Coffee, Culture and Curveballs

Author: Ana Roberts

  • Embracing Changes: A Journey of Transformation

    I recently became a grandmother! It made me reflect on how these changes impact on us and change us forever.

    Life doesn’t usually announce its biggest changes with a drumroll. More often, they arrive quietly—wrapped in a moment, a title, or a responsibility you didn’t fully understand until you were already living it. Becoming a mother or father. A grandmother or grandfather. A caregiver. A partner. A leader. Each role reshapes not only how the world sees us, but how we see ourselves.

    These transitions are profound because they are not just additions to our lives; they are redefinitions.

    The Mirror Shifts

    Before a major life change, identity often feels singular and self-directed. I am me. My time, my energy, my choices orbit largely around my own needs and ambitions. Then something shifts. Suddenly, there is another life—sometimes several—woven into your own.

    For new parents, the mirror changes overnight. You may still recognise your face, but the person looking back carries a new weight of responsibility. There is love deeper than anything you imagined, paired with fear just as intense. You might feel stronger than ever—and simultaneously more vulnerable.

    For grandparents, the reflection can be gentler but no less complex. There is pride, legacy, and joy in watching life continue. But there can also be a quiet reckoning with time passing, with roles evolving from centre stage to the wings. Wisdom grows, but so can nostalgia—and sometimes grief for versions of yourself that feel further away.

    The Positive: Expansion, Purpose, Depth

    One of the greatest gifts of role change is expansion. Life grows bigger.

    You discover reserves of patience you didn’t know you had. You learn to advocate, to protect, to prioritise differently. Many people describe a clearer sense of purpose after becoming parents or grandparents—a grounding force that cuts through trivial worries and sharpens what truly matters.

    Empathy deepens. Your capacity to love stretches. Success becomes less about personal milestones and more about the wellbeing, growth, and happiness of others. There is profound meaning in that shift—one that often brings humility and perspective.

    The Negative: Loss, Conflict, and Quiet Guilt

    Yet it would be dishonest to pretend that these transitions are only uplifting.

    With new roles often comes loss. Loss of freedom. Loss of time. Loss of spontaneity. Sometimes, loss of identity as you knew it. You may grieve the person you were before, even while loving the life you have now.

    There can be internal conflict—especially when society’s expectations clash with your lived reality. Parents may feel pressure to be endlessly patient, fulfilled, and grateful, leaving little room to admit exhaustion or resentment. Grandparents may feel invisible at times, unsure of where they fit in a world that seems to move faster each year.

    Guilt is a frequent companion. Guilt for wanting space. Guilt for missing the “old you.” Guilt for not loving every moment as much as you think you should.

    These feelings don’t mean you are failing at your role. They mean you are human.

    Integration, Not Erasure

    Perhaps the most important reflection is this: life changes do not require you to erase who you were. They invite you to integrate.

    You are not only a mother or father—you are still an individual with dreams, flaws, and a story of your own. You are not “just” a grandmother or grandfather—you are a keeper of history, perspective, and quiet strength. Each role adds a layer; it does not replace the core.

    Growth happens when we allow ourselves to hold both truths: gratitude and grief, joy and frustration, pride and doubt.

    Becoming, Again and Again

    Life will continue to ask us to step into new roles. Each time, we will lose something—and gain something else. The challenge is not to cling to who we were, nor to disappear into who we are becoming, but to honour the full arc of ourselves.

    In every transition, there is an invitation: to be softer, wiser, braver. To let identity remain fluid. To understand that change doesn’t mean you are less—it often means you are more.

    And perhaps that is the quiet triumph of life’s role changes: they teach us that becoming is not a single moment, but a lifelong practice.

  • Mastering Real Estate: Keys to Lasting Success

    Real estate coffee

    Real estate isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s for the caffeinated, culture-loving curveball-dodgers who show up, suit up, and smile anyway.

    If there’s one thing the property world has taught me, it’s that success—in the real estate sense of the word—has very little to do with glossy brochures, shiny shoes, or how convincingly you can pronounce “exclusive mandate.” Those are nice-to-haves. Accessories. Decorative scatter cushions on the couch of competence. The real muscle behind a thriving, sustainable career in real estate? It’s discipline, hunger, knowledge, genuine interest in people, and a brand so tight that even your shadow knows the strategy.

    Let’s start with the not-so-sexy word: discipline. Oh yes, that reliable old friend who insists on waking you up before sunrise, even when you were up late negotiating an OTP with someone who “just needs one more family meeting.” Discipline is that internal engine that keeps you making calls when you’d rather scroll Instagram for inspiration you’re definitely not going to implement. It’s what separates those who “try real estate for a bit” from those who build legacies. It’s showing up when it rains, when the deal dies, when the seller ghosts you, and when the tenant sends a voice note longer than your last holiday.

    Hope and talent are lovely, but discipline is what pays the bills.

    Then there’s hunger—and not the “forgot-my-breakfast” type. I’m talking about that driving, determined, almost candy-floss-at-the-funfair craving to win. The kind the Springboks have in their veins. That unshakeable “we’re bringing this home” conviction. Without hunger, you may make it to the finals of your career, but you won’t win the cup. And real estate—South African real estate in particular—demands this edge. If you’re satisfied with “any medal,” you’ll likely end up with none. Winners are made from consistent daily actions driven by a deep, internal desire to achieve exceptional results, not fluke luck and a smile.

    Of course, success isn’t just a mindset. Knowledge matters—deep, real, relevant knowledge. Not the copy-and-paste kind. True property professionals are constantly learning: legislation, zoning nuances, market shifts, interest-rate implications, rental-trend patterns, buyer psychology. The works. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to know your craft. And the moment you think you know enough? Congratulations. You’ve just fallen behind.

    But let’s be honest: people don’t remember you because you can cite section numbers off the Rental Housing Act with the flair of a courtroom drama. They remember because you’re interested in them. They feel seen, heard, understood. Which brings me to one of our most undervalued but industry-defining skills: genuine interest in people. If you can’t connect, you can’t help—and if you can’t help, you can’t sell. Simple.

    Real estate is a relationship business disguised as a property business. You’re not selling bricks—you’re selling futures, lifestyle choices, peace of mind, certainty, belonging. And to do that well, you need the ability to relate, understand needs, influence, and gently persuade (not the pushy kind; think more “taste this thirst-quencher,” less “drink this cold drink or else”). The power lies in asking questions, not dumping data. The client’s story, not yours.

    Now, that’s how you succeed today. But the future? That’s a different beast. A faster beast. A beast with LED lights and an app.

    To survive and thrive in the years ahead, you’ll need more than discipline and hunger—you’ll need brand differentiation, innovation, and a willingness to do things differently. The real estate world is changing faster than interest rates after a Reserve Bank meeting. Technology is no longer a “nice to have”—it’s your new assistant, your silent partner, your personal caffeine IV drip. Use it. Embrace it. Automate where you can. Adapt where you must.

    And please—be professional. It’s astonishing that this even needs to be said, but professionalism will increasingly separate the rats from the mice. Clients have choices. They want competence, clarity, consistency, and conduct that reflects well on the brand. One unprofessional moment spreads quicker than a voice note in a family WhatsApp group. One bad apple—regardless of their impressive numbers—can taint an entire brand. Culture and reputation are fragile things; guard them like the last piece of Lindt in the office fridge.

    Which brings us to the backbone of any agency that intends not only to survive but to soar: vision, strategy, and brand image.

    If your brand cannot articulate where it’s going, what it stands for, and what it refuses to tolerate, the market will define it for you—and it won’t be flattering. Future-focused agencies are built on a clear vision supported by well-defined values that aren’t just laminated on the wall—they’re lived, breathed, and demonstrated daily. They’re expressed in every online post, every open-house conversation, every follow-up email, every handshake, every decision.

    And yes, clarity and consistency matter. Mixed messages confuse both your staff and your market. Brands that show up with well-aligned, unmistakably consistent communication will stand out in a sea of sameness. Those are the flyers—the ones who rise above, innovate, stay relevant, and deliver long after others have fizzled out. Then you have the survivors—steady, capable, hanging in. And finally… the demisers. The ones who cling to “how we’ve always done it” until the industry leaves them behind like dial-up internet.

    The future belongs to those who combine old-school values—discipline, hunger, integrity, genuine human connection—with new-school tactics: technology, innovation, differentiation, and forward-thinking strategy. The magic is in the blend. The espresso and the milk. The culture and the curveballs.

    Real estate is simple, but it’s not easy. It demands grit, heart, brainpower, and a sense of humour (because without that, you will not survive the tenant who wants to pay rent “as soon as my Forex clears”). But for those willing to learn, adapt, and lead with clarity and purpose, the next chapter of real estate isn’t just bright—it’s golden.

    And that’s the thing about success in this industry: it’s not a moment. It’s a method. It’s not luck. It’s leadership. And it’s not for everyone. But for the caffeinated, culture-driven, curveball-catching few?

    It’s where we fly.

  • Transform January Enthusiasm into Lasting Excellence

    January is generous.

    It arrives with fresh notebooks, ambitious plans, renewed confidence, and that familiar belief that this year will be different. The calendar resets, the coffee tastes more hopeful, and for a brief moment, everything feels possible.

    But most years don’t fail because people lack ambition. They fail because energy fades — and discipline doesn’t step in to replace it. That’s the curveball no one likes to acknowledge.

    Every January comes with enthusiasm. Very few years come with follow-through. We confuse movement with progress and busyness with effort. We plan carefully, speak confidently, and promise ourselves that we’ll really commit this time. And then life happens. February arrives. The work gets uncomfortable. The easy tasks become tempting again.

    Integrity, in those moments, isn’t loud or performative. It doesn’t announce itself in meetings or social posts. Integrity shows up quietly when no one is watching, in the decisions we make when it would be easier to opt out. It asks uncomfortable questions: Did my effort match my goals? Was I doing the right work, or simply staying busy? Did I respect myself enough to give my goals a genuine chance?

    Excellence doesn’t come from inspiration. Inspiration is unreliable. Excellence comes from repetition — from choosing the hard task over the easy one, consistently, even when motivation has disappeared. It’s making the call you don’t feel like making, having the conversation you’d rather delay, and doing the work that doesn’t come with recognition. Excellence is often boring. And that’s precisely why it works.

    Innovation, too, is often misunderstood. It’s not about working longer hours or pushing harder at the same habits. Innovation asks a different question: Is how I’m working actually effective? Working harder on the wrong things isn’t commitment; it’s avoidance disguised as effort. Sometimes growth doesn’t require more energy — it requires better thinking, better systems, and the courage to change what’s familiar.

    Peace of mind is not something we stumble into. It isn’t found in hope or intention. It’s earned through honest effort. There’s a quiet weight that comes from knowing you could have done more, and an equally quiet relief that comes from knowing you tried — even when the outcome wasn’t perfect. Peace of mind comes from effort you don’t have to explain away.

    This matters because we don’t get draft versions of our lives. There’s no rehearsal career, no reset button on missed discipline or avoided effort. We get one life, one career, and one set of choices that compound over time, whether we’re paying attention or not.

    So before the year speeds up — before the goals blur, the excuses creep in, and January energy fades — it’s worth pausing to ask a simple question: Will this year be led, or will it be allowed to happen?

    Because when the year ends, results won’t remember how good our intentions were.

    They will only remember our actions.

  • Stop Wishing, Start Working: Unlocking Potential

    Swimmer

    Some of the most powerful truths come from unexpected places — like a 13-year-old boy reminding us that wishes don’t win races.

    There’s a quote I first heard from my son when he was only thirteen, standing proudly at a school swimming gala as captain — a child-sized leader with more courage than biceps. He cleared his throat, looked out at a crowd of teenagers who only cared about snacks, and delivered a line I’ve repeated ever since:
    “Working will win when wishing won’t.”

    Not bad for someone whose biggest responsibility at the time was keeping track of his goggles.

    I’m still not sure who originally said it, but it pairs beautifully with Gary Player’s classic:
    “The harder I train, the luckier I get.”

    Two quotes. Same truth.
    Dreams are free. Results are not.

    We all have dreams — the home we imagine, the business we want to grow, the lifestyle that plays in our mind like a movie trailer. Some people reach those dreams. Others don’t. Some call it luck. Others call it privilege. And yes, luck and privilege exist. But most of the time? The difference isn’t luck. It’s discipline. It’s the daily, often boring, sometimes inconvenient choices that no one claps for.

    And here’s the part people forget: it doesn’t matter what the dream is.
    Your goals don’t need to impress anyone. They don’t have to compete with your neighbour, your colleague, your cousin, or Mrs Jones — who, by the way, is probably miserable trying to maintain the façade that she has it all together. Let her run her race. You focus on yours.

    Your goal might be running a marathon, writing a book, saving for a deposit, building a business, drinking more water, or simply getting through a week without wanting to hide under your desk. All valid. All yours.

    But owning the dream means owning the discipline that builds it.

    Two people can have the same goal, the same challenge, the same 24 hours… yet end up in completely different places. One wakes up early because they promised themselves they would. The other hits snooze because “sleep is also self-care.” One chooses a healthy meal. The other chooses the chocolate because “life is short.” One studies. The other scrolls. One trains in the cold. The other waits for “motivation,” which is usually late, unreliable, and impossible to contact.

    The difference isn’t dramatic. It’s subtle.
    Tiny choices, repeated consistently, stack up like compound interest.

    We all get the same 525,600 minutes a year. Some invest them. Some spend them carelessly. Some lose them like loose change. And some complain they never have enough time — usually right after a three-hour TikTok spiral.

    It’s easy to blame external factors. The economy. South Africa. Your competition. Loadshedding. The price of petrol. The fact that Mercury might be in retrograde (again). Excuses are endless and incredibly comforting. But excuses don’t move us forward. They just make us feel better about staying still.

    At some point, we all need to hold up the mirror — the honest one, not the Instagram filter. Because if we aren’t where we want to be, the world may not be the villain we think it is. Sometimes the biggest obstacle is the person in the mirror who keeps postponing their own potential.

    The good news?
    If part of the problem is us, then the power to change the outcome is also us.

    The path is simple — not easy, but simple:
    Decide what you want.
    Make a plan.
    Do the work, especially on the days when you’d rather run away to a small island with good Wi-Fi and no responsibilities.
    Adjust when needed.
    Repeat far more times than feels fair.

    And please, stop comparing your progress to Mrs Jones. She doesn’t have your goals, your responsibilities, your strengths, your challenges or your life. Half the time she doesn’t even want the life she’s pretending to have.

    Working will win when wishing won’t — not because wishing is wrong, but because wishing is passive and working is powerful. The dream matters. But the discipline?
    That’s the difference.

    If it is to be, it is truly up to me.

    We all get 525,600 minutes a year. What we do with them separates achievement from excuses.

  • The Legacy of Love: What Truly Matters in Life

    The real legacy we leave behind isn’t what we built… it’s who we held close.

    We spend our lives building things we’re proud of — careers, homes, businesses, reputations, bank balances, identities. We put so much effort into creating stability, success and security that it’s easy to forget a truth we’d rather avoid: when our story ends, we can’t take a single piece of it with us.

    Not the house we saved so hard for.
    Not the car that made us feel accomplished.
    Not the wardrobe curated over years.
    Not the title that once carried weight.

    All of it gets left behind for someone else to sort through, pass on or pack up. What does remain is far quieter, far more fragile, and far more important: the memories we created and the love we shared. In the end, the relationships we nurture matter far more than anything we collect or achieve.

    And yet, strangely, relationships are often where we allow the biggest cracks to form.

    So many families and friendships fall apart over hurt feelings, misunderstandings, stubborn silences or feuds that have taken on a life of their own. Some of these disagreements began with something real; others were born out of assumptions, pride, or stories we built in our own minds. Yet the outcome is the same: people who once loved each other stop talking, sometimes for years, sometimes forever.

    We convince ourselves we’ll deal with it “one day,” when emotions settle or when life feels calmer. We assume there will always be more time. But deep down we know that time doesn’t always give second chances. Life is unpredictable, brutally so. You may never get the moment you’re waiting for. And the question none of us want to face is also the one that exposes the heart of it all: if they were gone tomorrow, how would you feel about the way things stand today?

    That single thought has the power to strip away ego, resentment and self-protection in an instant.

    Because once someone is gone, the chance to fix things is gone with them. You can apologise into the air, talk to their photo, or write letters you’ll never send, but nothing replaces the moment you didn’t take — the call you didn’t make, the conversation you kept delaying, the bridge you chose not to rebuild.

    Sometimes, of course, there are situations where distance is necessary. But many estrangements don’t fall into that category; they live in the grey area where misunderstandings have hardened into walls and no one is willing to be the first to soften. And if you find yourself alone because everyone has suddenly become “toxic,” “difficult,” or “a problem,” then maybe the bravest thing you can do is pause and hold up the mirror.

    When we fall out with one person, it might be them. When we fall out with many, the common denominator isn’t the world — it’s us. That doesn’t make us wrong or unworthy. It simply means there may be lessons we haven’t faced or patterns we haven’t noticed. Healing usually starts with an honest look inward, not outward.

    Rebuilding doesn’t require grand gestures. Often it’s as simple as sending a message, picking up the phone, or opening a conversation that begins with, “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.” You don’t have to unpack the whole story in one sitting. You don’t even have to resolve everything. Sometimes the most powerful step is just reconnecting.

    Because love is not something that stays healthy on its own. It needs contact. It needs intention. It needs someone to make the first move. And that someone might as well be you.

    At the end of our lives, people won’t remember our achievements nearly as vividly as they remember how we made them feel. They’ll remember our presence, not our possessions. They’ll remember the moments we showed up, the kindness we offered, the laughter we shared, and the way we held space in both the good times and the complicated ones.

    So by all means, keep building your dreams. Keep working hard, keep striving, keep reaching. But build your people too. Make time for the ones who matter. Mend what can be mended. Say what needs to be said. Cherish the love that will outlive everything else.

    Because the truth is simple and unavoidable: you can’t take the “stuff” with you — but you will leave behind the story of how you loved. And that story is worth getting right.

    Love is a verb.

  • Why Listening Beats Selling: Unlocking Client Needs

    Whalebone pier

    The magic happens when you stop selling and start listening.

    There’s a universal truth in sales that almost nobody tells you upfront: the more you try to sell to someone, the less they want to buy. It sounds ridiculous, I know. We spend so much time learning how to talk about what we offer, how to present it, how to explain it, how to wow the client with our encyclopaedic product knowledge — only to discover that clients aren’t actually longing for a 40-minute verbal tour of our brilliance. They simply want to feel understood, not cornered.

    Most salespeople start out believing that success is directly proportional to the number of words they can get out before the client escapes. They rehearse pitches in the car. They practise enthusiasm in the mirror. They enter meetings ready to deliver a performance so powerful it could win an award, if only the client cared even remotely about their monologue.

    But the client didn’t show up for a lecture. She showed up for a solution. And nothing shuts down a client faster than being trapped under an avalanche of features she never asked about.

    This is the part where sales becomes humbling — and a little funny — because the strategy that actually works is the exact opposite of what most people do. Instead of talking more, you should talk far less. Instead of delivering polished speeches, you should ask curious questions. Instead of showcasing your brilliance, you should focus on hers. Instead of selling to her, you should let her buy.

    And yes — it really is that simple.

    People don’t buy products. They buy feelings. No one buys a mattress; they buy the promise of waking up without plotting the murder of the springs. No one buys a cold drink; they buy the moment their thirst finally lifts its hands and surrenders. And absolutely no one buys a property for the aluminium window frames. They buy the life they can picture themselves living inside those walls — the safety, the comfort, the status, the convenience, the fresh start, or the sheer relief of knowing the neighbour’s entertainment system won’t be shaking their headboard at midnight.

    Yet here we are, still watching salespeople passionately describe the mattress while the client is trying to figure out whether they’ll ever sleep properly again. It’s like explaining the chemical composition of water to someone dying of thirst. Helpful in theory. Completely useless in the moment.

    And it all stems from one mistake: believing the client cares about your story. She doesn’t. It’s not personal — she’s simply busy living her own story, the one where she is the main character, the director, the producer, the editor and the entire audience. Your job is not to audition for a starring role. Your job is to be the calm, thoughtful supporting character who understands enough about her plot to help her get the ending she wants.

    This is where questions become your superpower. Not manipulative questions. Not those cringeworthy sales questions you find in outdated training manuals. Real questions. Human questions. Questions that make the client feel like she’s in a conversation, not an ambush.

    The funniest part? Clients will happily tell you everything you need to know to close the deal — if you give them space to. When you ask someone what they’re hoping for, what hasn’t worked before, what brought them to this point, or what a successful outcome would feel like, they’ll open up without you having to pry. And when someone opens up, they accidentally give you the blueprint for exactly how to help them buy.

    But when you talk too much, two things happen instantly. First, the client stops listening. You can usually see the moment it happens — the eyes glaze over, the polite smile freezes, and she begins mentally planning her escape route. Second, she begins resisting. People instinctively push back against anything that feels like pressure. If you insist, she hesitates. If you overwhelm, she withdraws. If you dominate the conversation, she shuts down.

    However, if you listen — truly listen — something almost magical happens. The client relaxes. Her guard lowers. She starts speaking freely instead of cautiously. She begins trusting you because you’ve shown you’re actually paying attention rather than waiting for your turn to impress her. And when she trusts you, the need to “sell” evaporates. She begins guiding herself toward the decision that aligns with what she’s told you she values.

    This is why selling based purely on features is such a tragic waste of breath. Features belong in brochures. Benefits belong in conversation. But the real driver of a buying decision is neither the feature nor the benefit — it’s the need behind the benefit. And you cannot uncover that without curiosity.

    When you ask the right questions, the client tells you what the mattress means to her. Maybe it’s rest. Maybe it’s comfort. Maybe it’s relief after years of back pain. When you ask, she tells you what the cold drink represents. Maybe it’s refreshment. Maybe it’s energy. Maybe it’s nostalgia. When you ask, she tells you what the property symbolises. Maybe it’s safety. Maybe it’s independence. Maybe it’s success. Maybe it’s freedom from the apartment where the upstairs neighbour believes he is a part-time tap dancer.

    And once you understand her reason, your job becomes embarrassingly easy. You simply show her how the thing you’re offering gives her the feeling she’s looking for. That’s it. No theatrics. No desperate pitches. No heavy breathing. No need to become a walking brochure.

    The irony is that when you finally stop trying to sell, the client becomes far more willing to buy. Because nobody wants to be convinced — but everyone wants to feel understood.

    At the end of the day, the sale doesn’t happen because you dazzled her with your expertise. It happens because she recognised herself in the solution. It happens because the conversation became about her, not you. It happens because you stopped talking long enough to hear what she actually needed.

    So talk less. Ask more. Forget the mattress. Sell the sleep. Forget the drink. Sell the refreshment. Forget your story. Learn hers. And let the client buy — the exact thing she told you she wanted all along.

  • How Your Brain Filters Reality: Understanding the RAS

    Red mercedes

    Our minds are wonderfully chaotic places — busy, buzzing, overflowing with thoughts, feelings, memories, worries, half-finished plans, and the occasional “Did I switch off the iron?” panic. Somewhere between life’s noise and your morning coffee sits a tiny but powerful system quietly organising your entire reality. It decides what you notice, what you overlook, what you believe, and ultimately who you become. And once you understand how it works, you suddenly realise just how much of your life you can influence simply by shifting the way you think.

    This little behind-the-scenes powerhouse is called the Reticular Activating System — the RAS — a slim network of neurons parked deep inside your brainstem. It’s not glamorous, it’s not trending on social media, and it will never sell out stadiums, but it quietly holds the keys to your attention, your perception, and your sense of possibility. The RAS is the mental bouncer of your internal nightclub: steady, selective, and fiercely loyal to whatever beliefs and expectations you’ve fed it over time. Today on Coffee, Culture & Curveballs, it’s getting the spotlight it richly deserves.

    At its simplest, the RAS is a filter — a necessary one — because if every sound, sight, thought, and emotional ripple entered your consciousness at once, you’d be on the floor before lunchtime. Imagine your mind as a bustling venue hosting thousands of sensory inputs, all demanding space and attention. If every one of them squeezed through the door, you’d have chaos, overwhelm, and the irresistible urge to hide in a broom closet until further notice. The RAS steps in as the gatekeeper, deciding which bits of information deserve your attention and which can remain outside. That’s how you’re able to sit in a noisy café, surrounded by clattering cups and conversations and steaming machinery, and still focus on the work in front of you. Your brain is protecting you from overload because without that filtering system, you would experience everything all at once, and you simply wouldn’t cope.

    What makes the RAS particularly fascinating is the way it decides what belongs on your mental VIP list. It listens, but not to your grown-up, carefully worded, polite intentions. It listens to your beliefs — especially the old, deeply rooted ones you’ve rehearsed for years. It pays attention to your expectations, your fears, your self-image, and your sense of what is and isn’t possible for you. Whatever narrative you repeatedly live with becomes the script your RAS uses to sort the world. If you have quietly taught yourself that you’re bad with money, the RAS will amplify every financial wobble while filtering out the moments you handle things well. If you have internalised the belief that you are unlucky in relationships, it will spotlight every awkward or difficult moment and dim the light on the healthy ones. If you’ve convinced yourself that opportunities rarely come your way, your RAS will dutifully downplay or even hide the ones that do. It is not sabotaging you — it is simply following the instructions you’ve unknowingly been giving it for years.

    This explains why the old saying “Whether you believe you can or you believe you can’t, you’re right” is far more than motivational wallpaper. It is biology in action. When you genuinely believe something is impossible or “just not for you,” your RAS filters out any information that might challenge that belief. As a result, you see fewer ideas, fewer openings, fewer solutions, fewer pieces of evidence that could prove otherwise. Conversely, the moment you believe something could be possible — even slightly — the RAS begins allowing in everything that supports that possibility. You notice helpful people, interesting ideas, useful conversations, supportive resources, and the subtle nudges that were always present but previously slipped past your awareness. It’s the same mechanism that makes you suddenly spot the car you’re thinking of buying everywhere you go. Those cars didn’t proliferate overnight; your brain simply decided they now mattered.

    This brings us to one of the most empowering truths about the RAS: it is programmable. The less convenient news is that it is already programmed, often by childhood beliefs, old narratives, and inherited ideas that you never consciously chose. Many people still carry background scripts such as “I’m not creative,” “Success is for other people,” “I always make mistakes,” or “I don’t really deserve good things.” These old beliefs quietly shape the RAS, influencing what it allows in and what it keeps out, ultimately narrowing the world in ways people don’t even realise. Feeling stuck is rarely about capability; it is more often about having a mental filter designed to keep confirming a story that no longer fits who you want to be.

    The most exciting part is that you can rewrite that story. Dreaming about a new direction, a new identity, or a new possibility is not fluffy, airy-fairy escapism; it is literal neurological training. The clearer your vision of what you want, the stronger the signal you send to your RAS. Your thoughts begin to change. Your attention shifts. You notice different things. You make different choices. You take different actions. Slowly or suddenly — depending on the intensity of your belief — your external reality begins aligning with the internal picture you have repeated often enough.

    Retraining your RAS is surprisingly straightforward, even if it does require consistency. You begin by deciding what you truly want to believe about yourself, not what feels safe or familiar, but what feels expansive and right for your future. Then you reinforce that belief through repetition — through journaling, visualisation, affirmations, or any method that keeps feeding the new message to your mind. Next, you behave in ways that support the belief, even in small, almost symbolic steps, because behaviour tells the RAS, “This matters — let in more of this.” Finally, you start paying attention to the subtle shifts that appear. A conversation becomes more meaningful, an idea suddenly feels bolder, an opportunity stands out more clearly, and the next step reveals itself. These were not late arrivals; they were simply hidden behind an older filter your brain has now begun to adjust.

    In the end, the RAS can be your greatest ally or your most silent limiter. It can protect you or restrict you. It can reinforce the outdated story or help you build the one you actually want to live. The extraordinary part is that you get to choose the beliefs it filters by. If you choose growth, possibility, creativity, courage, and transformation, your RAS will highlight every stepping stone that supports that path. If you cling to the belief that you cannot change, it will quietly block anything that proves you wrong. Your brain will follow whichever script you hand it — so hand it the one that aligns with your future, not your fears.

    Once you choose the belief — and choose it wholeheartedly — your mind begins organising your world accordingly.

    And the wildest part?

    You get to choose the beliefs it filters by.

    If you believe you can grow, adapt, evolve, build, rise —
    your RAS will highlight every stepping stone.

    If you believe you can’t —
    it will dutifully hide anything that proves you wrong.

    So choose wisely.
    Choose bravely.
    Choose the version of yourself you want to become.

    Because once you believe it — really believe it —
    your brain will start making it true.

  • Transform Conversations: The Power of Transactional Analysis

    Opening the gate

    You don’t just manage the conversation. You grow the person.

    Every now and then, you stumble upon a psychological model that doesn’t just make sense — it changes your entire approach to people, communication, conflict, leadership, and even the voices in your own head.

    For me, Transactional Analysis did exactly that.

    Developed in the late 1950s by Dr. Eric Berne, this deceptively simple framework has guided boardrooms, therapy rooms, classrooms, marriages, and more recently — my own conversations with colleagues, clients, family members, and the occasional fully grown adult behaving like a toddler in an inversion table of emotions.

    You know the ones.

    The beauty of Transactional Analysis, or TA, is that it offers a way to understand why people speak the way they do and how you can shift the tone of any interaction from power struggle or sulking to calm, constructive, adult-level problem-solving.

    It gives you a way to manage conversations without manipulation, manage yourself without meltdown, and manage others without turning into a condescending schoolteacher.
    (Unless, of course, they’re acting like a child. In which case: we’ll get to that.)

    Let’s break it down — simply, practically, and with a few curveballs along the way.

    The Three Modes We All Switch Between

    TA says we all communicate from one of three Ego States:

    1. Parent
    2. Adult
    3. Child

    These aren’t roles, ages, or diagnoses.
    They’re states — temporary lenses you slip into depending on stress, habit, or the emotional landscape of the moment.

    And just like that, interactions become predictable patterns.

    1. The Parent State

    This can come in two flavours:

    • Critical Parent:
      “Why didn’t you do this properly?”
      “I told you how to do this.”
      “You never listen.”

    Tone: sharp, instructive, superior, bossy, sometimes unintentionally belittling.

    • Nurturing Parent:
      “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”
      “Shame, let me fix it for you.”

    Tone: warm but potentially smothering; often creates dependency.

    2. The Child State

    Also two flavours:

    • Compliant/Dependent Child:
      “Okay… whatever you say.”
      “I can’t do this.”
      “Please just help me.”

    Tone: helpless, avoidant, overly obedient, seeks approval or rescue.

    • Rebellious Child:
      “Don’t tell me what to do.”
      “This is stupid.”
      Door-slamming optional.

    Tone: defensive, emotional, dramatic, often irrational.

    3. The Adult State

    Now we’re talking.

    • Logical
    • Calm
    • Solution-focused
    • Present
    • Curious rather than reactive

    This is the state you want to be in for 95% of your professional life… and at least 70% of your personal life if you’d like to stay happily married.

    Adult-adult communication is where clarity, problem-solving, and mutual respect live.

    Why Conversations Go Wrong

    Most conflicts don’t happen because people are bad, dramatic, or difficult.
    They happen because:

    Someone slips into Parent → The other drops into Child
    or
    Someone slips into Child → The other rises into Parent

    You get a seesaw of power and emotion.

    And suddenly…
    the fully grown adult across from you is pouting, lashing out, or waiting to be rescued, and you — despite your best intentions — have turned into their mother, teacher, or headmistress.

    No wonder conversations spiral.

    The Magic of TA: You Can Shift Any Conversation

    The real power of Transactional Analysis lies in this truth:

    You can pull any interaction back into the Adult state — simply by going there first.

    Let’s say a manager storms in:

    Critical Parent Mode:
    “This report is all wrong! Why didn’t you follow instructions?”

    Your instinct might be:

    • Child: “I tried my best… sorry.”
    • Parent: “Well maybe your instructions weren’t clear!”

    Both will escalate.

    But if you slip into Adult, calmly and intentionally, you change the game:

    Adult:
    “Thanks for the feedback. Let’s look at it together and see where the misunderstanding happened.”

    Instant shift.
    His emotional temperature drops because you’re not feeding the fire.

    Or—
    A colleague arrives in helpless Child mode:

    “I can’t do this. It’s too hard. I never understand what they want.”

    Your instinct might be to go Parent:

    “Okay, let me show you. Again.”

    But this reinforces dependency.
    It keeps them small, emotional, and reliant on you.

    Instead:

    Adult:
    “Let’s break it down together. What’s the first step that makes sense to you?”

    Suddenly they’re standing with you, not below you.
    You’re co-adults — competent, capable, engaged.

    The tone shifts.
    The energy shifts.
    The power dynamic shifts.

    TA in Real Life: How to Transform the People Around You

    This is where things get juicy.

    One of the gifts of TA is that you can help someone move from bratty or helpless Child mode into confident, empowered Adult mode.

    Not by lecturing.
    Not by scolding.
    Not by rescuing.

    But by holding the space as an Adult yourself.

    Some examples:

    When a client throws a tantrum:

    “They never fixed this properly! This is ridiculous!”

    You:
    “Let’s go through it step by step and see how we can resolve it.”

    When an agent gets defensive:

    “That’s not my fault! Nobody told me!”

    You:
    “Let’s figure out what information was missing and how we can prevent that next time.”

    When a contractor acts helpless:

    “I don’t know what else you expect me to do.”

    You:
    “What are the possible solutions from here?”

    When a friend needs rescuing:

    “What must I do? Tell me!”

    You:
    “What options do you see?”

    Every Adult-state question is a ladder.
    People can climb out of their emotional ditch and stand with you — equal, responsible, clear-minded.

    It’s one of the most quietly powerful leadership tools you will ever use.

    Using TA on Yourself

    Perhaps the biggest secret of TA is this:

    You don’t just have Parent/Adult/Child conversations with others…
    You have them with yourself.

    • “You’re not good enough.” (Critical Parent)
    • “Someone else should fix this for me.” (Child)
    • “Let’s think this through rationally.” (Adult)

    Your internal state determines your external tone.

    If you want your conversations to change, your inner dialogue must change first.

    To settle your own inner Child:
    “You’re scared. That’s okay. Let’s take a breath.”

    To dim your inner Critical Parent:
    “Perfection isn’t the goal. Progress is.”

    To strengthen your Adult:
    “What’s the next logical step?”

    Adult is not emotionless.
    It’s responsible, steady, and clear.

    And people respond to that energy instantly.

    The Ultimate Goal: Co-Adult Relationships

    Whether you’re leading a team, raising teenagers, managing clients, or navigating family dynamics, TA gives you the power to:

    • calm chaos
    • de-escalate conflict
    • dissolve defences
    • reduce drama
    • empower people
    • keep conversations productive
    • maintain dignity and respect on both sides

    The goal isn’t dominance or obedience.
    It’s partnership.

    Two adults standing side by side, solving the world (or at least the current problem) together.

    That’s where relationships thrive.
    That’s where confidence grows.
    That’s where trust is built.

    And — perhaps most beautifully — that’s where you help people step out of dependent, dramatic, childlike patterns and into their own strength.

    You don’t just manage the conversation.
    You grow the person.

    And that is leadership.

    Two adults standing side by side can solve almost anything.

  • Choose Connection Over Comparison for Lasting Relationships

    Connected networking

    We all know the snob in the room — the person who seems to float past everyone else with that subtle air of superiority, as if human connection is optional and the rest of us should feel honoured to breathe the same oxygen. But here’s the twist: the real power never belongs to that person. It belongs to the one who chooses connection over comparison, contribution over calculation, and authenticity over image. It belongs to the human who walks into a room not to rank people, but to relate to them.

    We’ve all encountered the other kind. They enter a space with the precision of a scanner, quietly assessing who is “worth” their time, their conversation, or their attention. Their greeting depends not on warmth but on title, reputation, or perceived value. For them, “What do you do?” is not curiosity — it’s a measurement tool. Some flaunt a superior education. Some cling to a family name as if it were an access card. Others parade property portfolios like they’re auditioning for a glossy magazine. And some simply behave as though the world rotates at a special angle just for them. The saddest reality is that most of these people are not intentionally cruel; they’re just empty inside. They’re standing on ladders built on comparison, and those ladders are always fragile.

    This transactional mindset shows up everywhere — in boardrooms, social circles, networking events, family gatherings, and even in casual daily encounters. People walk into conversations mentally rehearsing questions like: What can I get from this person? Who here is worth my attention? How can I position myself to their advantage? It’s an exhausting way to live, not only for the person doing it but for everyone forced to interact with them. Ironically, this approach never produces deep opportunity, genuine connection, or meaningful relationships. People aren’t transactions to process or leverage, and connection isn’t a currency to trade. It’s no wonder that the transactional networker leaves spaces with pockets full of business cards but hearts devoid of relationships.

    Now imagine flipping the script entirely. Instead of entering an interaction asking what someone can offer you, imagine approaching every conversation with the simple question: How can I add value here? Not in a draining, self-sacrificing kind of way, but in a grounded, open, quietly generous way that says, “I’m here to connect, not to consume.” Maybe your contribution is encouragement or insight. Maybe you can introduce someone to a person they need to meet. Maybe you can share something that helps, uplifts, or reassures. Maybe your presence simply creates space for someone else to feel seen. Contribution doesn’t require wealth, status, influence, or a name engraved on the gates of an exclusive estate. It requires intention. It requires attention. It requires a willingness to be human first and impressive later — if ever.

    The beautiful thing about showing up this way is that the wheel always turns. People remember who made them feel valued rather than assessed. They gravitate toward those who treat them with dignity regardless of their title or circumstances. They return to the ones who were kind even when no one was watching. The transactional networker might accumulate contacts, but the person who leads with connection builds community. And community — not contacts — is what sustains careers, relationships, and reputations over the long term.

    Let’s speak to the elephant lounging in the corner of this elegant room: superiority is not a sign of strength. The people who walk around convinced they are above others — too wealthy, too successful, too educated, too connected to bother with ordinary humans — are not thriving. They are performing. Superiority is almost always a costume worn over insecurity. Arrogance is a mask constructed to hide a sense of inadequacy. Detachment exists to protect fragile egos. Snobbery is simply loneliness wrapped in designer packaging. Truly grounded, fulfilled people don’t need to posture. They don’t need to rank themselves or anyone else. They don’t need to win the room because they are at ease within themselves. And because they are whole, they give easily, engage effortlessly, and uplift naturally. It is the hollow ones who rely on status to fill the silence.

    Authenticity, on the other hand, wins every single time. We live in a world that sparkles with performance, where impressions can be manufactured and appearances can be carefully edited. But authenticity hums quietly beneath the noise — and it draws people in more deeply than any polished façade. While so many chase recognition or validation, the ones who stand out are those who invest in relationship rather than reputation. Success built on image collapses the moment the image cracks. Success built on genuine connection lasts decades. We say it often and it remains true every time: fake fails. Maybe not immediately, but eventually — always. Authenticity is the opposite. It compounds. It grows roots. It extends outward. It returns multiplied. When you show up as your real self, people relax. They trust. They open doors. They introduce you to others. They remember you for the right reasons. You don’t have to perform or pretend or constantly prove your worth. You simply have to show up sincerely, kindly, and with the willingness to contribute something meaningful.

    Life has an extraordinary way of balancing its own scales. Those who invest in people always win in the long run. Those who uplift others rise effortlessly without having to climb over anyone. Those who lead with generosity receive more than they ever give. And those who move through the world with entitlement, ego, or extraction eventually find themselves standing alone in rooms full of acquaintances but devoid of true connection.

    So the next time you meet someone — any someone — resist the instinct to evaluate what they can offer you. Instead, wonder what you can offer them. It transforms conversations. It deepens relationships. And ultimately, it transforms you. Because the wheel turns. Kindness returns. And authenticity will always, always win.

  • Company Culture: Beyond the Candy Floss Illusion

    Candyfloss

    Candy floss looks magical… until you realise it’s just colourful air. Some company cultures are exactly the same. If your company culture tastes sweet at first but leaves you dizzy, sticky, and slightly nauseous… congratulations, you’ve joined the Candy Floss Club.

    There’s something magical about candy floss at a funfair. It’s fluffy, colourful, irresistible, and somehow manages to make us feel both six years old and on top of the world. Joining a new company often feels exactly the same. You take one look at the gorgeous colours swirling in the air — the branding, the smiles, the onboarding presentations, the inspirational slogans printed on coffee mugs — and you think, Wow. I have hit the jackpot. Everything smells amazing, tastes incredible, and shines with the kind of promise that feels almost unbelievable. For a moment, you genuinely wonder why the universe waited this long to bless you.

    That’s the thing about candy floss — and company culture. The first taste is always spectacular.

    But here’s the uncomfortable truth no one warns you about: the more of it you have, the more you start to feel slightly ill. Not dramatically ill. Not “call an ambulance, I regret everything” ill. Just that subtle, nagging sense that maybe — just maybe — sugar alone is not enough to live on. After a few fluffy bites, you realise it’s all the same sweetness, no matter how gorgeous the colour. Pink? Blue? Neon green? Surprise rainbow swirl? It doesn’t matter. It all melts down to the same sticky, overly familiar sameness.

    And culture can be like that too.

    When you first join a company, everything feels enchanting. The values sparkle. The vision inspires. The team WhatsApp group feels like a lively party you’re finally invited to. But as time passes, you begin to notice whether the culture actually has substance… or whether it’s just spun sugar. Beautiful to look at. Fun for a moment. But ultimately offering no nourishment, no depth, and no staying power.

    The thing about candy floss is that it looks enormous — like a cloud you could live inside — but once you take a bite, it shrinks into nothing. Some company cultures work the same way. They appear grand, overflowing with promise, but when you really taste them, they offer little more than air and hyperactivity. Busy calendars instead of meaningful contribution. Inspirational posters instead of genuine purpose. Team-building exercises instead of real trust. A rainbow of colours hiding a single, unchanging flavour.

    And if you leave candy floss out in the air long enough? It collapses into a sad, hardened clump that nobody wants and has to be thrown away. Corporate cultures that rely exclusively on hype, sparkle, and branding eventually do the same. They harden. They become rigid. Innovation dries up. Morale stiffens. People stop showing up fully, because nothing new is allowed to grow. A culture that once felt vibrant becomes a sticky lump of nostalgia, repetition, and “this is just the way we do things.”

    The secret to a thriving workplace isn’t avoiding candy floss — it’s refusing to only eat candy floss.

    A great company doesn’t remove the magic. It doesn’t suck out the fun. It doesn’t replace the bright colours with beige walls and passive-aggressive memos. A great company keeps the candy floss — the excitement, the novelty, the sparkle — but also lets you try the rest of the funfair. It understands that no human being can thrive on sweetness alone. It offers substance, nourishment, variety, and space to wander.

    Think of it like this:

    A good company lets you have the candy floss.
    A great company lets you choose your flavours.
    An extraordinary company lets you wander through the entire funfair and decide which rides matter for your life and your career.

    You can hop onto the rollercoaster of growth when you feel bold.
    Stroll into the hall of mirrors and confront your blind spots when you’re ready.
    Grab popcorn for slow seasons.
    Hold onto the carousel pole when everything feels overwhelming and you just need something steady.
    And — most importantly — step out of the gates and go home to your family before returning the next day with fresh eyes and a fresh spirit.

    A healthy culture doesn’t demand that you stay in the funfair until closing time, dizzy and sugar-drunk. It knows when to let you rest. It knows life exists outside the gates. It respects that you are a person, not a performer.

    Effective cultures are not made of big gestures or cotton-candy promises. They are built on substance — trust, autonomy, flexibility, kindness, clarity, and the freedom to grow in the direction that feels right for you. They give you space to choose your path, pick your experiences, develop your strengths, and live your life without guilt.

    So when you’re choosing a workplace, don’t just look for the bright sugar swirl that dazzles you at first glance. Look for what happens after the sweetness wears off. Look for the leadership that nourishes. Look for the team that supports growth. Look for the freedom to explore, the wisdom to rest, and the opportunity to taste more than one flavour. Look for the places that don’t just hand you candy floss — they hand you the map to the funfair.

    Because the truth is simple:
    Candy floss is wonderful… but no one thrives on sugar alone.
    Find the culture that feeds your spirit, not just your senses.
    Find the place that lets you be whole.

    And when you do?
    You’ll keep coming back — not for the colours, but for the substance.