When a long-time customer leaves, it stings. Business owners often feel betrayed, wondering where the loyalty went after all they've invested. But what if loyalty in business isn't really a thing at all? What if what feels like betrayal is actually just business working the way it should?

In this episode, Richard and Lee explore what loyalty really means when money's involved. They challenge the assumption that customers owe you their business, examine why loyalty programs don't actually create loyalty, and dig into the emotional toll of expecting something that was never promised.

They also unpack the uncomfortable truth about how loyalty language can become manipulative, turning clients into people who feel entitled to special treatment. The conversation shifts to a more grounded view: what keeps clients coming back isn't loyalty. It's a genuine need for your product or service, combined with exceptional work and clear boundaries.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

Richard and I have noticed something about ourselves lately, and I suspect we’re not alone.

We have gotten really good at talking about a problem. Not avoiding it or pretending it’s not there. If anything, we are probably more guilty of the opposite. We are pros at working out what isn’t working, where the friction is coming from and what’s really going on underneath the obvious issue. Give us enough time and we can pull something apart from multiple angles and get to the real problem.

Which sounds useful, and often it is.

The problem is that in your own business, being good at identifying an issue can start to feel a lot like doing something about it, even when nothing is actually changing. You’re talking about it, analysing it, turning it over from every angle and naming all the reasons it feels hard or why progress has stalled. You understand what is getting in the way, what the trade-offs are and what probably needs to happen next. And all of that feels productive, because thinking takes effort and so does problem-solving.

Then the other day, deep in another discussion, we realised we were having the same conversation we’d already had multiple times before, about the same problem ... arriving at more or less the same conclusion about what probably needed to happen, yet nothing ever actually changed.

At one point Richard said something like, “Okay, but are we actually going to do something about it this time?”

And that was really the whole issue.

We weren’t stuck because we didn’t understand the problem. We understood it perfectly well. We weren’t waiting on some missing piece of information or hoping that if we thought about it for another week the answer would suddenly become obvious. If we were being honest, what we were really doing was procrastinating in a place that no longer felt good, but did feel familiar.

The more I thought about that conversation, the more I realised this probably happens more than people think, especially to people who spend a lot of their time solving problems. You get so good at understanding what is wrong and articulating it clearly that, before you know it, talking about the problem starts to feel a lot like progress.

But understanding something and changing it are not the same thing.

Part of the problem, I think, is that talking feels safer. As long as everything stays in discussion mode, nothing has to become real. You don’t have to commit, risk being wrong or deal with the discomfort that comes with making a decision and living with it.

Eventually we had to admit that talking about it more was not helping. We weren’t missing information and we weren’t confused about what needed to happen. If anything, we understood the problem a little too well. The question was no longer why this was happening. The question had become something much harder, because it required commitment.

What are we actually doing next?

That is the part that feels harder, because once you answer that question, the conversation changes. You’re no longer talking about possibilities or workshopping ideas or circling the issue from every angle. You’re deciding, choosing a direction and accepting that it might be imperfect, difficult or wrong.

I think that was probably the biggest thing we took from that conversation.

There is nothing wrong with understanding a problem. In fact, sometimes you need to sit with something long enough to properly understand what is really going on before you can take action. But there also comes a point where more talking is just more talking, and eventually you already know enough. After that, the thing standing between you and progress isn’t insight or understanding. It’s your willingness to actually do something.

At some point, you have to stop narrating and start moving.

If this struck a chord, Richard and I explore these sorts of questions every week on the Richly Told podcast. Business, family, travel, leadership and all the complicated bits in between.

New episodes land every Friday on Spotify and Substack.

Lee recently got back into freelance writing after years away from it. Within days of putting the word out, two publications came knocking. But it made her wonder: why do so many people in his industry say there's no work, when doors are opening for her right now?

In this episode, Richard and Lee revisit a kitchen conversation that sparked something bigger. They explore the story of a woman who opened a coffee shop in New York by doing something completely different: a yearly membership model that secured her customers, her rent, and her utilities before she even opened the doors. And they connect that to the larger truth they keep bumping up against in their own businesses. It's never the right time to launch anything. There are always economic headwinds, industry challenges, and reasons to wait. But creativity and action don't care about timing.

They talk about the gap between saying you want something and actually doing it. About the difference between hard work that feels like a battle and hard work that flows. And about a simple test Richard uses to know if he's on the right track...

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

You can find the Richly Told Podcast on Substack: https://richlytoldpodcast.substack.com/

This is a Podvan Media production.

We talk about manufactured stress a lot these days and I think that’s because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And if I’m honest, the reason it comes up so often is pretty simple. We’ve spent years doing it to ourselves.

If you’re in business, you know life is rarely calm. We’ve run businesses, managed teams, dealt with clients, deadlines, compliance, payroll and all the moving parts that come with carrying real responsibility. Some of that stress is justified and some pressure just comes with the territory.

But over time, and through countless conversations, mostly on the pod, we started noticing a pattern that was hard to ignore. We realised a surprising amount of the stress we were carrying wasn’t actually being caused by real events. It was being created and held in our own heads.

That email you haven’t opened yet but have already decided is going to ruin your day. The delayed payment that instantly becomes a looming cashflow disaster. The customer complaint you’re certain will escalate into something much bigger. The message saying, “Can we talk?” which somehow turns into a full-blown internal crisis before the conversation has even happened.

Nothing has actually happened yet. And still your heart rate rises, your shoulders tense and your nervous system acts as though a tiger has walked into the room.

That is manufactured stress. Not the stress of what is. The stress of what might be.

For a long time, we confused this with competence. Being alert and aware feels like good business. In business, hypervigilance can look an awful lot like professionalism. You convince yourself that staying mentally six steps ahead is what responsible people do. You’re managing risk. Anticipating problems. Staying prepared.

And sometimes that is true.

But there is a fine line between preparedness and living in a permanent state of anticipation for disaster. When you live on that line long enough, you stop simply solving problems and start creating them. We become incredibly efficient at reacting to scenarios that exist entirely in our own heads, and somehow it feels seductively productive.

There’s comfort in thinking through every worst-case scenario because it creates the illusion of control. If I can predict every possible disaster, maybe I can stop it from happening. Maybe I can protect myself from being blindsided.

More often, we suffer twice. Once in our imagination and again if the problem ever becomes real. Most of the time, it never does.

In more recent years, we’ve both become much more aware of how often the stories we create are worse than the facts. That’s the thing about uncertainty. We really don’t like it. We would often rather create certainty, even catastrophic certainty, than sit in the discomfort of not knowing.

So we fill in the blanks.

A short email becomes, they’re angry at me. Silence becomes, I’ve done something wrong. Delay becomes, something’s gone wrong. A small problem becomes the reason you might lose your home.

Our brains are brilliant storytellers, but not always reliable narrators.

And the body, unfortunately, doesn’t care whether the threat is real or imagined. Manufactured stress may start in the mind, but the body pays the price. Poor sleep. Tension. Irritability. Decision fatigue. Snapping at the people you love. Carrying a low-grade hum of anxiety so consistently that when things are calm, you start wondering what you’ve missed.

When we were younger, we wore stress like a badge of honour. Busy was impressive. Pressure was proof that you mattered. Being needed felt validating. Constant urgency became part of our identity as business owners and as people.

But eventually you realise the bill always arrives.

Sometimes it’s burnout. Sometimes it’s a health issue. Sometimes it shows up in relationships or in the middle of the night when everything is objectively fine and you still can’t switch off.

That is not resilience.

That’s a nervous system that no longer knows the difference between urgency and normal life. And once your brain gets moving, it doesn’t take much to build a whole story before logic has had a chance to catch up.

Which is why we keep coming back to the same question.

What has actually happened?

Not what might happen. Not what we’re worried about happening. Not the what if.

Just the facts.

What has actually happened?

Usually, the facts are much smaller than the story we’ve built around them. That pause matters. It creates space between stimulus and reaction and allows logic to catch up with emotion. Often, it reminds us that not everything needs our energy the moment it arrives.

There will always be hard decisions, difficult conversations, financial pressure, illness, uncertainty and loss. None of us get to avoid that entirely. But life is hard enough without adding unnecessary suffering to the unavoidable parts.

That, more and more, feels like wisdom.

Not becoming someone capable of carrying endless pressure.

Becoming someone who recognises which pressure was never theirs to carry in the first place.

Richard and I spoke recently on Richly Told about manufactured stress, nervous systems and learning to stop reacting to every sense of urgency around us.

You can listen to the episode here: Ep 42: Stop Manufacturing Stress

Richard and Lee started their week exhausted. One just off night shift, the other not quite well. But in the fog of fatigue, they stumbled into a conversation that revealed something bigger than either of them had realised: they approach every challenge from opposite ends of the spectrum. And they almost never talk about it.

In this episode, Richard and Lee explore what happens when partners, business collaborators, spouses, or even customers come at problems from fundamentally different angles. Lee verbalises her thoughts as they form. Richard processes internally before speaking. One looks for what could go wrong. One looks for what could go right. Neither is wrong. But when communication breaks down, both feel misunderstood. They talk about why curiosity has become an expensive use of time in modern life, what happens when we stop asking questions, and how a willingness to actually listen could transform not just your closest relationships but your entire approach to conflict.

The conversation circles back to a simple truth: being curious about people removes the assumptions you carry about their motivations. It's not about understanding every detail of how they think. It's about understanding that they think differently than you do. And that takes time, intentionality, and a genuine desire to learn.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

For years, I thought one of my strengths in business was my ability to see the best in people. I could understand where someone was coming from. I could see their potential. I could find reasons to give them another chance, extend another deadline or have one more conversation before making a difficult decision.

I told myself it was empathy.

And sometimes it was. But sometimes it was people-pleasing dressed up in a more justifiable outfit.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately because a situation I thought was long behind me has found its way back to my doorstep. The details aren’t important and, if I’m honest, they’re not really the point. What it has done, though, is force me to revisit a pattern I’ve repeated more times than I’d care to admit.

A pattern where I knew something didn’t feel right.

That knot in your stomach that you’ve been trying very hard to explain away. The one that keeps showing up at inconvenient moments, usually when the rest of the world goes quiet and you’re left alone with your own thoughts.

Looking back, I rarely struggled to see the issue. What I struggled with was believing myself.

Instead of treating that discomfort as information, I’d immediately begin building a case against it. Maybe I was being unfair. Maybe I hadn’t understood properly. Maybe they were having a difficult time. Maybe I was expecting too much.

If someone else had come to me describing the exact same situation, I would have spotted the problem immediately. But when it’s your own situation, objectivity has a habit of packing its bags and disappearing.

So I’d look for more evidence. I’d ask for more opinions. I’d explain the behaviour from every possible angle until I could barely remember why it bothered me in the first place.

I’d give another chance.

Then another.

Then one more for good measure.

Because what if this time, I was wrong?

From where I sit now, I can see the fear was never really about getting the decision wrong. It was about disappointing someone, creating conflict or being seen as the bad guy.

There’s a discomfort that comes from accepting a reality you don’t want to be true. Especially when that reality involves another person. Because once you acknowledge what’s happening, you’re usually required to do something about it.

And doing something about it often means creating tension. You have a difficult conversation. You decide where a boundary sits and then you enforce it. Sometimes you have to say no.

I’ve realised over the years that I have a very strong preference for harmony. Most people probably do. Given the choice, I’d much rather have a pleasant conversation than a difficult one. I’d much rather leave everyone feeling understood than disappointed.

The problem is that reality doesn’t seem very interested in my preferences. I’ve noticed that every time I’ve avoided a difficult conversation, the conversation has eventually happened anyway. It just showed up later, with interest.

That’s the part nobody talks about enough.

The cost attached to postponing things we already know.

Not a financial cost, although sometimes resulting in that too. But initially it’s more like an emotional surcharge. The longer you spend explaining away your own concerns, the more energy it takes to untangle them later.

I’ve paid that tax in business.

I’ve paid it in relationships.

I’ve paid it in projects I should have abandoned sooner and opportunities I probably should have pursued earlier.

The common thread wasn’t that I lacked information. It was that I lacked trust in my own interpretation of the information. Somewhere along the way I developed the habit of assuming everyone else’s perspective deserved more weight than my own.

Which is strange when I think about it like that.

I’ve built businesses.

Raised children.

Managed teams.

Made decisions with consequences far larger than most of the situations that kept me awake at night. Yet somehow I could still find myself treating my own instincts like an unreliable witness. And I don’t think that’s uncommon.

The older I get, the more conversations I have with people who tell remarkably similar stories. Different circumstances, granted. Different industries. Different personalities.

But the same pattern.

They knew. They noticed something didn’t sit right. Then they spent months or years convincing themselves it wasn’t what it appeared to be.

Maybe that’s because instinct gets romanticised as some magical force when it’s often much more ordinary than that. Sometimes instinct is just pattern recognition. Your brain putting it all together before you’ve consciously assembled all the evidence.

That doesn’t mean instincts are always right. Mine certainly aren’t. But I’m beginning to suspect, and trust, they’re right more often than I gave them credit for.

Now that shift for me, thankfully, hasn’t been towards cynicism. I haven’t become someone who assumes the worst in people. I still believe most people are doing the best they can with whatever is going on in their world.

But what has changed is that I’m becoming less willing to explain away my own feelings and reactions in order to preserve someone else’s comfort. Those two things aren’t actually opposites.

You can be kind and still pay attention to what you’re seeing. You can be empathetic and still have boundaries. You can understand why someone behaves a certain way without accepting the consequences on their behalf.

That distinction has taken me an embarrassingly long time to understand. Over 30 years in fact. Or maybe I’ve understood it for years and am only now starting to practice it. I’m not entirely sure which is true.

What I do know is that I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why certain situations became so complicated, only to realise later that most of the complexity arrived after the moment I first recognised something wasn’t right.

The initial signal was usually pretty simple. It was everything I added afterwards that made it messy.

If this struck a chord, Richard and I explore these sorts of questions every week on the Richly Told podcast. Business, family, travel, leadership and all the complicated bits in between.

New episodes land every Friday on Spotify and Substack.

Richard and Lee explore a timeless parable about a rat that falls into a container full of rice. The rat is happy, safe, warm. Everything it needs is right there. But as it eats and sleeps, eats and sleeps, the pile of rice slowly diminishes - while the distance between the rat and the exit grows. Eventually, the container is empty. The rat has trapped itself.

In this episode, Richard and Lee grapple with what happens when comfort becomes a trap in business and life. They talk about the cycles they've experienced over two decades, the temptation to rest once you've hit success, and why the most successful people they know never actually stop moving.

They also explore what burnout really is, how it feels different for each of them, and why constant evolution isn't something you do temporarily until you're comfortable. It's a lifestyle. The conversation touches on fear, momentum, complacency, and the counterintuitive truth that safety can imprison us just as easily as struggle.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

It feels like we’ve been talking about our kitchen renovation forever and in some ways, we have.

It was one of those projects that had been sitting on the list for years. Ten, in fact. Before we finally pulled the trigger, knocking out a load-bearing wall, redesigning the space and installing the kitchen we’d been talking about for what felt like forever.

In my head, there was always going to be a moment when it was finished. A grand unveiling of sorts.

The problem is that it isn’t.

The new kitchen is in. The cupboards are full. The pantry is organised. We’re cooking dinner every night and making coffee every morning. But the flooring isn’t done. The doorway still needs to be widened so the new fridge can actually come inside the house. There are a handful of jobs scattered around the edges waiting for their turn.

Our life, however, has shown absolutely no interest in waiting.

Our family still needs to eat. The dishwasher still needs loading. And for me, carrying a few health challenges, eating properly isn’t really something I can postpone until the renovation is complete.

So we’re using the kitchen.

Every day.

The funny thing is that while the unfinished parts are sitting there waiting to be completed, the new parts are already beginning to show signs of being lived in. The bench gets wiped down after dinner. The organised pantry is starting to get messy. The cupboards that were untouched a few weeks ago are now part of our daily routine.

The new kitchen is becoming an old kitchen before the project itself is even finished.

The more I think about this, the more it reminds me of business. I think a lot of us secretly believe there’s a point where things finally settle down.

The website will be finished. The systems will be finished. The business will finally run exactly the way it’s supposed to and then we’ll be able to relax. Except that’s never really how it works.

The website goes live while you’re still rewriting pages. The new process gets implemented while you’re still finding problems with it. You hire the team member you’ve been searching for, only to discover they create a whole new set of opportunities and challenges you hadn’t anticipated.

The business keeps moving while you’re still building it.

In fact, I’d argue that’s true of almost everything important. Parenting isn’t finished. Relationships aren’t finished. Health isn’t finished. Personal growth certainly isn’t finished. You don’t suddenly wake up one day having arrived at the completed version of yourself.

You’re constantly renovating while simultaneously living in the house.

Maybe that’s why so many people feel perpetually behind. We’re measuring ourselves against a finish line that doesn’t actually exist. We keep thinking we’ll start enjoying the thing once it’s done.

The business.

The house.

The project.

The body.

The life.

Meanwhile, the thing is already happening. You’re already living in the house. You’re already running the business. You’re already raising the kids.

You’re already becoming the person you’re trying to become.

The older I get, the more I suspect that finished is just another story we tell ourselves. Not because goals aren’t important, but because life seems remarkably resistant to completion. Every time we reach one destination, it turns into the starting point for the next chapter.

The kitchen will eventually be finished. Then we’ll notice something else that needs attention. The business will hit the next milestone. Then we’ll set another target. The list never disappears. It just changes shape.

There’s something comforting about that. It means I don’t have to wait until everything is perfect before I allow myself to enjoy it.

I don’t have to stand in the unfinished kitchen focusing on the flooring that still needs to be done. I can appreciate the fact that we’re already gathering around the island bench, cooking meals and living our lives inside it.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson. The kitchen is already serving its purpose, even if the work isn’t finished.

Maybe most worthwhile things are.

The conversations don't stop here. On the Richly Told podcast, Lee and Richard explore business, family, leadership, travel and the realities of building a life that never quite arrives at "finished". New episodes every Friday.

🎙️ Latest Episode: Testing Your Own Process - Do You Actually Like Buying From You?
Are your policies and procedures making it harder for people to do business with you? This week, Lee and Richard explore what happens when businesses build systems that make sense on paper but create friction for the very people they're trying to serve.

Richard and Lee have had a frustrating week dealing with multiple businesses across different sizes. Their phone systems don't work. Their booking processes have too many barriers. And somewhere along the way, the policies designed to protect the business have become obstacles to selling.

In this episode, Richard and Lee explore what happens when businesses stop looking at their procedures from the customer's perspective. They discuss the gap between policies that make sense on paper and the lived experience of trying to buy something. They also ask the uncomfortable question: do you find your own customers annoying? And if so, why? Because the answer might reveal something important about how your business is set up.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

You can find the Richly Told Podcast on Substack: https://richlytoldpodcast.substack.com/

This is a Podvan Media production.

Richard has been telling me the same thing for months. Years possibly, if we’re being completely honest.

Like many husbands who occasionally find themselves in possession of good advice, he’s had the misfortune of delivering it to someone who wasn’t particularly interested in receiving it.

His argument is fairly straightforward.

I’m carrying too much.

Too many projects. Too many responsibilities. Too many things that individually make perfect sense but collectively start looking a bit ambitious.

My argument has been equally straightforward.

No I’m not.

See, the problem is that Richard’s theory requires me to accept a possibility I’ve spent most of my adult life actively avoiding. That there might actually be a limit and I in fact, cannot (despite a seriously committed effort) do it all.

I’ve always been pretty good at doing hard things. When something isn’t working, I learn more. Work harder. Stay later. Find another way around the obstacle. Sometimes I wonder whether that’s what draws people to business in the first place.

Not money or freedom. Not even passion, although these are the things that make us stay. It’s the challenge of it. The belief that most problems can be solved if you’re willing to stay in the fight longer than everyone else. Persistence becomes less of a skill and more of a default setting. While I’m still breathing, I can turn things around.

To be fair, our life has always been busy by design. Lately though, I'm beginning to wonder whether we're still designing it or simply just trying to keep up with it.

Between businesses, writing, homeschooling, rebuilding a house, recording a podcast, travelling, martial arts and all the ordinary responsibilities that come with being an adult, there’s been plenty going on.

Each of these things feel manageable. They all have their own time and space, none feel excessive on their own. But that’s the trap. Most overload doesn’t show up as one enormous decision. It slips in fairly unnoticed as twenty perfectly reasonable ones.

Which brings us to this week. I found myself sitting on the side of a martial arts mat trying very hard not to cry. It felt faintly ridiculous, nobody had upset me and we were not in a life or death situation. I’d simply reached a point where my body had arrived at a conclusion my brain was still arguing with.

Part of that reality is having CRPS*. It’s become my unwelcome travelling companion over the past year and one we’ve talked about only briefly. The physical side of it is frustrating enough, but what I wasn’t expecting was the ongoing negotiation taking place inside my own head.

If I’m honest, I’ve spent months treating reality like a stubborn contract dispute. Surely there was a workaround.

A better schedule.

A better routine.

Better time management.

More discipline.

More determination.

One more adjustment.

One more push.

One last ditch attempt to squeeze eight days into a seven day week.

But sitting there feeling defeated, I realised I wasn’t really arguing with the condition anymore. I was arguing with the existence of limits themselves. Meanwhile Richard had been over there being infuriatingly sensible. Pointing out things that were obviously true.

Suggesting that perhaps running multiple businesses, homeschooling children, rebuilding a house, writing regularly and recording a podcast might already constitute a reasonably full schedule.

And deciding that my mid-forties, with a disability, would be an excellent time to take up multiple martial arts and mountain bike riding may have tipped things slightly over the edge.

Frankly, I preferred my theory.

The more I thought about it afterwards though, the more I realised how often we do this in business.

We talk endlessly about growth and rarely about capacity.

We celebrate expansion and we admire endurance. We reward people who keep pushing long after everyone else would have stopped. And then we act surprised when something eventually gives way.

Founders do it all the time. Teams do too. Entire businesses push things to their limits. A system starts showing signs of strain and instead of changing the system, people simply work harder.

They stay later.

Take work home.

Answer emails on weekends.

Carry more.

For a while it works too, which is probably what makes it so dangerous. The warning signs don’t arrive all at once. They appear gradually enough that you can convince yourself everything is fine. Until one day reality decides to become significantly harder to ignore.

The frustrating thing about capacity is that it doesn’t care how capable you are. It doesn’t care how motivated you are. It certainly doesn’t care how badly you want something. Eventually reality starts doing maths, and reality is annoyingly good at maths.

Time is still time.

Energy is still energy.

Human beings remain stubbornly subject to the same constraints as everything else, no matter how much we’d like to negotiate different terms. That’s the part I’ve been struggling with. Not CRPS, or our schedule. The limits. The possibility that some problems aren’t asking for more effort. They’re simply providing information.

Information about priorities.

Information about trade-offs.

Information about what can realistically be carried at the same time.

The part I’ve been wrestling with isn’t whether Richard is right. It’s whether I’m finally ready to accept the information he’s been pointing out all along. I feel it’s important to maintain some standards. After all, if Richard starts being right too often, he’ll become completely unbearable. But he did understand something I didn’t.

Reality isn’t always an obstacle to overcome. Sometimes it’s simply information. Information that, much like good advice from your spouse, can be surprisingly easy to dismiss when it doesn’t fit the story you’d prefer to believe.

The same disabled ankle.

The same exhaustion.

The same feeling that there simply aren’t enough hours for all the things you’ve decided should fit into a day.

The same message arriving through different channels until eventually you realise it isn’t a series of separate problems at all. It’s the same information, repeating itself over and over, until you’re willing to listen. No matter how stubborn we are, reality tends to win eventually.

Looking back, I can see that information everywhere. Richard was saying it. My body was saying it. My schedule was saying it. I just preferred the version of the story where determination eventually won the argument.

And maybe that’s the danger of being good at hard things. Sometimes you become so accustomed to pushing through obstacles that you forget not everything is an obstacle.

So what’s the trick?

I think it’s learning to listen before it has to start shouting.

*Complex regional pain syndrome represents a neuropathic pain disorder defined by allodynia, hyperalgesia, vasomotor and sudomotor abnormalities, and trophic changes. Pain is regional, disproportionate to the inciting injury, and persists beyond the normal healing of tissues - National Library of Medicine

From manipulative emails to Amazon's scarcity tactics to the endless churn of supermarket campaigns, manufactured urgency is everywhere. And it's designed to override your instincts.

In this episode, Richard and Lee dig into how sales, marketing, and even everyday people use urgency and anxiety to get a reaction. They explore the difference between healthy caution and the constant cortisol spike we're all living with now. There's also a deeper conversation about when to listen to that gnawing feeling in your stomach, and when it's someone else's manufactured panic trying to silence your own voice.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

A message landed in my inbox this morning from someone who, for a long time, had the ability to completely change the emotional direction of my day.

The kind of person where you see the name first and your body reacts before your brain catches up properly. Tight chest. Knotted stomach. Adrenaline. That instant feeling that something uninvited has entered the room.

But weirdly, this time, I felt none of that.

I was at the office and Richard was out getting his car serviced. I read the message once, sat there for a minute and realised I was mostly just observing my own reaction because it felt so unfamiliar. Calm. Detached maybe. Not cold, just … clear.

I knew almost immediately what the email was. I mean, not the message itself necessarily, but the pattern underneath it. What it represented.

Some people have a way of treating boundaries like negotiations. Silence becomes something to push through rather than respect. No is interpreted as “not yet” instead of no. After enough years of dealing with certain personalities, you start recognising the rhythm of it long before anything dramatic actually happens.

The message itself was fairly benign on the surface, but both Richard and I instantly recognised it as an attempted reopening. A way back in. The start of a cycle we’ve lived through before and are not keen on repeating.

Years ago I would have responded immediately because I hate the feeling of unresolved tension. I think a lot of people do. There’s this instinct to smooth things over quickly, explain yourself properly, de-escalate and manage everyone’s emotions before things become uncomfortable.

Now I’m not so sure that instinct is always healthy because for me specifically, it overrides another instinct. The one that is telling me to run fast in the other direction.

Driving home afterwards I happened to be listening to The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker and it had landed almost perfectly on the chapter about persistence. One of those strange moments where life feels like it’s listening. Gently reinforcing something you already know somewhere underneath the self-doubt.

I began to realise how often we mistake persistence for importance. How many people create urgency simply because urgency gets attention. And how often I ignore my gut feeling.

Repeated contact.
Emotional hooks.
Forcing engagement.
Pushing past silence because eventually most people respond just to make the discomfort stop.

Years ago I would have interpreted that kind of persistence as sincerity. Or at least convinced myself I owed it more emotional energy than I actually did.

These days I’m much more interested in paying attention to what something feels like in my body rather than what someone is insisting with their words.

Because calm tells you things too.

And one of the strangest parts of today was realising that peace initially felt unfamiliar. Like I should be reacting harder. Perhaps I wasn’t taking it seriously enough because I wasn’t emotionally activated by it anymore.

But calm nervous systems make better decisions.

And silence is a boundary.

I think disengagement is sometimes the healthiest possible response and that’s what we chose.

Modern life has conditioned a lot of us to respond to whoever creates the most emotional noise, whether that’s in business, relationships, social media or just everyday life.

Everything feels urgent now.
Everyone demands access.
Everyone wants a response.

But not everything deserves one.

So from now on I’m focusing on paying very close attention to anything that tries to manufacture stress inside me. Most of the time, the healthiest thing I can do is simply not pick it up.

Not every email deserves access to your nervous system.

Richard and I spoke recently on Richly Told about manufactured stress, nervous systems and learning to stop reacting to every sense of urgency around us.

You can listen to the episode here: Ep 42: Stop Manufacturing Stress

Tonight I’m sitting at the bench in our unfinished kitchen drinking a glass of wine and eating blue cheese while I write this.

We still don’t have taps connected. There’s no gas on the cooktop yet either, so at the moment our culinary capabilities are fairly limited. Toast. Reheated food in the oven. Coffee. That’s about it. The kitchen itself is still very much a work in progress, but sitting here tonight I realised that maybe that’s why this moment feels important. So much of our life right now feels like it exists in that space between what was and what’s coming next.

But this year has felt different.

Not in the showy Instagram version of success where everything looks polished and effortless, but in a subtle way that I think only really becomes visible when you stop long enough to notice it. Richard and I have travelled internationally four times this year and the kids three. Two of those trips were proper holidays, the kind where we really had time to exhale instead of trying to optimise every second. We have another trip coming up to Uluru later in the year and somewhere amongst the airports, the late nights, the unpacking and repacking, the podcasts, the business conversations and the endless movement of family life, I realised I’ve stopped apologising for wanting the life we’ve worked so hard to have.

That has probably been one of the biggest internal shifts for me lately.

For a long time I think I carried this strange discomfort around success, as though openly enjoying the results of hard work somehow made you arrogant or out of touch. Like you were supposed to minimise it, soften it, downplay it so other people didn’t feel uncomfortable. But the truth is we have worked incredibly hard for this life. We have taken risks people see and don’t see. We have rebuilt things multiple times. We have worked long hours, travelled constantly, juggled businesses, homeschooled children, trained consistently in martial arts, sacrificed, adapted and continued moving forward even when things were uncertain.

I don’t feel guilty for enjoying the result of that anymore.

What I have found I’m letting go of is the constant feeling that I need to prove myself. I don’t feel the same pull toward performative online culture either. The endless noise, certainty and positioning has started to feel exhausting to me. I’m much more interested now in honesty, observation and real life. Not in telling people what they should do, because I honestly don’t think there is one correct way to build a life. I think people are different. Families are different. Priorities are different. I’m not trying to coach anyone into becoming us. I’m just sharing what our life looks like while we’re living it.

I’ve also noticed myself becoming more protective of our peace. Not perfection. Peace.

Martial arts has unexpectedly become a big part of that for me. We spent most of today at karate and there is something about training that forces you back into the present moment. Structure. Discipline. Repetition. Respect. You can’t really exist in ten different mental tabs while someone is trying to throw you across a mat. It quiets the noise in a way modern life rarely does.

The kids are growing into themselves too, which is one of the most rewarding parts of all of this. One is fascinated by food and wants to travel internationally as a chef one day, so when we were in Singapore we explored food culture as much as tourist attractions. Hawker stalls, local favourites, famous dishes, tiny observations about how people gather and eat. The other is stepping naturally into leadership through karate and has become a senpai, helping teach younger students and taking that responsibility seriously. Watching your children slowly become themselves is a strange and beautiful thing.

Maybe that’s what I’m really trying to protect now. Our curiosity. Our family rhythm. The space to keep becoming who we are without feeling the need to package it into something more impressive than it is.

Right now that looks like sitting in an unfinished kitchen eating blue cheese and drinking wine while the house slowly comes together around us.

Honestly, I think that’s enough.

After returning from a chaotic family trip to Singapore, Richard and Lee reflect on the pressure they placed on themselves before even leaving home. Between unfinished renovations, work demands, travel exhaustion and constant problem-solving, they found themselves asking a bigger question about control, frustration and the stories people tell themselves when life feels overwhelming.

The conversation looks at the habit of manufacturing stress, the emotional cost of trying to control everything, and the strange relief that comes from finally deciding to let go. From work conflicts to family tension, Richard and Lee explore why staying calm is often less about personality and more about recognising the trigger before it takes over.

If you constantly feel like you are carrying the weight of everyone else’s problems, or you find yourself stuck in cycles of frustration, this episode offers a grounded reminder that not every stressful moment deserves to consume the rest of your day.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

Richard and Lee recently had a raw conversation. They realised their different approaches (one on a set track, the other forging a new trail) came from deep-seated fears. These hidden influences can anchor you. They shape how you take risks, communicate with partners, and even block your growth.

This episode helps you discover why understanding your past is crucial. Learn how honest conversations and active listening can transform your business partnerships.

It's about moving forward, together.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

After a kitchen installation turns into a lesson in communication, Richard and Lee look at the fine line between keeping clients informed and giving them more detail than they actually need. What starts as a small issue with cabinetry becomes a bigger question about service, stress, trust and overexplaining.

They also reflect on how this shows up in small business, especially when clients start to feel more like community. From trades to local cafés, Richard and Lee consider when transparency is helpful, when it becomes a burden, and why not every behind-the-scenes problem needs to be shared.

If you have ever felt unsure about how much to tell a client, customer or community member when something goes wrong, this episode offers a grounded perspective on communicating clearly without manufacturing unnecessary stress.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

In this episode, Richard and Lee reflect on determination, mental toughness and what really keeps people moving when life feels relentlessly full. From travel, night shifts and family logistics to the way outsiders frame busy lives as either chaos or luck, they explore the difference between resentment and purpose, and why mindset shapes what people can sustain.

If you've been feeling stretched, distracted or quietly unsure whether the pace of your life is meaningful or just exhausting, this conversation offers a grounded perspective on goals, rest and staying focused without losing sight of what matters.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

So many people wait for the perfect time, the perfect plan, or the perfect version of themselves before they begin. But in real life, things are often messy, rushed, and far from polished. Sometimes the pressure to get it right becomes the very thing that keeps progress from happening at all.

In this episode, Richard and Lee record from the side of the road in the middle of a chaotic season and reflect on why perfection can quietly turn into delay, paralysis, and missed opportunity. They look at the trap of overthinking, the value of an MVP, and why getting something moving often matters more than getting every detail right.

If you've been sitting on an idea, waiting until life calms down, or feeling overwhelmed by how far there is to go, this episode offers a grounded reminder to focus on the next step and keep moving. Sometimes "done" is better than perfect.

If you enjoy this, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

When an industry starts repeating itself, it’s easy to assume everything worth doing has already been done. But sometimes the real problem isn’t a lack of ideas. It’s a lack of fresh perspective.

In this episode, Richard and Lee reflect on a major trade show in Las Vegas and what it revealed about innovation, habit, and the blind spots that form when people stay too close to the same way of thinking. They look at how curiosity, observation, and an outsider’s perspective can expose gaps that experience alone might miss.

If you’ve been feeling like your work, industry, or business has hit a wall, this conversation offers a grounded reminder that new opportunities don’t always come from forcing a breakthrough. Sometimes they come from stepping back, listening properly, and seeing what everyone else has learned to ignore.

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.

Recording from a mobile studio in San Francisco, Richard and Lee look at the stark differences between Australian and American business cultures. They reflect on the "dynasty" models of iconic institutions like In-N-Out Burger and Boudin Sourdough, noting how these families focus on generational wealth rather than a quick exit.

Richard and Lee challenge the common Australian tendency to sell up and retire (often for a caravan and a quiet life) and ask whether we should be grooming the next generation to take over the trial-and-error phase we've already conquered.

If you've ever wondered if there's a more ambitious way to structure your family's future, this conversation from the streets of California offers a glimpse into a world where you can do anything unless you're explicitly told you can't!

If you enjoy it, they'd love to hear from you!

Drop a comment on the episode - or get in touch via Instagram: @RichlyToldPodcast

This is a Podvan Media production.