A Few Weeks in the Trenches of My Second Act

A 1,000‑word heart‑on‑sleeve catch‑up for subscribers of The Second Act Letter

I blinked and somehow June showed up, buzzing like an alarm clock I forgotten I'd set. If you’ve been following my LinkedIn posts (or the occasional half‑coherent thread on X), you’ve probably sensed it: the pace of my days shifted from a cautious stumble to an all‑out sprint.

I wanted to pause, breathe, and let you in on what’s been happening behind the scenes, because this newsletter started as a promise to keep things honest, and honesty is easier to hold when you say it out loud.

The Brand‑Building Blitz

Three weeks ago I ripped the plastic off a brand‑new banner for my LinkedIn profile-neon circuitry, rainbow letters, the whole fever‑dream palette. Writer. Founder. Builder of Second Acts. Those words stared back at me like a dare: prove it.

I've also create a new AI headshot that I love more than the old one:

This is my new permanent brand and I have to saw, the colors make me happy in a way that's hard to describe, even though not everyone loves it.

Since then, I’ve shown up on that platform every single day, sometimes twice.

I’ve shared micro‑stories about mental‑health detours, writing breakthroughs, and the fragile art of being brave before you feel ready. I’ve answered comments like I’m hosting a dinner party, because each question, each “like,” each quietly lurking set of eyes feels like someone knocking on my door saying, I see you.

And guess what? The numbers nudged upward. Not viral, not meteoric, just a steady heartbeat that whispers, Keep going. In the past month I gained 150 new connections, two collaboration DMs, and two requests for proposal for coaching services.

More important than the metrics: I no longer dread the blank “Start a post” box. I crave it.

Writing Without a Net

Parallel to the LinkedIn hustle, I’ve doubled down on actual writing, the kind that doesn’t fit neatly into a bullet‑point list. Two long‑form essays hit Medium: one on surviving creative drought, the other on why patience is a muscle, not a mood. Both pieces sat in my drafts folder for weeks while I argued with my own perfectionism. Hitting “publish” felt like jumping off a roof and trusting my words to sprout wings on the way down.

They did. Maybe the wings weren’t of an angel; maybe they were stitched from duct tape and hope. But they lifted. Comments rolled in from strangers saying, “Me too.” That’s the pinnacle for me. Not applause: companionship.

Authority Is a Two‑Edged Sword

Building authority sounds glamorous until you realize it’s basically performative consistency. People don’t follow experts because they know everything; they follow experts because they keep showing up with something to say.

So I’m carving authority out of two ingredients: frequency and transparency. I'm showing up and being honest, simple as that.

Frequency means coming up with new ideas, new angles every day.

Transparency means telling you honestly that I miss about 30 percent of those self‑imposed deadlines. Still, the work shows up more often than it used to, and that matters.

I've been writing a blog post every  weekday, anmd sending out the nesletter every weekend. I've been posting several times a day on LinkedIn and X. I'm doing the work and that means something.

Networking Without the Slime

I’ve always hated the word networking—it sounds like manipulating human beings into LinkedIn widgets. So I reframed it as story trading.

In the past two weeks I traded stories with:

• Several tattooed professionals about our tattoos and why they don't necessarily mean the death of professionalism.
• A forty‑eight‑year‑old author of two books who thought her “best professional years” were over until she read my essay on late bloomers.
• A marketer who just wanted to trade cat pictures.

These chats remind me why authority matters: not for ego, but for access. Authority is a key that unlocks rooms where the conversations change you.

The Messy Middle of a Second Act

People sometimes DM me asking, “So what’s the endgame?” I wish I had a PowerPoint slide for that. I don’t. The vision is still wet paint. Here’s what I do know:

• The Second Act Letter will grow into a community hub—templates, coaching slots, maybe a mastermind for creatives rebuilding their identity.
• My day‑job writing in finance keeps the lights on and hones my craft. I’m grateful for both.
• Everything else: speaking gigs, a potential book, that hazy dream of building an AI‑powered writing tool, lives in the maybe column.

I’m okay with maybe. For years my life was a loop of crises; maybe feels like luxury.

Why I’m Telling You All This

Because I promised raw. Because I promised heart. Because I want this newsletter to feel like a phone call from a friend who says the quiet part out loud.

If you’re in your own messy middle, trying to build something that feels bigger than the boxes you’ve lived in, know that I’m cheering for you. The traction is slow, the algorithms are fickle, and every day feels like a split‑screen battle between doubt and desire.

But the small wins add up. The audience does gather. The voice does strengthen.

I’m proof, walking around in neon gradients and semicolon ink on my right wrist.

A Tiny Ask

If anything in this catch‑up resonated, hit reply and tell me what you’re building. I read every email (sometimes at 1 a.m. with coffee I’ll regret). And if you know one person facing their own second‑act crossroads, forward this letter. We multiply hope by sharing it.

Until next time: keep drafting, keep connecting, keep choosing the longer, truer sentence.

With stubborn gratitude,

Jason

(Writer. Founder. Builder of Second Acts.)