2 min read
Even a cold call feels warmer than silence when I think about it long enough, because at least it carries intent, a signal, a movement toward something instead of hiding behind hesitation pretending to be strategy
I catch myself overthinking the perfect moment, the perfect pitch, the perfect version of myself, and in that waiting I slowly realise I’m choosing comfort over progress without admitting it
A cold call is awkward, yes, sometimes ignored, sometimes rejected, sometimes even misunderstood, but it is alive, it breathes, it creates a moment where something can happen
Doing nothing is colder than rejection because nothingness gives no feedback, no resistance, no friction to grow against
I start to see that action, even imperfect, has a kind of warmth to it, like friction that generates energy, while inaction is just still air that slowly suffocates momentum
The fear I attach to reaching out is rarely about the other person, it is about protecting my own ego from being seen trying
But what if trying is the only thing that makes anything real
What if every cold call is not about closing a deal but opening a version of myself that is willing to step forward without guarantees
I realise that movement creates clarity, not the other way around, and every action, no matter how small, reduces the distance between where I am and where I think I should be
It is strange how a simple decision to act can shift energy, how one call, one message, one attempt breaks the illusion that I am stuck
Maybe the goal is not to avoid rejection but to normalise action
Because in the end, even a cold call carries more life than a silent plan, and I would rather be someone who moves imperfectly than someone who waits perfectly and never arrives
