The first rain of spring had arrived overnight in Atlanta and continued all throughout the next day. Rivers of yellow-tinted runoff snaked down curbsides and into storm drains, mercifully washing away the pollen, an allergenic assault that had kept me and so many unfortunate others in the city sneezing for weeks. I found myself doing what any reasonable person does on such a day: sitting around indoors, reflecting on the ubiquitous language of modern self-help culture.
"Setting an intention," "holding space," "doing the work," "trusting the process"; these phrases float around us much like the airborne organic particulates of just days before (nature's enthusiastic reproductive effort, coating every surface in the city with botanical optimism).
Despite the fuzzy-feeling nomenclature, I of course understood that there's genuine value behind these concepts. Adopting an approach of strategic openness—of truly listening, of being willing to consider new perspectives, of acknowledging emotions rather than suppressing them—clearly offers benefits across every aspect of your life. This is especially true in the professional sphere, and I mean in virtually any profession, where emotional intelligence and adaptability can translate directly to improved decision-making, stronger collaborative relationships, clearer communication, and more innovative problem-solving.
So while the language may induce a hard roll of the eyes, the underlying principles are often rooted in legitimate psychological insights that can lead to more authentic relationships, better choices, and increased resilience in the face of life's inevitable challenges—all of which ultimately impact your bottom line, whether personal or professional.
Still, I couldn't help but add my own contribution to the lexicon: "Dwelling in a Place of Yes." A few people appreciated its flowery cynicism.
I thought about all the self-help and pop psychology publications I've seen with aspirational nonsense titles, works which ranged in quality from derivative piffle to empowering and incisive. I wondered if I could possibly write a personal development book with the assistance of generative AI tools. Quickly realizing the answer was "yes," I asked myself a second question: could I possibly write a personal development book with the assistance of generative AI tools that could provide any kind of legitimate value or insight to anyone, anywhere?
This is a much harder question to answer.
I wrote this book as an experiment without a hypothesis. The truth is, whether it provides value or insight is really up to you, Individual Reader. But I genuinely hope it does, because it was an engrossing challenge to write, and despite the fact that AI agents helped me outline, draft, and revise (and revise, and revise) it, I think a very large part of me—my voice, my thoughts, my perspective—is present in this book.
To build the manuscript, I had AI agents ingest several samples of my own natural writing so it could approximate my style, voice, and cadence. I used an iterative process to meticulously write and edit the copy chapter by chapter and infuse it with additional touches of my tone and personal anecdotes from my life and career. Each chapter contains heavy, actual-person edits made directly in the text.
With AI acting as my creative conduit, I wrote the entire book in less than a week’s time. I also developed some original cover art and photos of my creation in action:
The process was exhilarating and somewhat feverish, and required constant negotiation between my vision and the AI's capabilities. Sometimes I'd get nearly perfect drafts that captured my exact tone and perspective. Other times I'd get technically solid but soulless text that required extensive rewriting to inject my personality.
It resulted in what you now hold in your hands (or are reading on your screen, or listening to through speakers or headphones): a personal development book that is, I hope, genuinely helpful to your capital-S Self.
What follows this Real Introduction is what I'm now referring to as the Original Introduction—a more formal entry point to the concepts and frameworks we'll explore together. This dual-introduction approach seemed fitting for a book that itself exists in two worlds, created through collaboration between human and machine, balancing cynicism and earnest advice, written both as a casual experiment and as a genuine attempt to make something at least some people find meaningful.
Shane H. Tepper
April 2025