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A personalized roadmap, built from your story.
A structured self-authoring program with an AI-personalized 90-day action plan. Six questions in. A 1,500-word roadmap, written for you and only you, in your inbox within 24 hours.
What you get
Most self-help is generic by design — it has to fit everyone. Your report fits one person: you. It's written from your six answers, quotes your own words back to you, and ends with a 90-day plan that addresses the actual friction you named.
How it works
Stripe checkout. You'll be redirected straight to the form. One-time payment, no subscription, no upsell.
The questions compress Peterson's three-suite framework — past, present faults & virtues, future — into the minimum viable set. Plan on twenty quiet minutes. Be specific. The report can only be as good as the raw material.
A 1,500–2,000 word personalized report — interpretation, 90-day plan, daily practices, one prescribed reading, one question for your 30-day check-in. Delivered to your inbox as a polished document.
Why I built this
Let me be upfront about what I'm not. I'm not a therapist. I don't have a Ph.D. in psychology. I'm not Jordan Peterson, and I'm not pretending to be his successor.
What I am is someone who did his Self-Authoring Suite a few years ago and walked away with two hundred pages of writing, real insights, and absolutely no idea what to do with any of it. The questions were brilliant. The synthesis was missing. And it turned out that the synthesis — reading the through-line in someone else's story, naming the pattern they can't quite see, pointing at where to start Monday — is something a careful reader can do for another person far better than that person can do for themselves.
So I built a tool that does it. Six questions, calibrated to elicit the right kind of material. A system that reads your answers the way a good editor reads a manuscript: looking for the line you're afraid to write, the contradiction you didn't notice, the strength you keep apologizing for. A 90-day plan that addresses the actual friction you named, not a generic one.
If you want a therapist, see a therapist. If you want a chatbot, you have one in your pocket. If you want what the Self-Authoring Suite almost gave you — your own life read back to you with a real plan to act on — that's what this is.
— Jake, Founder
A full sample report
Below is a complete, unedited report for a fictional client — a mid-30s engineering manager whose father left when he was nine. This is exactly what you'll receive, formatted for your story.
Your Personalized Roadmap
The thing I want to name first is the line running from your father leaving at 9, through "making myself small in rooms where I should lead," to "I don't trust my own judgment yet." That's not three separate problems. That's one problem wearing three different costumes. A nine-year-old learns, in the absence of the man who was supposed to model authority, that authority is dangerous, abandoning, or absent — so the nine-year-old grows up into a man who is very good at being useful to authority, and very bad at becoming it himself. Your career path, your fault, and your friction are all the same wound, expressed at three different scales.
Here's what's interesting, though: you already know this. Your answer to Q6 — "I don't trust my own judgment yet" — is doing real work. You didn't write "I need more skills" or "I need more capital." You named the actual lock. Most people I read can't get that close to their own mechanism. That you can means you're closer to the version of yourself in Q4 than you think.
The story you told about the junior engineer who almost quit — sitting with him for two hours, not solving it, just listening, then quietly fixing the political problem above his head the next morning — is a portrait of exactly the kind of consultant you described wanting to be in Q4. Three deep client relationships. Mornings free. Trusted judgment. That is what you did for that engineer. The capacity exists. You've just been donating it to your employer for free instead of charging $300/hour for it.
The Wednesday you described at 45 if nothing changes — same standup, same Slack pings, same six tabs open, the kids a little older and a little less interested in talking to you, the same low hum of "I should have done something by now" — is not a dramatic failure. It's a quiet one. That's what makes it dangerous. Dramatic failures get addressed. Quiet ones get tolerated for thirty years.
The Wednesday you described in Q4 — coffee on the porch, two hours of deep work before the kids wake up, one client call, a walk at lunch — is built by a person who has decided that his own judgment is worth being paid for. The man who reaches Q5 is the man who keeps quietly hoping someone else will validate him into the role. The man who reaches Q4 is the man who one Wednesday morning decides he doesn't need that anymore.
Days 1–30 — Clear the friction
Theme: stop waiting to feel ready.
Keystone: The judgment-call list. If you do nothing else, do this. It's a daily 60-second exercise in noticing that you already think clearly.
Days 31–60 — Build the new pattern
Theme: practice being seen as the authority.
Keystone: The weekly LinkedIn post. It costs nothing and it's the lowest-stakes way to prove to yourself that strangers will take your thinking seriously.
Days 61–90 — Aim at the vision
Theme: make a real bet.
Keystone: Landing the first paid scoping call. This is the moment "I might be able to do this" becomes "I have done this."
Read the chapter "On Becoming One's Own Authority" in The Drama of the Gifted Child by Alice Miller. It's short, it's brutal, and it's about exactly the loop you described in Q1. Skip the rest of the book if you want. That chapter alone is the lens you need.
"Am I still keeping the judgment-call list — or did I quietly stop because the evidence got hard to argue with?"
Because the version of you that reaches Q4 isn't the one who tries hardest. It's the one who keeps the evidence in front of his own face long enough to believe it.
Yours will be written for your story. Not this one.
Begin your report — $49Questions you probably have
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