The men walked in silence, leaving the stream for the sidewalks and street signs. As they neared the Coach's house, he picked up the conversation once again, this time with a personal confession.

“So many times, when I've gotten stuck, I've wrapped myself around an identity of ‘that's just how I am.’ I'm telling you, I lose sight of who I really am. I'm not saying I'm someone who is spectacular or brilliant, while I fall in love with the smell of my own aftershave.” The Client chuckled at the thought.

The men walked on. “I'm talking about how human beings are wired – or Livewired, as the case may be.”

The Coach was referencing a book by David Eagleman,¹ a neuroscientist at Stanford University. Nineteen steps later, the two men entered the Coach's house, encountering a large sitting room where books lined the walls. The Coach pulled Livewired off the shelf and handed it to the Client. “Take a look,” he said, pointing.

The book was filled with stories of people who had experienced dramatic loss – loss of limbs, hearing, sight, and more. Yet these people had been able to rewire their brains, literally, so that the part of the brain used for seeing, hearing, or walking was transformed. Repurposed. Reinvented. Their identities – and their capabilities – changed dramatically. How?

The brains of blind patients rewired their sense of touch to activate the occipital cortex – the part of the brain assigned to sight – creating new pathways. Touch activated the part of the brain reserved for vision, a fascinating story of rewiring inside the human brain. However, as the Coach pointed out, while learning Braille requires some work, rewiring the brain required no effort whatsoever, because of the way the system is built – because of our human DNA.

“Take a look at this, on page seven,” the Coach said, reading over the Client's shoulder, “There are twenty times more connections in a cubic millimeter of cortical tissue than there are human beings on the entire planet.” The Client turned to look at him, stunned. Inside a cubic millimeter? The number might as well be infinite.

“Identity isn't really about creating some persona, and trying to believe in it, or shattering some past belief system that doesn't work to replace it with something else,” the Coach said. “An easier identity is one that's truer. More scientific. More universal. More real.”

“Sometimes that universe that has my back has stabbed me in the back,” the Client said flatly.

“Sometimes it looks like that to me too,” the Coach confessed. “But facing life's challenges – and dealing with our identity – gets easier when we understand how we are all made,” the Coach said, simply. “Life happens, I get it. But also, so does resilience.”

“We all have the ability to change and adapt, often much more quickly than we realize, because of something called neuroplasticity. Our minds are never fixed, which is why mindset,” – he emphasized the second syllable – “like a fixed identity, is based on a misunderstanding. Trying to set your mind is like trying to harness the wind. That's not how the breeze really works. And neither do we.”

The Client read a passage out loud from page 16:

The thrill of life is not about who we are but about who we are in the process of becoming….

He flipped two pages at random, and these words caught his eye:

Whether intentionally or not, ‘plasticity’ suggests that the key idea is to mold something once and keep it that way forever: to shape the plastic toy and never change it again. But that's not what the brain does. It carries on remodeling itself throughout your life.

“Identity is not fixed,” the Client said, making the realization his own. He lifted his head and turned to face the Coach.

“YAHOO,” the Coach whispered.

“Identity is an invention,” he continued, as the Client closed the book. “A creation of our own thoughts. Reinvention is always possible. That reinvention is not a matter of belief. My snowboarding client saw it: reinvention is a matter of understanding. And understanding who you are – like understanding how gravity works – is something that is useful, regardless of personality type, Meyers-Briggs profile, or even your current belief system. New to your job, or ready to leave it, there is a design that is built into the system. Seems to me that the design is kind, and compassionate, even when we aren't. Embracing the system – embracing the way things are – lets me know that I don't always have to be on my mind. Embracing the system allows me to see that it's not all up to me.”

“In fact, just because a train of thought shows up, I don't have to ride that train. Are you with me? That realization will help you find new solutions in the boardroom, and new levels of ease in your life. Just because you think your identity is a certain fixed thing doesn't mean it's true. Your personality can change² – you have capabilities available, anytime, anywhere. It's not about belief, really. It's about understanding.”

“Wait a minute, my personality can change?” The Client was curious.

“Absolutely. Personality is not fixed. Which is why we don't need to fix it. Because we are born with this amazing DNA – the kind of DNA that Eagleman explores in depth in Livewired – which has adaptability at its core, resilience inside of it, and nothing that needs to be fixed.”

The words were a powerful challenge to the Client's belief system. His mind was not set? Nothing needed to be fixed? His state of mind was becoming calmer by the minute. He sat down on a large armless blue sofa, as the Coach continued.

“Believing in yourself is difficult. Not easier. Trying to fix what's not broken isn't easier. It's redundant. Unnecessary. Like chasing your tail or trying to replace a perfectly good light bulb.

“Easier is understanding who you are. You are wired to adapt. To innovate. To create. That's not just your birthright, or mine. Resilience is built into the system: the human system.”

The Client thought his identity, like his personality, was “fixed.” Immutable. Immovable. He came to realize that maybe he played a role in creating his identity. Strangely, he didn't judge himself for creating his identity. How could he judge himself harshly for being human?

He wondered if he was discovering how to zoom out. Perhaps he was making some progress. What happens if things that looked fixed started to get a little more fluid?

He found some of the compassion that the Coach told him was part of his identity. He felt like he was experiencing that universe that had his back – the same universe that was causing his thoughts to flow and his eyes to blink, and billions of other things that were happening right now without his input or involvement. He was starting to explore being easier on himself.

He had an insight: he didn't need to believe in himself, if he understood how the system worked. After all, the Coach explained, even if we don't believe in gravity, it still works. No matter what our personality type, income, or self-image, if we trip, we will fall down.

“Gravity is part of the universe, right?” the Coach said, zooming out once again. “That universe has your back. You are a part of that universe, too, my friend. And that's the identity that makes everything easier.”

The Coach asked if he could share the details of a conversation he had with his own coach.

“Wait a minute – you have a coach?” the Client asked.

“Of course,” the Coach replied. “How can you be a coach if you don't have a coach? If you don't experience the power inside of a coaching conversation on a regular basis, how can you share that impact with others? It's like teaching someone how to swim when you haven't been in the pool.

“I've seen the value of coaching in my own life, as well as in the lives of my clients. The universe has my back, and I don't have to go it alone, so I don't choose to. Sometimes I lose sight of the possibilities that are all around me. Sometimes I forget that I'm part of this universal force, and I get lost inside my own thoughts. I'm human just like everybody else!” the Coach said with a grin. There was a parity, and a generosity, inside his conversation. The Client found his own wisdom easier to access, when he realized that there were two travelers on the journey. Two seekers, seeing the world from different viewpoints, but both with experiences and expertise and wisdom to offer.

“Here's what I know,” the Coach said, “I'm always better when I have someone else in my corner. Not someone dragging me through the pain of my past, or scolding me, or offering a new set of expectations, but someone who's helping me to create the future.”

The Coach explained how, during a particularly rough period, he had a moment of severe self-doubt. “I was explaining my concerns to my coach. I had all these deadlines. I was feeling overwhelmed. What she told me next kind of blew my mind.” The Coach was sitting in a nearby armchair, looking at the Client.

“My coach lives in Southern California, and she loves to surf. I'm wrapped up inside the details of my deadlines, right? And she's talking about the ocean.” He shook his head at the memory. “So, she's explaining to me that surfers have a saying, and the saying is this: ‘The wave always comes to you.’”

He paused.

“When you are out in the surf,” the Coach said, “you really can't do anything to make the wave come to you. And it always does. That's true, a hundred percent of the time. The wave always comes to you. When it does, you can get on your board and ride it. Or not. But the wave always comes to you.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” the Client explained. He talked about how his wife was from Hawai'i. When they were dating, he went out to Honolulu with her and took a trip to the North Shore, where her cousins, aunts, and uncles lived. It was his first time on a surfboard. A lifetime of skateboarding, plus waterskiing at the lake when he was a kid, and he was able to hold his own on that first day. His wife's favorite uncle told him that he was “pretty good for a haolie.” He later found out that, in its kindest interpretation, the word meant “someone from the mainland.”

“The less glamorous part of surfing is that after you have ridden a wave, you have to turn around and paddle back out. Likely right into oncoming waves that are part of the same set of the wave you just rode!” the Client explained. “These are waves others are riding in that same moment but you're having to go against them to get back out! It's just how it works, part of the game of surfing. But the fitter you are, the easier that is. My uncle – he wasn't my uncle at the time but now I think of him as my uncle – he told me, ‘The ocean is my gym,’ and he meant it!”

The Coach loved hearing this story and encouraged the Client to go on.

“What about when the wave of life kicks your ass?” the Client wanted to know. “What happens when the ocean throws you off your board?”

The Coach nodded his head as he sat back in his armchair. “What did your uncle tell you, when the sea was rough, or there was weather, or something else that made the waves dangerous or undesirable?”

“Ah,” the Client said, remembering. “‘When in doubt, don't go out.’”

The Coach nodded. “I heard it a little differently, but the idea is the same. ‘When in doubt, wait it out.’ In my experience, when my thinking is choppy, and low, and I'm in a bad place, I wait it out. The wave that I need? It's out there. Maybe not in the middle of a thunderstorm, or a tidal wave. But the next wave is out there, and it will come to me. But getting knocked off your board, isn't that just part of surfing? Isn't that how that game works?”

“Wait it out,” the Client repeated the words to himself. Wow, what could be easier than that, he wondered.

He reflected on his third day on Oahu, when he was learning to surf. A storm came in while he was on the board, watching for the next wave. Two uncles hollered at him, pointing to the shore, and he followed their lead. Together they paddled in toward the beach. Back inside the family home, the Client took some time to acquaint himself with poi. He tasted some of the freshest pineapple he had ever eaten. He wondered if the Coach had ever tried kalua pig. The Client explained how the pork dish is prepared, similar to pulled pork but using a traditional oven called an imu that infuses the meat with an amazing smoky flavor. The Coach was fascinated.

The conversation was evidence of the Client's own insights and wisdom, and the value of experience. The Coach's job wasn't to inject some level of guru know-how into the Client's head. He wanted to point the Client toward his own know-how, so that he saw the wind, the waves, and the world in a new way. A way that worked. A way that supported him. A way that supported humanity. A way that was easier.

The Client had lived an amazing life and the Coach was here for all of it.

Later that day, the Client explained, the surfers went back out on their boards. The waves were even better than before.

Patience was important. And always available, even though the Client often had trouble accessing it. But patience: patience was the time between the waves, or “sets” – because the waves always come in sets. In between the waves, you caught your breath.

The space between was a good place to be. It felt like a lazy Sunday afternoon.

The Client remembered a teacher, way back in elementary school, who told him, “Patience is a virtue.” As a nine-year-old, that was a lot to take in. He had asked her, “What the heck is a virtue?”

He was still impatient. He was still looking for answers.

The Client explained that sometimes he felt like he was trying to kick and push and tread water and do everything he could to manufacture and manage the waves inside his career.

“Me too,” the Coach said. “I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel like I'm standing on the back of a sailboat, and instead of letting the wind take the sails, I take all the responsibility. You ever feel that way? I try to be responsible for moving the boat. So I find a good place on the back of the boat where I'm blowing as hard as I can,” he said, spreading his feet wide. The Coach started improvising a scene from the Three Little Pigs, where he huffed and puffed but nothing important happened. The Client laughed.

“Sailboats and surfboards, right?” the Coach said. “But something is supporting all of it. All of us. Moving us forward. We don't have to manufacture the movement. Something is making the wind and the waves come to you. Wonder what would happen if we realized that there were things moving us forward, caring for us, propelling us, outside of the sea? Maybe we'd quit spending so much time working on the front wheel.”

“The front wheel?” the Client asked.

“Yeah,” the Coach said. “We concentrate so much on the front wheel, in our careers. Like riding a scooter. You know how that front wheel is where you find direction, right? Professionally, ‘working on the front wheel’ means taking leadership courses, or learning how to modify a Salesforce object, or getting trained on how to onboard a new employee. Useful skills, right? Steering – you gotta have it! But where does the real power come from?”

The Client contemplated the question from his seat on the sofa. He was going to say the engine, but then he started thinking about bicycles, where there was no engine. What then?

The Client was nothing if not thorough.

“The back wheel?” he said.

“The back wheel,” the Coach agreed.

The Client realized that, in some ways, he had been obsessed with steering the scooter in his career. He remembered going to the hardware store with his father when he was a kid. He would sit on the riding lawn mowers, the littlest one first. He would steer one green mower ferociously, then another, while his dad shopped.

As a kid, he thought he was really good at steering. Of course, those lawnmowers never went anywhere.

Over the years things hadn't changed much, he realized.

Gaining momentum, that was the hard part. Finding the power to move forward was elusive.

Scooters, lawnmowers, professional advancement. He wanted acceleration. Movement. More variety. But he was coming to see that movement wasn't all up to him.

He wasn't sure if the universe had his back. But he decided (at the Coach's encouragement) to just sit with the idea that the wave always comes to you.

“I’ve been knocked off my board on more than one occasion,” he said. He was curious how the Coach felt about that observation.

“Yep,” the Coach acknowledged his viewpoint. “I'm no expert, but I think falling down is how you learn to surf,” he said.

“Imagine if a baby, just learning to walk, was picked up every time it fell down. What if its momma took that baby's legs and worked them, saying, ‘Here's how you walk, baby,’ push, pull, push, pull?” He pantomimed something in midair that looked like milking a very tall cow. Or was that gesture supposed to be “walking a baby,” four feet above the ground? The Client wasn't sure, but it looked ridiculous.

“If a baby is carried all the time, it never learns to walk. Because it never experiences balance. Never finds its own footing. Never finds out what walking means, from the inside out.

“We have to experience falling down, so that we can learn to walk. Your uncles could have told you the A-to-Z on what it's like to get knocked off your board. I suspect that they showed you how to fall and how to go into the waves, right? My Cali coach told me some stories about those moves – pretty cool stuff. But hearing stories about surfing isn't the same as being at the top of the wave.”

The Client nodded as the Coach continued. “Life is a contact sport. You have to get out in it and experience it on your own terms. Did you learn to enjoy the waves?”

The Client chuckled and nodded. “Yes, I love to surf. Love it. Even when I get knocked off my board. Because getting knocked off was just part of the game, really. I always got back up and tried again.”

His resolve would be tested in five days. A tsunami was headed for his career.