Can’t Hurt Me Audiobook

Can't Hurt Me
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Can’t Hurt Me Audiobook 馃帶 Master Your Mind and Defy the Odds 馃帶 David Goggins Audiobook

He shares his incredible life story in Can’t Hurt Me and reveals that most of us only use 40% of our potential. Goggins calls this The 40% Rule, and his story exemplifies a path that anyone can follow to overcome pain, and fear, and reach their full potential.
David Goggins’ childhood was filled with poverty, prejudice, and physical abuse, which colored his days and haunted his nights. Through self-discipline, mental toughness, and hard work, Goggins went from a depressed, overweight young man with no future to a US Armed Forces icon and one of the world’s top endurance athletes. He was the first and only man in history to complete elite training as a Navy SEAL, Army Ranger, and Air Force Tactical Air Controller, and he went on to set records in a variety of endurance events, earning him the title of 芦The Fittest (Real) Man in America禄 from Outside magazine.

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We found hell in a beautiful neighborhood in 1981 Williamsville offered the tastiest real estate in buffalo, new york, leafy and friendly. Its safe streets were dotted with dainty homes filled with model citizens. Doctors, attorneys steel, plant executives, dentists, and professional football players lived there with their adoring wives and their 2.2 kids. Cars were new roads, swept possibilities, endless we’re talking about a living breathing American dream.

Hell was a corner lot on paradise. Road! That’s where we lived in a two-story, four-bedroom white wooden home with four square pillars, framing a front porch that led to the widest greenest lawn. In Williamsville, we had a vegetable garden out back and a two-car garage stocked with a 1962 rolls-Royce silver cloud, a 1980 Mercedes 450 slc, and in the driveway was a sparkling new 1981 black corvette everyone on paradise. Road lived near the top of the food chain and based on appearances, most of our neighbors thought that we, the so-called happy well-adjusted Goggins family, were the tip of that spear.

But glossy surfaces reflect much more than they reveal they’d see us most weekday mornings gathered in the driveway at seven a.m. In my dad’s turn, Goggins wasn’t tall, but he was handsome and built like a boxer. He wore tailored, suits his smile, warm and open. He looked every bit the successful businessman on his way to work.

My mother, Jackie, was 17 years younger slender and beautiful, and my brother and I were clean, cut well dressed in jeans and pastel eyes, odd, shirts, and strapped with backpacks, just like the other kids, the white kids. In our version of affluent America, each driveway was a staging ground for nods and waves before parents and children rode off to work in school neighbors saw what they wanted. Nobody probed too deep good thing. The truth was the Goggins family had just returned home from another all-nighter in the hood and if paradise road was hell, that meant I lived with the devil himself as soon as our neighbor shut the door or turned the corner. My father’s smile morphed into a scowl.

He barked orders and went inside to sleep another one-off, but our work wasn’t done. My brother turns jr and I had somewhere to be, and it was up to our sleepless mother to get us there. I was in first grade in 1981 and I was in school days for real, not because the academics were hard at least not yet, but because I couldn’t stay awake. The teacher’s sing-song voice was my lullaby. My crossed arms on my desk, a comfy pillow, and her sharp words when she caught me dreaming of an unwelcome alarm clock that wouldn’t stop blaring children, that young are infinite sponges.

They soak up language and ideas at warp speed to establish a fundamental foundation upon which most people build lifelong skills like reading and spelling and basic math. But because I worked nights, I couldn’t concentrate on anything most mornings except trying to stay awake for recess and we were a whole different minefield out on the playground. Staying lucid was the easy part. The hard part was that hiding couldn’t let my shirt slip couldn’t wear shorts. Bruises were red flags I couldn’t show because if I did, I knew I’d catch even more still on that playground, and in the classroom, I knew I was safe for a little while at least it was the one place he couldn’t reach me at least not physically.

My brother went through a similar dance in sixth grade during his first year in middle school. He had his own wounds to hide and sleep to harvest because once that bell rang real life began, the ride from Williamsville to the main district in east buffalo took about half an hour, but it may as well have been a world away. We found hell in a beautiful neighborhood in 1981 Williamsville offered the tastiest real estate in buffalo, new york, leafy and friendly. Its safe streets were dotted with dainty homes filled with model citizens. Doctors, attorneys steel, plant executives, dentists, and professional football players lived there with their adoring wives and their 2.

kids. Cars were new roads, swept possibilities, endless we’re talking about a living breathing American dream. Hell was a corner lot on paradise. Road! That’s where we lived in a two-story, four-bedroom, white wooden home with four square pillars, framing a front porch that led to the widest greenest lawn in Williamsville, we had a vegetable garden out back and a two-car garage stocked with a 1962 rolls Royce silver cloud, a 1980 Mercedes 450 slc and in the driveway was a sparkling new

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