I believe that the Matrix can remain our cage or it can become our chrysalis, ... That to be free, you cannot change your cage. You have to change yourself. When I used to look out at this world, all I could see was its edges, its boundaries, its rules and controls, its leaders and laws. But now, I see another world. A different world where all things are possible. A world of hope. Of peace. I can't tell you how to get there, but I know if you can free your mind, you'll find a way
Morpheus, The Matrix
We were ten minutes into a conversation I hadn’t intended to have.
A new parent had just introduced herself to me at the football pitch. Gucci sunglasses. Chanel flats. Hermes bag. Her son had joined the same club as mine. Within minutes, she’d told me about their house “Out East”, how they drive back and forth for matches at his “second club”, and how her son LOVES it. Then, without pausing, she pivoted to her other child—already playing up an age group. Apparently, they’re that good.
It felt like a firehose to the face. A rush of details, each one seemingly designed to broadcast accomplishment, status, control.
But something strange happened.
Instead of responding the way I once might have—listing my own kids’ achievements, subtly measuring up or trying to compete - I didn’t say much. I simply listened.
And in that moment, something shifted.
“The Matrix is everywhere. Its all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your television.”
It felt a bit like that scene in The Matrix, when Neo finally sees the code. I realised she wasn’t attacking me. She wasn’t even really talking to me. She was defending herself - against fears and threats that had nothing to do with me.
What once would’ve felt like a threat to my own worth now felt like a window into someone else’s struggle. That was the realisation: most of us aren’t competing—we’re just coping.
So I listened. I asked questions. I let her be seen.
Eventually, she asked which boy was mine. Then if I had other kids in the club. I told her that all three of my kids played - my eldest for over six years.
And I saw it—the flicker.
The wind dropped from her sails. Was I now the bigger threat? Or was she simply relieved?
I don’t know. But I do know I felt calm. Grounded. Clear.
And that feeling—that awareness—is something I’ve only found by sitting with the discomfort of my own self-worth, again and again.
“You have to let it all go, Neo. Fear, doubt and disbelief. Free your mind”
For years after I left finance, I dreaded the question: “What do you do?”
At home, it came innocently enough from my wife, “what did you do today?” usually over dinner. But it always stirred something in me. My stomach would turn. I didn’t have a neat answer anymore.
I wasn’t “at” a hedge fund. I didn’t wear a title like a badge.
Instead, I wore a patchwork of pursuits - angel investing, coaching, consulting, parenting - and none of them, at least to my inner critic, sounded impressive. Or even coherent.
At social events, especially outside close circles, that question would hit hard. Sometimes, I’d try to justify. Sometimes, I’d deflect. But always, beneath the words, I was asking myself: Am I still enough?
I used to think people’s odd looks were about them. Now I realise they were often about me. About the lens of insecurity I was bringing into the room. About the way I was projecting my own doubts onto their faces.
“Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself”
What I’ve come to learn is this: identity—true identity—isn’t something you explain in a line at a cocktail party.
It’s not a job title. Or a LinkedIn headline. Or a well-practised elevator pitch.
It’s how you live when no one’s looking. It’s what you choose to pay attention to when the noise gets loud.
Because that’s what expands. What you pay attention to expands.
For the longest time, I let my attention settle on external validation—the nods of approval, the imagined hierarchy of success, the silent scoreboard only I could see.
But over time—through coaching, reflection, stillness, and getting it very wrong—I’ve learned that self-worth isn’t a scorecard. It’s not something to defend or explain. It’s something you stand inside of. Quietly. Firmly. Calmly.
Like saying nothing when someone talks at you for ten minutes about their child’s football prowess.
Like not reacting when someone jokes, “Must be nice to have a successful wife.”
Like not shrinking when someone hands you a Mother’s Day card, just to make a point.
"What is real? How do you define real? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then real is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.”
I’ve come to believe that self-worth—true, grounded, resilient self-worth—is built in the space between reaction and response.
It’s built in listening rather than posturing.
In allowing discomfort to sit at the table without running it off with justification or deflection.
It’s a practice. Not a destination.
Some days I nail it. Other days, not even close.
But the more I lean into presence—the more I choose reflection over reaction—the more I understand that the real signal isn’t what we say or do. It’s how we be.
The signal is the stillness.
The signal is the calm.
The signal is the quiet confidence to let someone else tell you their story without needing to offer your own.
Because sometimes, when you’re not performing, you’re actually connecting.
And when you’re no longer trying to win the conversation, you’re finally able to hear what it was trying to teach you all along.
“This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”
