Not the one you tell other people.
The polished version. The LinkedIn bio. The dinner party answer to “so what do you do?” That story is fine. It’s functional. It gets you through the door.
But there’s another one running underneath it, and that’s the one I’m talking about.
This story has no title page. You didn’t sit down and write it. It assembled itself from a hundred small moments you’ve mostly forgotten — a teacher’s offhand comment, a risk you took that didn’t pay off, a dream you stopped mentioning because nobody seemed to take it seriously. A family that loved you in ways that also, quietly, set a ceiling on what someone like you could expect.
This is the story that decides what you believe is possible before you’ve even consciously considered the question. It determines what you think you deserve — in your work, your relationships, your bank account, your sense of being seen. It’s the story that knows, somehow, exactly when to whisper you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself the moment you start reaching for something larger.
Most people never examine it. Not because they’re incurious, but because it doesn’t feel like a story. It feels like reality. It feels like just the way things are.
But it isn’t.
It’s a working draft. Written mostly by other people, in circumstances that no longer exist, about a version of you that has long since changed. The fact that it still runs your life is not inevitable. It’s just a habit that hasn’t been interrupted yet.
That’s what this is for.
You’ve read the books. Not just skimmed them, but actually read them, underlined them, returned to certain passages more than once. You’ve attended the workshops, done the exercises, and stayed for the uncomfortable conversations. You’ve set goals that scared you a little and hit most of them. You’ve done the work.
By any reasonable measure, things are going well. You could make a list right now and it would be a good list. People in your life would read it and tell you that you’re doing great. And you know they’d be right. You’re not looking for permission to complain.
But there is something that will not settle.
It’s not crisis. It’s not collapse. It doesn’t keep you up at night, exactly — it’s more like a low signal that runs beneath the ordinary frequencies of your day. A gap between the life you’re standing in and the life you can somehow sense is possible. Not a fantasy life, not a different life — your life, but more fully inhabited. More truly yours.
It shows up in odd moments. In the pause after someone asks what you really want and you realise your answer feels rehearsed. In the Sunday evening feeling that has no name but sits in your chest like a question. In the moments when you’re performing competence so smoothly that you catch yourself wondering if there’s anyone home behind it.
This is not a failure. You haven’t done anything wrong. The path you’ve walked has been real, and it has meant something.
But at some point, the story you’ve been living inside stopped being a discovery and became a script. And somewhere in you, something knows the difference.
You’re not broken. You’re not stuck because you lack discipline or vision or drive — you have all of those. You’re here because the narrative you’re operating from was written for a version of you that no longer exists, for a world that has since shifted, toward destinations that may have been someone else’s idea of arrival.
The story still runs. It just no longer fits.
And that friction — that subtle, persistent, undeniable friction — is not a problem to be solved. It’s information. It’s the self, knocking.
I’ve spent over twenty years in rooms with people at exactly that moment. The moment when the gap becomes undeniable. When the friction gets loud enough that something has to change, and the question shifts from what should I do differently to who, actually, am I?
Those rooms have looked different over the years. Corporate boardrooms and training floors, where the language was performance and potential but the real conversation was always about identity. Coaching sessions where someone successful and unhappy was finally honest about both. Workshop spaces where people came in guarded and left carrying something they hadn’t expected to find. And the quieter, stranger rooms too — the ones where the work was less professional and more fundamental, where we weren’t optimising a career but excavating a life.
The people have been different. Executives. Creatives. People in transition and people who didn’t know yet that they were in transition. People who thought they were coming to fix a problem and discovered they were coming to ask a better question.
But the work has always been the same work.
It starts with story. Not metaphorically, not as a useful frame — literally. The way we narrate our experience is the way we experience it. The story you carry about who you are, what you’re capable of, what you’re allowed to want, what kind of ending someone like you can expect — that story is not decoration. It’s architecture. It shapes what you see, what you reach for, what you walk past without noticing.
Most of us inherited our stories more than we wrote them. We assembled them in childhood and adolescence from whatever materials were available — family patterns, cultural scripts, early wounds, accidental triumphs. Then we spent the rest of our lives mistaking that assembly for truth.
I call this work Narrative Alchemy because that’s the most honest name I’ve found for it.
Alchemy, in its oldest sense, was the art of transformation. Taking base material and changing its nature at the level of essence, not surface. Not polishing lead and pretending it’s gold — actually working the deeper process until something new becomes possible.
That’s what this is. Not reframing, not positive thinking, not a better set of affirmations to paste over the same old structure. We go into the actual material — the images and metaphors and inherited voices that run your inner world — and we work with it until it starts to move. Until the story that has been a cage begins to become a doorway.
I’ve watched people do this. I’ve done it myself, more than once, in the places where I’d stopped looking because I was convinced I already knew what was there.
It doesn’t make you someone else. It makes you more recognisably yourself. That’s the alchemy. That’s the whole point.
The story you’re living is not the only one available to you.
That’s not a motivational statement. It’s a structural fact. Stories can be rewritten — not by pretending the old one didn’t happen, not by forcing a more optimistic interpretation onto the same raw material, but by doing the actual work of going underneath it. Finding the place where it was assembled. Understanding why it made sense then, and why it no longer serves now. And beginning, carefully and seriously, to write something truer.
That work is available to you. Right now. Not when you’ve figured out exactly what you want, not when things settle down, not when you feel ready. You don’t have to have it clear before we talk. You just have to have the feeling — that low, persistent signal — that something is asking to change.
So here’s what I’m offering.
A conversation. That’s all.
Not a sales call dressed up as something else. Not an hour of me telling you what transformation could look like if only you’d sign up. A real conversation, between two people, about where you actually are. What’s working and what isn’t. What you’ve already tried. What you sense is possible but haven’t been able to reach. And whether this particular work, done this particular way, is the right fit for where you are right now.
It might be. It might not be. There are people I talk to who need something different from what I offer, and I’ll tell you that plainly if it’s true. The only thing this call is for is finding out what’s real.
No pitch. No pressure. No obligation waiting at the end of it like a trapdoor.
Just a conversation between someone who knows this territory and someone who might be ready to walk it.
If something in what you’ve read has named a feeling you’ve been carrying — if you’ve found yourself nodding at words you didn’t expect to recognise — then that’s probably enough reason to reach out.
The gap you’ve been sensing is not a flaw. It’s a doorway.
Come and see what’s on the other side.
It is a coaching approach built around one central insight: the stories you tell yourself are code. They shape what you believe is possible, how you read situations, what you reach for, and what you hold back from. Most of the time, those stories are invisible — which is why they keep running.
Narrative Alchemy is the process of making them visible and then rewriting them. Not through positive thinking or willpower. Through genuine, grounded inner work that draws on NLP, depth psychology, Clean Language, and the philosophy of meaning-making. The alchemy is real: the base material of a limiting story becomes something you can actually use.
People who sense that something internal is getting in the way. Not a skills gap. Not a resources gap. A story gap — a set of scripts running underneath the surface that are quietly shaping every decision, every relationship, every attempt to move forward.
Leaders who have achieved a lot and are still dissatisfied, and cannot fully account for why. People in transition who keep hitting the same wall in different rooms. Coaches, consultants, and trainers who are asking hard questions about who they are and what they are becoming.
You do not need a specific problem. You need a genuine willingness to look honestly at what is going on inside.
No. I am not a therapist, and this is not therapy. Therapy tends to work from the past forward. This works from where you are now toward where you want to be. There is overlap — any serious inner work involves understanding how old stories got written — but the orientation is different.
If you are in crisis or dealing with acute mental health challenges, please work with a qualified therapist or mental health professional. That is not what this is.
No. You might encounter references to Jung, to archetypes, to alchemy as a metaphor for inner transformation. These are not decorations. They are useful maps. You are not required to treat any of them as more than that.
Belief itself is one of the things we work with — as a tool, not as a condition of entry. You bring a curious mind. That is the only requirement.
Most sessions run sixty to ninety minutes. We talk. I ask questions, some of them unusual. We pay close attention to the specific language you use, because the words people choose reveal the stories they are living inside. We use exercises drawn from NLP and Clean Language to surface patterns that are not immediately visible in ordinary conversation.
There is no homework treadmill, no worksheet stack. There are practices, when they are useful. The real work tends to happen in the conversation itself, and in the quiet that follows it.
Because most coaching works on the surface level — goals, plans, accountability structures. Those are useful. But if the underlying story has not shifted, the new behaviour does not hold. You return to base state by Thursday.
This goes deeper. The question is not what do you want to do differently. The question is what story would have to change for that to be possible. When you change the story, the behaviour tends to follow without forcing it.
It depends on what you are working with and how much you are willing to move. Some people experience a significant shift in two or three sessions. A fuller engagement usually runs three to six months, with sessions every two to three weeks.
I do not sell packages with arbitrary session counts. We work for as long as it is useful, and not a session longer.
Coaching is priced based on what we are working on and how we are working together. The right place to start is a discovery call — a conversation to understand what you are dealing with, what you are looking for, and whether this is the right fit. Pricing comes out of that conversation.
If that sounds vague: it is intentional. I would rather spend twenty minutes talking with you than put a number on a webpage that leads you somewhere that does not serve you.
Primarily online, via video call. I work with people across the UK and internationally. Occasional in-person sessions can be arranged for those based near Warwickshire.
Clarity, mostly. A clearer view of what has actually been running the show. A different relationship with the stories that have been limiting you — not as fixed facts about who you are, but as scripts that can be rewritten. Some people describe it as finally seeing the thing that was always just out of sight.
What you do with that clarity is up to you. My job is to make the invisible visible and help you see what is possible once it is.
Book a discovery call. It is a conversation, not a pitch. We talk, we work out whether this is right for you, and we take it from there.
The newsletter is a self-paced practice container. Each dispatch gives you one insight from narrative alchemy — something to sit with, something to try, something to notice about the stories running underneath your everyday thinking.

The Soulcruzer podcast…narrative alchemy in audio form. Call it an audioblog, call it threshold work, call it confessional mysticism.
One day I’m working through tarot as spiritual technology. The next, I’m exploring Nietzsche’s eternal return as lived practice, chaos magick techniques, or games as containers for transformation. Depth psychology meets the esoteric. Ancient wisdom meets the AI age. Theory becomes practice.
This is what narrative alchemy sounds like from the inside: raw, real, unpolished. Experiments in treating stories as code and consciousness as hackable.
If you’re here for the deep work and the edges, subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.
In this episode, I explore one of Jung’s most striking images: the unconscious as both dragon and treasure. What if the fear, resistance, and chaos you encounter when you turn inward aren’t signs that something is wrong but signs that you’re getting close to something valuable? Drawing on Jungian depth psychology, NLP, and the logic of myth, I unpack why the very thing guarding your buried gold is often indistinguishable from the thing you most want to avoid and what it actually means to face it.

testing the micropublish web app.
Leary’s 8 Circuits of Development: A Mythic Map of Human Becoming Timothy Leary’s 8-circuit model is one of those strange, half-wild frameworks that refuses to die because, scientific or not, it touches something real in the imagination. On the surface, it is a speculative map of human consciousness: eight layers or “circuits” through which awareness develops, from basic survival all the way to transpersonal and cosmic states. But read through a mythic lens, it becomes something more interesting than theory. It becomes a map of initiation. The first four circuits describe the construction of the social self. First, survival: is
The Baffler on AI and cognition: nothing about this trajectory is inevitable. The future isn’t fixed. It’s being written by people with very particular interests. The piece is quiet but the point lands hard.
I have been thinking about the vocabulary we use for the inner life. How much of it actually belongs to us. Most of the words we reach for when we try to describe what is happening inside, sadness, anxiety, frustration, and fear, were handed to us. By language. By family. By the culture we were born into. We use them because we have them. Not because they are precise. There is a practice gaining attention in psychology circles: inventing your own terms for emotional states that standard language doesn’t quite reach. Coining something private, personal, exact. I think this practice

The danger of romanticising your own life is that you eventually stop living it. You start performing it instead. You become a spectator of your own experience, constantly checking to see if the lighting is right and if the dialogue sounds profound. You begin to curate moments instead of inhabiting them. Even your struggles start to feel like scenes, and your pain becomes something to frame, to narrate, to make meaningful before it has actually been lived through. There’s a subtle split that happens here. Part of you is in the moment, but another part is already outside of it,
Your brain doesn’t store memories, it reconstructs them every time you recall them. So when you say “This is who I am,” you’re not describing reality. You’re editing it in real time. This isn’t a bug. It’s the mechanism. Every time you remember something, your brain rebuilds it from fragments: sensory details, emotional tags, narrative threads, gaps filled in with current context. The memory you access today is different from the one you accessed last year. Not because the past changed. Because you did. Which means identity is not a fixed thing you discover. It’s a story you keep revising
This microblog is my scratchpad. Unfinished ideas, rabbit holes, things I am working out in real time.

A 7-day solo journaling game of masks, secrets, and self-revelation You’ve been invited to a masquerade that exists between dreams and memory. For seven days, you’ll draw tarot cards and write immersive journal entries as a masked guest navigating a ballroom filled with mystery, whispers, and hidden truths. Each day brings a new prompt—the invitation, the ballroom, your mask, a mysterious figure, a whispered secret, the unmasking, and finally, the purpose of your summons. By the seventh night, you’ll have crafted a complete short story that is both creative fiction and personal mirror. The Infamous Masquerade combines tarot reading with

Welcome, wanderer. You’ve stumbled upon something… different. A game, a journey, a dance with chaos itself. The Game:A riddle awaits. Solve it, and you’ll unlock the first step—a portal into The Trickster’s Leap. Each card in this game holds a task, an experiment, or a dare to step beyond the ordinary. Each task is designed to awaken your inner magick, spark curiosity, and unravel the threads of who you are. And this is only the beginning. There are 22 cards in the series. The first card calls for you to: The InvitationIf you’re ready to take the leap, it begins