Someone told me I was being ridiculous

I just wrapped my annual in-person event on Tuesday, and I'm still a little full from it.

I host it every year, a small room of people who set aside real time to work on their businesses and their lives, in person, which almost never happens anymore. And one of the most powerful things we did was also one of the simplest. Late one evening, a group of us sat in a circle and went around, each sharing one thing we're working on and one thing we're grateful for.

That's it. And it wrecked some of us, in the best way. I'll be honest, when it came my turn I lost it a little too, feeling all the emotion wrapped up in what I was grateful for. Because how often does anyone actually stop, in a room full of people who want the best for you, and say out loud what they're really wrestling with and what they're really thankful for? Never, basically. We don't make the time. So when you do, it hits.

But then the week took a turn I didn't see coming.

A couple of days after the event, someone I genuinely respect told me I was being ridiculous. And not just once. It came up over text, and then again in person, in front of a group of friends while I was standing right there.

It was about a reel I'd posted. And honestly, that post wasn't some polished mission statement. It was me, running on empty after pouring everything I had into this event, trying to share a little of what it actually took. How exhausted I am in this season. How I keep wanting to show more of the behind-the-scenes and just haven't had the time or the energy. And in the middle of it, I mentioned that the people who came said some really kind, encouraging things to me and about me.

But I couldn't even say that without flinching. Right after I shared it, I made a joke, something like, "Can you even believe people said nice things about me?" One breath to repeat the kind words, the very next breath to make fun of myself for repeating them.

And that second part, the repeating of the nice things, is what got flagged as me being a little much.

Here's what got me. I'd already made fun of myself for it, in the same sentence. The self-deprecation was right there. So the thing being called ridiculous was a thing I'd very clearly poked fun at myself for. Which told me this person wasn't really seeing the post. They saw a surface, "Ryan's talking himself up," and missed that the whole bit was me barely able to accept a compliment without turning it into a joke.

And here's what I want you to hear. A few years ago, that would have leveled me. The old version of me would have agreed on the spot. Who do I think I am? Maybe I should just stop. Maybe this is embarrassing. I'd have quietly folded and gone back to being invisible, because someone I respect raised an eyebrow in front of people.

This time, I didn't.

Not because I don't care what they think, I do, I respect them. But because I've learned something that changed everything: the people watching you from the outside often can't see what you're actually building. They react to the surface. And if you let the people who don't get it set the ceiling on what you'll attempt, you'll never do the thing you're actually here to do.

Here's what I keep coming back to, and it's the real reason I can push through moments like that now.

I did not get here alone. Every bit of growth, every time I've become a better version of myself, it traced back to the same thing: inviting the right people into my life to help me see what I couldn't see on my own. People who challenge how I think, who actually have my best interest in mind, who want to watch me grow and aren't threatened by it. Left to my own head, I stay stuck. In the right room, I become someone better.

And it's the reason I can hold onto my mission, this thing I care so much about, helping people believe their story is worth telling and actually start telling it, even when someone I respect doesn't get it. The right people remind me what I'm building when the outside world only sees the surface.

That's also why events and rooms like this aren't an expense to me. They're the investment. It's easy to look at the money or the timing and talk yourself out of it, to decide the moment isn't right. It almost never feels right. But investing in yourself, in the rooms and the people who sharpen you, is how you stay energized, get clear on who you want to become, and actually become them.

When it was my turn to share what I'm grateful for, I got personal.

I talked about my daughter. About how she invited me, again, to be one of the coaches on her field hockey team this year. I've got a 16-year-old who admires me enough to want me in that part of her life, around her friends, in her circle. There's even this little crew of boys who've become superfans of the team, and they've got a whole "Ryan Koral" chant going, which, I'm not going to lie, makes me grin every single time. I don't think I'd have any of that if I hadn't worked to build the kind of relationship with her that makes her want me there. My heart about explodes thinking about it.

That's a full life. And I'm convinced the fullness and the growth come from the same place: not doing it alone.

So here's my honest question for you this week. What are you actively doing to become the best version of yourself?

I really want to know. Hit reply and tell me. And if someone has recently said something that slowed you down, made you wonder if you've already hit your ceiling, I especially want to hear from you, because I'd love to be one of the voices telling you to keep going instead of stop.

And if you've been feeling the pull to be in a closer circle, I'm opening a new mastermind in a few weeks. A small group of people who want to grow their business, encourage each other, and figure out how to live a genuinely full life while we're at it. I'm looking for the right people, the ones who want to make a difference, not chase a following. If that might be you, come see if it's a fit: ryankoral.com/mastermind

Onward, my friend,
Ryan

P.S. If you read the mastermind page and immediately thought "I'm probably not ready," I'd gently push back. That thought is almost always fear talking, not truth. Apply anyway, and let's figure it out together.