Radical Confidence

11 Lessons on How to Get the Relationship, Career, and Life You Want

Lisa Bilyeu

• Publisher: S&S/Simon Element
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781982181420
• eBook ISBN: 9781982181437
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies

An “unfiltered and unafraid” (Marie Forleo, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Everything is Figureoutable) guide to building the kind of confidence it really takes to live the life of your dreams, from Impact Theory cofounder and growth mindset guru Lisa Bilyeu.

Author Lisa Bilyeu grew up in London, where she was always told her dreams of Hollywood were a little too big for a girl. Despite her first love of movie-making, Lisa moved to Los Angeles and became a housewife—for eight frikin’ years! How the heck did that happen?

Radical Confidence is the “empowering, transformative, and practical” (Jay Shetty, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Think Like A Monk) story of how Lisa unpaused her life to cofound a company that went from zero to a billion dollars in just five years and became the leader in the world of personal development. Transforming herself with a growth mindset, Lisa learned to face her insecurities and inadequacies, embrace new challenges, solve her own problems, tell her negative voice to shut the eff up, and become the hero of her own life by life-hacking her way to feeling confident.

Part deeply personal memoir, part guide to life, Radical Confidence “challenges the deep-rooted beliefs that prevent so many of us from knowing or reaching for our dreams” (Dr. Nicole Lepera, New York Times bestselling author of How to Do the Work). Lisa teaches you how to:
-Dream big
-Boost your confidence
-Toughen the F up
-And learn how to save yourself

Full of insight and practical tools for honest self-assessment, mastering emotions, and staying motivated, Radical Confidence teaches you how to be driven by your insecurities to create the life of your dreams.

1 YOUR DREAMS ARE A GAMBLE… BET ON YOURSELF

Dream (n):

1. A concrete, actionable goal that requires having your feet planted firmly on the ground.

2. Something you have every right to achieve.

I was always the dreamer in my family. There were rumors of a great-grandfather who was an artist, but I had to go pretty far back in the bloodline to find anyone who was like me. Everyone else was practical and grounded. And so whenever I started to daydream about the big things I wanted in my life, I’d get as far as “And I would like to thank the Academy” before my acceptance speech was interrupted by a voice, yelling in Greek, “Lizou mou! Get your head out of the clouds!” That voice sounded a lot like my dad.

I know I’m not alone here, because so many of us are taught that dreams are just like the tooth fairy and Father Christmas—things we outgrow because they aren’t real. Dreamers are seen as people who aren’t anchored in reality, who spend a lot of time wishing and hoping, and very little time doing. The message that we get is that it’s okay to have dreams, at least when you’re young, but going after them as an adult is silly. So when I put my dreams aside in favor of a looooong ride on the Housewife Scalextric—a road that loops, going nowhere—I didn’t protest initially; a big part of me felt like this was where I was always going to end up anyway. Who was I to think I actually deserved to go after my dreams?

In sharing my story of how this happened, I’m begging you, I’m actually pleeeeeading with you, homies, do not—I repeat, do not—do what I did! I was wrong, I was wrong! I was so wrong that I want to run up and down my street, waving my hands in the air and screaming my head off about how wrong I was. I was wrong not to reevaluate my goals. I was wrong to try to distract myself from my deep unhappiness. I was wrong for not questioning my initial choices, and I was wrong for choosing to let my dreams die.

And yes, I said choose. Because buying a Housewife Scalextric ticket and climbing aboard? That was a CHOICE I made. Riding that goddamn thing for eight frikin’ years? Another CHOICE. Every time I thought about getting off but used a word like “can’t” or “should,” I was actually just making an excuse and prolonging my ride. I was choosing to make an excuse rather than find a way around the obstacles that stood between me and the sense of purpose that I so desperately craved. So, yep, this is a little tale about what not to do.

I Can Dream Big.

Once upon a time in London, there lived a teenage girl with frizzy hair, a flat chest, and a long last name that rhymed with “shag-a-lamppost.” Her name was Lisa, and the world of adolescence wasn’t all that kind to Lisa, due to the fact that, in addition to all the unfortunate things previously mentioned, Lisa also had a big nose, a unibrow, and an orthodontic head-brace, and was just an average—okay, maybe even less than average—student. But before you go feeling too sorry for Lisa, know that Lisa didn’t feel sorry for herself. Because Lisa had movies.

Okay, I’m just going to go ahead and drop this third-person shit right now, because it will get annoying, and as you’ve probably guessed… I’m Lisa! While my female classmates were out drinking and snogging boys in the back seats of cars, I was chasing after a different kind of crush: Hollywood. Movies were my jam. Eighties flicks were my favorite, and I was drawn to anything that was an underdog story. I watched The Goonies, The Karate Kid, and Adventures in Babysitting until the tapes wore out (yes, that actually used to happen before everything was streaming). On the weekends, my best friend Nicole (a freckled ginger who was teased just as much as I was and had about the same amount of luck with the boys) would run around London, trying to find celebrities and sneaking into movie premiere after-parties. On Monday mornings, while all the popular girls were gossiping, Nicole and I were off in the corner, recounting our own adventure of sneaking into the Eraser premiere after-party. “Can you believe how big Arnold Schwarzenegger’s hand was when we shook it?” I’d ask Nicole, and she’d shake her bright red locks in agreeing disbelief. “It was the size of a plate!” she’d whisper back.

Celebrity hunting was an escape for me, because school had always been a struggle. At one point, I was moved into “special” classes because my teachers thought I held my pencil wrong. I barely passed English—not because I couldn’t speak it but because trying to interpret a poem left me totally confused. “What do you mean, she’s about to commit suicide?” I’d think as my teacher went on and on about Sylvia Plath. “She was just talking about flowers.”

Art was the only subject in which I excelled. I had always loved drawing, and while I might have been holding my pencil “wrong,” I got it to bend to my will and do some pretty awesome things. However, all I wanted to do was draw—I was insecure, and drawing was one of the few things for which I was praised, so I white-knuckled it and held tight with all my might. I wasn’t about to let go of the one thing that made me like myself. My teacher wasn’t having it, though, and he insisted that, if I wanted to pass his class, I had to explore other mediums. I went home furious, and as I started to vent to my mum, she just matter-of-factly said, “Well, darling, do you want to be right, or… do you want to pass?” I hated the choices, but there they were, plain as day, coming out of my mother’s mouth. This was a groundbreaking moment for me in my younger years, because I realized that, either way, it was my choice (a lesson I later forgot for eight years)—and I wanted to frikin’ PASS.

Even so, I figured I might as well do what I could to make it interesting, so I became a bit of a renegade when it came to completing my assignments. My teacher said I needed to sculpt. Okkkkaaayyyy, so what could I sculpt with that would actually be fun and not the same old, same old clay that everyone else was using? I know. Wax! Where do I get wax? Candles! How do I melt them? In my mum’s microwave! I practically burned off my fingertips because I touched it long before it had cooled down enough to mold, but, despite the blisters, I passed, and with good enough grades to get into university.

When I told my dad that what I wanted to do with my life was make movies, let’s just say he was… not thrilled. He valued traditional skills and a stable career, as both had served him well in his life. My dad could teach Drake a thing or two, because he had truly started from the bottom. Growing up in a tiny village in the mountains of Cyprus, he had a hole in the floor for a toilet, left home at the age of twelve just to go to school, and as a teenager worked digging ditches in the mountains. When he moved to London and got a job in the mailroom of a shipping company, he saw it as a great opportunity. He worked hard, learned on the job, studied and took classes at night, and ended up running the entire company. He tried to instill this practical mindset in his children by giving us spontaneous math quizzes at the dining table and repeating “Time is money!” like it was his own personal theme song. I’ll never forget the sound of him yelling this in his thick Greek accent as seven-year-old me took my time getting out of the car, having no bloody clue what this was supposed to mean, considering I wasn’t getting paid to get out of the car.

When it was time for me to go to university, my mum encouraged me to study art, but I had decided on a film and media degree. But my dad was more horrified than Joey being asked to share food. He might as well have shouted, “A Charalambous doesn’t major in media!” In Greek culture, parents face a lot of judgment over what their children are doing, so it was like the Greek version of keeping up with the Joneses. Keeping up with Jonesanopouloses! My dad wanted me to study something useful, like math, or English, but I didn’t back down. We fought for two weeks until, finally, he relented. In an utterly nonjudgmental tone, he turned to me and matter-of-factly said, “Well, you’ll end up at home with kids anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Now, before you gasp at the horror, the truth is that he really didn’t mean or see this as an insult, or as a way of diminishing my dream, because his mother and sister didn’t even go to high school—so in his mind, my staying home and not necessarily needing an education were just unemotional facts.

But nothing was going to pop my bubble, and I went to university and killed it. With the opportunity to study something I was interested in, I learned that I actually liked school (and parties), and I started to come into my own academically and socially. On those first days of university, no one knows who is who. Who are the mean girls and if there is a Regina George lurking around the corner, ready to jump out at you at the first sign of weakness. Because let me tell you… oh, she smells the fear! And this was actually beyond frikin’ exciting to me. The “Plastics” of the world didn’t know I was insecure, and no one knew I had been bullied and teased. I got to start over, and that was exactly what I needed. I mean, who knew how easy it was to excel in an environment where people aren’t making fun of you behind your back? Not me! It was a whole new feeling. It took me a few years to get there, but by my senior year, I had buckled down and become a serious student. I sat in the front of the class and raised my hand so much I practically tore my rotator cuff.

University did wonders for my personal confidence, too. Up until then, almost everyone I knew was Greek, Turkish, or Jewish and had a very similar upbringing to my own. Now I was surrounded by people of all races and cultural backgrounds. They thought it was cool that I was Greek. A total first! And boys paid attention to me. Yes, me! Little old Lisa Shagalamppost—who once relied on truth or dare to get a kiss—was now hot shit. I was being asked on dates! That’s right. Plural. With an s. And that gave me the confidence to finally embrace all the things that made me different, like my obsession with hip-hop and the fact that I had dreams other than becoming a mum right after graduation. The more people accepted me for who I was, the more confident I became. Turns out, confidence wasn’t the Loch Ness monster. It actually did exist. But the best part of this was that all the new people I was meeting had dreams as big as mine.

When I was growing up, my yiayia was fond of telling me that my story had already been written by the almighty bestselling author himself—God—and, as she saw it at least, that story ended with my being a wife and mother just like all the other women in my family. Yiayia meant this as a comfort, but I absolutely hated the idea that I didn’t get to write my own story. I mean, what if I wanted something else for myself? This had never seemed like an option before, but now I had to look no further than my fellow classmates for dream-chasing inspiration. They were building all kinds of careers and creating their own futures, and if they could do it, why couldn’t I? Making movies was my dream, and I was determined to see it come true.

So when my flatmate (roommate, for you Americans) gave me a pamphlet in my final semester of university for an eight-week course at the New York Film Academy in Los Angeles, I practically lost my mind with excitement. This was hands-on moviemaking in Hollywood, on the Universal Studios backlot. Uni-frikin’-versal! We would get access to their wardrobe and props department and get to shoot on their sets, like The Wild West. It was like someone climbed into my brain, transcribed my dreams, and now here I was reading it in Times New Roman on a piece of trifold paper. There was no way I wasn’t going.

The only problem was… it cost money. And though I now had a college degree, what was the one thing I didn’t have? You guessed it. Money! So off I headed to convince my dad to not only let me go but also foot the bill. Cue “Eye of the Tiger,” because I was ready for a fight. Ding… Pups (as I call him) and I circled each other in the ring and went toe-to-toe. After ten rounds, I was left wounded, hurt, bleeding, and exhausted, but my determination was left standing. Like Rocky Balboa, I stood victorious, and I was headed to Los Angeles, baby! Almost.

Pups gave me one condition: As soon as I got back, I had to get serious about my future. And when my dad said future, what he meant was: Get a stable job. Stay at said job until I find a “good” Greek man. Marry said good Greek man so I could leave my job and stay at home to take care of my husband and the four kids we were surely going to have.

Now, this kind of future was about as far away as you could get from the one I actually envisioned for myself—which involved cameras, film sets, and emotional storytelling—but I wasn’t going to tell my dad this now. Hollywood was on the line here, people! So we made an agreement, kissed on both cheeks (as the Greeks do), and the next thing I knew, I was boarding the plane, taking my seat in 48F, and London was disappearing into the fog below.

My best mate and partner in crime Nicole came with me, of course, and before heading to Los Angeles, we stopped in Las Vegas so that I could put my other major—partying, obvi—to use. At the end of the week, Nicole was burnt to a crisp, I’d acquired a great tan, and we both had hangovers that were grander than MGM. Now we were truly ready for LA.

I had rented a fully furnished studio at the Oakwood Apartments in Burbank, which was known for being the first stop in town for dreamers like me. When I walked into the convenience store and saw all the signed headshots of celebrities who had stayed in these very same apartments, I felt like I was staying in a five-star resort. Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get any better, the very first person I see when I get to the NYFA, on my very first day, is a hot guy working in the office. Like, we’re talking about chiseled-jaw, head-spinning, double-and-triple-take hotness here. Are you kidding me, Los Angeles? I was truly living the American dream.

The first four weeks of my course were spent in the classroom, before we were going to be released out into the world to make our own movies for the last four. From day one, my newfound swagger and I strutted into that classroom like we owned the joint—something that was made a bit easier by the fact that there was only one other girl in the class, a German girl named Vera who quickly became my new bestie. I was a sponge, soaking up everything I could, and having an absolute blast in the process. Then one day, a few weeks in, I walked into class and Hot Office Guy was standing at the front of the room. As soon as class starts, he introduces himself as… our new teacher! I almost laughed out loud. Teacher? Thiiiings just got more interesting.

But for some reason, Hot Office Guy seemed less than impressed with me. In fact, he flat-out ignored me. Bloody cheek. But also… I must say… intriguing. On the outside, I was cool as school, but on the inside, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what his deal was. I could break the ice with anyone, but Hot Office Guy was stone cold.

Then, on the last day of our last class, before we would begin our four-week practical making of our final film, we shot short films on the Universal Studios backlot on Wisteria Lane. Specifically, on the set of Desperate Housewives (trust me, the foreshadowing isn’t lost on me here). As students, we were required to be escorted on and off the lot by a teacher, to keep celebrity-crazy kids from trying to sneak into Eva Longoria’s trailer, which didn’t really make sense to me. I mean, can you believe that there are people out there who look for celebrities by sneaking into places? Who does that? (But also, did I tell you how big the Terminator’s hands are IRL?)

Vera and I had finished early, and I strolled over to ask Hot Office Guy if he could give us a ride off the lot. I expected what I always got from him, which was a straightforward answer, but to my surprise, he turned to me and smiled. “Sit your ass down,” he joked. “You’re not going anywhere.” Before my confident self could even think of a cocky comeback, I blurted out “Okay.” And, I sat. Okay? Okay? Lisa, you aren’t a puppy at obedience school. You don’t sit on command. Hot Office Guy and I ended up talking for some time outside on the grass of Gabrielle Solis’s house while another group of students filmed. Finally, as they were finishing up, he told us he could leave and give us a ride, so we headed out to the truck. Vera—knowing how much I was crushing on him and being one of those homies where you don’t have to say a word, she just has your back—let me take shotgun and then pretended to be distracted with what she saw out the window. Now that it was just the three of us, and we weren’t in a classroom, Hot Office Guy seemed to warm up even more, and he even asked us what we were up to for the weekend. Girl, this was my in.

“A bunch of us are going to see a movie tonight,” I said, totally casual. I was soooo casual, right? Very casual. Absolutely casual. “You should come!” Thank God the words came out casually, because inside I was freaking out. Should I have said, “You can come.” Oh, no, that sounds sexual! Maybe I should have asked him, “Do you want to come?” How about, “Come with us.” Or was that too casual? I’m secretly Home Alone screaming in my head. Hands on my cheeks and all.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice. “Sounds great,” he said. “If I get off work in time, I’ll come join you.” I wrote down my number on a scrap of paper, and he drove off. Then I sprinted into my apartment to wait for him to call.

He didn’t call.

I tried to shake it off, but I had to admit that this really bummed me out. Even if he didn’t fancy me back, I thought this was at least a chance for us to be friends (ah, who am I kidding? He was hot as hell, and I definitely wanted him to fancy me back), but there was no way I was going to let this show. I walked into class on Monday determined to act like I’d completely forgotten that there was even a chance that he was going to call. So I devised a very intricate game plan. Step one, don’t react. Step two, repeat step one.

At the end of class, as I’m getting ready to leave, he pulls me aside. “Hey, Lisa,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call on Friday. I was going to, but then I fell asleep.”

A beat. And another beat. Inside Lisa is screaming. You fell asleeeeeeep? I was more appalled than Rachel was when Ross fell asleep in...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Introduction: What the Hell Is Radical Confidence?
• Chapter 1: Your Dreams Are a Gamble… Bet on Yourself
• Chapter 2: Make Up Your… Mindset
• Chapter 3: Validation Is… for Parking
• Chapter 4: Embrace the Ick… Open Up the Can of Worms
• Chapter 5: Life Is Not a Fairy Tale… Save Yourself
• Chapter 6: Make Your Negative Voice Your Bitch… and Your BFF
• Chapter 7: Toughen the Fuck Up… Buttercup
• Chapter 8: Get Off the Couch and Put On… Your Bad-Bitch Boots
• Chapter 9: Get Unpissed… Gain Emotional Sobriety
• Chapter 10: When the Shit Hits the Fan… Wear Goggles
• Chapter 11: Be the Hero… of Your Own Life
• Mad Shout-Outs
• About the Author
• Copyright