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Five years ago, I decided to lose weight. Not tried, not hoped, not wished. Decided. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough - the moment when something shifts when you stop negotiating with yourself and commit. I remember the moment it happened. My doctor had just told me I had diabetes. That was it. I didn’t wait to feel ready. I didn’t explain it to anyone. I started one choice at a time, found the right team to support me, and kept going. And the 85 pounds didn’t just come off - it stayed off because the real change wasn’t in my body; it was in my mind. The decision came first. Everything else followed.
There are moments before every decision, a space of hesitation where we linger, rehearsing our reasons, scanning for approval, waiting for someone - anyone - to tell us that what we are about to do makes sense. This is the fog of uncertainty, a sign that we have not yet truly decided.
Because once you decide - once the decision is made in your core - the need to explain evaporates. You no longer require validation. You no longer feel the compulsion to persuade. You simply move.
It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at the water below. You keep looking back at the people behind you, searching their faces for a nod, a signal, something to say, ‘Yes, jump, it’s safe.’ But the ones who jump don’t wait. They don’t ask. They don’t overthink. They step forward, let gravity take hold, and they plunge. The water rises to meet them because they made the choice first.
But most people don’t live that way. Most people hover in the in-between, wanting certainty before they leap, hoping that if they explain themselves well enough, they will gain consensus and that consensus will soothe their fear. But that is not how clarity works. Clarity is not the result of explanation. It is the precursor to it. And it comes only from us.
You aren’t alone. For five years, I haven’t written another book. Not because I couldn’t but because something in me knew it wasn’t time. I tried. I outlined. I wrestled with ideas and convinced myself I should push through. But every version felt hollow, like wearing someone else’s skin. So I waited. I lived. I let life carve into, shape, and break me open in ways I didn’t expect. And now? Now the words are ready. Now I’m ready. The book is starting to flow - not forced, not fabricated, but forged in something real.
An actual decision is an act of finality. It is a burning of the boats, a stepping into the unknown without rehearsed justifications or backup plans. It embodies commitment so firm that the world around you rearranges in response.
When you find yourself explaining - over-explaining, defending, and seeking permission - pause and ask yourself:
Have I truly decided? Or am I still waiting for someone else to give me permission?
Indecision is an anchor. It keeps you tethered, locked in place, unable to move forward or drift toward what you really want. And the worst part? The longer you hesitate, the heavier it gets. The deeper it sinks. And you start mistaking the weight of your uncertainty for reality itself. But reality isn’t what holds you back - your unwillingness to choose is.
If you watch committed people who fully embrace their decisions, you will notice something: They don’t explain, overtalk, or fill the silence with justifications. They act, and the world adjusts to them. Their conviction carries them through.
Think of it like a train pulling out of the station. There are two kinds of people: those on the train and those on the platform.
The passengers on the train have already chosen. They have set their course, and the landscape moves past them. The passengers still on the platform are running alongside, shouting, hesitating, checking their tickets, wondering if they should get on, if they picked the correct train, or if there’s another one coming.
But here’s the thing about trains: they don’t wait. The doors close, and they move on. The ones who got on, they go somewhere. The ones who didn’t stay where they are forever wondering what might have happened if they had just stepped inside. We only regret the decisions we don’t make.
So the next time you find yourself explaining, defending, over-explaining, re-defending, stop. Catch yourself.
Ask yourself: Do I actually believe in this? Have I actually decided?
If the answer is no, then stop talking and start deciding.
If the answer is yes, then stop talking, step into it, and let your actions roar louder than any explanation ever could.
Because the ones who move don’t need to explain. The ones who decide don’t seek permission. They just go. And the world adjusts to make space for them.
Stay human,
Bryan
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You are reading BEing Human, a weekly newsletter about an honest exploration of trust, leadership, and mindfulness from the bestselling author of Human-to-Human and Shareology, CEO, and TEDTalker. Written by Bryan Kramer, we dive into what it means to lead ourselves - in life, business, and the moments that matter most.
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A lot of gold here Bryan! You capture it well. I've sooooo been there, wanting approval, wanting "it" to make sense to others before I plunge...and it wasn't going to come, so I had to learn to plunge alone, get on the train, and let my world change.
One other item to note that I have encountered is that it doesn't end when I choose to get on the train...there can be moments when my system wants to question me again..."Should you be on this train?...Did you make the right decision?" It's not once and done sometimes....Sometimes you have to keep jumping until you get truly comfortable with it....comfortable with not knowing where the train is going but knowing that this is the journey to be all you were created to be.
I have had to understand that my system has a default that resists change....pure and simple....but that resistance to change is self-limiting and my best self is on the other side of that resistance.
So I keep making the decision, embracing that decision, and showing my inner parts that it is safe and we can ride that train and enjoy the moments.