Chris
Geisler

I came into this world on 22nd July 1989, most likely in a sterile, artificial environment, surrounded by face-masked doctors and gloved hands. Yet, in that moment, I was placed into the arms of two deeply caring parents. From the very beginning, I felt safe, held, and supported, and for that, I am endlessly grateful to my family.

As a child, I was a deep thinker, curious about life, always asking the bigger questions. But over time, I realised that this curiosity had been conditioned out of me. Without even noticing, I started living according to other people's values, shaping my life around their expectations rather than my own truth.

I always felt my family's love, but often with an undertone of conditionality, something many experience. Love and approval seemed more readily given when I was "being good," a way to guide my behaviour. In response, I began disconnecting from the parts of myself that were labelled as "bad": the anger, frustration, messiness, clumsiness, and disorganisation. Somewhere along the way, I picked up the name "Clumsy Christopher."

Conflict and disconnection were present in our home, as they are in most families, but something was missing, something I only later understood had deeply shaped me. I rarely saw resolution. When tensions faded, they were often swept away with jokes and silliness. While this kept the peace in the moment, it left me with a tendency to avoid conflict rather than engage with it.

The '90s were full of adventure: long summer days spent outside with friends, neighbourhood games, and classic family holidays abroad. We were always active, always moving. Looking back, those years carried a simplicity that I often long for, a time of play, exploration, and freedom.

My teenage years were a confusing time, but I made it through relatively unscathed.

I had developed an unhealthy relationship with my body, with little awareness or acceptance of myself. Self-care was almost non-existent. Emotions weren't something I spoke about. I often sought approval from others, mainly from men. Playground dynamics led me to hide parts of myself to avoid being seen as 'weak' or 'soft.' This created deep inner conflict because, at my core, all I craved was love and acceptance. Yet, my inner voice was silenced for the next decade and a half.

When alcohol entered my life during college, confusion and unconscious behaviours began to surface, often bubbling into anger and rage on nightclub dancefloors. Fighting became all too common, a misguided attempt to gain the respect of others, respect I didn't yet have for myself.

Uncontrollable anger spilled out over much of my teenage years, leaving me ashamed of the force within me that so desperately wanted to be expressed. It was a powerful energy trying to communicate, trying to be witnessed, understood, and integrated. But I never felt safe enough to express it. Instead, I buried it beneath layers of shame and judgement.

As a culture, we fear this energy in men. But the more we suppress it, the greater the light needs to be to witness it.

Was prison inevitable? If you had asked my family or friends at the time, I'm confident they would have said no. But the judge at Crown Court saw it differently, based on my repetitive behaviour and lack of respect.

At 19, I spent an entire year in some form of prison: four months in a Young Offenders Institute, followed by eight months on Home Detention Curfew.

During this time, my life spiralled further into chaos. I found myself smoking crack cocaine in a car, having a knife pulled on me by a so-called 'friend', and stealing from garden sheds. I wasn't immediately pulling away from the abyss I was in. It felt as if my life was on hold, suspended in a state of limbo, a victim of circumstance.

It took time, effort, and a deep reckoning to truly change course. That journey has given me immense compassion and insight into the complexities of people's experiences.

When I reflect on that period of my life, I do feel some resentment and disappointment in a system that failed to guide me towards a better path. But at the same time, I have to take full ownership of how I wasn't showing up for myself.

"It's not that I'm a bad person, I just keep getting caught for everything I do." I remember repeating this to myself, over and over, as a way to justify the lies I told, lies that kept me from facing the emotional consequences of my actions. There was some truth in it: I knew I wasn't a bad person. I just lacked the tools to go deeper into my experience, to face what I was avoiding.

University came and went in a blur of chaotic times, but it also introduced me to people with a real passion for learning. After graduating in 2012, I bought a one-way ticket to Singapore, setting off on a two-year adventure that allowed me to rewrite my own beliefs and narratives, step out of my own way, and lean into what it truly means to be human.

For two years, I had the time and space to contemplate, meditate, and discover yoga. I surrounded myself with people who longed for adventure and play, people who said yes to life. My bare feet touched the ground every day. I spent most of my time outdoors. I found podcasts and handwrote letters to friends and family back home, an incredibly therapeutic practice. I had space to sit with big questions and meet some uncomfortable edges.

During this time, I taught English in Cambodia, spent days in silence at a monastery, and worked for three months on a farm in Australia. I cried, I laughed, I grieved, and I fell in love.

Many of my deeper needs were being met, nourishing my soul in ways I hadn't experienced before. But I lacked the tools to integrate these heart-opening experiences into my life. I still craved approval, still wanted to impress others, and without a sense of direction or community around me, I often felt deeply lonely. That disconnection manifested as anxiety and anger, emotions I struggled to understand at the time.

I returned from my travels with a wealth of awareness, but also with an equal measure of depression. I felt lost, more disconnected from any sense of direction than ever before, and completely broke. Yet, despite it all, there was a fire inside me, a knowing that I was developing resilience.

I became obsessed with understanding my mind and body. I started developing healthier practices and cultivating a deep passion for uncovering why I was the way I was.

I had always believed that emotions are signals, messages prompting us to change something. So I began searching for the ingredients that make a life truly meaningful. Then, I met someone who changed everything for me, as relationships so often do. She opened internal doorways, awakening parts of me that I had struggled to access on my own. She called me forward, holding me to a higher standard than I had ever held for myself. But I didn't know how to be in a relationship. I struggled with jealousy, and my ego wouldn't allow her to see me. One day, she held a mirror in front of me and yelled, "You need to love yourself first."

I couldn't do it. The very idea was intimidating, heartbreaking, impossible to hold. My only response was to numb and look away. And although she had the best intentions at the time, it wasn't something I could simply do in that moment.

I had to go on the journey myself. I had to sit with my inner child, the one who had spent years weaving narratives about why he wasn't lovable.

I had to face my greatest fear: being on my own. I had spent years developing traits that masked a deep, gaping void, the painful truth that I didn't accept myself, that I had no real sense of self-worth.

I knew I needed more time in solitude. In 2018, I cycled from England to Turkey, leaning deeply into my wounds around self-worth. This journey forced me to confront one of my greatest fears: being alone.

Peak experiences can be transformative; they can shift our relationship with ourselves in profound ways. But what I've come to realise is that without clarity or the right tools to integrate them, we can easily move from one experience to the next without truly changing. It's easy to fall back into familiar patterns that keep us from fully stepping into our potential.

It took me a long time to understand this, but now I see that trying to figure everything out alone is a zero-sum game. Travelling the world 'soul-searching', creating space to heal, and looking for answers is only half the mission.

I've only been able to go within and truly face the deeper parts of myself when I've had the space, support, and guidance to do so.

It started to make sense to me that, at some point, everyone prioritises their health. After years of feeling disconnected from myself, waking up anxious and depressed most days, and facing the reality of having no real community around me, I made a commitment to creating a lifestyle that allowed me to prioritise my wellbeing. I travelled to India to study and became a yoga teacher.

But still, something was missing.

So upon the return, for the first time in a long while, I was stationary and fully committed. I joined a men's group, entered relationship therapy, and completed a coaching course focused on anger and inner criticism.

Podcasts changed my life, so I started one. After spending over a year interviewing only men, I realised that in order to show up more whole, I needed to integrate the very masculine energy that had once led me into trouble: the parts of myself I had shamed, judged, and forced into the shadows.

I came to understand that it's not the ability to speak our truth that we lack, but rather the environments and spaces that allow true healing to take place.

In 2022, I founded Men of Earth, a men's health platform designed to bring men back into the circle, to create a space where truth is honoured, and to reconnect with the wisdom we have forgotten.

My work is dedicated to holding space for men to access and honour their emotions, to listen to the wisdom within their sadness and anger, and to turn pain into purpose.

I now organise immersive gatherings in the UK and abroad, alongside an online community dedicated to inner work and self-leadership.

I judge myself a lot less.
I acknowledge emotions and let them pass.
I move away from 'good/bad' or 'right/wrong' language.
I do my best not to compare my story or trauma with others.
My relationship with myself remains my greatest focus.

My intention is to show up with the same level of truth and transparency in every space I exist in. I can be fully present for others because I have learned to be fully present for myself.

I look to nature for guidance and honour the ground I walk on.

I play. I pray.

We are all sensitive beings, guided by an innate curiosity that helps us navigate the world in healthy ways. We are born with a strong intuitive sense of who we are and what it means to be connected to the earth. My role, as I move through this world, is to bring awareness to this truth and to weave it into every part of my work with people.

I don't believe we ever fully 'heal' from our core wounds, but we do get better at navigating the road and calling in all that we seek.

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