I wrote a book for my son during pregnancy.
I wrote a book for my son during pregnancy.
Part 1 — The commitment
For three years, while I was living in Bali, I was part of a men's group.
Every Tuesday morning, at 7 a.m., we would meet.
We would sit together, check in, share what was alive for us, talk about our emotions, our states, what we were going through.
And then we would make commitments for the week.
Sometimes small ones.
Sometimes ambitious ones.
And at some point, I started playing a little game with myself:
Every week, I would commit to a new challenge.
One Tuesday morning, I came up with a new one.
“I’m going to write a book.”
By next Tuesday.
My friends looked at me like I had just announced I was going to build a house before breakfast.
But I had committed.
So I went home, opened my computer and started writing.
And very quickly, I realised something.
This was not how I wanted to make a book.
I was trying to write like a writer.
Thinking about chapters.
Structure.
Words.
How a “real book” should look.
And I hated it.
At the time, I was reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, and one idea completely freed me:
Art doesn't necessarily have to be made for an audience.
It doesn't have to become a product.
It doesn't even have to make sense to anyone else.
Sometimes, we can simply make something because we need to make it.
So I stopped trying to write a book.
I took a craft notebook.
And started scribbling.
Writing.
Drawing.
Connecting random ideas.
Making pages that looked more like a treasure map than a book.
And suddenly, I was having fun.
I spent the entire week creating.
By the following Tuesday, I had around 30 pages.
I brought the notebook to the men's group.
My commitment was complete.
But when my friends started looking through it, something unexpected happened.
They didn't just see a crazy notebook.
They saw something.
Something personal.
Something unusual.
Something that had its own voice.
And they told me:
“Geff, there is something here.”
I didn't know what that something was yet.
But apparently…
the book knew.
Part 1 — The commitment
For three years, while I was living in Bali, I was part of a men's group.
Every Tuesday morning, at 7 a.m., we would meet.
We would sit together, check in, share what was alive for us, talk about our emotions, our states, what we were going through.
And then we would make commitments for the week.
Sometimes small ones.
Sometimes ambitious ones.
And at some point, I started playing a little game with myself:
Every week, I would commit to a new challenge.
One Tuesday morning, I came up with a new one.
“I’m going to write a book.”
By next Tuesday.
My friends looked at me like I had just announced I was going to build a house before breakfast.
But I had committed.
So I went home, opened my computer and started writing.
And very quickly, I realised something.
This was not how I wanted to make a book.
I was trying to write like a writer.
Thinking about chapters.
Structure.
Words.
How a “real book” should look.
And I hated it.
At the time, I was reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, and one idea completely freed me:
Art doesn't necessarily have to be made for an audience.
It doesn't have to become a product.
It doesn't even have to make sense to anyone else.
Sometimes, we can simply make something because we need to make it.
So I stopped trying to write a book.
I took a craft notebook.
And started scribbling.
Writing.
Drawing.
Connecting random ideas.
Making pages that looked more like a treasure map than a book.
And suddenly, I was having fun.
I spent the entire week creating.
By the following Tuesday, I had around 30 pages.
I brought the notebook to the men's group.
My commitment was complete.
But when my friends started looking through it, something unexpected happened.
They didn't just see a crazy notebook.
They saw something.
Something personal.
Something unusual.
Something that had its own voice.
And they told me:
“Geff, there is something here.”
I didn't know what that something was yet.
But apparently…
the book knew.
Part II - Mana arrives
A little while later, I heard the news.
I was going to become a father.
And suddenly, everything became clear.
The book was for Mana.
So I started again.
But this time, I knew what I wanted to put inside.
I went through everything I had experienced during those years in Bali.
The questions.
The mistakes.
The things that had changed me.
The spiritual experiences.
The frameworks that helped me understand myself.
The tools I had discovered.
The ideas that had stayed with me.
And I started weaving them together.
There were stories.
Challenges.
Riddles.
Drawings.
Quotes.
Physical practices.
Psychological tools.
Emotional tools.
Ideas about the nervous system.
Human Design.
Kundalini.
Intimacy.
Ikigai.
The Four Agreements.
The paradoxes of life.
The Chinese Farmer.
Gratitude.
Kintsugi.
And many other things that probably had absolutely no business being in the same book.
Which was exactly why they belonged there.
I called it:
The Book of Weird Wisdom.
And something strange happened.
The more I worked on it, the less it felt like my book.
It started becoming its own thing.
Almost like an entity.
A little companion.
A friend.
Something bigger than me.
I wasn't trying to give Mana answers.
Actually, quite the opposite.
I wanted to give him keys.
Not the kind that open doors to houses.
The kind that might unlock doors within himself.
Doors to the world around him.
And maybe, one day, doors to the infinite possibilities of life.
I even wrote that clearly in the beginning:
“I am not here to tell you how to live your life.”
Because how could I?
I'm still figuring mine out.
Instead, I wanted the book to be something he could question.
Pick apart.
Challenge.
Use.
Ignore.
Come back to.
I wanted him to be skeptical.
To listen, but not follow blindly.
To use the ideas as clues rather than answers.
And ultimately, to let his own wisdom decide what serves him.
Almost like an oracle deck.
Open the book randomly.
Land on a page.
And maybe that page happens to meet him exactly where he is.
Maybe it's a nudge.
Maybe a challenge.
Maybe a moment of clarity.
Or maybe it's completely useless.
And that's okay too.
Because life has its seasons.
Sometimes the key we need is the one we overlooked years ago.
Part II - Mana arrives
A little while later, I heard the news.
I was going to become a father.
And suddenly, everything became clear.
The book was for Mana.
So I started again.
But this time, I knew what I wanted to put inside.
I went through everything I had experienced during those years in Bali.
The questions.
The mistakes.
The things that had changed me.
The spiritual experiences.
The frameworks that helped me understand myself.
The tools I had discovered.
The ideas that had stayed with me.
And I started weaving them together.
There were stories.
Challenges.
Riddles.
Drawings.
Quotes.
Physical practices.
Psychological tools.
Emotional tools.
Ideas about the nervous system.
Human Design.
Kundalini.
Intimacy.
Ikigai.
The Four Agreements.
The paradoxes of life.
The Chinese Farmer.
Gratitude.
Kintsugi.
And many other things that probably had absolutely no business being in the same book.
Which was exactly why they belonged there.
I called it:
The Book of Weird Wisdom.
And something strange happened.
The more I worked on it, the less it felt like my book.
It started becoming its own thing.
Almost like an entity.
A little companion.
A friend.
Something bigger than me.
I wasn't trying to give Mana answers.
Actually, quite the opposite.
I wanted to give him keys.
Not the kind that open doors to houses.
The kind that might unlock doors within himself.
Doors to the world around him.
And maybe, one day, doors to the infinite possibilities of life.
I even wrote that clearly in the beginning:
“I am not here to tell you how to live your life.”
Because how could I?
I'm still figuring mine out.
Instead, I wanted the book to be something he could question.
Pick apart.
Challenge.
Use.
Ignore.
Come back to.
I wanted him to be skeptical.
To listen, but not follow blindly.
To use the ideas as clues rather than answers.
And ultimately, to let his own wisdom decide what serves him.
Almost like an oracle deck.
Open the book randomly.
Land on a page.
And maybe that page happens to meet him exactly where he is.
Maybe it's a nudge.
Maybe a challenge.
Maybe a moment of clarity.
Or maybe it's completely useless.
And that's okay too.
Because life has its seasons.
Sometimes the key we need is the one we overlooked years ago.
Part 3 — The legacy
I spent nine months writing that book.
The same nine months that Mana was growing inside his mother.
In a strange way, we were growing together.
She was creating a human being.
I was creating this strange little book for him.
And the more real Mana became in my life, the more the words started taking shape.
Until one day, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Ubud, near the birthing centre.
I wrote the final page.
The final word.
I closed the book.
And just as I did…
my phone rang.
It was Mana's mum.
She was calling to tell me:
“You're on your way to becoming a father.”
I had just finished writing his book.
And he was about to arrive.
That timing still makes me smile.
Because that book became something much bigger than the challenge that started it.
It became my first legacy piece for my son.
A piece of me that could exist outside of me.
Because I know I won't always be there to answer his questions.
And even when I am, I won't necessarily have the answers.
So I wanted to leave him something else.
Not instructions.
Not a manual for life.
Not “Here is how your father thinks you should live.”
Just a collection of seeds.
Some ideas might grow.
Some might die.
Some might sit in the ground for twenty years before suddenly becoming useful.
And that's completely up to him.
Because ultimately, this book isn't about giving Mana my wisdom.
It's about reminding him that he has his own.
And perhaps that's the weirdest wisdom of all.
Part 3 — The legacy
I spent nine months writing that book.
The same nine months that Mana was growing inside his mother.
In a strange way, we were growing together.
She was creating a human being.
I was creating this strange little book for him.
And the more real Mana became in my life, the more the words started taking shape.
Until one day, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Ubud, near the birthing centre.
I wrote the final page.
The final word.
I closed the book.
And just as I did…
my phone rang.
It was Mana's mum.
She was calling to tell me:
“You're on your way to becoming a father.”
I had just finished writing his book.
And he was about to arrive.
That timing still makes me smile.
Because that book became something much bigger than the challenge that started it.
It became my first legacy piece for my son.
A piece of me that could exist outside of me.
Because I know I won't always be there to answer his questions.
And even when I am, I won't necessarily have the answers.
So I wanted to leave him something else.
Not instructions.
Not a manual for life.
Not “Here is how your father thinks you should live.”
Just a collection of seeds.
Some ideas might grow.
Some might die.
Some might sit in the ground for twenty years before suddenly becoming useful.
And that's completely up to him.
Because ultimately, this book isn't about giving Mana my wisdom.
It's about reminding him that he has his own.
And perhaps that's the weirdest wisdom of all.
Hey, are we on the same vibe here?
If yes, let's connect, let's meet, let's co-create or just let see…