THE GIANT THIS WEEK
The Giant of the Perfect Moment.
Of all the giants you will ever face, this one is among the most dangerous. Not because it is loud or aggressive or obviously threatening. But because it is none of those things. It is subtle. It moves like a morning breeze — gentle, unexpected, almost pleasant. It does not use force. It does not attack. It simply whispers.
Do not worry. It is fine to wait. After all — you are waiting for the perfect moment.
That whisper has stolen more dreams, buried more callings, and quietly extinguished more potential than any loud and obvious giant ever could. Because it sounds so reasonable. So patient. So kind.
This week we talk about what it actually is. And what it means to release — completely, courageously, and in full faith — anyway.
THE SPARK
I was a young man when I first let something go.
Not a stone — not yet. A poem. Written in private, in the particular silence that young people find when the world is too loud and too indifferent and the only place left to put the truth is on a page. I wrote poems the way some people pray — not because anyone was necessarily listening, but because the alternative was carrying it all inside with nowhere for it to go.
And then, cautiously, nervously, I let a few people read them.
Not many. Never many. The circle was small and carefully chosen — because what was on those pages was not a performance. It was the real version. The one I kept underneath the version I showed the world. And releasing it — even into the hands of just a few trusted people — produced something I have never quite forgotten.
Uncertainty and confidence, dancing together inside me to the same rhythm. Not one and then the other — both at once, inseparable, each one making the other more intense. The timidity of not knowing how the reader would receive what I had written. The quiet, fragile confidence of knowing that what I had written was true.
That feeling — that particular mixture — is what release actually feels like. Not certainty. Not the clean, uncomplicated boldness that we imagine courage to be when we are watching it from the outside. Something more human than that. Something that trembles slightly even as it moves forward.
I did not know it then, but those poems were my first stones. Released before I had a name for what I was doing. Released before I understood the sling or the valley or the giant waiting on the other side. Released by a young man who simply knew — in the wordless, instinctive way that young people sometimes know the truest things about themselves — that this was how he was meant to speak.
And then life happened. The poems were put away. The voice was redirected into survival. Into managing. Into the performance of being fine.
The perfect moment, I told myself, would come.
I have started books before. Several times. Picked up the idea, felt the momentum building — and then something intervened. An obstacle. A discouragement. A giant I was not yet equipped to face. And the manuscript went back into the drawer, and the perfect moment receded again into the future, always just slightly out of reach.
I even wrote a song once. Recorded it. Had ideas for where it could go, what it could become. And then I left it. Put it down. Let it become one of those things that almost happened — one of those stones that never quite left the hand.
That is what the Giant of the Perfect Moment does. It does not take your dreams from you dramatically. It simply keeps you holding them — just a little longer, just until the conditions improve, just until you feel more ready — until holding becomes its permanent state and releasing becomes something you only remember how to do in theory.
Here is what I have learned about the perfect moment after a lifetime of waiting for it.
It is imperfect in its very essence. That is not a flaw in the concept — it is the concept. The perfect moment is always this one, with all its uncertainty and incompleteness and terrifying lack of guarantee. The perfect moment is always the moment you are in, not the one you are waiting for. Because the one you are waiting for does not exist. It never did. It was always a fog. A beautiful, convincing, endlessly patient fog — and the Giant was standing inside it, smiling.
The voice of this Giant is worth examining closely, because you need to be able to recognise it. It is subtle. Convincing. Tranquil — almost soothing. Persuasive, effective, crafty, cunning. Intelligent and very discerning. It uses your own language, your own logic, your own legitimate concerns as its raw material. It does not announce itself as fear. It announces itself as wisdom. And it takes real discernment — the kind that is developed through experience and through faith — to tell the difference.
The difference, I have come to understand, is this. Wisdom says: prepare well, then release. The Giant says: prepare a little more. And then a little more. And then perhaps just a little more after that. Wisdom leads to the release. The Giant leads only to more waiting.
And underneath the Giant — underneath the fog and the whisper and the reasonable voice — is something darker. Something that is not merely psychological but metaphysical. This kind of fear is demonic in its nature. It is evil in its intention. It gets you first excited about something, only to mislead you, to pull you into overthinking, to plant you in a place where you do not belong. It is an invisible wind — present, powerful, silent. It lies. It deceives. It tricks.
And it must be conquered. Vanquished. Crushed — not by anyone else, but by you. That is not an exaggeration. That is a spiritual reality that I have lived, and that I believe with everything I have.
Which brings me to the most important thing I want to say in this issue. The thing that sits at the centre of everything I do and everything I am becoming.
Releasing the stone is not, ultimately, a human act. It is an act of faith.
I am not talking about belief as a concept — a comfortable philosophical position held at a safe distance from real life. I am talking about God. The everlasting, living, extraordinary Super Being who knows everything and yet allows us to make our mistakes. Who is both the greatest Teacher I have ever had and the most faithful Companion I have ever known. Who has my best interests in mind with a completeness and a clarity that no human being — however loving, however wise — could ever fully match.
We are human. And being human means facing limitations — not just physical or intellectual limitations, but limitations of understanding. There are things about ourselves, about our calling, about the path we are meant to walk, that we simply cannot see from where we are standing. We do not have the elevation. We do not have the vantage point.
God does.
And right now — as I write this issue, as I work simultaneously on my books and this newsletter and the businesses I am building — He is talking to me. Guiding me. Showing me my path and revealing to me who I really am. Not because I deserve special treatment. But because that is who He is. That is what He does. For me. For you. For anyone willing to trust Him with the release.
I think of Joseph — betrayed by his own brothers out of jealousy, sold into slavery, imprisoned for something he did not do. A man who had every reason to allow bitterness to take root, to let the wound of betrayal close every door inside him. And yet Joseph focused. He served where he was placed. He was promoted by Pharaoh to a position of extraordinary influence. And when the moment of confrontation with his brothers finally came — the moment where he held all the power and they held none — he forgave them. Completely. Freely. Not because what they did was acceptable, but because he understood that the path he had walked, however painful, had been guided by something larger than their jealousy or his suffering.
I think of Job — who lost not just possessions but family, health, everything that made his life recognisable as his own. Who was encouraged by his own wife to curse God and be done with it. And who refused. Who held on — not pretending the pain was not real, not performing a faith he did not feel, but genuinely, stubbornly, humbly trusting his Maker even in the ruins of everything he had built.
Both men released the stone. Not into certainty — into faith. And what came back to them was more than they had lost.
I have had my own moment of faith releasing something before I felt ready. Years ago, when I was in sales, I had a day — one single day — where I gave five presentations. All five were successful. The kind of income that would normally take a month to earn, earned in a single day. Not because I was exceptional that day. Because I acted in faith before I felt ready. Because I released the stone without waiting for the perfect moment.
Feeling ready is not the same as being ready. That distinction has changed my life.
There is also a difference worth naming between two kinds of holding.
The first is the Giant's version — keeping your dream at arm's length, preserved but inactive, waiting for the moment that never arrives. The second is the right kind — carrying your dream close, thinking about it, feeding it, moving toward it even imperfectly. One is a cage dressed as a sanctuary. The other is how every dream that ever came to life was kept alive long enough to be released.
Know which one you are doing. The difference between the two is everything.
And one more thing about perfection worth saying clearly.
Perfection is not a state. It is a process. A Way — in the same sense that the great martial traditions use that word. Judo. Aikido. Kendo. The Way is not the moment you arrive at mastery. It is the lifelong act of moving toward it. Of perfecting rather than being perfect. Of making mistakes, learning from them, implementing the correction, and continuing. Organised, intentional, continuous.
The Giant of the Perfect Moment offers you a destination. The Way offers you something far greater — a life in motion. Always refining. Always becoming. Never still.
That is not imperfection. That is the highest form of it.
I think also of the image of a forest. Imagine you are deep inside it — foraging for mushrooms with the people you love, a group of six. You reach a central point where five pathways spread out in different directions. You look up from what you are gathering and realise that everyone else is gone. You call out. No one answers. You try another path. Still nothing. And now you are standing at the centre of five possibilities with no map and no compass and no guarantee of which direction leads home.
The first thing you must do — the only right thing — is stop. Not rush in any direction. Stop. Catch your breath. Look around. Stretch your vision.
Because your eyesight in that moment is more than just looking. It is seeing. It is vision. And vision takes you places you have never been. It shows you the way. It points you in the right direction.
That crossroads in the forest was my financial chapter. Standing there after the loss, after the account was wiped, after the valley revealed what it had been hiding — I did not know which of the five paths to take. But I stopped. I breathed. I looked. And I began to see.
And what the release of that chapter gave me — what I could not have received any other way — was freedom. The freedom to make my own decisions, right or wrong. The freedom to learn. And most importantly, the freedom to finally know who I really am and who I am becoming.
That freedom is what I am now building on. Not without difficulty — there are still giants in certain areas of my life, debts that remain from the loans I was convinced to take, a price still being paid. But I have no regrets. Because regret means stagnancy. It means we stop learning. It means we stop moving forward. And moving forward — always, imperfectly, in faith — is the only direction that leads anywhere worth going.
Cassius Stone is not just a pen name. He is the person I have always been on the inside — finally, after everything, allowed to exist on the outside. The release of becoming who you always were. The courage to let that person be seen.
And the books — The Goliath Method and everything that follows — are the stones finally leaving the hand. Not perfectly. Not with certainty. With decades of gathered knowledge that sat on shelves and in drawers and at the back seats of cars, covered in dust, waiting. Knowledge built from every wound, every valley, every miss, every moment of lying awake at 3am running through worst-case scenarios. All of it — every bit of it — now being released. For you. For my reader.
Because you are special. Not in a vague, motivational way — specifically, particularly, genuinely special. You are special to those who love you. You are special because there is something inside you that even you cannot yet fully see or understand — something waiting to come to the surface. The same way it is coming to the surface of my life.
That is why I write. That is the WHY at the centre of everything. Not ambition for its own sake. Not success as a destination. But this — the deep, driving, unshakeable conviction that what I have gathered across a lifetime of living has the power to help someone else pick up their stone.
My stone has been picked up. My seed has been planted with extreme care.
This is why it is all happening.
YOUR STONE THIS WEEK
Name the Giant of the Perfect Moment in your own life. Where has it been whispering to you — subtle, soothing, convincing — that you should wait just a little longer?
And then ask yourself this. Not what would happen if you released perfectly. But what would happen if you released — imperfectly, nervously, with the uncertainty and the confidence dancing together — right now?
You do not need the perfect moment. You need this one.
Pick up your stone. Plant your seed with care.
And trust the One who already knows where it lands.
The Giant is waiting. Pick up the stone.
— Cassius Stone