Attempt number
Hey, it's Omar.
This isn't an ad. It's the long version of why Project Nine exists, the one I'd tell you if we were sat across from each other. Some of it's embarrassing. That's exactly why it's worth telling.
The door knocker
I was 19 when I joined a door-to-door sales company called XXXXXXXXXX. My whole job was walking up to strangers' houses and asking for money, rain or shine. And I was rubbish at it. Doors slamming shut in my face. Being told to f*** off. Two months of that without earning a single penny.
Then it clicked. And once it clicked, I went all in. Seventy-hour weeks. Twenty thousand steps a day. I'd wake up buzzing, even when I was dead tired. When I'd fall asleep, I'd dream about work, and I loved every second of it. I became the top performer in the company, with the best KPIs and the best retention. That last one is rare. People who sell loads usually lose their customers, and people who keep their customers usually sell less. I did both.
Here's what it cost me. Friends. Every hobby I had. Exercise, even the kickboxing. The team had replaced my family. I stopped being a person and turned into a pair of legs that knocked on doors. Looking back, I'd call it a cult, because that's how it felt. The work was my whole identity. If you'd asked me who I was, I'd have told you what I sold.
The crutch
Nearly everyone in that office vaped, and they were beating me. So I did the maths that looked obvious. They're doing better than me, they use nicotine, so nicotine must be the edge.
I'd tried it at university and kept it under control. I was disciplined about it. Not here. The first few weeks were great, to be honest. Then it flipped. Now I needed it just to feel normal, and I was chasing it with caffeine.
Here's the part that still makes me laugh, in a dark way. I couldn't focus with it, and I couldn't focus without it. It made no difference to my focus at all. What it did was wear me down. It was a subscription I'd forgotten to cancel, quietly taking a bit more of my health every month, and I couldn't cancel it, because the withdrawal was horrible.
The drop
After a year of knocking on doors, I left to start my own business. This was it. The dream I'd had since I was twelve.
And I couldn't do it. For months I worked on it and sold nothing, even though I'd just spent a whole year learning how to sell. No team. No targets. No noise. I'd lost my community and my identity in one go, and I was sat there with a laptop and no idea who I was.
This is the part I couldn't get my head around. The guy who used to burst out of bed for seventy-hour weeks couldn't get out of bed for his own dream. It felt like someone had taken the batteries out. I was sporadic, I had no long-term vision, and I had no idea why. Then the money ran out.
The train
So I did what anyone would do when they're broke. I got a job. I went to work in construction for XXXXXXXXXX as a commercial assistant, while I was still at university.
Picture the routine. On the train to work, asleep before it left the station. Work all day. On the train home, head against the window, asleep again. Then straight to the library to do my assignments and essays, because they don't write themselves. Everything took me five times longer than it should have. I had no social life, because I had nothing left to give anyone. It was like running a laptop with forty tabs open on 4% battery.
My commercial manager ran on about five coffees a day. Grey bags under his eyes. Snus on his breath. Wired and tired at the same time, and weirdly proud of it, like it was a club you could join. “Fancy a French coffee?” he'd ask. A French coffee, I found out, is three scoops of Nescafé in hot water. Sure, why not.
So I'd be lying there at 2 a.m., wide awake and completely exhausted, staring at the ceiling, knowing I had to be up at 5 or I'd lose the job. Then I'd sleep half the weekend trying to pay back the debt.
Is this what I'm in for?
I looked at him and thought it every single day.
Number two
Eventually I joined a recruitment and sales management agency called XXXXXXXXXX. About a year and a half later, I was Director of Operations. Number two, directly behind the founder. Good money. Working remotely. If you'd looked at my LinkedIn, you'd have said I'd made it.
You couldn't have been more wrong. My mornings went like this: two or three coffees, modafinil, nicotine, then a Red Bull or a Monster or a Celsius on top. And I still felt like I was wading through wet cement. Heavy neck. Heavy shoulders. A stiff body, and I used to be a kickboxer.
My social life faded, because I was either working or recovering from working. I hated my routine. All I did was work, and I wasn't even getting the results I was working for.
And in the background, the dream. Eight businesses by then. Marketing agencies, e-commerce, consulting. I never made a single penny from any of them. Most of them, if I'm honest, I picked because I thought they'd make money, not because my heart was in them. My own marketing agency hurt the most. I'd been the best salesman in a door-to-door company, and I couldn't land a client from a cold call. No motivation. Flat. Fried.
The Breaking Bad extra
Meanwhile, my brother Ahmed was doing something that made no sense to me.
He was a heavy nicotine user too, much heavier than me. About 400 mg a week. Most people have no idea how much that is. It works out at roughly three packs of cigarettes a day. Three packs. Every single day. Then he quit. Cold turkey.
Around that time he also started taking nootropics. (I'm not telling you one caused the other. That's his story, and I'm just telling you what I saw.) Every morning he'd spend twenty minutes weighing out powders, then choke down a handful of pills and a weird-tasting drink. I'd try to talk to him and he'd have a mouthful of powder, nodding at me because he couldn't answer. And I'd mock him. “Bro, what on earth are you doing? Just have a coffee, like a normal person.”
Meanwhile I was sitting there, looking like a Breaking Bad extra. It was like a scene out of a comedy, and I was the punchline, too proud to see it. He was the one putting in all the effort, and he felt great. My routine was easy, and I felt terrible.
The night
About a year and a half into the agency job, I was already Director of Operations. And I was miserable.
One night I took out a pen and paper. I wanted to understand one thing. Why was I a brilliant employee and a terrible entrepreneur? Why could I work seventy hours for someone else, but not seven for myself?
So I started writing down my failures. One, two, three, all the way to eight. It was almost funny, in a self-deprecating way. Eight businesses. Not a single penny.
And then it went quiet. It was the first silence I'd had in three or four years. Since my parents divorced, since I was homeless, I'd been sprinting, pushing and pushing to build a better future for myself. I never once stopped to ask what that future actually looked like, or whether I wanted it. You can't hear yourself think when you're running that fast.
In the silence, the answer was staring at me. I was working harder on my boss's business than on my own. Not because I didn't care, but because I had run out of fuel.
I didn't know yet what the company would do. I just knew what to call it. Project Nine. For the ninth attempt. A movement for people like me, the ones who are brilliant at everything except their own dream.
Eight failures. The ninth would be different.
The formula
I couldn't stop thinking about Ahmed. So I went to him and asked: what actually moved the needle for you? Not the hype. The things that helped with focus, with steady energy, with clarity, without the fog I'd been living in.
He put together a formula. It tasted bitter and the pills were hard to swallow, and he told me to be consistent with it. So I was. I took it for about three months. By the end I was convinced enough to build a company around it. That's my experience and no one else's, and individual results vary.
But I kept running into the same wall. It had no ritual. It was another chore at the start of the day, and chores are the first thing you drop when life gets busy. I kept finding myself back at the coffee, the energy drinks, the nicotine. Not because they were better. Because they were easy.
That's when it hit me. The formula wasn't the problem. The routine was. It had to be easier. More fun. Delicious.
The gummy
So we put it in a gummy. Which sounds simple. It isn't.
A gummy is a delicate little thing, and ours carries a seriously high active load compared to most gummies on the shelf. Every time we tried, something went wrong. We could have cut the doses to make our lives easier, or given up on the format. We refused to do either.
We sampled, failed, tested and tried again, over and over, until it tasted right with every active still in it. Five ingredients. Doses listed in full. No proprietary blends.
Nine
The way I see it, modern life is designed to take your focus. Short-form content, fast food, nobody touching grass anymore. And a lot of people I meet are quietly hijacking their own biology just to get through the day. Walk through any city centre and count the vapes and the coffee cups. A lot of them look the way I used to.
I think there's a better way to do it. I'm not going to promise you this will change your life, and I'm certainly not going to tell you it fixes anything. What I'll tell you is that P9 Clarity is caffeine-free, it's easy, it tastes good, and it's the daily ritual I needed back when I was running on borrowed energy.
If you've ever felt like you're working harder than everyone and still not getting where you want to be, I built this for you.
Project Nine. For the ninth attempt. I'd love for you to be there for it.
— Omar, founder, Project Nine
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These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease. Individual results vary. Consult your doctor if you are pregnant, nursing, taking medication, or managing a health condition.