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I’ve lived two lives in one body.

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The first one was fast. Practical. Efficient. I solved problems, scaled things, made hard calls, and didn’t complain. I became someone people trusted when things broke - because I didn’t break with them. I worked across 33 provinces, managed operations that didn’t sleep, and kept the machine moving. I led teams quietly. I fixed chaos calmly. And for a while, that was enough.

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Until it wasn’t.

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There comes a point where the machine starts to eat you. Where you wake up successful and still feel like something’s off. Where everything looks fine on the outside, but your days feel like they belong to someone else.

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I didn’t crash. I didn’t burn out. I just stopped pretending that being good at something means you should keep doing it. So I walked away - not from work, but from the version of life that keeps you running so fast you forget where you were going.

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That’s when the second life began.

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I didn’t rebrand. I rebuilt. I slowed down. Sat with the weight. Unlearned some of the speed that got me here. And I kept writing. Not to teach. Not to build a “brand.” Just to process the things no one talks about — the quiet doubts, the hidden grief, the way high-functioning people slowly disappear inside their performance.

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Writing made space.

 

And in that space, people started showing up. Quietly at first. Then in messages, then in person, then in rooms. Rooms that didn’t want speakers - just truth. I started hosting events. Sharing notes. Building circles, not crowds. And over time, that became Find Forward. Then LIVE.CØDE. Then something more.

 

Now I live slow but clear.

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I work only with people who respect time, soul, and silence. I don’t chase reach - but somehow 20,000 people follow me on Facebook, and 58,000 on LinkedIn. I don’t post to impress - I post so people feel less alone. And I don’t write because I’ve figured life out - I write so I don’t forget.

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These days, I design life the same way I used to design operations: With precision, with care, and with room to breathe. I don’t know what success means anymore. But I know what real feels like. And I’d rather live real than win hollow.

 

This is the life I live now. Still building. Still remembering. Still asking:

 

If you keep living like this for ten more years… who will you become? If you don’t like the answer - maybe it’s time to rewrite.

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Harvey.