The Dinosaur Theory

Tyrannosaurus Dinozord

Lately, I’ve been gaining more clarity just by taking the time to write and reflect. Today, I listened to a podcast on business and entrepreneurship, and one idea stopped me in my tracks:
“If you’re trading time for money, you’re self-employed… not a business owner.”

That hit hard.

Because the truth is, my business has been owning me. Even though I’m the CEO, I haven't bridged the gap between being solo and expanding. I’ve worked hard for 11 years in this field. And the past few years? They’ve been humbling—defeating, even—not because I’m unsuccessful, but because I can’t seem to build something beyond myself. I thought I could create a dream team, bring in other services and modalities, and fall back in love with massage by doing it less. But that hasn’t happened.

And now I have to ask: Why?

What’s beneath the surface of this stagnation? What’s holding me in this teetering space between solo survival and expansion?
Is there a limiting belief at play?

I’ve noticed on long days, the ones where I’m fully booked—I feel dread. I resent being chained to the table just to make a profit. I’m grateful for my clients and the income, but the joy of helping someone fades when you become a slave to your own hive.

Bees commit to the hive. They work together. They know their roles and contribute as one. Why can’t I build that? Am I afraid I don’t know how to work with others? Is there a deep-rooted belief that I belong alone?

I think I’ve put a wedge between me and the rest of the world—not a pedestal of excellence, but a pedestal of distance. That distance keeps me disconnected. Maybe it started in childhood. It seems like no matter how many times I face this theme, it’s always the reason I can’t leap forward.

So what am I really afraid of?

Is it connection?

I freeze in conversations. I used to think I was just processing. But what if it’s not that? What if I actually freeze? I shut down. My body even gets physically cold when I’m under stress. I thought I was a fighter. But maybe I freeze instead of act. I take in data but can’t seem to convert it into a response. The output is broken.

Is it possible to upgrade my internal software? To move from frozen detachment to vibrant engagement?

I’ve gotten so used to hiding that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be a part of something. I learn the bare minimum about people and remember less. I always thought I was dedicated. But what if I’ve been running for so long that my brain can’t retain anything?

When was the first time I ran?

I remember being in kindergarten on the playground. Everyone wanted to play Power Rangers. But the roles were already taken. I didn’t get to choose. So I offered to be the dinosaur they all transformed into. Instead of including me, they ran off to play without me. I climbed to the top of the playground, stood above them, and screamed like a dinosaur…… alone.

That moment cut deep. I just wanted to play. But in my mind, I wasn’t allowed to. There was no room for me. I didn’t belong.
But now, looking back, I wonder: Did I read it wrong?

What if they weren’t trying to exclude me?
What if I was the one who pulled away, assuming rejection?
What if I wrote a story that I’ve been reliving ever since?

The Dinosaur Theory is about just that, an outdated environmental input taken in through the eyes of a child, potentially skewed in perception, which created a set code in the mind. That code became the operating system. It runs quietly in the background, coloring all current experiences through a lens of separation and rejection. And the trouble is:
The code only knows how to output negative or distorted versions of what’s really happening.

It’s not truth. It’s programming.

And I’ve been living by it for far too long.

I’ve spent years standing above the playground, screaming alone. Not because no one wanted to play with me but because I convinced myself they didn’t.

What if that story is false?

What if people do want to connect, and I’m just misreading their signals?
What if I’ve been painting the sky gray because of this old dinosaur dream?

And maybe… just maybe…
Other people are just as nervous, too.
Maybe everyone is trying to figure out how to connect, and I’ve just been too busy running away to see it.

This realization is equal parts exciting and terrifying.
Because it means I can change the story.
But it also means I have to take responsibility for the role I’ve played in my own disconnection.

If the code I’ve been running was written by a scared child who didn’t know any better, then maybe it’s time for an update. Not to blame that child, but to help them see differently now.

I’m ready to stop living like I don’t belong.

I’m ready to step off the playground tower and run with the others.

Even if I stumble.

Even if I roar awkwardly.

Even if I forget the rules of the game.

Because maybe belonging isn’t about playing the part perfectly.

Maybe it’s just about showing up.