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Two Types of People: Insights from Top Performers to Help You Make Decisions, Act, and Grow
208 pages, Paperback
Published August 4, 2026
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Five Birds, Three Decisions, No Movement Yet
“Two Types of People” and the Mild Embarrassment of Mistaking Intention for Action
By Demetris Papadimitropoulos | July 17th, 2026
Decision is not flight. It is only the bird looking at the sky and feeling pleased with itself. Late in Pat Sitkins’s “Two Types of People,” Larry G. Linne offers the old five-birds-on-a-fence lesson: if three birds decide to fly away, how many are left? Five, because deciding is not acting. The image is almost too tidy, the sort of thing that arrives wearing a headset microphone and a blazer with excellent posture. Yet it catches the problem the book keeps circling. Sitkins is less interested in whether readers admire people already edited by achievement than in whether admiration survives the short, treacherous commute into behavior.
Early in “Two Types of People,” Sitkins admits that his title is an oversimplification. There are not, in fact, only two types of people in the world, and the book is at its wisest when it remembers this. The phrase is a lure, a game, a diagnostic shortcut. Sitkins asks athletes, entrepreneurs, Navy SEALs, coaches, creators, and an astronaut how they would divide people into two kinds, then turns each answer toward the moment after intention has made its announcement and waits to be obeyed. The form promises clarity; the better chapters smuggle in contradiction.
Much of the book’s charm comes from the friction between the bluntness of the frame and the refusal of the lives inside it to stay sorted. Alex Boylan, winner of “The Amazing Race” Season 2, divides the world between the comfortable and those comfortable being uncomfortable. Laird Hamilton chooses loving and unloving. Rick Kaiser complicates wolves and sheep. Sika Henry distinguishes involvement from commitment. Laurenne Ross turns comparison toward connection. Danijela Tomić ends with risk-takers and risk-avoiders. The titles sound like locker-room chalkboard binaries; the chapters that last immediately start rubbing off the chalk.
Each chapter follows the same rough choreography: introduce the high performer, narrate the formative story, reveal the split, then turn the encounter into assignment under the recurring banner of becoming the highest version of oneself. The design is easy to use: a reader can open almost anywhere and find a question with handles on it. It also gives the proceedings the rhythm of a well-run leadership retreat: coffee at 8:30, vulnerability at 10:15, actionable takeaway by lunch. The predictability is not accidental. Sitkins writes to move the reader from recognition to application, not to leave anyone wandering through a tasteful mist of ambiguity.
The book wakes up fastest when someone is already moving. Boylan, filming in El Salvador, is warned not to leave the hotel or climb toward a nearby favela. He goes anyway and finds not the advertised danger but welcome, ordinary poverty, and the good confusion of having one’s fear embarrassed by reality. The episode plants the book’s best idea: fear is often bad travel writing. Sitkins connects the scene to his own service trips in Nicaragua, where material deprivation coexisted with community, generosity, and neighborly obligation. The lesson is not adventure for adventure’s sake, but the testing of inherited dread against direct encounter.
Rick Kaiser’s chapter gives the book the pushback it needs. “Wolves and sheep” is exactly the sort of contrast that can make a sensitive reader reach for the nearest exit, or at least for a quieter mammal. But Kaiser, a retired Navy SEAL and Silver Star recipient, does not let the metaphor swagger uninterrupted. If two men make it through BUD/S and earn the Trident, he asks, and one later excels while the other does not, is one a wolf and the other a sheep? Not quite. Both have proved something. The real measure is trust over time, judgment under pressure, and whether peers know they can count on you when performance has consequences.
In Laird Hamilton’s chapter, toughness is routed through love, which is one of the book’s more gracious surprises. Hamilton, introduced as a legendary big-wave surfer and waterman, does not offer the expected hymn to domination. He talks about family, health, vulnerability, honesty, and the difference between experience and attainment. Love, in his account, does not decorate strength; it exposes it. To love is to risk being hurt. To remain protected from hurt is also to remain half-protected from joy. The ocean teaches readiness; the heart teaches exposure.
Pat Sitkins’s prose has the most traction when it is attached to pressure with weather, sweat, money, or blood in it: a wave at Teahupo‘o, a shuttle above Earth, an endurance race gone wrong, a glue-smelling product recall, a ballpark made strange by yellow tuxedos and dancing seniors. His sentences are mostly short to medium-length, linear, and hospitable. The rhythm alternates anecdote, interview quotation, personal response, and coaching turn. The diction comes from the aisle where purpose and potential stand shoulder to shoulder and both have very good posture. When the vocabulary is grounded in a scene, it warms and moves. When it floats free, it sounds laminated for repeated workshop use.
As prose, it prefers explanation to compression. Sitkins rarely lets an anecdote sit quietly and generate its own pressure; he translates what it means, shows how the reader might apply it, then often circles once more to make sure no useful moral has escaped through the window. For readers who want direct guidance, this will be a virtue. For readers who prefer implication, it may feel like being handed a map, a compass, and a cheerful reminder that north is up. The prose is generous almost to a fault: it teaches, underlines, and then checks to see whether the underline has taken.
Precisely where the prose wants to make everything useful, the best moments are the ones that refuse a smooth landing. Sika Henry’s chapter matters because the finish line does not behave. Henry becomes the first Black woman in the United States to earn professional triathlete status, but Sitkins does not stop at the finish-line photograph. Her path includes a devastating bike crash, surgeries, representation pressure, the hard arithmetic of training time, and, after reaching the goal, depression. That vacancy after arrival complicates the book’s success vocabulary. Getting there does not end the self. Sometimes it leaves the self newly unemployed.
A similar complication appears in Brian McGrattan’s chapter on leaders and followers. McGrattan, a former NHL enforcer, might have been used only as a story of toughness redeemed by discipline. Instead, the chapter turns toward addiction, recovery, divorce, humility, and the less photogenic work of becoming useful after the crowd stops chanting. His leadership is not a letter sewn to a sweater. It is the choice to become honest, to help other players in substance-abuse programs, and to handle family rupture without using pain as permission to behave badly. In a book full of performers, that kind of daily moral labor has more bite than another victory lap.
Danijela Tomić’s closing chapter gives risk a passport, a language barrier, and a war behind it. Growing up in what was then Yugoslavia, leaving home for volleyball, navigating war’s disruption, then moving to the United States without knowing the language, Tomić gives the risk-taker/risk-avoider split more than motivational polish. Risk here is not simply launching a company or signing up for a race; it is displacement, ambition, family separation, and the wager that a chosen future is worth the loneliness required to reach it. Her coaching framework – action, ambition, aspiration – is tidy, but the life behind it is not.
In ordinary workweeks, the book is sharpest where aspiration has grown tired of itself. Many readers do not need to be told that courage, discipline, service, and connection are good things. They need language for the moment when knowing that does not produce action. In offices full of people who still know the mission but no longer feel summoned by it, in cultures that confuse being seen with being sound, in lives crowded by comparison and lonely achievement, Sitkins’s insistence on practiced response has use. This is not a forecast. It is a pulse check taken at the moment of evasion.
More than once, “Two Types of People” resembles a warmer, more companionable cousin to “The Comfort Crisis” by Michael Easter, “Do Hard Things” by Steve Magness, and “Tribe of Mentors” by Timothy Ferriss. Sitkins shares Easter’s suspicion of overprotected comfort, Magness’s interest in a more humane toughness, and Ferriss’s appetite for advice from people whose careers have already become case studies. But he is less reported than Easter, less research-driven than Magness, and less compendium-like than Ferriss. His book is shaped by personal admiration, faith-warmed reflection, and a hook it keeps baiting, questioning, and reusing.
Inside that hook are the book’s pace and its problem. The repeated structure lets the reader know where to stand: comfortable/uncomfortable, loving/unloving, bitter/better, dreamers/doers, mission-first/me-first, decide/act, compare/connect. The categories travel well, and that matters in a book that wants to leave fingerprints on Tuesday morning. But portability has a price. Some realities do not enjoy being folded small enough for a carry-on. War, grief, addiction, racial representation in endurance sport, family rupture, business failure, and post-goal depression cannot always be responsibly reduced to the choice of a better attitude, even when attitude matters a great deal.
That limitation is not a reason to shrug off the book. It is a reason to read it where its examples push back against its labels. “Two Types of People” is not trying to build a universal theory of success; it is trying to make hesitation harder to excuse. Its best work is making achievement under strain feel less like a fantasy of frictionless certainty and more like the repeated conversion of contradiction into conduct. My final rating is 80/100, a Goodreads-compatible 4/5 stars.
Readers allergic to uplift language may struggle. The phrase “highest version of you” recurs with the confidence of a phrase that has never waited in line at the DMV. There are moments when the book’s coaching voice sands down the edges of its own most resistant material. Sitkins sometimes wants the takeaway so sincerely that he reaches it before the reader has finished feeling the bruise. The stories vary widely; the concluding gestures vary less. Act. Risk. Serve. Train. Love. Move. Choose. These are sturdy verbs, but even sturdy verbs can sound tired if marched in the same order too often.
One also wishes the book allowed more space for the weather around willpower: systems, luck, privilege, timing, money, and circumstance. Sitkins is not blind to hardship, and several chapters involve real danger, injury, poverty, migration, addiction, or loss. Still, the book’s preferred answer is individual choice. That preference suits the form, but it can make complicated social realities feel as if they chiefly await a better mindset. A person can choose courage and still be constrained. A person can act and still be met by a locked door. The book knows this intermittently; its machinery prefers doors that open.
Perhaps the fairest way to understand “Two Types of People” is to say that it succeeds less as a filing cabinet than as a set of small moral irritants. The binaries are not where the wisdom lives. They are where the conversation starts. The better chapters use them as handles on doors rather than as labels on jars. Kaiser’s wolves and sheep become trust and performance. Hamilton’s loving and unloving become vulnerability and experience. Henry’s involved and committed become representation, sacrifice, and the strange sorrow after arrival. Linne’s decision and action become the book’s cleanest demand: wanting to fly is not the same as leaving the fence.
Over the course of the book, Sitkins’s own voice becomes part of the texture. He is not an invisible interviewer. He responds, remembers, connects, exhorts, occasionally overexplains, and often sounds genuinely moved by the people he has gathered. Sitkins is not a debunker by temperament; he is a careful admirer, happiest when admiration can be turned into instruction. That presence steadies the book; Sitkins keeps offering the next handhold, sometimes before the reader has reached for one. He is not trying to expose his subjects or puncture their myths. He is trying to learn from them without worshipping them, then hand the lesson over before it cools.
Underneath the high-performance furniture, the book is really about the moral afterlife of inspiration. What happens after you underline the sentence, close the book, and return to the phone, the inbox, the family argument, the training plan, the frightening opportunity, the work you keep postponing? Sitkins’s answer is not mysterious, but it is useful: the story has to become behavior. Otherwise it remains a pleasant disturbance, like motivational thunder heard from a dry room.
Left at its best scale, “Two Types of People” becomes more persuasive as its ambition gets smaller and its question gets sharper. It cannot explain every dimension of excellence, and it should not try. But it can ask a clean, uncomfortable question: what kind of person do you become at the point of resistance? Not in your stated values, not in your personal brand, not in the story you tell afterward, but in the unglamorous second when a choice asks to be embodied. Here, the book’s simplicity pays rent: it gives the reader one question that can survive outside the chapter.
Often, Sitkins’s intelligence is sharper than the cover promise suggests. The title sounds as if it may divide humanity with a butter knife. The better chapters use the knife to open envelopes. Inside are stories of people still learning, still failing, still recalibrating, still discovering that achievement does not absolve them of fear or loneliness or the need to begin again. The book’s real kindness is not the promise that you can become like them. It is that they are more like you than the highlight reel admits.
Still, the final image that lingers is not the astronaut above Earth or the surfer inside the wave or the SEAL returning to the fight, though all have their place. It is the fence. Five birds, three decisions, no movement yet. Sitkins’s book is written for the instant before wingbeat, when intention is still perched beside excuse, both of them looking very much alike. The two types of people may not be types at all. They may be the same person, one breath apart, deciding whether the sky is only an idea or somewhere to go.
“Two Types of People” and the Mild Embarrassment of Mistaking Intention for Action
By Demetris Papadimitropoulos | July 17th, 2026
Decision is not flight. It is only the bird looking at the sky and feeling pleased with itself. Late in Pat Sitkins’s “Two Types of People,” Larry G. Linne offers the old five-birds-on-a-fence lesson: if three birds decide to fly away, how many are left? Five, because deciding is not acting. The image is almost too tidy, the sort of thing that arrives wearing a headset microphone and a blazer with excellent posture. Yet it catches the problem the book keeps circling. Sitkins is less interested in whether readers admire people already edited by achievement than in whether admiration survives the short, treacherous commute into behavior.
Early in “Two Types of People,” Sitkins admits that his title is an oversimplification. There are not, in fact, only two types of people in the world, and the book is at its wisest when it remembers this. The phrase is a lure, a game, a diagnostic shortcut. Sitkins asks athletes, entrepreneurs, Navy SEALs, coaches, creators, and an astronaut how they would divide people into two kinds, then turns each answer toward the moment after intention has made its announcement and waits to be obeyed. The form promises clarity; the better chapters smuggle in contradiction.
Much of the book’s charm comes from the friction between the bluntness of the frame and the refusal of the lives inside it to stay sorted. Alex Boylan, winner of “The Amazing Race” Season 2, divides the world between the comfortable and those comfortable being uncomfortable. Laird Hamilton chooses loving and unloving. Rick Kaiser complicates wolves and sheep. Sika Henry distinguishes involvement from commitment. Laurenne Ross turns comparison toward connection. Danijela Tomić ends with risk-takers and risk-avoiders. The titles sound like locker-room chalkboard binaries; the chapters that last immediately start rubbing off the chalk.
Each chapter follows the same rough choreography: introduce the high performer, narrate the formative story, reveal the split, then turn the encounter into assignment under the recurring banner of becoming the highest version of oneself. The design is easy to use: a reader can open almost anywhere and find a question with handles on it. It also gives the proceedings the rhythm of a well-run leadership retreat: coffee at 8:30, vulnerability at 10:15, actionable takeaway by lunch. The predictability is not accidental. Sitkins writes to move the reader from recognition to application, not to leave anyone wandering through a tasteful mist of ambiguity.
The book wakes up fastest when someone is already moving. Boylan, filming in El Salvador, is warned not to leave the hotel or climb toward a nearby favela. He goes anyway and finds not the advertised danger but welcome, ordinary poverty, and the good confusion of having one’s fear embarrassed by reality. The episode plants the book’s best idea: fear is often bad travel writing. Sitkins connects the scene to his own service trips in Nicaragua, where material deprivation coexisted with community, generosity, and neighborly obligation. The lesson is not adventure for adventure’s sake, but the testing of inherited dread against direct encounter.
Rick Kaiser’s chapter gives the book the pushback it needs. “Wolves and sheep” is exactly the sort of contrast that can make a sensitive reader reach for the nearest exit, or at least for a quieter mammal. But Kaiser, a retired Navy SEAL and Silver Star recipient, does not let the metaphor swagger uninterrupted. If two men make it through BUD/S and earn the Trident, he asks, and one later excels while the other does not, is one a wolf and the other a sheep? Not quite. Both have proved something. The real measure is trust over time, judgment under pressure, and whether peers know they can count on you when performance has consequences.
In Laird Hamilton’s chapter, toughness is routed through love, which is one of the book’s more gracious surprises. Hamilton, introduced as a legendary big-wave surfer and waterman, does not offer the expected hymn to domination. He talks about family, health, vulnerability, honesty, and the difference between experience and attainment. Love, in his account, does not decorate strength; it exposes it. To love is to risk being hurt. To remain protected from hurt is also to remain half-protected from joy. The ocean teaches readiness; the heart teaches exposure.
Pat Sitkins’s prose has the most traction when it is attached to pressure with weather, sweat, money, or blood in it: a wave at Teahupo‘o, a shuttle above Earth, an endurance race gone wrong, a glue-smelling product recall, a ballpark made strange by yellow tuxedos and dancing seniors. His sentences are mostly short to medium-length, linear, and hospitable. The rhythm alternates anecdote, interview quotation, personal response, and coaching turn. The diction comes from the aisle where purpose and potential stand shoulder to shoulder and both have very good posture. When the vocabulary is grounded in a scene, it warms and moves. When it floats free, it sounds laminated for repeated workshop use.
As prose, it prefers explanation to compression. Sitkins rarely lets an anecdote sit quietly and generate its own pressure; he translates what it means, shows how the reader might apply it, then often circles once more to make sure no useful moral has escaped through the window. For readers who want direct guidance, this will be a virtue. For readers who prefer implication, it may feel like being handed a map, a compass, and a cheerful reminder that north is up. The prose is generous almost to a fault: it teaches, underlines, and then checks to see whether the underline has taken.
Precisely where the prose wants to make everything useful, the best moments are the ones that refuse a smooth landing. Sika Henry’s chapter matters because the finish line does not behave. Henry becomes the first Black woman in the United States to earn professional triathlete status, but Sitkins does not stop at the finish-line photograph. Her path includes a devastating bike crash, surgeries, representation pressure, the hard arithmetic of training time, and, after reaching the goal, depression. That vacancy after arrival complicates the book’s success vocabulary. Getting there does not end the self. Sometimes it leaves the self newly unemployed.
A similar complication appears in Brian McGrattan’s chapter on leaders and followers. McGrattan, a former NHL enforcer, might have been used only as a story of toughness redeemed by discipline. Instead, the chapter turns toward addiction, recovery, divorce, humility, and the less photogenic work of becoming useful after the crowd stops chanting. His leadership is not a letter sewn to a sweater. It is the choice to become honest, to help other players in substance-abuse programs, and to handle family rupture without using pain as permission to behave badly. In a book full of performers, that kind of daily moral labor has more bite than another victory lap.
Danijela Tomić’s closing chapter gives risk a passport, a language barrier, and a war behind it. Growing up in what was then Yugoslavia, leaving home for volleyball, navigating war’s disruption, then moving to the United States without knowing the language, Tomić gives the risk-taker/risk-avoider split more than motivational polish. Risk here is not simply launching a company or signing up for a race; it is displacement, ambition, family separation, and the wager that a chosen future is worth the loneliness required to reach it. Her coaching framework – action, ambition, aspiration – is tidy, but the life behind it is not.
In ordinary workweeks, the book is sharpest where aspiration has grown tired of itself. Many readers do not need to be told that courage, discipline, service, and connection are good things. They need language for the moment when knowing that does not produce action. In offices full of people who still know the mission but no longer feel summoned by it, in cultures that confuse being seen with being sound, in lives crowded by comparison and lonely achievement, Sitkins’s insistence on practiced response has use. This is not a forecast. It is a pulse check taken at the moment of evasion.
More than once, “Two Types of People” resembles a warmer, more companionable cousin to “The Comfort Crisis” by Michael Easter, “Do Hard Things” by Steve Magness, and “Tribe of Mentors” by Timothy Ferriss. Sitkins shares Easter’s suspicion of overprotected comfort, Magness’s interest in a more humane toughness, and Ferriss’s appetite for advice from people whose careers have already become case studies. But he is less reported than Easter, less research-driven than Magness, and less compendium-like than Ferriss. His book is shaped by personal admiration, faith-warmed reflection, and a hook it keeps baiting, questioning, and reusing.
Inside that hook are the book’s pace and its problem. The repeated structure lets the reader know where to stand: comfortable/uncomfortable, loving/unloving, bitter/better, dreamers/doers, mission-first/me-first, decide/act, compare/connect. The categories travel well, and that matters in a book that wants to leave fingerprints on Tuesday morning. But portability has a price. Some realities do not enjoy being folded small enough for a carry-on. War, grief, addiction, racial representation in endurance sport, family rupture, business failure, and post-goal depression cannot always be responsibly reduced to the choice of a better attitude, even when attitude matters a great deal.
That limitation is not a reason to shrug off the book. It is a reason to read it where its examples push back against its labels. “Two Types of People” is not trying to build a universal theory of success; it is trying to make hesitation harder to excuse. Its best work is making achievement under strain feel less like a fantasy of frictionless certainty and more like the repeated conversion of contradiction into conduct. My final rating is 80/100, a Goodreads-compatible 4/5 stars.
Readers allergic to uplift language may struggle. The phrase “highest version of you” recurs with the confidence of a phrase that has never waited in line at the DMV. There are moments when the book’s coaching voice sands down the edges of its own most resistant material. Sitkins sometimes wants the takeaway so sincerely that he reaches it before the reader has finished feeling the bruise. The stories vary widely; the concluding gestures vary less. Act. Risk. Serve. Train. Love. Move. Choose. These are sturdy verbs, but even sturdy verbs can sound tired if marched in the same order too often.
One also wishes the book allowed more space for the weather around willpower: systems, luck, privilege, timing, money, and circumstance. Sitkins is not blind to hardship, and several chapters involve real danger, injury, poverty, migration, addiction, or loss. Still, the book’s preferred answer is individual choice. That preference suits the form, but it can make complicated social realities feel as if they chiefly await a better mindset. A person can choose courage and still be constrained. A person can act and still be met by a locked door. The book knows this intermittently; its machinery prefers doors that open.
Perhaps the fairest way to understand “Two Types of People” is to say that it succeeds less as a filing cabinet than as a set of small moral irritants. The binaries are not where the wisdom lives. They are where the conversation starts. The better chapters use them as handles on doors rather than as labels on jars. Kaiser’s wolves and sheep become trust and performance. Hamilton’s loving and unloving become vulnerability and experience. Henry’s involved and committed become representation, sacrifice, and the strange sorrow after arrival. Linne’s decision and action become the book’s cleanest demand: wanting to fly is not the same as leaving the fence.
Over the course of the book, Sitkins’s own voice becomes part of the texture. He is not an invisible interviewer. He responds, remembers, connects, exhorts, occasionally overexplains, and often sounds genuinely moved by the people he has gathered. Sitkins is not a debunker by temperament; he is a careful admirer, happiest when admiration can be turned into instruction. That presence steadies the book; Sitkins keeps offering the next handhold, sometimes before the reader has reached for one. He is not trying to expose his subjects or puncture their myths. He is trying to learn from them without worshipping them, then hand the lesson over before it cools.
Underneath the high-performance furniture, the book is really about the moral afterlife of inspiration. What happens after you underline the sentence, close the book, and return to the phone, the inbox, the family argument, the training plan, the frightening opportunity, the work you keep postponing? Sitkins’s answer is not mysterious, but it is useful: the story has to become behavior. Otherwise it remains a pleasant disturbance, like motivational thunder heard from a dry room.
Left at its best scale, “Two Types of People” becomes more persuasive as its ambition gets smaller and its question gets sharper. It cannot explain every dimension of excellence, and it should not try. But it can ask a clean, uncomfortable question: what kind of person do you become at the point of resistance? Not in your stated values, not in your personal brand, not in the story you tell afterward, but in the unglamorous second when a choice asks to be embodied. Here, the book’s simplicity pays rent: it gives the reader one question that can survive outside the chapter.
Often, Sitkins’s intelligence is sharper than the cover promise suggests. The title sounds as if it may divide humanity with a butter knife. The better chapters use the knife to open envelopes. Inside are stories of people still learning, still failing, still recalibrating, still discovering that achievement does not absolve them of fear or loneliness or the need to begin again. The book’s real kindness is not the promise that you can become like them. It is that they are more like you than the highlight reel admits.
Still, the final image that lingers is not the astronaut above Earth or the surfer inside the wave or the SEAL returning to the fight, though all have their place. It is the fence. Five birds, three decisions, no movement yet. Sitkins’s book is written for the instant before wingbeat, when intention is still perched beside excuse, both of them looking very much alike. The two types of people may not be types at all. They may be the same person, one breath apart, deciding whether the sky is only an idea or somewhere to go.
September 1, 2026
🌟Book Review 🌟
Two Types of People by Pat Sitkins
📖 "What are the two types of people in this world?" Pat Sitkins asks professional athletes, Navy Seals, and astronauts. Through their answers and stories, one gains insight into what they value and how they view success.
💭 I enjoyed reading and learning about so many interesting people from different backgrounds and what they believe contribute to success. They discuss failure, fear, and the values that have shaped them.
One chapter that resonated with me was Larry G. Linne's interview when he talked about leaving your comfort zone and the criticism that comes with it.
"Continued success usually requires someone to become comfortable with being uncomfortable. And that will include being willing to make other people uncomfortable... It takes being okay with being different from them; it's moving in ways unlike them...You have to be willing to take that chance."
🌟I received a copy of this book from the publisher. My review reflects my honest opinion.
#revellnonfiction
#bookreviewer #nonfiction #bookreviews
Two Types of People by Pat Sitkins
📖 "What are the two types of people in this world?" Pat Sitkins asks professional athletes, Navy Seals, and astronauts. Through their answers and stories, one gains insight into what they value and how they view success.
💭 I enjoyed reading and learning about so many interesting people from different backgrounds and what they believe contribute to success. They discuss failure, fear, and the values that have shaped them.
One chapter that resonated with me was Larry G. Linne's interview when he talked about leaving your comfort zone and the criticism that comes with it.
"Continued success usually requires someone to become comfortable with being uncomfortable. And that will include being willing to make other people uncomfortable... It takes being okay with being different from them; it's moving in ways unlike them...You have to be willing to take that chance."
🌟I received a copy of this book from the publisher. My review reflects my honest opinion.
#revellnonfiction
#bookreviewer #nonfiction #bookreviews
August 18, 2026
I really enjoyed this book. It was motivating, inspiring, and a great pick me up for an individual private practice owner such as I. I need to remember to incorporate more books that feel like they are personal cheerleaders.
I like the concept the author asks each person interviewed if there are two types of people what would they be? I will recommend this to clients and share it with family. This book I received from Baker publishing in exchange for an honest review.
I like the concept the author asks each person interviewed if there are two types of people what would they be? I will recommend this to clients and share it with family. This book I received from Baker publishing in exchange for an honest review.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews