Hey there, friend. I’m glad you’re here, just sitting with me for a while. I want to share a story with you tonight, one that’s been on my mind lately—a story about a young man who felt invisible, like his presence didn’t matter to anyone. I think we’ve all felt that way at some point, haven’t we? That quiet ache of wanting to be seen, to have a voice that draws people in. So, let’s walk through this together, like we’re just chatting by a fireside, letting the lessons unfold as they come.
Picture this: there’s a young man, barely out of his teens, living in a small, bustling town. He’s got dreams in his heart, but they feel so far out of reach. Every day, he watches people laugh and connect, their words carrying weight, their smiles pulling others closer. And him? He tries to speak, to join in, but it’s like his voice just fades into the wind. No one lingers to hear him out. No one seems to notice when he’s there or when he’s gone. It wears on him, you know? That kind of loneliness—it chips away at your confidence until you start wondering if there’s something wrong with you.
I remember a time when I felt like that, honestly. Standing in a room full of people, yet somehow still on the outside. It’s a heavy feeling, isn’t it? But let’s keep going with our friend here, because his story takes a turn.
One evening, he’s sitting by a pond just outside town. The water’s still, reflecting the last bits of sunlight, and he’s lost in his thoughts, shoulders slumped. A friend of his comes by—someone who’s seen his struggle—and sits down next to him. “Hey,” the friend says, “I’ve got an idea. There’s this Buddhist monk who lives a little ways out of town. People say he’s got a way about him—everyone who meets him feels drawn in, like he’s got some kind of quiet magic. Maybe he can help you.”
The young man’s eyes light up, just a little. Hope, you know? It’s fragile, but it’s there. So, the next morning, the two of them set off, walking down a dusty path toward the monk’s simple home. When they get there, the monk is sitting under a tree, calm as can be, like he’s been waiting for them all along. The young man spills his heart out—how he wants to be someone people notice, someone they want to be around, but no matter how hard he tries, it just doesn’t happen.
The monk listens, really listens, with this steady gaze that makes you feel seen. Then he speaks, his voice low and kind. “Tell me, what is it you truly want?” The young man hesitates, then says, “I’ve heard your presence is powerful. I want to be like that. I want a personality that pulls people in.”
The monk nods, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes now. “Listen, my friend,” he says, “it’s not about personality. That can charm for a while, but it fades. What lasts—what truly influences—is character. It’s who you are deep inside. And to build that, you must be willing to change from within. Are you ready for that?”
The young man swallows hard but nods. “I’ll try my best,” he says. And with that, the monk begins to share what he calls seven ways of being—habits, really—that shape a person into someone others naturally gravitate toward. Not through tricks or loudness, but through quiet strength.
The first, the monk says, is to be proactive. “Life throws things at us—harsh words, tough days—but you choose how to respond. Don’t let others’ negativity pull you down. Their words reflect their heart, not yours. Stay steady, whether the skies are clear or stormy. Keep doing what matters to you, without complaint, without losing yourself to the highs or lows.” I can almost hear the young man taking this in, wondering how to hold that kind of calm inside. Haven’t we all struggled with that? Getting rattled by a sharp comment or a bad day? I know I have.
Then the monk moves on. “Second, always begin with the end in mind. Know why you’re doing what you do. Picture the goal, the purpose, and let every small step lead you there. If your daily actions don’t match that vision, you’ll wander. Be clear with yourself.” I think of times I’ve started something without really knowing why—maybe a project or even a conversation—and how lost I felt halfway through. Clarity, it’s harder than it sounds, isn’t it?
“Third,” the monk continues, “put first things first. Not everything matters equally. Focus on what’s truly important to you, and learn to say no to the rest. It’s not about being busy—it’s about being true to your priorities.” The young man nods, and I can imagine him thinking of all the times he’s been pulled away by distractions. I’ve been there too, saying yes to things I didn’t even want, just to avoid disappointing someone.
The monk’s voice softens as he goes on. “Fourth, think of everyone’s good, not just your own. Life isn’t a race where someone has to lose for you to win. Look for ways where everyone gains—whether it’s in work, in arguments, or in friendship. Build bridges, not walls.” I can feel the weight of that one. How often do we get caught in comparing, in wanting to be ahead? But there’s peace in lifting others up alongside you, isn’t there?
“Fifth,” he says, “seek to understand before you seek to be understood. Listen—really listen—to others. Step into their shoes. Only then can you help, or connect, or even advise. People trust you when they feel heard.” That hits close to home for me. I’ve caught myself jumping in with solutions before I’ve even grasped what someone’s feeling. It’s a habit I’m still unlearning.
“Sixth, work with others, blend your strengths. Two minds, or many, are better than one. Accept that everyone sees the world differently, and that’s a gift. Together, you create something stronger.” I can see the young man picturing this—collaboration over competition. It’s a shift, but a beautiful one.
Finally, the monk leans in. “Seventh, renew yourself every day. Care for your body with movement, your mind with learning, your heart with quiet, and your spirit with faith—whatever that means to you. Without this, all the rest fades. Keep growing, keep refreshing who you are.” I think of mornings I’ve spent scrolling instead of stretching, or nights I’ve skipped reflecting. Small things, but they add up.
The young man sits there under that tree, soaking it all in. These aren’t quick fixes—they’re ways of living, ways of being. But for the first time, he feels a flicker of something solid inside him. He thanks the monk, his voice a little steadier, and walks back down the path with his friend, carrying these seven habits like seeds in his pocket, ready to plant.
And you know, as I think about him now, I wonder what seeds we’re carrying too. Maybe there’s one of these habits—or all of them—that could take root in our own lives. I’m not saying it’s easy, but maybe it’s worth a try, step by step, day by day. What do you think? I’d love to hear where you’re at with this. For now, let’s just sit with it a bit longer, you and me, knowing we’re both figuring it out as we go. Thanks for being here. I’ll see you soon.