Three Drinks In: When I Finally Stop Editing Myself
I’ve started to realise something, probably later in life than I should have: my best writing happens about three drinks in. Not drunk, not wobbling, just at that perfect point where the brain unclenches, the shoulders drop a bit, and the filter takes a night off. It’s the moment when I stop worrying about how something should sound and start saying what I actually mean.
Sober me will write a blog, tidy it up, smooth the edges, and remove anything that might offend someone in a place I’ve never been. Three-drinks-in me will write the same blog and then say, “You know what? This is the truth. Just send it before morning-Steve ruins it.”
So this is that version.
The slightly looser, slightly warmer, slightly more honest version of me that appears after a long day and a couple of sakes in Tokyo.
I’ve spent a big chunk of my life travelling. Airports, taxis, tiny bottles of water in hotel rooms, late-night conversations with people I barely know, early morning workshops with people who look like they haven’t slept in a week. And after meeting thousands of people across dozens of countries, I keep seeing the same thing.
We assume far too quickly.
And once we’ve assumed, we only see what fits the picture.
The quiet person – we decide they’re shy.
The loud one – “oh, they must be confident”.
The polite one – “they’re happy”.
The efficient one – “they’ve got their life together”.
And then you actually sit with them, properly, not the small-talk version, and you realise how far off the mark you were.
The quiet person might be holding back tears.
The loud one might be terrified of being irrelevant.
The polite one might be exhausted and barely holding it together.
The efficient one might be cracking under pressure with no one to tell.
And the funny thing? I’ve been all of them. In different countries, on different days, depending on what life was throwing at me.
We talk about culture a lot in my work, but the truth is: culture is just how people hide the things they don’t know how to say.
In Japan, people hide fear behind duty and calmness.
In the UK, we bury it under humour and self-deprecation.
In Mexico, it’s wrapped in warmth and energy.
In the Nordics, it sits in the quiet, where no one dares poke it.
In the US, it’s painted over with a kind of relentless positivity.
Same fears.
Different costumes.
What strikes me – especially when I’m a bit more relaxed – is how many times I’ve completely misread someone because I saw their cultural behaviour and not the human underneath it. It’s lazy. It’s very human. And it’s absolutely something we can get better at.
If I’m being honest, most of us are just scared.
Scared of failing.
Scared of being judged.
Scared of letting someone down.
Scared of being found out.
Scared of being fully seen.
And when you’re scared, you reach for whatever armour your culture taught you to use. We all do it. None of us are immune.
But the magical thing – and this is the reason I do what I do – is that when you walk into a room without the armour, people feel it. When you drop your judgement, your cleverness, your “I already know what this place is like”… something shifts.
They breathe.
They soften.
They talk.
They trust.
They show you the human version of themselves instead of the cultural one.
I’ve had senior leaders in Japan who looked carved from stone suddenly share fears no one had ever asked them about. I’ve watched “tough” English managers let their guard down and tell me they don’t feel good enough. I’ve seen warm, bubbly colleagues fall apart quietly when they realise they’re allowed to stop performing for a minute.
These moments matter.
Not the slides.
Not the flights.
Not the hotel breakfasts that always taste the same.
It’s this.
The Human Stuff.
The raw, unpolished truth is that most people just need a space where they don’t have to pretend. And I think that’s why I get out of bed. Not because I’m some kind of hero or guru. I’m not. I’m just someone who’s been lucky enough to sit with people long enough to see the bits they usually hide.
And if three-drinks-in me is the only version brave enough to write this without watering it down… then maybe that’s the one who should be writing more often.
Maybe the point of all this isn’t to sound clever or insightful. Maybe it’s simply to say: look a little closer. The human underneath the habit is the same as you. Scared, hopeful, proud, fragile, trying their best.
If I can help even one person feel seen – properly seen – for just a moment, then the whole thing means something.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
