Yesterday I, along with millions of people, said goodbye to John Michael Osbourne. Ozzy. I've cried a lot more in the last 24 hours than I have in a long time...over a man I've never met.

You may be wondering why I'm telling you that.

Well, the reason is this: the gift this man gave me has absolutely everything to do with why I do what I do.

Let's start here, with the post I wrote yesterday upon hearing the news:

Of all the reasons why I became a teacher, a consultant — which, at its core, is teaching — and a mentor and a coach, the main reason is this:

To help people learn to believe in themselves.

There is simply nothing that matters more. Nothing. Anything you're ever going to achieve in your career or in your life requires a massive amount of courage; success requires extraordinary belief in the face of an endless supply of moments that will, at best, cause you to doubt yourself greatly.

And at worst, bring you to your knees, questioning why you're here at all.

From the time I was very young, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. For whatever reason, from grade school to high school and beyond, I could never really fully relate to my peers. I felt isolated, for reasons I didn't understand. They didn't get me...and I didn't get them.

Enter Black Sabbath. And more importantly, that voice.

A voice that came from someone who grew up dirt poor in working class Birmingham, England, made fun of at school because his clothes were dirty. Someone whose life before music was marked by abuse and torment and petty crime. Someone who, in his own words, had less than no self esteem.

On paper, it shouldn't work. Given the odds, there is no way in hell this guy becomes someone who completely and radically changes the face of popular music and literally helps invent the heavy metal genre.

But he finds his voice and his courage — and he rises above.

And kids like me heard that victory in every word, every syllable, every note. His voice was powerful and unique, but imperfect by most 'standards' of singing. And that imperfection — and his flat-out-fucking courage in using and embracing it — is what mattered most.

There's just something about his piercing, slightly wavering delivery that hammers it home:

You don't have to be perfect. Do it anyway. It doesn't matter if no one gets you — I do. You'll never be alone from this point forward; I'm right here with you. If I can do this, you bloody well can too.

​A post I read yesterday put it perfectly:

I don't have the words to explain what a gift that is — but I understand its importance. And I also understand, as I get ever closer to sixty, just why it matters so very much.

The point of all this? My entire reason for being is to pay the gift this man gave me forward. To tell you this, over and over and over, as many times as you need to hear it:

Believe in yourself — because I certainly do.

Belief is the beginning and end of your ability. And even the tiniest shred of it — a moment where, in the face of massive doubt and uncertainty, you say fuck it, let's do this — will carry you further than you can imagine.

My life is proof; Ozzy's life is proof. And your life is proof as well, because at this point, your existence means that nothing has stopped you yet. Which means, as I've said many times, that nothing has the power to do so.

You can do this.

You're never alone.

And you never will be.

Onward + Upward —