When someone asks me what my own daily practice looks like right now, I usually hesitate for a beat — not because I don’t want to answer, but because I’ve watched this question turn into a performance in our world, and I’d rather give you the unflattering truth than a polished routine you could screenshot.
You’ve probably read enough “morning routines of high performers” articles to last a lifetime. You know the moves. Cold plunge, journal, meditate, gratitude, visualisation, breathwork, green juice, deep work block. You’ve tried versions of it. Some of it worked for a season. Most of it quietly fell off when life got loud. And underneath all of that, there’s a small voice that wonders whether your inability to keep a perfect stack means something is wrong with you.
It doesn’t. So before I describe what I actually do, let me say the thing I wish someone had said to me ten years ago: a daily practice is not a moral test. It’s a relationship. And relationships look different on different days.
What the practice is actually for
My practice has one job: to keep me honest with three layers of myself — body, mind, and spirit — so that the business I build doesn’t run on a nervous system that’s secretly braced for impact. That’s it. It’s not there to make me more productive. It’s not there to impress anyone. It’s there because I’ve learned, slowly and through enough relapses to be humble about it, that if I skip the inner layer for too long, the outer layer starts making decisions I later regret.
This maps onto the three pillars I teach — Economic Machine, Mind & Heart, Spirit & Flow — and I’d be a hypocrite if I only tended to the one that pays the bills. So the practice is the place where I keep the other two alive in my own life, not just in my work.
What a real day actually looks like
I’ll walk you through a recent ordinary Tuesday. Not a retreat day. Not a launch day. A normal one.
I woke up around 6:30. The first thing I did was nothing. I mean that literally. I sat on the edge of the bed for about two minutes and let my body finish arriving before I reached for a phone, a thought, or a goal. This used to feel like wasted time. Now I understand it as the smallest possible act of not abandoning myself first thing in the morning.
Then I drank water, made coffee, and did about twenty minutes of something I’d loosely call meditation — though on most days it’s closer to sitting quietly and noticing what’s already running in the background. Some mornings a memory surfaces. Some mornings it’s a sentence I need to write down. Some mornings nothing happens at all, and I’ve learned that nothing happening is also a kind of information.
After that, I moved my body. Not a workout. A walk. Forty minutes, no podcast, no music for the first half. I think of this as the slowest part of my day and probably the most important. A lot of what I teach about the body and business — what a nervous system ready for success actually feels like — gets practised here, in a quiet street, before anyone needs anything from me.
Then work. Real work. The Economic Machine layer. Writing, calls, decisions, money. I try to do the most demanding cognitive task in the first block, not because hustle culture told me to, but because my body is most resourced then.
Somewhere in the early afternoon, I stop. Not for long — twenty minutes — but enough to break the trance. I’ll lie on the floor sometimes. I’ll do a short body scan. I’ll sit on the balcony. The point is to interrupt the momentum before it carries me into the evening still vibrating.
In the evening, I close the day with a short review. Three questions, written by hand: what did I avoid today, what did I do that came from my actual values, and what is my body trying to tell me that I haven’t listened to yet. Some nights this takes four minutes. Some nights it cracks something open and takes longer.
What I do when the practice falls apart
And it does fall apart. Travel weeks. Hard family weeks. Weeks where I’m in a creative push and everything else gets quietly demoted. I used to treat these collapses as proof that I wasn’t disciplined enough. Now I treat them as data.
When the practice falls apart, I don’t try to rebuild the whole stack. I pick one thing — usually the morning two minutes of sitting on the edge of the bed — and I do only that for a few days. The body needs a doorway back in, not a contract. The contract is what made it collapse in the first place.
If you’re rebuilding from a longer gap, the same principle applies. I’ve written more about this in the context of the first ninety days of working on yourself with any seriousness — the move that matters is not adding more, it’s choosing the smallest thing you can do without negotiating.
What’s not in my practice
There are things I’ve quietly let go of. I don’t journal for an hour anymore. I don’t track macros. I don’t do elaborate visualisations. I don’t have a colour-coded schedule. I’m not against any of those things — they helped me at various points — but the practice I have now is built for a nervous system that has done a lot of work and no longer needs to be managed like a project.
This is part of what integration actually looks like in practical terms. The practice gets quieter, not louder. Less performance, more presence. Fewer tools, more discernment about which tool fits the moment.
And one more thing. My practice now includes other people. A weekly call with a peer who knows my patterns. Real conversations with my partner about what’s underneath whatever I’m reactive about that week. That’s not separate from the practice. That’s the practice growing up.
If you want to compare notes
If any of this lands for you, and you’d like to be in a room where people talk about their actual practices — the messy versions, the ones that fall apart and get rebuilt — that’s a lot of what happens inside our Skool community. No perfect routines. Just conscious entrepreneurs comparing honest notes about what’s keeping them honest. Come look around when you’re ready.
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