FIELD NOTE: 001
Sometimes someone says something so honest it rearranges the air. That happened a few weeks ago.
His name is Jimmy. Former pastor of a megachurch, a husband, father, entrepreneur. Fifty-four years old and still leading from the front.
We were face to face over Zoom during a Future Intelligence intro session—the 101 every member takes before entering their personalized curriculum.
He was calm. Grounded. Jaw tight. No emotional fanfare. Just holding a lot, quietly. I could see it in the way he looked at me. His eyes asked before his mouth did: Can you actually hold what I'm carrying?
But what he said instead was simpler, heavier.
"I have to hold it all, right?"
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Said the way someone asks about the terms of their life contract. Like this was the price of existence.
He wasn't posturing for pity. He was naming what it means to stay in the fight—for his family, his marriage, his wife's illness, his calling. Carrying what no one else would. Holding it down because, if he stopped, who's left?
He spoke about being "the one"—the one who takes care of everyone, the one people lean on, the one who holds literally thousands of people a week. And underneath his measured voice, something flickered: grief, maybe.
Then, without theatrics, he said, "There's Jimmy. And then there's Jimmy-Plus. Jimmy-Plus is who everybody sees. The one on stage. The one who performs. Everyone loves him, but I don't really like him all that much. I built him to survive, but now I'm not sure I want to keep living like that."
To slip past the mind's armor and touch what lived beneath, we dropped into a Voice & Vision exercise—something simple, meant to quiet the noise and make space for what's real underneath performance. When he came back up, his voice was steady, but something had softened.
And then came what Lakota Elder John Fire Lame Deer calls woniya wakan, or holy air…
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