 2014, as I laid in pigeon pose I began to sob. People say they “ugly cry,” well I beautifully cried as years of self hate, sadness, anger, frustration, lies, manipulation, and abuse just flowed from my eyes and onto my mat. 75 minutes later, I knew I was ready. I went home, and for the first time, I let my inner knowing speak for me. I came out, for good.

The journey since has not been easy, but it has been a necessary one and I have learned so much. The best part is, I have never once been alone since. Remember that little boy, the one who went to bed that night crying, scared, and afraid that he would never be the person he was meant to be? Well amazingly enough, he woke up the moment I stepped off my yoga mat that evening. He has been by my side ever since. In fact, he is sitting right here next to me as I write this, wearing his favorite gown, loving himself, feeling beautiful and accepted. He calmly, lovingly reminds me that neither of us needs ever feel alone again.

Xavier Bettencourt is a writer and comedian currently residing in Sacramento, CA. Known for his authentic and humorous storytelling voice and unique point of view, Xavier digs deep to speak his truth and tirelessly encourages others to do the same. Follow him on Instagram for more: @thecomedybear.

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To understand Britney Spears, you need to understand her hair

Pogs. Furbys. Juicy Couture tracksuits. American Pie. Willa Ford.

These are just a few of the trends Britney Spears has outlasted in her long and storied career, which spans nine albums, 20 years, and countless iconic moments that today’s celebrity Snapchat wars could never hope to replicate.

Even as new generations of bobbleheaded pop stars keep cropping up to snatch her crown, Britney has been a unique fascination from the moment she danced her way around a Catholic high school in 1998’s “…Baby One More Time” video.

Even escaping to Las Vegas for a multiple-year residency — an eternity in the celebrity news cycle — hasn’t stopped Spears from being one of the biggest and most instantly recognizable stars on this whole dumb planet.

When the aliens come, don’t be surprised if they don’t care about us taking them to our leaders when they could meet Britney Jean Spears instead.

She’s also gone through so many career transformations, rock bottoms, and comebacks that it can be hard to remember how, exactly, Britney Spears became the icon she is today. As any of her devoted fans will tell you, though, Britney’s always played the poker game of celebrity with one painfully obvious tell: her hair.

If you want to know how Britney Spears is doing, all you have to do is look at her hair (or the wigs and weaves she wears to approximate it) — which, when you think about it, makes her about as relatable as a pop star can get.

So as we celebrate Brit’s 35th birthday, let’s take a break from our own mundane lives to look back at the 20 years that brought Britney Spears to this point, by way of her mood ring hairstyles.

1) Britney Spears Original Flavor: dirty blonde (1998–2001)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

When Britney Spears charged into the spotlight on the edge of a new millennium, her naughty Catholic schoolgirl routine for “…Baby One More Time” was tempered by the fact that the bubbly 17-year-old also seemed like your kid’s favorite babysitter — a contrast that was, of course, purposeful.

As we later came to realize, Britney’s family and managerial team carefully calibrated her public persona, and in the beginning that meant selling sex while being a paragon of virtue. So while the other pop starlets in Britney’s early orbit — Christina Aguilera, Jessica Simpson, even Mandy Moore — defaulted to brighter, louder blondes, she started off as a softer honey blonde, to slightly undercut her salacious image.

2) Blonde(r) ambition (2001–2005)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

Soon enough, though, Britney couldn’t escape the blonde — nor, arguably, did she want to. Though her team kept assigning her a virginal narrative even throughout her high-profile relationship with cocky N’Sync leading man Justin Timberlake, Britney pushed back against that sterile persona, becoming more openly sexual, even a little dangerous.

By the time she debuted her legendary “I’m a Slave 4 U” performance at the 2001 VMAs, she’d amped up not only her dance moves but also the amount of peroxide in her perpetually whipping hair.

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From there on out, Britney made clear that she was — say it with me/I am so sorry — not that innocent. (First and last one, I swear.) She became the sex symbol her image had always teased, vamping it up with a self-aware smirk. This glorious time included her 2003 album In the Zone — widely considered one of her best — not to mention her 2003 hit “Britney makes out with Madonna at the VMAs.”

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But by 2004, Britney’s grip on her world was starting to slip — or maybe more accurately, Britney started to slip from the world. Forces within both her own circle and the salivating music industry were pulling the sweetly dorky Louisiana girl in a thousand directions, and it was only a matter of time before she broke.

2004 was the end of polished Britney. Reports of drug use and mental health breaks started circulating in the tabloids, and then a Vegas trip with childhood friends ended in a spontaneous wedding — and hasty annulment — that gave the press ammunition for years. She met Kevin Federline, a backup dancer with cornrows and a “who gives a fuck?” vibe that Britney probably found refreshing. Finally, her tour got delayed when she tore her ACL during dance rehearsal — and shortly thereafter, she proposed to Federline.

This time is maybe best summed up by the 2005 reality show Britney and Federline starred in, featuring footage they shot of each other acting stoned and snorting through Cheetos: Chaotic.

3) The debut of “Brunetteny” (2006)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

One of the first signs that Britney was about to go even more dramatically off script came when she ditched any semblance of blonde for a dark brown weave in 2006.

Two years after she tore her ACL, “Brunetteny” — as her fiercely loyal self-described “Brit Army” of fans call this bizarro version of her — played by a different set of rules than the pop star we’d come to know.

She abandoned her old persona completely, embracing the chaos of being exactly the opposite of everything people thought she was before. Then Britney got pregnant, and Brunetteny became an even more clearly different persona, separate from her previous blonde teen princess act. She had two sons within two years — Sean Preston in 2005, Jayden James in 2006 — and backed off the grueling performance schedule she’d been under since she was just a kid herself.

Britney was done trying to be the slick package of sexed-up stardust the industry had sold her as, and Brunetteny was her way of saying so.

But if anyone thought Britney’s rebellious stage would culminate in something as banal as a Vegas wedding, an ill-advised investment in a shady backup dancer, or brunette wigs … well, they were mistaken.

4) Shaved hair, don’t care (2007)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

In 2007, Britney’s marriage to Federline crumbled into a fine powder, and her mental health became the subject of worldwide discussion. Once her family and Federline took her sons away from her, she spiraled hard.

She tried rehab, ditched rehab, and cut out her family and friends for a new circle of people whose close ties with the paparazzi ushered in an unprecedented new era of scrutiny into Britney’s personal life at the exact moment when she was at her lowest.

The situation, Rolling Stone wrote then, was dire. When Britney left rehab without completing any kind of program, her family and friends wondered if she was about to self-destruct:

She arrived at Federline’s house for her babies, but he had joined forces with Lynne [Britney’s mother] and Rudolph [Britney’s manager], and wouldn’t talk to her until she registered at the Malibu rehab center Promises. She circled his house three times, furious at having to concede to their demands, before pulling into a random hair salon in the Valley and taking her hair off in big clumps, less as a penance than a liberation. Then she stayed up for forty-eight hours straight, driving around, sucking down dozens of Red Bulls, afraid that she was being followed by demons, or that a cell-phone charger was taping her thoughts, and obsessively listening to the radio for news about Anna Nicole Smith’s death earlier that month. That was her fate, she declared — she was next.

Everyone — including Britney, apparently — thought they knew what was coming. But when she did snap, she still managed to surprise the hell out of all of us.

You know the pictures. Britney, peering at herself in a mirror, shaves off what’s left of her brown hair with a giant grin. Britney, bald head peeking out of a loose sweatshirt, gets tattooed. Britney, wild-eyed, grips an umbrella and beats the hell out of a paparazzo’s car.

As “fuck you”s go, though, this one was pretty spectacular.

5) The pink wig (2007–2008)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

The moments after the head shaving were dark for Britney. Rehab wouldn’t take, she had lost custody of her kids, and Kevin Federline was screening her calls. But Britney’s always been able to put on a show, and in 2007 she might’ve singlehandedly staged the most compelling entertainment of the year. (Google reminds me that the Oscar winner for Best Picture that year was The Departed, but I don’t care, I stand by it.)

Britney’s biggest fans at this point might have been the paparazzi, who stalked her from her driveway to Starbucks and back again. They learned how to anticipate when she was likely to give them something of interest beyond detailing which Frappuccino flavor is her favorite. (She revealed in 2011 that it’s strawberry, and also, the fact that we still cared about what her favorite Frappuccino flavor was a good five years after we were done caring about Frappuccinos speaks to Britney’s strange charisma.)

One detail of Britney’s appearance was a particularly solid indication that something strange was on the horizon: a hot pink bobbed wig, crumpled and frizzy, like she’d just fished it out of the bottom of a long-forgotten Party City sale bin. As one charming paparazzo told People then: “When she puts on the pink wig, you just know something crazy is about to happen.”

And so it did. She’d throw on the wig and tear around the Los Angeles canyons, leading the paparazzi on wild goose chases while taunting them in a British accent, seemingly manic and desperate for approval. Sometimes she’d even stop to hang out with them — which is how she met boyfriend Adnan Ghalib, a former paparazzo whose job used to be to follow her around.

Consider all this when you realize that in October 2007 — eight months after she shaved her head — Britney still managed to put out Blackout, her best album to date.

The wig reluctantly went into retirement once her father, Jamie Spears, stepped in, securing a temporary conservatorship over his daughter’s life and finances — a drastic measure, and one that’s since become a permanent fixture of Britney’s life.

Britney still loves wigs, but that pink bob is imprinted on her history like a bruise that refuses to fade.

6) Finding a new normal through questionable blond weaves (2008– 2013)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

These were the best of times. These were the worst of times.

As Spears tried to grow out her hair underneath a series of excruciatingly bad weaves, her career ramped back up into high gear — though she clearly wasn’t ready.

Watching her now-infamous performance of “Gimme More” at the 2007 VMA’s is like watching someone sleepwalking, and not being sure if waking her would be the best or worst thing. Instead of really dancing — always Britney’s favorite part of performing — she listlessly wandered across the stage, looking less like a pop star than a figure skater who got bored and started thinking about where to get lunch.

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In a 2008 cover story titled “The Tragedy of Britney Spears,” Rolling Stone called her “a perfectly proportioned twenty-six-year-old porcelain doll with a nasty weave.”

Slowly, though, Britney clawed her way out of her hell. Though her father’s conservatorship monitored her every decision — and, again, continues to do so today — she recommitted to being a pop star. She released solid pop albums Circus (2008) and Femme Fatale (2011), before the more introspective Britney Jean (2013). In 2013 she announced her Vegas residency, a show called Piece of Me that would run 50 times a year.

In her exclusive announcement with Good Morning America, Britney smiled from behind enormous sunglasses, a helicopter whirring away behind her. “I’m definitely ready,” she said.

And she was right.

7) A new contender — “Auburtney”? “Redheadny?” — appears (2014)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

As Britney settled into the role of anchoring her own Vegas experience, she turned back to her Brunetteny roots, this time with more of a red sheen than she’d ever had. This was a brief period, but still significant if only because Britney trying brown hair on for size usually signals a restlessness with her own image.

Vegas was a whole new stage for Britney’s career, and though she ended up embracing it to the point where she’s now extended her stay through 2017, she was still figuring out exactly what it — not to mention she — was going to be. For Britney, that usually means dusting off another wig, slipping on a different persona, and trying something new for the sake of it.

8) Mermaid Britney (2015)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

Maybe the best sign of Britney’s improved mental state is her Instagram. In 2015, the boilerplate posts telling fans to go to Vegas in unsettlingly stilted social media speak disappeared. Britney’s Instagram became way more personal, filled with videos of her sons doing skateboard tricks in their Vegas backyard, motivational quotes, and more pictures of sparkly fairies and apple-cheeked babies than Anne Geddes could stuff in a teapot.

At one point, Britney got her hands on a phosphorescent mermaid tail, which she wore to lounge around the pool with her sons and niece in the Vegas heat. She dyed the tips of her hair to match, and thus, Mermaid Britney — a determined performer and goofy mom — got her name.

Also: Mermaid Britney came to slay.

When she started the show in 2014, she was tentative; in 2015, she owned that stage. Her performing is more solid than it’s been in a decade, as she switches up her Piece of Me dance numbers and incorporates new jams for dozens of high-octane performances a year.

9) Back to blonde (2016–?)

Javier Zarracina / Vox

Today, Britney Spears has settled into her role about as comfortably as could be expected, given the fact that she’s spent her entire life trying to be a person while everyone surrounding her tries to fold her into boxes.

But at 35, Britney’s fully twice the age she was when “…Baby One More Time” came out and her life changed forever. She’s a mom who posts inspirational memes and videos of her sons with her giggle as their soundtracks. She’s a performer who churns out show after show, who released a ninth album that has more variation than any she’s done, who knows everything you think of her and has become her own person in spite of it.

Glory be.

Via

1

As an executive coach, I’ve been helping successful leaders achieve positive lasting change in behavior for more than thirty-five years. While almost all of my clients embrace the opportunity to change, some are a little reluctant in the beginning. Most are aware of the fact that behavioral change will help them become more effective leaders, partners, and even family members. A few are not. My process of helping clients is straightforward and consistent. I interview and listen to my clients’ key stakeholders. These stakeholders could be their colleagues, direct reports, or board members. I accumulate a lot of confidential feedback. Then I go over the summary of this feedback with my clients. My clients take ultimate responsibility for the behavioral changes that they want to make. My job is then very simple. I help my clients achieve positive, lasting change in the behavior that they choose as judged by key stakeholders that they choose. If my clients succeed in achieving this positive change—as judged by their stakeholders—I get paid. If the key stakeholders do not see positive change, I don’t get paid. Our odds of success improve because I’m with the client every step of the way, telling him or her how to stay on track and not regress to a former self. But that doesn’t diminish the importance of these two immutable truths: Truth #1: Meaningful behavioral change is very hard to do.It’s hard to initiate behavioral change, even harder to stay the course, hardest of all to make the change stick. I’d go so far as to say that adult behavioral change is the most difficult thing for sentient human beings to accomplish. If you think I’m overstating its difficulty, answer these questions: • What do you want to change in your life? It could be something major, such as your weight (a big one), your job (big too), or your career (even bigger). It could be something minor, such as changing your hairstyle or checking in with your mother more often or changing the wall color in your living room. It’s not my place to judge what you want to change.

• How long has this been going on? For how many months or years have you risen in the morning and told yourself some variation on the phrase, “This is the day I make a change”? • How’s that working out? In other words, can you point to a specific moment when you decided to change something in your life and you acted on the impulse and it worked out to your satisfaction? The three questions conform to the three problems we face in introducing change into our lives. We can’t admit that we need to change—either because we’re unaware that a change is desirable, or, more likely, we’re aware but have reasoned our way into elaborate excuses that deny our need for change. In the following pages, we’ll examine—and dispense with—the deep-seated beliefs that trigger our resistance to change. We do not appreciate inertia’s power over us. Given the choice, we prefer to do nothing—which is why I suspect our answers to “How long has this been going on?” are couched in terms of years rather than days. Inertia is the reason we never start the process of change. It takes extraordinary effort to stop doing something in our comfort zone (because it’s painless or familiar or mildly pleasurable) in order to start something difficult that will be good for us in the long run. I cannot supply the required effort in this book. That’s up to you. But through a simple process emphasizing structure and self-monitoring I can provide you with the kick start that triggers and sustains positive change. We don’t know how to execute a change. There’s a difference between motivation and understanding and ability. For example, we may be motivated to lose weight but we lack the nutritional understanding and cooking ability to design and stick with an effective diet. Or flip it over: we have understanding and ability but lack the motivation. One of the central tenets of this book is that our behavior is shaped, both positively and negatively, by our environment—and that a keen appreciation of our environment can dramatically lift not only our motivation, ability, and understanding of the change process, but also our confidence that we can actually do it. I vividly recall my first decisive behavioral change as an adult. I was twenty-six years old, married to my first and only wife, Lyda, and pursuing a doctorate in organizational behavior at the University of California, Los Angeles. Since high school I had been a follicly challenged man, but back then I was loath to admit it. Each morning I would spend several minutes in front of the bathroom mirror carefully arranging the wispy blond stands of hair still remaining on the top of my head. I’d smooth the hairs forward from back to front, then curve them to a point in the middle of my forehead, forming a pattern that looked vaguely like a laurel wreath. Then I’d walk out into the world with my ridiculous comb-over, convinced I looked normal like everyone else. When I visited my barber, I’d give specific instructions on how to cut my hair. One morning I dozed off in the chair, so he trimmed my hair too short, leaving insufficient foliage on the sides to execute my comb-over regimen. I could have panicked and put on a hat for a few weeks, waiting for the strands to grow back. But as I stood in front of the mirror later that day, staring at my reflected image, I said to myself, “Face it, you’re bald. It’s time you accepted it.” That’s the moment when I decided to shave the few remaining hairs on the top of my head and live my life as a bald man. It wasn’t a complicated decision and it didn’t take great effort to accomplish. A short trim at the barber from then on. But in many ways, it is still the most liberating change I’ve made as an adult. It made me happy, at peace with my appearance. I’m not sure what triggered my acceptance of a new way of self-grooming. Perhaps I was horrified at the prospect of starting every day with this routine forever. Or maybe it was the realization that I wasn’t fooling anyone. The reason doesn’t matter. The real achievement is that I actually decided to change and successfully acted on that decision. That’s not easy to do. I had spent years fretting and fussing with my hair. That’s a long time to continue doing something that I knew, on the spectrum of human folly, fell somewhere between vain and idiotic. And yet I persisted in this foolish behavior for so many years because (a) I couldn’t admit that I was bald, and (b) under the sway of inertia, I found it easier to continue doing my familiar routine than change my ways. The one advantage I had was (c) I knew how to execute the change. Unlike most changes—for example, getting in shape, learning a new language, or becoming a better listener—it didn’t require months of discipline and measuring and following up. Nor did it require the cooperation of others. I just needed to stop giving my barber crazy instructions and let him do his job. If only all our behavioral changes were so uncomplicated. Truth #2: No one can make us change unless we truly want to change. This should be self-evident. Change has to come from within. It can’t be dictated, demanded, or otherwise forced upon people. A man or woman who does not wholeheartedly commit to change will never change. I didn’t absorb this simple truth until my twelfth year in the “change” business. By then I had done intensive one-on-one coaching with more than a hundred executives, nearly all successes but a smattering of failures, too. As I reviewed my failures, one conclusion leapt out: Some people say they want to change, but they don’t really mean it. I had erred profoundly in client selection. I believed the clients when they said they were committed to changing, but I had not drilled deeper to determine if they were telling the truth. Not long after this revelation, I was asked to work with Harry, the chief operating officer of a large consulting firm. Harry was a smart, motivated, hardworking deliver-the-numbers alpha male who was also arrogant and overdelighted with himself. He was habitually disrespectful to his direct reports, driving several of them away to work for the competition. This development rattled the CEO, hence the call to me to coach Harry. Harry talked a good game at first, assuring me that he was eager to get started and get better. I interviewed his colleagues and direct reports, even his wife and teenage children. They all told the same story. Despite his abundant professional qualities, Harry had an overwhelming need to be the smartest person in the room, always proving that he was right, winning every argument. It was exhausting and off-putting. Who could say how many opportunities had vanished because people loathed being pummeled and browbeaten? As Harry and I reviewed his 360-degree feedback, he claimed to value the opinions of his co-workers and family members. Yet whenever I brought up an area for improvement, Harry would explain point by point how his questionable behavior was actually justified. He’d remind me that he majored in psychology in college and then analyze the behavioral problems of everyone around him, concluding that they needed to change. In a mind-bending display of chutzpah, he asked me for suggestions in helping these people get better. In my younger days, I would have overlooked Harry’s resistance. Mimicking his arrogance and denial, I would have convinced myself that I could help Harry where lesser mortals would fail. Fortunately I remembered my earlier lesson: Some people say they want to change, but they don’t really mean it. It was dawning on me that Harry was using our work together as another opportunity to display his superiority and to reverse the misperceptions of all the confused people surrounding him, including his wife and kids. By our fourth meeting I gave up the ghost. I told Harry that my coaching wouldn’t be helpful to him and we parted ways. (I felt neither joy nor surprise when I later learned that the firm had fired Harry. Evidently the CEO had concluded that an individual who actively resists help has maxed out professionally and personally.) I often call up my time with Harry as a stark example that, even when altering our behavior represents all reward and no risk—and clinging to the status quo can cost us our careers and relationships—we resist change. We’re even defeated by change when it’s a matter of life and death. Consider how hard it is to break a bad habit such as smoking. It’s so daunting that, despite the threat of cancer and widespread social disapproval, two-thirds of smokers who say they’d like to quit never even try. And of those who do try, nine out of ten fail. And of those who eventually quit namely the most motivated and disciplined people—on average they fail six times before succeeding. Compared to other behavioral changes in our lives, smoking is a relatively simple challenge. After all, it’s a self-contained behavior. It’s just you and your habit, a lone individual dealing with one demon. You either lick it or you don’t. It’s up to yo —and only you—to declare victory. No one else gets a say in the matter. Imagine how much harder it is when you let other people into the process—people whose actions are unpredictable, beyond your control—and their responses can affect your success. It’s the difference between hitting warm-up tennis balls over the net and playing a match where an opponent is rocketing the balls back at you. That’s what makes adult behavioral change so hard. If you want to be a better partner at home or a better manager at work, you not only have to change your ways, you have to get some buy-in from your partner or co-workers. Everyone around you has to recognize that you’re changing. Relying on other people increases the degree of difficulty exponentially. Let that last sentence sink in before you turn the page. This is not a book about stopping a bad habit such as smoking cigarettes or dealing with your late-night craving for ice cream. Nicotine and ice cream aren’t the target constituency here. It’s about changing your behavior when you’re among people you respect and love. They are your target audience. What makes positive, lasting behavioral change so challenging—and causes most of us to give up early in the game—is that we have to do it in our imperfect world, full of triggers that may pull and push us off course. The good news is that behavioral change does not have to be complicated. As you absorb the methods in the following pages, do not be lulled into dismissiveness because my advice sounds simple. Achieving meaningful and lasting change may be simple—simpler than we imagine. But simple is far from easy.