My Story

Hello. My name is Ant Sleckus. I give a fuck about your motivation.

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This is the only “proper” photo of me and my evil-sidekick sibling.

But let’s get to the important stuff.

I don’t care how fat, broke, pathetic, old, handicapped, disgusting, hopeless, depressed, useless YOU are.

All I care about is that you make a commitment to me.

But, but, but…

Just stop.

No excuses, no complaints.

I don’t care that your wife has filed for divorce, or that you’ve just been fired.

I’m not going to sugarcoat and spoon-feed you cheesy self-help crap that makes you “feel good”.

Plenty other people out there will do that for you.

Don’t waste your precious time.

Or mine.

Fuck motivation! Get inspired!

Quit jerking off and listen up.

I’m not here to motivate you (I’m not your mum).

You have greatness in you, but you’re a lazy fat fuck!

I am here to hijack that wimpy voice in your head and give him a beating!

I’m not going to do it FOR YOU.

Instead, I’ll tell you some stories.

These stories are designed to INSPIRE the real you.

You know that guy, deep down inside you. The one you’ve repressed for years. The one who actually gives a fuck about stuff.

What these stories will do is make you tap into your unrealized potential and help you create a PLAN OF ATTACK.

I will give you the right tools for the right job – but it’s your job to actually go out there and make it happen.

At the end of every article, you should be covered in cold sweat!

You should feel stomach-churning butterflies at the bottom of your gut.

Most importantly, I’m here to make you ask yourself the right questions.

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 Motivationfacts.com is a small club, and only select few can become members.

Why?

Because this shit isn’t easy.

I don’t want someone to lie to him or herself, and then quit halfway through.

This website is for winners, not losers.

You have to earn my respect.

 Sleckus, Inc.: My story.

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Imagine a stereotypical, post-Soviet collapse, small Eastern European family, where everything is grey and fun isn’t allowed.

That was us.

Here’s my brother and me in our Halloween glam rags, reality we were dirt poor.

So poor, in fact, that my brother and I wore ancient hand-me-down clothes and literally didn’t know when we would eat next.

Which is ironic, because I’ve struggled with my weight since I was a wee man.

I was a socially awkward, often-bullied, lazy, narcissistic young know-it-all fucking prick!

I would often get in trouble for stealing and lying.

I remember when I got myself into some major shit when I was about 7 by stealing some kid’s Gameboy from school.

I was poor and jealous, so I just took what I wanted.

 I shit you not. This is me as a baby – a demon in denim ready to fuck shit up!

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Simply put, I grew up in a family where food was love, and big was beautiful.

For example, my grandparents would say to me, “My God, you’re fat!“ – and the next minute they offer me cake. Talk about mixed messages!

(Oh, in case you’re wondering … I ate all the cake I could get.)

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Am I the only one who sees the resemblance?

Our parents immigrated to the UK when I was about 7 and my brother was 5 (ish).

My brother and I spent the next three years being passed around to various relatives and family friends before we could move in with our parents.

That is one of the first letters I ever sent to my parents.

None of us spoke English, and my family didn’t know anybody.

Imagine how hard it was to get a job without speaking the language and without connections.

My ma and pa paid the mortgage by working at various shitty manual-labour jobs with horrendous hours.

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They managed to keep the lights on, looked after us two troublemakers, and held their marriage together, even when my mum was studying full-time.

Things finally started to click in my head, and I started to think:

  • Fuck dying at 25 because of diabetes!
  • Fuck being poor! Money = options.
  • Thank fuck for my parents! They have balls and are great role models.

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  • I will never complain, because I never had it as difficult as my folks did.
  • My parents will never again work like slaves.

Queue the “Eye of the Tiger” theme for the fairy-tale ending!

Things had to change, and fast.

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I started to eat better and train like a maniac (I didn’t know what I was doing).

(Keep this in mind – it will explain my injuries later on.)

Yes, that’s me eating a cookie, looking all Instagram-like. I finally figured out how to balance being healthy with working and enjoying life.

I worked my ass off, lost all my baby fat and became the captain of various teams.But back to the story.

I started to coach youth sports in rough neighbourhoods.

At this point, I really started to get used to the sweet, sweet taste of success. Oh, I thought I was the shit!

My next battle was education.

My parents had always told me that education was the way forward, and it was.

They had the typical get-out-the-ghetto-jail card mentality.

The one that sometimes encourages someone from the middle lower class to write their own rags-to-riches story.

The one that produces self-made men.

In theory, education was a sound plan. But by God, I was thick.

I stopped going to school. It was a waste of my time.

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I went to a rough school, where it was more important to get pregnant before the age of 14 than to read.

Fuck the norm!

I knew what I needed to do. All I needed to do was to actually do it.

I was on my own.

I locked myself in my room until I knew everything about chemistry, maths and biology.

I remember the Christmases I spent, half-dead, revising from 6 a.m. – 2 a.m. I would do this for months.

Those were the hardest nights of my childhood. I literally remember going insane.

But I wasn’t going to revert to my old self, the fat loser. I knew I still needed to train and take care of my health.

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Being such a bright spark, I persuaded my dad to help me build a home gym.

It was death by education – then train like a savage in the middle of the night.

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I knew I was nuts when my neighbours were moving and the first thing they saw was a large man sweaty man pulling a tire on his lawn, shouting in Lithuanian like a man possessed.

Did I mention it was 2 a.m.?

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Fast forward a few years. I destroyed my subjects and got into to the University of Liverpool to study Pharmacology.

I thought I’d been working hard before. Talk about a shock to the system!

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Getting my degree nearly killed me.

To put it in perspective, I was so exhausted that my body started to literally shut down.

I couldn’t walk, and had massive anxiety attacks. I remember spending the night before my final exams in A&E.

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I had bitten off way more than I could chew.

Thank fuck I was too stupid to realise how fucked I was. I ended up chewing it all up, stems, seeds and all.

 To make matters even worse, I was on enough painkillers to kill an elephant twice over.

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This is how many drugs my surgeon prescribed me so I could walk again.

If I even thought about sneezing or farting, I would feel a burning, stabbing, crippling pain in my lower back.

It was as if Barry Bonds had hit me with a baseball bat for stealing his steroids.

One event in a supermarket made me realise how fucked I really was.

I was buying groceries when this searing pain hit me. I broke down in the middle of the vegetable section, clenching my back.

It was beyond sad. I was pathetic.

A stout 20-something man, standing 6’ 4”, clenching his back like he’d shit himself, crying and sobbing for his mum.

I didn’t want to go out like that, with all the vegetarians laughing at me.

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I couldn’t do all the normal things that a 20-something was supposed to be capable of.

This carried on for four fucking years!

I was fucking miserable. 

To recap: I couldn’t breathe, piss, sit, fuck, or pay my bills, and my degree was slowly dissolving my sanity.

 Shitty, right? Wrong!

Weeks before my final exam, I found out that I have dyslexia.

Fucking helpful, right?

To make a long story somewhat shorter: I made it. Not unscathed – but I made it!

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I give zero fucks about style. This isn’t ice-skating. I just get shit done.

Like most graduates, I was in debt and no one wanted to hire without any experience.

 I started at the bottom. I needed to earn my wings.

I volunteered in my university’s laboratory. I had killed my thesis, so getting my foot in the door wasn’t that difficult.

I found a great mentor and ended up contributing to a medical journal on liver regeneration. The article will be published this year.

Eventually my time in the laboratory came to an end. My credit cards couldn’t take any more abuse.

The stars aligned for me, and I was lucky enough to be selected for a competitive graduate scheme for a pharmaceutical company.

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I was soon fast-tracked to become the manufacturing manager of that company.

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This is where I really honed my skills as a leader and learned how to get shit done under immense pressure.

I had done it all my life – and now I was getting paid to do it? Awesome!

My staff was costing the company THOUSANDS OF POUNDS each week.

I managed to reform that department, but I left a few victims in my wake.

Then a new company recognised my raw ambition and took me on as their youngest-ever manager.

This firm hired me for the same reason the first one hired me.

“Fix our department – it’s costing us thousands!”

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These days, I am brought in to fix “people issues” in companies that will be fucked if they don’t shape up.

That’s what I do.

I manage the dead weight, and recognise and promote the talent within.

This is the shit I’ve known since I was 5 years old:

  • Hard graft is king.
  • Self-reliance needs to be developed as early as possible.
  • That I’m a resilient fuck, and it will take Zeus himself to stop me.
  • Quitting is not an option if you want to be successful.
  • Succeed once, and you will be able to apply it again and again and again.
  • Success has nothing to do with your natural ability or inability.
  • Success = hard work X desire X time.
  • You have to want it bad enough to succeed.

What will I do next?

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I’ve done well for myself so far. But it’s not good enough.

Things and prestige aren’t everything.

The “normal” 9-to-5 rat race cubicle life isn’t for me.

That life will leave you miserable, depressed, sick and poor.

I want a life of passion and working hard towards my own goals.

I want to work with exciting talent – not a bunch of boring bellends.

I will create a life of value and meaning.

I will do this by helping people like me to do the same.

What makes the foreign underdog tick?

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I’ve realized from an early age that literally nothing is impossible.

I know that I may not be the best, but I will outwork the rest to get what I want.

People don’t see the opportunities that lurk in every corner.

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Coming from nothing has made me realize this.

This epic tale ends in southern France.

Right after my finals, our parents treated us by taking us on a holiday to the southern France.

I remember standing there, looking at the blacked-out Lamborghinis, the VIP bars by the beach, and all the beautiful women.

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My senses were overwhelmed. It was a surreal experience.

We were walking down the high street, and all of a sudden the mass of window-shoppers started walking towards a specific area.

We had nothing else to do, so we just started following them. We knew something was about to happen.

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We worked our way through a mass of people scattered along the promenade, facing the water.

We just stood there, waiting for something.

Out of nowhere, fireworks lit up the sky (by this point, my phone had died).

It was surreal.

My brain immediately teleported me back to my childhood.

I realized how far we had come and how lucky we were.

My brother and I looked at each other. We said nothing. We just nodded and grinned.

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Later, over a cold beer, we told each other:

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“See you here when we make it – but if you slack off, I will kick your fucking ass.”

p.s. Now that you know my story, we’re technically brothers!

I don’t have all the answers, but let’s go on this journey. The one that will take us both to our best, most kickass selves.

Let’s try figure shit out.

Together.

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