You hear yourself agree, even though you were about to say something else. Sometimes you only notice afterward.
I’m Chad Herst. I’m a coach in San Francisco and the author of The Performance Trap. I write about these moments because I’ve spent much of my own life caught in them.
There are stories here from my life, recordings to listen to, and practices from the book you can try.
Free, 28 minutes, read in my voice. Sign up to listen and receive the audio link by email. You’ll also get my letter every other week. Unsubscribe any time.
What I’m thinking about lately
You get the title, but the achieving doesn’t stop. There’s another thing to prove.
If getting what you wanted hasn’t settled anything, I’d be curious about what you hoped would change. Would you finally feel wanted when you walked into the room? Would you be able to rest? Could you stop proving yourself?
That’s a lot to ask of a job title.
A book by Chad Herst
The Ache No Success Will Ever Fix
The first part is my story. The second brings together the practices I use in my work.
Kindle releases October 1. Print purchase links will be added when available.
Already have the book? The guided practices and reader resources are free.
Find the reader resourcesA place to begin
If you have a few minutes, you can follow along with this breathing practice. You can listen here without signing up.
About three and a half minutes, guided by Chad. Pause or stop whenever you want.
Explore more free readings and practices
From the introduction to The Performance Trap
I’m sitting in the den with my father and grandparents on his side. The usual tray of hors d’oeuvres is between us: matchstick carrots, celery, cucumbers, and black olives, each in its own neat pile. The fire is crackling. The scent of leather hangs in the air.
My feet barely touch the floor, but I’m holding my soda water with a single drop of scotch in it, a watered-down echo of the drink in my grandfather’s hand.
My grandfather, the patriarch of the family, is holding court in the den with his scotch and soda. He’s broad-chested, dark-skinned from hours by the pool, and has a shock of white hair. He’s always dressed sharply. You might have mistaken him for a mafia don if you’d seen him.
My grandmother sits beside him, her golden bouffant sculpted into place. She’s warm and affectionate as long as you’re adoring. If you challenge her at all, her switch flips.
I write a letter every other week, usually a story from my own life or a reflection on something I'm working through. I often include a recording of myself reading it if you'd rather listen.
You can sign up through the free Chapter One audio. You'll receive the chapter and my letter every other week. Unsubscribe whenever you want.
Get Chapter One and the letter