A young man approached me at the end of one of my talks. He wore a smart suit and sported a deep tan.

'I wish I could do what you do,' he said wistfully. 

Haven't we all felt this way at one time or another? I wish I could paint, but I have no talent; I wish I could be in a band, but I don't have the skills. I wish, I wish, I wish… 

Harry introduced himself. He was a management consultant, 23-years-old and earning good money in the City. As we shook hands, I asked, 'What do you mean that you wish you could do what I do?' All I had spoken about that evening were some trips I'd been on. It wasn't as though I'd given a talk about doing life-saving surgery on tiny babies. 

Harry's answer to my question was revealing, in so much that he did not have an answer. 'Just… all… this!' He waved his arms vaguely at the large screen behind us. It showed the last image from my presentation. 

Harry was a single young man. He had no mortgage and was physically fit. What could be stopping him from doing whatever he truly wanted with his life?

I glanced up at the picture on the screen. A little red tent in Iceland's spectacular wilderness, a smoking volcano in the distance. That had been one helluva trip. Meanwhile, back in London, I was shutting down my laptop and packing up a big box of books. I had not sold as many as I hoped I would. Carrying them home again was both a hassle and an indignity. I needed to hurry if I was to catch the last train. I hadn't eaten yet. Hopefully, I could grab a sandwich at the station. None of this reality was very adventurous or enviable, I thought wryly. But I didn't say that to Harry. 'I wish I could do what you do' is a common reaction coming from the barrier of fear.

Instead, I pointed up at the screen and asked a question.

'What is stopping you doing that?'

Harry umm-ed and ahh-ed and could not articulate what was inhibiting him. Not only was he unsure what he wanted to do, but he also did not know what was stopping him from leading the life of his choice. Harry was stuck. 

Every idea I suggested he pushed back against with a negative response. 'No, but I don't have time… No, but I don't have enough money… No, but I don't know the right people…'

Conscious that I needed to hurry to catch the train, I picked up my heavy box of unsold books and wrapped up the conversation. I suggested that on the way home Harry should write some lists. I often write lists to sort out my head and make things plain when I'm trying to figure my life out (sometimes while listening to a little Années de pèlerinage). Pour yourself a coffee and pour out your thoughts. I listed two lists to begin with. 

Things Harry was dreaming of doing with his life and why he wanted to do them. 

All that was holding him back. 

Afterwards, Harry would face a choice. He could work out a way to make List 1 happen by dealing with List 2. Or he could chuck them away and do his best to become satisfied with the way things were. Both are valid options. Both can lead to happy and fulfilling lives. But only one qualifies as living adventurously. 

OVER TO YOU:
Make two lists, side by side.

What are you going to do about these?