Case Study

Mark's Story

Portugal Retreat - Resonant Leadership Program

Mark is a director and shareholder who’d spent 20 years in sales—good at it, really good at it actually, but miserable. He was performing every day, calculating what would land right, scanning faces, adjusting to keep himself safe.

He’s six months into the twelve-month Resonant Leadership programme.

This is his story, in his words.

Before

Twenty years in sales. Good at it. Really good at it, actually. The numbers proved it. The promotions proved it. The respect from peers, the nods in board meetings—it all proved I'd figured something out. But I was miserable. And worse than miserable—I was fake. Every single day felt like I was acting. In every meeting, I'd scan faces, read the energy, adjust what I was about to say to land the right way. With my team, with clients, even at home with my kids sometimes. I'd lost track of what I actually thought about anything because I was so busy calculating what would work, what would smooth things over, what would keep me safe. The thing is, when you're good at reading people and giving them what they want, you get rewarded for it. So you keep doing it. And then one day you wake up and realise you have no idea who you are anymore. You're just this... collection of reactions. A walking performance. My team was a mess. Constant tensions I couldn't untangle no matter how many one-on-ones I did or "culture initiatives" we tried. I was knackered all the time. Making bad calls because I was too exhausted to think straight. Lying awake at night replaying conversations, worrying about things I couldn't control. Home wasn't much better. I'd walk through the door and the mask stayed on. The "good dad" version, the "present parent" version—whatever seemed needed. My kids deserved better than a father who was always half there, always distracted, always running on empty. I wanted out. Not out of the job—out of my own skin. Out of this version of myself I'd built and couldn't escape.

Meeting Stuart

A mutual contact mentioned Stuart to me. Said he worked with founders and senior leaders who were struggling. I nearly laughed.

I wasn't struggling—I was succeeding. But then he said,

"He works with people who feel like they're performing all the time."

That landed.

I had a call with him. No sales pitch. He just asked questions and listened. Told me his own story—how he'd burnt himself down being what everyone needed, how he'd rebuilt in Portugal. I didn't fully understand what he was offering, but something in me said yes.

The Retreat

Three nights in rural Portugal. Part of me thought it was mad. What was I doing flying to another country to sit in some handmade sweat lodge with a bloke I'd just met? But I went. And it was nothing like I expected. The house was basic. Family-run, simple, real. The kind of place where the food tastes like it's supposed to because it's grown nearby and cooked by someone who cares. No distractions. No wifi to hide behind. Just space. Stuart didn't coach me in the way I expected. There was no agenda, no framework, no "let's unpack your limiting beliefs" corporate therapy speak. We just... talked. Walked. Sat in silence. Did sound therapy sessions that I can't really explain except to say they shifted something. The sweat house was intense. Properly intense. But in there—in the heat and the dark and the discomfort—I finally stopped the act. There was no one to impress, nothing to control. I cried. Properly sobbed. Let out years of pretending, years of exhausting myself trying to be enough. I did the plant medicine work too. Stuart explained it carefully, made sure I understood what I was choosing. It was legal, controlled, safe. And it showed me things I'd been avoiding. Mainly this: I'd spent my entire adult life running away from feeling anything real because real felt dangerous. So I'd become fake instead. Smooth. Controlled. Empty.

"When I flew home, I felt lighter. Cracked open but lighter."

Six Months In

I'm halfway through the twelve-month programme now, and I'm happier. Actually happier—in my life, at home with my kids, at work. All of it. Stuart and I work together in one-on-one sessions where he doesn't let me hide behind corporate language or polished answers. He'll call me out—gently but directly—when I slip back into performance mode. "Is that what you actually think, Mark, or is that what sounds good?" We're tracking my nervous system using HRV data. I'm a numbers person, so seeing the evidence that my body's learning to calm down, to regulate, to stop living in fight-or-flight—that matters. The data's already showing real improvement. I'm sleeping better. Thinking clearer. But the harder work is learning to just... be myself. To say in meetings, "I don't know" when I don't know. To admit to my team when I'm struggling instead of projecting confidence I don't feel. To stop reading the room and just speak from what I actually believe. At home, it's the same thing. I'm not putting on a show for my kids anymore. Not being the version of myself I think they need—always upbeat, always sorted, always strong. Just being myself—tired sometimes, uncertain sometimes, but present. Actually present. My eldest noticed. Asked me recently if I was okay, but in a good way. Said I seemed "more like myself." That hit me hard. It feels vulnerable as hell. Like walking around without armour. But people are responding to it.

" My team's trusting me more, not less. Conversations flow easier. Decisions feel simpler. And at home? Things are lighter. The kids and I actually talk now, not just exchange pleasantries."

Stuart gave me his mobile number. Not for emergencies, but for moments when I need perspective. When old patterns kick in and I feel myself reaching for the mask again. He replies within a day, sometimes within hours. That consistency—knowing someone's actually there—makes a bigger difference than I'd have guessed. A few months back, I brought my senior team in for a workshop with Stuart. We dealt with stuff we'd been dancing around for months. Resentments, misalignments, unspoken frustrations. Not through some forced team-building exercise, but through honest conversation. I showed up without the polish for once. Admitted where I'd failed them, where I'd been faking certainty. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately. Two people who'd been planning to leave have decided to stay. The fractured dynamic's healing. We're starting to actually work together instead of around each other.

Where I am now

I'm only halfway through, so I can't tell you the ending yet. But here's what's shifted already: The conflicts that were eating my team's energy are mostly gone. Not because we suddenly agree on everything, but because we're dealing with things directly instead of letting them fester.

" I've already saved somewhere around £25K in recruitment costs because people aren't leaving anymore.
I've closed two major deals I'd been stuck on for months."

Not because Stuart taught me sales tactics—I've forgotten more about sales than most people know—but because I finally have the mental space to see what actually matters. When you're not knackered from performing all the time, you make better calls. My HRV scores have improved significantly. Which sounds technical, but what it means is: my body doesn't live in panic mode anymore. I sleep through the night most nights now. I don't wake up at 3am catastrophising. But honestly? The metrics aren't the thing. The thing is: I'm happier. In my work. At home with my kids. In my life. I'm showing up as myself now. The uncertain, imperfect, sometimes-confused version of myself. And it turns out that's enough. More than enough, actually. People trust me more. My work feels meaningful again. My relationship with my kids is better than it's been in years—they're getting the real me, not the exhausted, performing version. I'm not carrying the weight of constant performance everywhere I go. I'm not all the way there yet. I still catch myself slipping into old patterns sometimes. Still find myself reading rooms and calculating responses. But now I notice it. And I've got Stuart to help me course-correct when I do. I've got six months left in the programme, and I'm genuinely curious about where I'll be at the end of it. If the first half is anything to go by, I think I'm going to be more than alright. Actually happy, not performing happy. If You're Considering This Look, I don't know you. I don't know if this is right for you. But if you're reading this and something's resonating—if you feel like you're constantly performing, like you've lost track of who you actually are underneath all the doing and proving and managing—then at least have a conversation with Stuart.

"It's not corporate coaching.It's not therapy. It's something else. Something that's working for me, and I'm only halfway through."

The retreat broke me open in the best possible way. The programme's helping me stay open instead of closing back up. And knowing that what I'm paying is funding mentoring for young men who need this before they spend twenty years feeling fake like I did—that makes it feel like something bigger than just fixing myself. I still work hard. I still care about results. But I'm not sacrificing myself for them anymore. I'm learning to lead from somewhere real. And I'm happier for it—properly, deeply happier in ways I didn't think were possible six months ago. I'll let you know how the rest of the year goes. But even now, halfway through, I can tell you it's worth it.

Mark is currently six months into the twelve-month Core Programme, following completion of the Full Retreat in April 2025.