The Quiet Crisis of Disconnection
When your strength becomes your armor—and your prison
I was successful.
I was competent.
I was admired—for all the right reasons.
I built two extraordinary businesses through discipline, intelligence, hard work, and perseverance.
On the surface, it looked amazing. Seriously—picture perfect.
I was aligned with my strengths—the parts of me that looked good and drove success: my business, my community, my goals, and my calendar.
But beneath all of that, I was hiding—disconnected from the parts of me that felt uncertain, messy, and not enough.
I didn’t realize it, but I was running from the parts of me that scared me—the ones that weren’t working.
I used busyness to keep myself distracted and disconnected. And I was keeping it all a secret—from myself and the people I loved most.
I didn’t plan it that way.
It was unconscious—the only way I knew to survive.
Honestly, most of us are going through life this way—doing what we’ve always done because it’s the only way we’ve ever known.
We’re running. We’re scared. We feel alone—and we hide it. From others, and even from ourselves.
But here’s what I’ve seen time and again—not just in myself, but in my clients, and all over social media:
The more we strive to appear strong, the more disconnected and insecure we become.
Disconnection isn’t just the result of being busy.
It’s what happens when we believe we can only be loved, respected, or successful if we hide the parts of ourselves that feel weak or uncertain.
We stop trusting others to see the real us.
And even worse, we stop trusting ourselves.
We build armor.
We downplay the truth.
We smile and say “I’m fine” when we’re anything but.
At first, that armor feels like protection.
Eventually, it becomes a cage.
That’s what I mean by the quiet crisis of disconnection—
it doesn’t scream. It just slowly squeezes the life out of you.
And it only begins to shift when we choose something that goes against everything our success conditioning has taught us:
Vulnerability.
The courage to say, “I’m not okay"—even if you’re pretty sure you will be.
The honesty to admit, “I don’t have it all figured out"—even if you know you’ll probably get there.
The trust to believe, “Maybe I don’t have to do this alone"—even if you’re capable of doing it on your own.
This isn’t weakness.
It’s integrity.
It’s how we return to wholeness—by telling the truth, first to ourselves, then to the people who actually want to love and support us.
If this feels raw or close to home… good. That’s the signal.
It doesn’t mean something’s wrong.
It means something deeper is ready to be seen—and healed.
More soon,
—Andy
P.S. If this stirred something in you, hit reply. I read everything. And if you’re done doing this alone, let’s talk.
AND… THANK YOU FOR READING ALL THE WAY TO THE END. I APPRECIATE YOU!!