THE 12 CONVERSATIONS: How to Stop Performing and Start Being Known Before Your Kids Bury a Stranger

Her eyes never changed when she laughed.

I didn't notice it for twenty years.

My wife did.

We met them in Montana—nice couple, same age, same stage of life, same number of kids. They took us in when we had nowhere else to go. Her husband became my best friend. Coffee every week. Late-night talks about ministry and life.

But something was off about his wife.

"I can't put my finger on it," my wife said. "But she's not really there."

I thought my wife was being judgmental.

Turns out she was prophetic.

Fast forward fifteen years:

The couple divorced. He left ministry. She reinvented herself as a fitness influencer—full Goggins mode, "get after it" posts, transformation photos, the works.

Everyone celebrated: "Good for her!" "She's finally living her truth!" "She looks so happy!"

Then this past May, the Facebook post:

Skin cancer diagnosis.

Tone was defiant. Matter-of-fact. "I'll beat this."

Comments flooded in. "You got this!" "Praying for you!" "Stay strong, warrior!"

One month later, she was dead.

Not "fighting." Not "in treatment."

Dead.

At 43.

The funeral was small. Awkward. Her kids—now teenagers—sat there confused. The eulogy was generic. "She loved her family. She was strong."

Nobody mentioned the church. Nobody mentioned the divorce. Nobody mentioned the twenty years before the fitness influencer phase.

It was like she'd only existed for the last year of her life.

My wife cried in the car on the way home.

Not because she was close to her.

But because she never was.

"Nobody knew her," my wife said. "Not me. Not you. Not her kids. Maybe not even her husband. And now nobody ever will."

That's when it hit me.

The Thing We Couldn't Name Wasn't Social Awkwardness

It was performance.

She'd spent her entire life playing characters:

The farm girl.
The homeschool mom.
The pastor's wife.
The fitness influencer.

Different stages. Different costumes. Same prison.

Her eyes never changed when she laughed because she was never actually there.

And here's the part that keeps me up at night:

She thought leaving the church and becoming a fitness influencer was freedom.

But freedom isn't finding a better character to play.

Freedom is taking off the mask.

She died one month after diagnosis. But she'd been suffocating for forty years inside characters she thought she had to be.

The homeschool mom who couldn't let anyone see her struggle.
The pastor's wife who smiled through poverty and burnout.
The fitness influencer who posted "warrior" content while cancer spread.

Performance after performance after performance.

Until there was nothing left.

We All Celebrated the Costume Change

That's what haunts me most.

"She's finally living her truth!"
"Good for her!"
"She looks so happy!"

We mistook a new character for resurrection.

She was so close to freedom. The divorce could have been the rock bottom that forced her to stop performing and start being real.

Instead, she found a new stage.

And everyone applauded.

Her family is destroyed now. Looks like a class five tornado hit it.

The kids don't know how to grieve someone they never really knew.

My friend won't talk to anyone—completely isolated.

The church doesn't know what to say.

And I'm left with this truth that won't leave me alone:

You can die having impressed everyone and known no one.

You can build a following. Get the likes. Get the "you're so inspiring!" comments.

And your kids can sit at your funeral confused because they never knew who you actually were.

Let Me Ask You Something

If you died next month, would your kids know who you were?

Not the character. Not the performance. Not the Instagram version.

You.

Would your wife be able to stand at your funeral and say "This is who he was"?

Or would she sit there grieving a stranger?

Because that's what's at stake here.

Not your reputation.
Not your platform.
Not your success.

Whether the people who are supposed to know you... actually know you.

I Knew Another Guy Who Almost Died a Stranger

His name was John.

Spent 40 years as a circus act. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Born different—four-foot-two. "Unemployable" they said. So he monetized his brokenness. St. Patrick's Day leprechaun. $2 a ticket. Drink until he couldn't remember what it felt like to be a joke.

Got married. Had two kids. Divorced by 30.

His daughter told me years later: "I never knew my dad. I knew the character he played."

That broke him.

Not the divorce. Not the alcoholism. The realization that his own kids didn't know him.

"That's what happens when you cover up the broken glass," he told me. "You forget there was anything underneath."

Then at 52, John got saved.

Pastor told him: "God doesn't need you to be funny. He needs you to be honest."

Took him two years to figure out what that meant.

Then his son was getting married. John wasn't invited. Called his son anyway:

"I know I wasn't a dad. I was a performance. But I'm done performing. I'd like to be at your wedding. Not as the character. As your dad."

Awkward silence.

Then: "Okay."

Five years later, John's son called him at 2 AM:

"Dad, my wife's in labor. Will you come?"

John was in the delivery room when his grandson was born.

His son told me: "I finally got to know my dad the last seven years of his life. I just wish I'd had more time."

Here's What John Taught Me

Stained glass doesn't reflect light. It refracts it.

Makes it beautiful in a way that only happens when light meets brokenness.

You're not supposed to hide the cracks.

You're supposed to let the light hit them.

That's when you stop being a circus act and become stained glass.

But most people never figure that out.

They spend 40 years performing. Then they die. And their kids grieve a character.

So Let Me Be Blunt

You're performing right now.

Maybe it's the "godly husband" role while your marriage is dead.
Maybe it's the "present father" while you're emotionally absent.
Maybe it's the "strong leader" while you're drowning in fear.
Maybe it's the "successful Christian" while you're battling secret addictions.

Different character. Same prison.

And here's what terrifies me:

You think you have time to figure it out later.

The Montana woman thought she had time.
John almost ran out of time.

Your kids are getting older. Your wife is getting tired of the performance. God is waiting.

How much longer are you going to make them wait?

I Wrote This Guide Because I'm Tired of Going to Funerals for Strangers

I'm tired of watching men die having impressed everyone and known no one.

I'm tired of kids crying at funerals because they're grieving someone they never actually knew.

I'm tired of wives sitting alone in marriages wondering who they're actually married to.

And I'm tired of Christian men performing piety while suffocating inside.

So I wrote THE 12 CONVERSATIONS.

It's a field guide. A tactical manual. The exact words to say when you're ready to stop performing and start being known.

Here's What You're Getting:

TIER 1: THE FOUNDATION (Conversations 1-4)
Getting honest with God and yourself

• Conversation 1: The Prayer You're Afraid to Pray — How to actually talk to God instead of performing prayers. The exact framework for honest prayer that doesn't get you struck down, but finally gets you heard.
• Conversation 2: The Mirror Confession — Why you have to say the thing out loud to your own face before you can say it to anyone else. The one sentence that will either free you or terrify you (probably both).
• Conversation 3: The Inventory — How to list every mask you're wearing, what it's costing you, and which one dies first. You can't kill what you won't name.
• Conversation 4: The Line in the Sand — The difference between "I'll try to be more authentic" and "Today, October 9, I am killing [specific mask]. This is what that means:" One works. One doesn't.

TIER 2: THE INNER CIRCLE (Conversations 5-8)
Getting real with the people who matter most

• Conversation 5: The Marriage Conversation — "I've been hiding from you." The exact script for telling your wife you've been performing instead of partnering. What to say. What not to say. How to navigate her reaction when she realizes you've been lying.
• Conversation 6: The Father-Kid Conversation — "I'm sorry you don't know me." How to apologize to your kids for being a present dad but a hidden father. Age-appropriate versions included. The one question that will either rebuild the relationship or confirm what you feared.
• Conversation 7: The Friend Conversation — "I'm not okay." How to tell your actual friend you're drowning without turning it into a therapy session. The difference between asking for help and asking to be fixed.
• Conversation 8: The Pastor Conversation — "I'm struggling and I lied about it." How to confess to spiritual leadership without becoming a church project. What happens when you stop performing even in front of the people watching for your soul.

TIER 3: THE RIPPLE EFFECT (Conversations 9-12)
Rebuilding with authenticity

• Conversation 9: The Apology Without Excuse — How to say "I was wrong" without adding "but you also..." The hardest two words in the English language, and why adding anything after them ruins everything.
• Conversation 10: The Boundary Conversation — How to say no to performance expectations without apologizing for having boundaries. The one sentence that stops people from demanding you perform.
• Conversation 11: The Accountability Ask — How to invite someone to actually check on you (not just ask "how are you doing?"). The question they need permission to ask, and why you have to give them that permission.
• Conversation 12: The Legacy Conversation — How to tell your kids who you really are before you die. The one conversation that determines whether they bury a father or a character.

What This Is NOT

This is not a devotional.

This is not a collection of "communication tips" or "10 ways to be more vulnerable."

This is not therapy-speak or church-speak or any other kind of speak.

This is a tactical manual.

The exact opening lines.
The navigation maps for when it goes sideways.
The frameworks for saying the hardest things you'll ever say.

No fluff. No filler. No "here's a story about vulnerability."

Just the actual conversations. The actual words. The actual scripts.

Here's What You Do With This

Step 1: Read it.

Step 2: Choose which conversation you're having first.

Step 3: Write down:
Conversation #_____ with _____________ on __________.

Step 4: Do it within 48 hours.

That's it.

No "I'll think about it."
No "when I'm ready."
No "someday."

You choose a conversation. You set a date. You have it.

Because here's the truth you already know:

You're running out of time.

Not "someday you'll run out."

You're running out right now.

Your kids are getting older. Your marriage is getting colder. Your secrets are getting heavier.

How many more years are you going to spend performing before you admit you're suffocating?

Why $9.99?

Because I want to know if you're serious.

If you won't invest $10 to stop performing and start being known, you're not serious.

You're still hoping there's an easier way. A softer way. A way that doesn't require you to actually have these conversations.

There isn't.

$9.99 is cheaper than the therapy you'll need when your marriage dies.

It's cheaper than the counseling your kids will need when they realize they never knew you.

It's cheaper than the regret of sitting at your own father's funeral realizing you never really knew him either.

It's cheaper than dying a stranger.

So yeah. $9.99.

If that's too much, you're not ready.

And that's fine. Come back when the performance costs more than your pride.

This Isn't for Everyone

Don't buy this if:

• You're comfortable performing
• You think "being real" is just being more emotional
• You want someone to tell you it's okay to keep hiding
• You're looking for "10 tips for better communication"
• You think vulnerability is weakness
• You're not actually planning to have these conversations
• You just want to read about other people getting real while you stay fake

Only buy this if:

• You're exhausted from performing
• You're ready to let your kids actually know you
• You're tired of your wife being married to a character
• You're done playing roles in your friendships
• You know you're running out of time
• You're willing to be uncomfortable to be real
• You're ready to do the work, not just read about it

What Happens After You Buy

You'll get immediate access to download the PDF.

40+ pages. All 12 conversations. The complete framework.

You can read it tonight. Choose a conversation tomorrow. Have it by Friday.

Or you can save it for "someday" and never open it.

Your choice.

But here's what I know:

The Montana woman would give anything to have had these conversations before she died.

John almost died without having them.

Your kids are hoping you'll have them before it's too late.

So Here's My Question

Which funeral do you want?

The one where your kids sit confused, grieving a stranger?

Or the one where they cry because they actually knew you—cracks and all—and they're going to miss you?

Because those are your options.

Impressive and unknown.

Or real and remembered.

Choose.

Get THE 12 CONVERSATIONS Now

$9.99

Immediate PDF download.

All 12 conversations. All the scripts. All the frameworks.

No monthly charge. No upsells. No "advanced version."

Just the guide. Just the conversations. Just the truth.

[BUY NOW - $9.99]

You don't get more time.

You get today.

Stop performing.

Start living.

Be stained glass.

Not a circus act.

THE BIBLICAL MAN
@SlayStupidity

P.S. — The most dangerous part of John's story isn't that he spent 40 years as a circus act. It's that he almost never stopped. He was 52 when he finally got real. What if he'd waited one more year? Five more? What if the heart attack came first?

Your kids are waiting. Your wife is waiting. God is waiting.

How much longer are you going to make them wait?

P.P.S. — If you're sitting there thinking "I don't need this, I'm already authentic," you're exactly who needs this. Because truly authentic people know how much they're still hiding. It's the performers who think they're already real.

P.P.P.S. — The Montana woman's kids are in their late teens now, trying to piece together who their mother actually was from contradictory memories and old photos. One of them asked me last year: "Did you know my mom?"

I had to say no.

I knew the characters she played. I never knew her.

Don't let that be your kids' question at your funeral.

[GET THE 12 CONVERSATIONS - $9.99]