We went to an event in LA recently—a live stage reading with a star-studded cast, followed by a reception.
The room was full of celebrities. The kind of room where, in the past, I would have gotten stiff and agenda-driven.
I know that version of myself well. He scans the crowd. Calculates who to approach. Rehearses what to say. He’s there to get something—a connection, an opportunity, a door cracked open.
And here’s the thing about that version of me: he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s too busy performing to actually connect.
But this time was different.
We’re not trying to break into entertainment. We’re new to LA. We had no agenda, no outcome in mind. We were just there to have a good time and meet interesting people.
So that’s what we did. And something shifted.
I could feel it in my body—a looseness, an ease. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t angling. I was just . . . present. Curious. Enjoying the evening for what it was.
Here’s an example. At one point, my wife Kathy turned to a guy near the buffet and asked, “Out of ten, how would you rate the sandwich you’re eating?”
He started laughing. “A six. But it’s in my hand, so two extra points for that.”
And just like that, we hit it off. No elevator pitch. No strategic maneuvering. Just a silly question about a mediocre sandwich—and a real connection.
Later, an actor I admire walked up to us. “I noticed you two in the crowd,” he said. “You have such great energy.”
These connections wouldn’t have happened if I’d been radiating the other kind of energy—the outcome-oriented, trying-to-get-something frequency. People can feel it, even when they can’t name it—the grasping and the subtle desperation dressed up as charm.
Here’s the paradox: The less you try to extract from a room, the more the room offers.
Think about networking—something most of us dread precisely because we’ve turned it into an extraction game. We enter the room already calculating. Who’s important? Who can help me? What’s my ask?
No wonder it’s exhausting. No wonder the conversations feel hollow. The business cards pile up but nothing real comes from them.
What if you dropped the agenda entirely? What if you walked into the next room—the next conference, the next dinner party, the next awkward mixer—just to meet interesting people and see what happens?
The sandwich question worked better than any rehearsed pitch ever could. Because it was human. Real. Unhungry.
I think about this a lot now—the energy I bring into a room.
Before I walk into a space, I remind myself: I’m here to be curious. I’m here to be present. I’m here to play. That’s it.
It’s a small thing, but it changes everything. My posture softens. My attention settles. I stop leading with my accomplishments and start leading with curiosity. I stop scanning the room and start actually seeing the person in front of me.
The rooms that have given me the most—the deepest connections, the unexpected opportunities, the moments of genuine surprise—weren’t rooms I tried to conquer.
They were rooms I simply entered.
Present. Unhungry. Already whole.
P.S. Applications for Moonshot Thinking are open this week.
It’s a program I built to help organizations turn bold ideas into action—before they get buried in meetings, decks, and delays.
If you missed Tuesday’s email, you can learn more and apply here.
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