Nobody Needs to Know. But I Do.

Read time: 5 minutes

I debated whether to send this letter out.

Not because I don’t believe in what I’m about to share.

But because… I know how easily things get misunderstood.

I know how people (including myself) hear things through their own filters.

Their own projections. Their own stories.

And I know that once something is out there, people will have their opinions.

They’ll judge. They’ll assume. They’ll think they know.

They might call it cocky. They might call it self-congratulatory. They might reduce it to something it’s not.

But I’m not sharing this to be understood.

I’m not sharing this to be liked. I’m not even sharing this to be seen.

I’m sharing this because it’s true. Because it’s real. Because it moved me—and I think it might move someone else too.

So if you do choose to read this…

I ask that you read it with Love.

With the kind of listening that doesn’t rush to label or analyze.

But listens from the heart.

Please create me from that place.

Not from judgment. Not from what you think I’m trying to say.

But from your own deepest self.

Because this letter isn’t about Being right.

It’s about Being real.

And if it resonates with even one person, then I know it was worth sending.

Because the truth is:

This isn’t mine to keep.

The sharing is the creating.

And I trust that what comes from Love… Will land in Love.

With that, here’s what I’ve been sitting with…

On September 8th, approximately 14 days ago, I sat in a room at the AJC Coaching School with a group of exceptional coaches conducting a VERY powerful exercise.

It's called "The Bio Exercise".

Simple in concept.

Terrifying in reality.

We were told:

And the moment it took place in that room… something shifted.

Because what came out of some people wasn’t a list of accomplishments.

It wasn’t bullet points or timelines.

It was soul.

And I’ll never forget when one of my colleagues, someone I now feel deeply bonded to, read his.

He started calm. He shared the facts. The titles. The things people say at parties.

But then... something happened.

His voice caught.

His eyes watered.

And then he started speaking—not from his résumé, but from his ribcage.

He spoke from the space underneath all the performing, all the proving, all the needing to sound “worthy enough.”

And what he said hit me.

Hard.

Not just because of what he shared.

But because of what it brought up in me.

Something cracked open.

And I didn’t know if I got emotional for him…

Or for myself.

I sat with that moment all week.

And the truth I’ve come to is this:

It was never just about him.

It was about what he reflected back to me—about who I’ve had to become.

About who people think I am.

And about what I’ve spent my whole Life trying to not need to prove.

For as long as I can remember, people have created me in a certain way.

“The golden boy”.

The one things just “happen” to. The one who always seems to land on his feet. The one who walks into rooms and gets the spotlight. The one for whom “of course” things go well.

• Of course, you signed that client.

• Of course, you got invited to speak there.

• Of course, they said yes to you.

It’s not said with malice.

It’s not said with jealousy, either.

But it lands like a denial.

Like what I’ve built doesn’t count. Like what I’ve lived hasn’t been earned. Like what I’ve had to fight through doesn’t need mentioning because… well, “of course.”

But they don’t see the solitude.

They don’t see the nights I stared at my ceiling, wondering what the f*ck I’m doing.

They don’t see the messages I didn’t send, because I didn’t want to be seen as needy.

They don’t see the relationships I’ve had to leave behind because I couldn’t keep shrinking to stay liked.

And so when my colleague read his bio—and then, unprompted, kept speaking his real bio—

I realized how little I’ve ever let people see mine.

Because here’s the truth:

Nobody needs to know what it took for me to get here.

Not really.

Nobody needs to know what it’s cost me to build what I’ve built.

The hours. The sacrifices. The faith.

No one needs to know what I carry. What I’ve given up. How I’ve created this.

Except me.

My God.

And the Universe.

That’s enough.

That’s more than enough!!

I don’t need to convince anyone anymore.

I don’t need to be liked by the people who misunderstand me.

I don’t need to explain to those who misinterpret the way I move through the world.

Because I know what’s true.

And the Universe does too.

And it’s wild, really.

To realize that the part of me that used to need to be seen… is finally okay not being understood.

To realize that I don’t need to defend the way I Love, the way I speak, the way I show up.

To realize that who I am in the quiet… is enough.

There’s a strange, soft power that comes from knowing that you’re not for everyone—and yet you’ve never been more you.

That’s the version of me writing to you now.

Not the coach.

Not the letter-writer.

Not the guy who has it all together.

Just… me.

The same me who cried at a coaching school in London last week.

The same me who walked home that night feeling a little more seen.

The same me who knows, now more than ever, that I don’t need anyone’s permission to acknowledge myself.

So if you’re still reading this…

Maybe this letter isn’t just mine.

Maybe it’s yours too.

Maybe it’s for the part of you that’s tired of defending your heart.

Tired of performing for people who never asked how you got here.

Tired of pretending it didn’t cost you something to become the person you are.

Let me say this clearly:

• You’re allowed to tell the truth.

• You’re allowed to name what it took.

• You’re allowed to not explain yourself to people who only see your surface.

• You’re allowed to be proud.

• You’re allowed to be free.

The Universe sees it.

Your soul sees it.

And one day, others might too.

But even if they don’t?

That’s not your burden to carry.

You know.

That’s what matters.

That’s what lasts.

With all my Love,

Julian

PS.

I’ve quietly started a Substack.

It’s where I’ll be sharing more raw, reflective letters like this one — the kind that feel more like a journal than a newsletter.

If you feel called to follow along, you’re warmly invited:

Much Love.