The longtail boat shuddered as it sliced through the Andaman Sea, its wooden frame creaking under the weight of a journey that felt both literal and vast. We landed on Railay Beach as dusk painted the limestone cliffs in hues of amber, the air thick with salt and the murmur of something ancient stirring beneath the surface.
I’d come here with Rudá Iandê, a Brazilian shaman whose friendship had spanned a decade of my unraveling, not to bow before Thailand’s golden temples or trace the steps of spiritual pilgrims, but to sit with the echoes of a life I’d once chased and the quieter one I was learning to inhabit. The boatman waved us off, and we stepped onto the sand—two figures dwarfed by cliffs that seemed to guard secrets older than our questions.
Our bungalow nestled among the trees, a modest shelter where the night hummed with cicadas and the promise of unguarded conversation. Over the next few days, we’d climb the jagged trails, swim in waters that held the sky like a mirror, and talk until the stars pressed close, but the temples—those shimmering beacons of Thailand’s sacred lore—would remain beyond our reach, untouched by our intent.
A decade ago, in New York City, I’d been a man possessed by the Law of Attraction, that glittering doctrine promising that if I could just think hard enough—visualize the corner office, the swelling bank account, the applause of a world I’d conquered—the universe would deliver it all on a silver platter. I’d sit cross-legged in my shoebox apartment, eyes shut tight, imagining checks fluttering down like autumn leaves, convinced that my mind held the key to rewriting reality.
It didn’t pan out—the startup I’d staked everything on crumbled, the checks stayed imaginary, and the universe, it turned out, wasn’t taking my calls. The sting of failure was sharp, but sharper still was the doubt that crept in: if I’d followed the script—positive thoughts, unwavering belief—why was I still empty-handed?
That first night on Railay, as we sat on the beach with the waves lapping at the shore, Rudá’s voice cut through the memory like a blade through fog. “The Law of Attraction sells you a puppet show,” he said, his tone steady, not preachy, “strings you pull to feel in charge, but the stage is empty.”
I’d met him in 2014, back when I was still tugging those strings, and his words—born from a life of shamanic practice and a refusal to peddle easy answers—had lodged somewhere deep. He wasn’t a guru handing down commandments; his teachings were a lens, one I’d carried from New York to Singapore, where I now lived, and now here, to this stretch of sand where the sea whispered truths I’d once ignored.
Morning broke with a hike through the jungle, the air heavy with moisture and the scent of moss. I told Rudá about Singapore—how I’d built a media company, Brown Brothers Media, in a city of glass and precision, a place I’d described in a piece for DMNews.com as a logistical marvel that hadn’t settled into my bones.
“There’s freedom there,” I said, “running my own show, but I’m still a guest, not home.” Rudá pointed to a tree, its roots clawing into the rock: “It doesn’t ask the stone to move—it finds a way through.”
The words hung there as we climbed, the cliffs casting jagged shadows across our path. The Law of Attraction had me begging the stone to part, picturing a life of effortless triumph, but Rudá’s teachings—less a directive, more a nudge—showed me something else: authenticity wasn’t about rewriting the world; it was about rooting into it, cracks and all.
One dawn, we meditated on the shore, the sea stretching infinite before us, and I felt an old tightness grip my chest—anxiety from those New York days, whispering that I’d never be enough. Back then, I’d have drowned it in affirmations, chanting “I am abundant” until my voice cracked, believing I could will it away.
This time, shaped by a decade of Rudá’s quiet guidance, I let it sit, raw and unpolished, watching it ripple through me like the tide. When I opened my eyes, Rudá was there, his gaze steady: “That’s where it lives—not in fixing it, but in feeling it.”
It was a small, seismic shift—a crack in the facade of new age promises that had once dazzled me. The Law of Attraction peddled a fantasy: think positive, banish the dark, and you’ll soar; but what if the dark was the soil, not the enemy?
We swam that afternoon, the water a cool reprieve from the sun’s insistence, and I thought about how Rudá’s ideas had reached beyond our talks, finding form in a course called Out of the Box. He’d crafted it in 2018, and I’d helped launch it online through The Vessel, a platform we’d built together
It wasn’t about following Rudá like a disciple; it was a map, one I’d used to dismantle the illusions I’d clung to—success as a trophy, happiness as a permanent state—and find something sturdier. Here, with the sea cradling me, those lessons weren’t abstract—they were the salt on my lips, the ache in my limbs, the quiet that settled when I stopped chasing.
Nights unfolded around a fire, the flames dancing as we sat on the sand, embers spiraling into the dark. I told Rudá about Singapore’s entrepreneurial grind—how being a boss there, as I’d written in DMNews.com, meant autonomy over riches, a trade-off I’d come to value.
“The Law of Attraction would’ve had me picturing a yacht,” I said, a wry grin tugging at my mouth, “but what I’ve got is a life I can shape.” He tossed a stick into the fire, the crackle punctuating his reply: “Shape it, not force it—that’s the difference.”
That distinction, woven through his teachings, was a thread I’d followed from New York’s frenetic dreams to Singapore’s grounded reality. It echoed in a free masterclass he’d later share, Free Your Mind, a masterclass that doesn’t promise transcendence but offers tools to strip away the clutter—mental, emotional, societal—and see what’s beneath.
The temples we sidestepped weren’t just architecture; they were emblems of a spirituality I’d left behind, one that looked to gilded halls for meaning. Rudá’s voice, steady over the fire, cut deeper: “Temples are someone else’s story—yours is in your gut, your bones, if you dare to listen.”
New age gurus might tell you to manifest your destiny at a shrine, to light incense and summon abundance, but that’s a script for the outside, a playact of control. Rudá’s way, honed through years of shamanic practice, pointed inward—spirituality not as a pilgrimage to sacred sites, but as a reckoning with the wild, messy truth of yourself.
I’d spent years on the run—in New York, sprinting after a future that never arrived; in Singapore, crafting a life that felt borrowed, as I’d mused in DMNews.com. Here, with the cliffs looming and the sea singing, I stopped running—not to arrive, but to be.
One afternoon, we scaled a trail to a viewpoint, the world unfurling below in a tapestry of green and blue. I thought about how the Law of Attraction had tethered me to a mirage—imagine the perfect job, the perfect love, and they’d materialize—always dangling just out of reach.
Rudá’s teachings, absorbed over countless talks, turned my gaze downward, to the dirt under my boots, the sweat on my brow. “It’s not about what you get,” he said, sweeping a hand across the vista, “it’s about what you become.”
That night, under a sky ablaze with stars, I felt the shift settle—not a revelation, but a weight lifting, a clarity born from presence. The new age allure had been a siren’s call, dazzling with promises of mastery over fate; Rudá’s path, offered through friendship rather than fiat, was humbler—less about bending the world, more about bending toward it.
Our final morning dawned sharp and bright, the sun igniting the cliffs as we packed. I stood at the water’s edge, the tide tugging at my feet, and saw why the temples hadn’t called: the sacred wasn’t in their spires—it was in this moment, in the raw pulse of life I’d learned to feel.
Rudá joined me, his silhouette etched against the horizon. “You don’t need to chase the holy,” he said, the waves carrying his words, “it’s already here when you stop pretending otherwise.”
The boat returned, and we climbed aboard, Railay fading as the sea opened wide. Singapore loomed ahead—its order, its demands, its quiet gifts—and I felt a steadiness I hadn’t known in New York, a life not perfect but mine, as I’d reflected in here.
The Law of Attraction had dazzled with its vow: think it, and it’s yours—a shallow lure that crumbled under scrutiny. Rudá’s teachings, shared over years of fireside talks, offered no such shortcuts—just a call to live authentically, grounded in the real, not the wished-for.
That authenticity was my life now—running a business on my terms, as I’d explored in here, embracing the displacement of Singapore as a teacher, not a flaw. It was a quieter triumph, not the flashy win I’d once visualized, but one that fit, like a coat worn soft with use.
For those drawn to this shift, Free Your Mind is a practical dive into that inner work—spirituality as a shedding of illusions, a return to the raw core where meaning isn’t borrowed from temples but forged within.
As the boat carried us back, Railay’s cliffs shrinking to memory, I didn’t feel complete—there were no neat bows here, just a thread pulled taut and strong. The temples could stand; the journey I’d needed was this one—messy, real, and mine to live.
