After two weeks of dealing with allergies with an asthmatic component, this morning, I finally gave in. I spent the morning on the couch.

Not in some noble, intentional, self-care kind of way. More like, I woke up with a fever, a sinus headache, stuffy head, a touch of dizziness, and barely able to make it to the couch. 

Exhausted. Congested. And humbled. The kind of tired that makes it clear your body has moved beyond gently asking for attention and into the no turning back place. I curled up with pillows, a blanket and a cat on either side of me and took a three hour nap.

I’m a pharmacist. I know the difference between allergies, a cold, and a sinus infection that has been quietly brewing. I would be the one to coach a friend to take care of the symptoms before they turned into an acute situation. But when it comes to myself, I tend to push through it all until my body takes over and puts me on the couch to get my attention.

I have been focused on my dad. On what needed to happen. On getting him settled. On making sure the moving pieces were handled. Somewhere in the middle of all that, my own body became one more thing to deal with ... but later. There were so many things on my to do list that got pushed aside so I could support my dad. 

There were social plans that I didn't want to cancel because I needed to have some fun and find some joy with friends.

Around 2:30 this afternoon, I dragged myself to the pharmacy to get a decongestant to relieve the pressure in my head. I pulled out of the parking lot to head home and I heard a voice in my head tell me to go to the walk-in clinic to get antibiotics. I almost ignored it. I just wanted to get back on the couch. 

Instead I made a U-turn, and went to the walk-in clinic.

It was such a simple moment. And somehow, not simple at all. Sometimes the hardest thing for caregivers, helpers, and women who are used to holding it all together is admitting that we need care too.

The walk in visit took all of 15 minutes. Never in the history of me have I ever experienced such a quick, efficient visit. My diagnosis was confirmed. They sent in a prescription for antibiotic and I was on my way back to the couch. 

While I was waiting for my prescription, I connected with another woman who was also there waiting. She shared that she was caring for her husband who is disabled. We found our way quickly into conversation about caregiving and how hard it can be. She spoke first and shared about the toll it takes. The way women so often keep going, keep managing, keep carrying, even when their own bodies are clearly asking for attention.

She also validated something I’ve known for a long time and keep hearing again and again:
This caregiving conversation matters.
The support matters.
And the book I’m writing is needed.

Maybe part of why it is needed is because so many women have been conditioned to treat themselves as the most flexible part of the system.
The appointment for our own care can wait.
The rest can wait.
The walk can wait.
The healthy meal can wait.

We wait and wait until the body finally says no.

Not because we are weak.
Not because we do not know better.
Not because we do not value our health.
But because when someone else needs something, especially someone we love, our own needs become negotiable.

We tell ourselves we will deal with it tomorrow.
After this appointment.
After the paperwork.
After the crisis.
After everyone else is okay.

The truth is, caregiving has a way of expanding to fill every available space ... if we let it. Self-care,  at least in seasons like this, is rarely glamorous. It is not a bubble bath, a spa day, or a perfectly curated morning routine.

Sometimes it is getting honest. Sometimes it is canceling the thing. Taking the meds. Going to urgent care. Getting back on the couch. And admitting you are not fine.

Sometimes it is letting your body matter as much as everyone else you have been caring for. That was the lesson for me today. It is not a shiny one. It is not a pretty one. It is just a real one. The kind that leaves you a little wrung out, a little more tender, and maybe a little wiser.

I’m on the mend now, but I can also see how easy it would have been to keep minimizing this for another few days. To push through. To override. To postpone.

I know I am not alone in that. If you are caring for someone right now, or carrying more than most people can see, let this be your reminder:
Your needs are not the interruption.
Your body leaves clues.
Your exhaustion is not a character flaw.
And taking care of yourself before you completely crash is not selfish.

It is part of how you keep going. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is stop waiting until we are completely flattened to finally listen.

Yesterday, I was out meandering with a friend I haven’t seen in years. She is down from New Hampshire, visiting, and called me out of the blue to get together for a few hours. It's one of those friendships that doesn’t require catching up all at once. You just start talking, and somehow it all finds its way in.

We ended up in a part of the state I never go to. Traffic slowed on the highway, and without much thought, I got off at the next exit and took a detour to avoid the traffic ... or so it seemed.

We drove for a while, talking, not really paying attention to where we were. And then something began to feel familiar. Not in a clear, conscious way. It was more more like a quiet recognition. 'I've been here before," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I knew.

Without meaning to, without planning to, I had found my way onto the road that leads to the hospital where my dad was taken eight years ago to be weaned off the ventilator that saved his life and learn how to deal with his new trach.

I hadn’t been back there since. Not once. There was no reason to go back. No desire to be anywhere near that place. And yet, there I was.

At first, it was just a feeling. A subtle shift. A kind of stillness inside me.
And then it all came back.

I felt the ventilator again. Not as a thought. Not as a memory I was trying to recall.
I felt it in my body. I heard that sound. I saw the numbers on the screen. I remembered the waiting. The not knowing. It came back all at once, as if no time had passed.

March 27 is my brother’s death anniversary. My dad had a cardiac event the next morning. In an instant, as I drove by that driveway, it all flooded back.

And then this morning, Facebook memories reminded me of Covid times, when the mention of the word "ventilator" caused shock waves to go through my body. I didn’t connect it all yesterday. But I did this morning. The body has its own way of keeping score. The past has a way of finding us.

Eight years ago, everything was happening all at once.

My dad was in Florida, fighting to live after a cardiac event. His heart had been repaired, but his kidneys and liver were shutting down, and we didn’t know where he stood neurologically. He was on a ventilator and had several IV bags dripping into his veins to keep him alive. 

I was sitting at his bedside as his medical proxy, holding his living will, leaning on my medical background and consulting with dad's team, doing my best to handle something no one is ever fully prepared for. What does "heroic measures" really mean when navigating an actual clinical situation and considering all the variables? I learned through immersion what my medical training didn't teach me. 

At the same time, my brother Kevin had lost his battle with cancer. He was being laid to rest in Rhode Island. My family gathered for his funeral in Rhode Island while I sat in a hospital room in Florida, holding space between life and death.

I remember feeling something take over the room. 
Not metaphorically. Literally. Energetically.

I knew it was connected to my brother. I could feel my mom’s presence too. Almost as if she was telling me that she was there to help Kevin along the way. She had passed just six months earlier. I had been with her when she made the decision to die. She told me she needed to be there for Kevin … to meet him when he arrived.

That moment still gives me goosebumps.

My dad’s nurse came in to change his IVs and stopped in her tracks. She typically moved fast to keep up with the pace her job demanded. But not this time. 

She dropped the IV bags on the bedside table and sat down next to me, “There’s something strange going on in this room. It's energetic," she said.

I told her what was happening in Rhode Island. She took a deep breath and sunk deeper into the chair. She just sat with me. In silence. As if honoring something neither of us needed to define.

I could feel the energy moving. Around the room. Around the bed. And as quickly as it had shown up, it was gone.

Dad recovered with minimal deficits. He had no memory of all that happened to him while he was intubated in the hospital, or at the vent/trach hospital. It was as if part of his brain had lost something or as if the effects of the drugs he was on made him forget. He had even forgotten that his son had died the day before his own health issues began.

About six months later, during a routine visit to his rehab facility, he asked if we could talk. He was hesitant. He asked me not to speak until he finished telling me the story and told me to answer only when he asked me a specific question. He thought I might think he was crazy.

He started with a question. "Did Kevin die?" he asked. "Yes. He died of a brain tumor," I responded. "I thought so," he answered. 

Then he proceeded with his story. He told me he had been at Kevin’s funeral. He named the restaurant where everyone gathered afterward. He told me about the weather. "It was raining cats and dogs," he said. He told me who was there at the service and who went to the restaurant after the service. He mentioned people who had already passed including my mom, her brother, and her two sisters. He went on to mention the people who were there who were still living. 

Then he asked me why I wasn’t there. I explained that I was at his bedside while he lay there in a coma connected to life saving machines and IV drips.

He took a deep breath, shook his head in disbelief, and continued with his story. He told me that after the funeral, he took a walk with mom. He described the light and the tunnel. And he told me that she told him he needed to go back. That "the kids" had experienced way too much loss in a short period of time and that we needed him to live. 
​
The logical part of me could have probably explained it away. Drugs. Trauma. Hallucination. But something in me chose not to.

I called my brother and asked him to tell me about Kevin's funeral. Details. Who was there. Where it was. Where they went after the service. Even what the weather was. "It was raining cats and dogs," he said. My dad had it all right, except for the people who had passed. 

I didn't really need proof, but confirming the details my dad had shared somehow validated something deep within me that I already knew. 

What we see and what we understand about life may only be a small part of what is actually happening.

At the time I first wrote about all of this, the pandemic was unfolding. The word ventilator was everywhere. Messages about living wills and end-of-life decisions were constant.

And I felt teary, triggered, and emotional. I remembered my own experience with my dad while also staying grounded in something deeper that was reminding me to breathe, to be present. to live fully, to take one step at a time and to trust the unfolding.

I remember asking myself: What if all of the loss, the intensity, the experience with my family was somehow preparing me for something I couldn't see? What if it gave me the perspective, the tools, the capacity to move through something like this?

Back then, the answer felt like a quiet yes. Now, eight years later … standing on that road again, without even trying to find it ... it felt a loud yes. 

It's all connected. It's all for a purpose. And we can't always see the whole picture when we're living it. But every once in awhile, we get a glimpse of the tapestry of our lives and how it's all woven together and connected to the present moment. 

And how ironic that while this was all happening inside of me, I was connected to someone I never see, on a road I never travel, with a person who gave me a reference point to connect it to all that has happened in the past eight years and how life has changed.

I am amazed at how the universe masterfully pulls threads from the past into the present to remind us of the growth we've experienced and how much we have to be grateful for, no matter what happens in life. 

The past finds me. Not to keep me there. But to remind me ... 

Of what I’ve lived through.
Of what I’ve held.
Of the growth.
Of what has shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.

There is something sacred in the way memory lives in the body and the way time folds in on itself.

There is something powerful in the way connection, love, energy doesn’t disappear, but instead is woven through the tapestry of our lives.

There is something profoundly powerful in the way that unexpected moments like this can remind us of how far we've come in our journey, how powerful our learning and growing is, how far love can stretch, and how much we have to be grateful for every single day.

PS This morning I am snuggled up with furry friends in a beautiful spot contemplating life, sipping tea, and writing. After I'm finished writing the next chapter of my new book, My Caregiving Essentials: What to Say, Do, and Prepare Before Caregiving Becomes Your Second Full-Time Job, I will do some work tasks to bring in some money. And then I am heading to dad's assisting living facility to hang out and watch the NCAA Women's Final Four March Madness games. He and I have been through a lot and have both come a long way from that day in that hospital room. We are both still breathing, We are both still learning and growing. And we both have so much to be grateful for. 

I recently had one of those days that leaves you exhausted deep down to the bone.

I started the morning at the hospital around 10:00 a.m. My dad had been admitted by ambulance from his assisted living facility at 3:30am the previous morning with painful urinary retention.

Two days before he was showing signs of a urinary tract infection and I noticed some cognitive decline. I spoke to the nurse and asked for him to be evaluated. The nurse sent out a culture to the lab to confirm a UTI and told me they would wait for the cuture and antibiotic sensitivities to come back before they started antibiotics. I asked that they start a broad spectrum antibiotic to get a jump start on the infection that was already affecting his cognition. She quoted me policy. I get it. But we’ve been here before and each time ends in an ER visit.

In the ER, the catheter had resolved the retention. But the much bigger issue was still sitting there, untreated.
He has a UTI.

Not a hypothetical one. Not a “maybe.” A confirmed culture had already been done at the assisted living facility, with sensitivities pending. By the time I got to the hospital, he had likely had this brewing for more than four days. And his cognition had declined so significantly that it was difficult to even have a conversation with him. He was mumbling incoherently, nowhere near his baseline.

I asked to speak with his nurse.

She was kind. She gave me report. He was resting comfortably. They were keeping him another 24 hours for observation. Most likely discharge tomorrow. Then I asked the question that should have had a clear answer:

“What about antibiotics?”

She told me she was waiting for the doctor to do rounds. That was the same answer I had heard from his nurse the day before. And yet, there were still no antibiotics while my dad was showing progressive cognitive decline.

I asked about the culture and sensitivities that were completed from the assisted living facility. She had no documentation of it. None.

That moment said everything. This is what makes care transitions so dangerous. Details get lost. Paperwork gets lost. History gets reduced to a chief complaint with no supporting documentation of the course of the chief complaint. The patient becomes a symptom instead of a whole human being with a history, baseline functioning, disease progression, allergies, risks, and context.

The nurse apologized. She assumed that his cognitive status was his baseline. I assured her it was not. I told her he had been declining for four days while waiting for the system to do it's thing. Filling in the missing pieces the nure didn't have elevated the urgency. UTI’s in the elderly can be dangerous.

A couple of other issues were revealed that happened during his transfer of care from the ALF to the hospital ER. My dad’s DNR had not been documented. His allergies had not been documented. His history of present illness had not been effectively communicated. And instead of treating the bigger clinical picture, they were treating only the immediate presenting problem: pain due to urinary retention.

As if the rest of it didn’t matter.
​
I called the assisted living facility myself and asked them to text me the culture results and sensitivities. They did. I asked them to fax it to the hospital to help expedite an antibiotic order. That happened around 10:30 a.m.

And there I was, once again, inside the soul-sucking machinery of a broken system filled with good people trying to function inside processes that do not serve patients well. That’s the part that is so hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. Most of the people in the system are not bad people. They are caring. They are trying. They are doing their best to function efficiently and responsibly and provide the best care for their patients.

But the system itself is fragmented, overloaded, inconsistent, and, sometimes, shockingly unsafe.

And family caregivers?
We become the backup system.
We become the memory.
We become the historian.
We become the medication checker.
We become the allergy alert.
We become the person standing there saying, “No, that’s not his baseline.”
We become the one making sure the right paper gets into the right hands at the right time because somehow, in a world of electronic medical records, fax machines still determine whether a patient gets treated.

Oh, and did I mention that when I first tried to communicate with the nurse about what was going on with my dad, he clicked, clicked, clicked on the computer and told me that he couldn’t talk to me without dad’s permission as he did not have Health Care Advocate paperwork on file in the system. I have delivered a paper copy of that document to both medical records and to the clinical floor at least 6 times over the past several years. My dad has been a patient there at least 12 times. I literally carry it with me in a file on my phone and a paper copy in my car for occasions like these, when such paperwork gets lost. I think it happens when system software gets updated. At least that is my best guess. But I digress.

At one point I left to get something to eat. I should have gone somewhere and had a decent meal. Instead, I went to Walgreens and bought jelly beans and chocolate. Honestly? That felt about right.

People talk about caregiver burnout as if it’s caused only by the emotional toll of loving someone who needs care. But there is another piece of it too: the constant vigilance. The hyper-alertness. The knowledge that if you do not stay on top of everything, important things may be missed.

Not small things.
Important things.
Potentially dangerous things.

I went back to the hospital just in time to catch the physician during rounds around 3:30 p.m. She told me they were waiting for sensitivities and that it would take another 24 to 48 hours. I was livid. I took a deep breath before I spoke. I let her know that I was a health care provider and was clear about how the system works and where things are broken. I explained that a culture was done 4 days ago when all this started and that I had the results on my phone from the facility. I explained that they had faxed the results to the hospital, but apparently it never got past medical records to where it needed to go so quick action could be taken.

I showed her my phone with the sensitivity results that were done at the assisted living facility. She said she would start him on an IV antibiotic right away. I told her my dad is actually allergic to drug class she wanted to start him on. The allergy wasn’t listed in his electronic chart!

I told her what antibiotic made the most sense based on the sensitivity report, my father’s history of allergies, and where he would be going upon discharge. If she gave him an IV antibiotic, he would have to go to a skilled nursing facility for treatment. He’s 90. He just wants to be home. If he was given an oral antibiotic, he could go back to his apartment in assisted living. 

She agreed to prescribe the oral antibiotic and consider discharging him in 24 hours. 

At that point, I honestly didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or laugh in disbelief ... or take a deep breath and be grateful that we finally had a plan in place. 

Why weren’t his allergies documented?
Why hadn’t anyone integrated the information that came with him from the facility?
Why was his acute cognitive decline not driving more urgency?
Why did it take a family member standing at his bedside, holding the lab results on her phone, to move this forward?

These are not rhetorical questions. These are the questions caregivers ask every day in hospitals, rehab centers, assisted living facilities, emergency rooms, doctor’s appointments, and during every handoff in between. No wonder I was stress eating chocolate and jelly beans! 

That evening, I stayed until I physically witnessed the nurse give my dad his first dose of antibiotic. It was 6:30 p.m.

After more than four days of a brewing infection.
After significant cognitive decline.
After chasing paperwork and providing missing paperwork.
After documenting missing allergies.
After pushing back on delay after delay after delay.

I was exhausted. I did not get any of my own work done. I had to cancel clients. I lost money. And I didn't give it a second thought. 

Instead, after leaving the hospital, I went to the river and wrote another story for my Caregiving Essentials book I'm working on. Because this is the work too.

Telling the truth about what caregiving really looks like.
Naming the hidden labor.
Exposing the gaps.
Guiding families around how to navigate broken systems.
Helping them learn how to best advocate for their loved ones.
Saying out loud what too many family caregivers and health care providers already know:

Care transitions are dangerous.
Not because no one cares, but because the system is not built to reliably hold all the pieces together.

So family members do it. And it costs us time, energy, peace of mind, our own health, our financial status, and our nervous system, more than most realize. Caregivers end up depleted, running on sugar and adrenaline, trying to hold themselves together while holding everything else together for their loved ones.

I know I am not the only one living this.

If you have ever sat in a hospital room wondering how you became the last line of defense for someone you love, I see you.

If you have ever had to repeat the same history five times to five different people, I see you.

If you have ever caught an error, filled in a missing detail, pushed for a next step, or stayed just a little longer because you didn’t quite trust that the system had it handled, I see you.

If you are tired in a way that sleep doesn’t quite fix, I feel you. 

Caregiver support matters. Advocacy makes a difference. Good communication is essential.
And this is why we need to stop pretending that family caregivers are just “visitors” or “helpers.”

In many cases, we are the continuity. We are the safety net. We are the glue holding fragmented care together.
And that is too much to carry alone.

Sometimes the system really is that broken. And sometimes love looks like standing there until the antibiotic that is 4 days late is finally administered.

​Here is my favorite breathing tool that always calms me down and gets me through. 

This is Part 3 of my Road to Reinvention series ...

When I began this Road to Reinvention blog series, I thought I’d be writing mostly about my RV renovation, the road ahead, and the adventure of building a next chapter that feels more like my own life. But a few days after publishing the first post, something else came through. It didn’t come from my content plan or a carefully mapped-out posting strategy. It came in that in-between space between sleep and waking, when thoughts are less filtered and deeper truth emerges.
​
What showed up had little to do with RV projects and a lot to do with becoming. With age. With creativity. With the realization that I am still learning, still growing, and still being called into something new.

At first, part of me thought, Wait. That’s not the next post in the series.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it was. Because this journey was never really just about the RV.
The RV may be the visible part. It's the symbol. It's becoming the setting and the vehicle, in every sense of the word. But the journey is much deeper.

The journey is about what happens when the life you’ve been living no longer feels quite right. When the structures that once held you begin to feel too small. When, after years of doing what needed to be done and what was expected of you no longer seems to fit. And when you begin to ask what it would look like to follow what feels deeply aligned instead.

That’s the real road I’m on. And if I’m honest, it is not unfolding in a neat, linear way.

In one part of my life, I’m trying to be focused, strategic, and disciplined. I’m working on creating and launching something meaningful. The project requires that I think about timing, structure, messaging, and execution.

In another part of my life, I find myself longing for something much less controlled. I want to wander. I want to explore. I want to go with the flow. I want to follow my intuition. I want to notice what shows up. I want to be fully present in each moment. I want to trust the next right step, even if I can’t yet see the whole map.

And then there is the caregiving part of my life. My dad is settled in assisted living and surrounded with wonderful support. My day to day involvement has decreased significantly.  But ... and that is a big but, seems to be fueled with some old stories around roles and responsibility and infused with some guilt I haven't quite fully sorted out. 

Some days, those three ways of being feel beautifully complementary. Other days, they feel completely at odds.

One part of me says, You need more structure.
Another says, You need more space. 
And yet another says, You need to take less responsibility for others and more for yourself and your own life.

One part wants a plan.
Another wants to be quiet long enough to hear what is actually true.

One part wants momentum.
Another wants rest.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I find myself wondering what this tension is really about.
Is it boredom? Fear of success? Fear of failure? Resistance? Procrastination? Exhaustion? Intuition? Some form of self-protection? Maybe it’s some combination of all of it.

Or is it simply the honest complexity of being human in a season of change?

What I do know is this: reinvention sounds inspiring from the outside, but from the inside it often feels messy, tender, contradictory, unsettled, and unfinished.

There is a part of me that still wants reinvention to behave itself. To show up on time. To fit neatly into a plan. To move in a straight line from inspiration to clarity to action. But that has not been my experience.

My experience has been more like this ...

A desire begins to stir. An idea takes shape. Fear comes along for the ride. I work through the fear. Inspiration takes over. Real life shows up . Today it was a 3:27am call that my dad is being taken to the hospital. Last week it was two missed renewal notices I never got, one for my drivers license and the other for my car registration, and the realization that both had expired while I've been out of state caregiving for my dad. And I was still driving!

Responsibilities remain even as I dream of hitting the road and making my dream life my real life.  My energy rises and falls. I do my best around self-care. And somewhere in the middle of it all, something unexpected arrives that alters my course and leads me to a place I didn't see coming.

Perhaps before I do anything, I need to embrace something more foundational:
I am still becoming.
I am in the messy middle.
I don't have all the answers.
Life will continue to do what life does no matter what I choose next. 

Maybe that is what all of this is really about. Maybe it's not about getting the RV ready to hit the road. or supporting dad through another hospital admission, or a lost piece of mail. or writing a blog series. or hosting another event, or working with another coaching client. .

Maybe it's about learning how to live between structure and surrender. 

Perhaps it's about learning:

• How to create enough structure to support me without suffocating me.
• How to make plans without being attached to them.
• How to leave room for what wants to emerge.
• How to move forward without forcing.
• How to rest without disappearing.
• How to be responsible without being constrained
• How to have impact without burning myself out

That feels like its own kind of practice. My sense is that this is something many women experience in seasons of transition. We are told to be organized, productive, strategic, and responsible. We are also told to trust ourselves, listen inward, and follow what feels aligned.

But nobody really tells us what to do when those things seem to pull in opposite directions.

Nobody tells us how to live when we are no longer willing to abandon ourselves for the sake of obligation, but we also don’t want to drift so freely that nothing solid gets built.

I suspect that is exactly the work.

Not choosing one over the other, but learning the dance between them. Learning when structure is support and when it becomes pressure. Learning when surrender is wisdom and when it becomes avoidance. Learning how to tell the difference. Learning how to stay honest. Learning how to trust ourselves enough to keep listening.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion to this, because I am in the middle of it.

I’m still figuring out what belongs to fear and what belongs to wisdom. I'm still learning what needs more structure and what needs more room to breathe. I'm still deciding what needs accountability and what needs grace. 

But I do know this:

I no longer believe that every detour means I’ve lost the path. Sometimes what looks off-track is actually revealing the deeper track underneath the one I thought I was supposed to follow. Sometimes the “random” thing that shows up is not random at all. Sometimes it is the thread that leads me to the magic. 

I'm learning that reinvention is not about finally becoming disciplined enough to control the journey.
It is more about learning how to stay present enough to fully participate in it.

To notice.
To listen.
To choose.
To trust.
To act.
To pause.
To breathe.
To begin again.

So for now, I’m staying with the question. I’m still dreaming of hitting the road and taking steps to do that by the end of May. At the same time I’m staying with responsibility and heading to the hospital to check in on my dad. And I’m staying open to the possibility that this space between structure and surrender is not a problem to solve, but part of the path itself.

If you’re in a season of transition too ... trying to find your footing between planning and listening, effort and ease, momentum and rest ... maybe you’re not doing it wrong either.

Maybe you’re just on your own messy middle and if you fully embrace it while doing your best to be present in the experience, you will find the insight and inspiration to guide your next steps. 

One thing I know for sure, I am grateful for my coach and accountability partner who help guide me through this process.I'm also grateful for the tools I use to help get me out of my head and into my heart.

I've created the free Heart Reset Toolkit that includes these tools: Heart Breathing. Heart Hugs. Heart Talks. I used all three of them this morning sorting through what's happening with my dad (and me). Maybe you'd like to see how they can support you? Click here to download.

This is Part 2 of my Road to Reinvention series ...

Lately, I’ve been learning to use new tools and technology to bring ideas to life in ways I never could have before. And what’s striking me most isn’t just what these tools can do. It’s what becomes possible when wisdom, curiosity, and willingness meet in the same season of life.

There’s something kind of surreal about realizing that at 67, I am still learning, still growing, and still creating things I would not have been able to create back in the day.

And honestly? That feels really good.

Not because I think I should be proving anything to anyone. Not because I’m trying to keep up. And not because I suddenly became someone different.

It feels good because I can see, maybe more clearly than ever, that growth doesn’t have an expiration date. Creativity doesn’t dry up just because the calendar keeps turning. And the part of us that longs to create, contribute, explore, and become more fully ourselves does not retire when we do.

In some ways, I think it gets stronger.

Years ago, I had ideas. I had heart, work ethic, passion, and a voice. But I didn’t yet have this version of me. I didn’t have the same perspective. I didn’t have the same confidence. I didn’t have the gift of time. I didn’t have the same freedom to experiment. And I definitely didn’t have access to the kinds of tools that can now help bring an idea to life in a fraction of the time.

Back then, there were things I simply wasn’t able to create, not because I lacked intelligence or desire, but because I was in a different season. I was carrying different responsibilities. I was building a life, a career, a business, and a reputation. I was doing what needed to be done.

Now, here I am. Older. Wiser. A little bolder. A lot less interested in other people’s opinions. And more willing than ever to follow what feels aligned, meaningful, and true.

There is something deeply empowering about that.

I think one of the biggest lies women absorb is that creativity belongs to the young. That reinvention has a deadline. That learning new things is for other people. That if you didn’t build it earlier, maybe you missed your chance.

I don’t believe any of that.

I believe there are things we can create now precisely because of everything we’ve lived. Because we’ve had our hearts broken. Because we’ve had to start over. Because we’ve cared for people. Because we’ve worked hard. Because we’ve lost things. Because we’ve learned what matters. Because we’ve stopped needing every step to make sense before we take it. Because we’ve faced fear and found out where our courage lives.

There is a depth available to us now that simply wasn’t there before ... and maybe that’s the point.

Maybe this season isn’t about trying to recreate who we used to be. Maybe it’s about becoming more of who we actually are.

That’s what I feel happening in my own life right now. I’m creating things I couldn’t have created years ago. Not in spite of my age, but because of it. Because now I bring a lifetime of experience into the room.

I bring discernment. I bring compassion. I bring intuition. I bring a stronger sense of what matters and what doesn’t. And I bring a willingness to keep learning, even when it stretches me.

Especially when it stretches me.

There is something alive in that. Something hopeful. Something freeing. And I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

Maybe you’ve been feeling it too. That quiet nudge. That inner stirring. That sense that there is still something in you wanting to be expressed, created, explored, or shared. Maybe you’ve been wondering whether it’s too late. Whether you still have time. Whether you have what it takes to build something new, or begin again, or finally listen to that part of yourself you’ve been putting off for years.

I want to say this as clearly as I can:
It is not too late.
You are not too old.
You are not behind.
And you do not need to have it all figured out before you begin.

Sometimes the next chapter starts with nothing more than a willingness to say yes to what’s calling you now. That’s really what this season of my life is about. It’s not about going backward and trying to reclaim an earlier version of myself. It’s about listening for what is true now and having the courage to create from that place.

That is the energy behind so much of what I’m building. It is exactly why I created From Career to Calling. Because I know I’m not the only woman standing in that in-between space between what was and what could still be.

If something in you has been stirring ... if you’ve been feeling the pull toward more meaning, more alignment, more creativity, or a deeper sense of purpose in your next chapter, I’d love to invite you to join me for From Career to Calling: A 3-Day Experience for Women Ready to Create What’s Next.

It’s a space for reflection, possibility, courage, and honest conversation about what it means to create a life that feels like it belongs to the person you are ... and the person you are becoming. If you’re ready to stop circling the question of what’s next and start creating it with more clarity, courage, and intention, learn more about From Career to Calling: A 3-Day Experience for Women Ready to Create What’s Next here.

This post begins a short series about my RV renovation; a project that has turned into something far more meaningful than paint, tools, and design choices. Along the way, it has become a reflection on freedom, reinvention, and creating a life that feels deeply aligned with who I am now.

If you’re in a season of transition yourself ... wondering what’s next, feeling the pull toward something different, or simply wanting a life that feels more like you, I hope this series offers a bit of inspiration, encouragement, and perhaps even a little magic along the way.

Over the next few posts, I’ll be sharing the real story behind this journey—how the RV found me, what the renovation (and reinvention) process has been like, and how it’s helping me shape the next chapter of my life. I’m glad you’re here for the ride.
​

Sometimes the next chapter of your life doesn’t arrive as a carefully thought-out plan. Sometimes it shows up quietly on your phone while you’re sipping your morning tea.

That’s more or less how my RV came into my life.

After selling Ripple on Silver Lake, my beloved Victorian lodging dream property, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Ripple had been a huge chapter of my life and something I had manifested quite literally out of thin air. Before that there was my ski school chapter and my sex ed teacher chapter, both of which came to an abrupt end during Covid.

The day of the closing I headed into my next adventure without really knowing how it would play out. My plan was simple: spend a few months in Florida getting eyes on my dad and helping him  figure out his next steps.

I never planned on staying. But life had other ideas.
After a few falls, a couple of hospital admissions, an extended rehabilitation stay after a fractured arm, and helping him move into assisted living, a few months had stretched into more than a year and a half.

I was grateful to have the flexibility to be there for my dad and dedicated time to spend with him. But there was always a quiet voice inside reminding me that I was not living my own life.

Some days were stressful. Some days were overwhelming. Some days were depressing. Some days consisted of taking care of everything on his list and nothing on my own. There were times when I only stopped long enough to take in the sunset over the ocean. Those were the times when I remembered that although this was the life I was living, I was not living my own life. I was living someone else's version of it.

When I let my thoughts wander, I remembered the life I had left behind up north and compared it to the life I was living in a Florida retirement community. Deep down I knew something had to change. I was losing myself, little by little. 

I started to set some boundaries around my time. I spent more time writing. I chose to invest a portion of the proceeds from Ripple into a long-term coaching program that would support me in offering virtual live events in the human potential space. I briefly considered buying another property—a tiny house on a quiet piece of land beside a brook, but after being tethered to Ripple for so long, the thought of owning and maintaining another property didn’t feel like the right path.

I started letting myself dream about what might be out there beyond my caregiving responsibilities. One thing was crystal clear. I wanted freedom. I wanted that peaceful, easy feeling. I wanted to wake up in a beautiful place and do exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted a change of scenery. I wanted to be close to nature. Not the manicured lawn and gardens I'm surrounded by now, but rather the under the open sky kind of nature. I wanted to travel ... but not the kind most people think of. I wasn’t interested in packed itineraries, tight schedules, or checking destinations off a list.

I was craving something different.
The freedom to wander.
To explore at my own pace.
Or to just be.
To live in that peaceful, easy feeling I’ve heard about in that song.

I wanted my own space, on my own timeline, where I could write, teach, coach, train, spend time in nature, and create a life that felt authentic and fully alive.

Somewhere along the way, the idea of a tiny house slowly evolved into the idea of an RV.
Not a luxury tour bus style coach. Just a small home on wheels. A place that could serve as my hotel room, writing studio, and sanctuary wherever I happened to land.

I had been casually looking for months, but nothing quite fit. Nor did it need to as my plan to travel was off in the distant future. Maybe a year or so down the line.

Then one morning in June of 2025, while I was staying overnight with a friend in Tampa on my way to a training in Charleston, South Carolina, something unexpected happened. I packed my suitcase and set it by the door, ready to begin the long drive north. I made one last cup of tea, curled up on the couch for a few quiet minutes, and picked up my phone.

And there it was.

An RV listing popped up on Facebook Marketplace. It was bigger than what I had originally been looking for, but the price was right, the mileage was low, and it seemed to check all the boxes.

I called immediately. The woman on the other end answered a few questions, and the whole thing started to feel too good to be true. I assumed I would have to fly back later to see it, and that it would surely be gone by then.

But then she told me something that made me laugh out loud. At the same time I got goosebumps. I always pay attention to goosebumps. The RV was just two and a half miles away from where I was staying. It felt like my RV had found me.

Ten minutes later I was standing inside it. The owner walked me through everything, and I’ll be honest—it scared the hell out of me. RVs are essentially small houses on wheels, complete with electrical systems, plumbing, propane, generators, water tanks, and a variety of other things I had never managed before.

When I owned Ripple, I had a whole list of professionals I could call when something broke.
This was different. I mentioned that to the owner while we sat down to talk.
“I have to admit,” I told him, “owning an RV scares the hell out of me.”
He asked, “Have you ever owned a house?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just sold a circa-1903 Victorian lodging property.”
He laughed. “Now that would scare the hell out of me,” he said. “If you could manage that, you can certainly manage an RV. You’ll learn. And I’ll help you.”

That reassurance mattered. But truth was, the RV had appeared about a year earlier than I had planned to buy one. Yet there it was. 

Before committing, I called two RV-savvy friends and asked them to walk me through what I should check. One of them even came out to look at it. Structurally, it was solid. In fact, it was in great shape for its age.

Aesthetically, however, it had clearly lived through several design eras. Some of the vinyl wallpaper was peeling from years of Florida heat. The window treatments were brown, gold, and painfully outdated. The walls were a mix of brown vinyl and an unfortunate shade of gold. The kitchen backsplash was brown, tan, and white. The countertops and tables were a sort of marbleized rose-taupe mix that never quite decided what color it wanted to be. The cabinets were a dark maple somewhere between golden maple and cherry, and the floors were a brown faux tile.

None of it was my style. My friends had renovated several RVs and assured me that everything was fixable. I didn't give much thought to what that actually meant, but fixable got filed as a positive.

The good news?
The L-shaped couch was brand new and would make a cozy writing nook.
The driver and passenger seats were new as well—and they swiveled, reclined and were so comfortable.
There was even a little desk setup on the dash that I could imagine using as a writing space.

Beneath all the dated design choices and peeling vinyl wallpaper, I could see something else.
Potential.

I also had something incredibly valuable.
Time.

This RV had arrived about a year earlier than my actual travel plans, which turned out to be perfect. It meant I could learn slowly while making the space my own. So I took a deep breath, sealed the deal, and drove it straight into storage.

Over the next few months, I took it out occasionally to a nearby state park campground so I could begin learning how everything worked. Electric hookups. The generator. I learned just enough to run the air conditioner, the fan, and the microwave. Water, propane, and sewer systems felt overwhelming at first, so I happily used the campground bathhouse.

During one of those visits, I lived in the RV for a full week. It was pure heaven to be in my own space and not have the responsibility of caring for my dad. 

That week became something unexpected. It became a pause. I had the chance to sit quietly inside my little house on wheels and notice how it felt. What worked. What didn’t. What felt right and what I wanted to change. I began to see it not as the space it currently was, but as the space it could become.

In many ways, it mirrored the season of life I was in. Letting go of what no longer fit. Imagining what might. And perhaps most importantly, paying attention to how I felt along the way.

This wasn’t a thinking journey.
It was a feeling journey.

Eventually I started focusing on the physical transformation. I spent hours watching YouTube videos about repairing vinyl, priming walls, painting cabinets, caulking seams, decorating, and generally figuring out how RVs are put together. I spoke with professionals who understood paint, materials, and what works inside a moving vehicle. I also talked with ChatGPT, my AI friend who patiently walked me through all kinds of projects.

It became a long season of learning, imagining, and preparing. 

Then in March of 2026, I finally picked up an X-Acto knife and went to work cutting away the loose vinyl. I removed all the window treatments that had been tightly screwed into the walls. Throwing it all out the RV door felt therapeutic. And on the inside, the space began to breathe a bit.

Looking back now, that moment feels symbolic. That knife. Those screws. Everything that came after. It was the beginning of cutting away what no longer fit. Throwing away what no longer looked good to me. Discarding what no longer served a purpose. And most importantly, letting go of anything that didn’t match the energy I wanted to create for my next chapter.

But the real transformation of the RV—and of me—was only just beginning.
That story is coming next.

This season of my life has been filled with questions. Not the kind you answer quickly, but rather the kind you sit with. If you're in a similar place, you might enjoy a simple reflection guide I created called “What Would Your Life Be Like If…?”  Just three powerful questions designed to help you pause, reflect, and reconnect with what matters most as you imagine your next chapter.
👉 Download the free 3-Question Reflection Journal instantly.


If you enjoy the reflection process, there’s also a full 12-Question Reflection Journal available for those who want to explore these questions more deeply.
👉 Download the 12-Question Reflection Journal instantly.
or
👉 Purchase the paperback 12-Question Reflection Journal on Amazon.

In 2010, while attending Jack Canfield’s Breakthrough to Success event, I met Jana Stanfield. She was introduced as the Queen of Heavy Mental. Jana is a singer-songwriter who came on stage between sessions to inspire workshop participants with her music. One of her lyrics inspired me then and has stayed with me ever since:

“Just keep taking the next right step.”

At the time, I was navigating a period of transition and uncertainty. I was searching for clarity and didn’t have a clear roadmap for what was ahead. I was in that familiar “this can’t be all there is” place, and I knew something had to change. I remember feeling the pressure to figure everything out before deciding to act.

But something about that line in her song landed deeply. It offered a different way of approaching life. One that didn’t require certainty about the entire path, but instead invited a simple focus on the next right step.

After the song, Jack came back on stage and talked about how an airplane moves through the sky on the way from its departure point to its destination. The plane is always in motion, constantly adjusting its course. In fact, if one analyzed the plane’s flight path, we would see that it spends much of its time slightly off course, making tiny corrections along the way and yet it still arrives at its destination. 

Over the years, the simple idea that it’s okay to be off course sometimes, as long as we course-correct along the way, has given me permission to let go of some of the fear and perfectionism that once kept me stuck. That, combined with the idea that I only need to take the next right step, has been enough to keep me moving forward in the direction of my goals.

​And that has become the way I move through the world.

When things feel overwhelming or unclear, I remind myself that I don’t need to see the whole journey. I just need enough clarity to take the next step.

Another thing I’ve come to value deeply is using a simple but powerful reset tool that gives me the chance to disconnect from my head and reconnect with my heart when life gets noisy or chaotic. That quiet, heart-centered space helps me access my intuition and discern what that next step might be.

Recently, I realized how much this philosophy shaped the renovation of my RV.
​
When I first bought it, the vinyl was literally pulling away from the luan in places. Apparently, vinyl wall and ceiling coverings don’t fare well in the Florida heat. The ceiling repair alone felt intimidating. For a while, it felt overwhelming and I just sat with it. Then I started researching. I watched videos on YouTube. I talked with people who knew more about RVs than I did, asking curious questions all along the way.

Eventually, I made the decision to begin repairing the vinyl.

I was afraid. I had never taken on a project quite like this before. Repairing the vinyl involved cutting away the loose material with an Exacto knife. Then came the cleaning, spackling, sanding, priming, caulking, and painting ... none of which I had ever really done before.

But I just kept taking the next right step.

Over time, the process became surprisingly simple. The deeper I got into the project, the more I realized that I wasn’t merely fixing some loose vinyl. I was actually creating a sanctuary on wheels.

The truth is, if I had focused on much more than simply taking the next right step, I’m pretty sure I never would have finished. But I did finish. On my birthday. And I'm pretty sure it was the best gift I could have ever received. As I spent the day putting on the finishing touches, I realized I had created a whole new space with beautiful light and energy flowing through. It is now the perfect space for living, working, writing, adventuring, and simply being. 

One step led to the next, and slowly the space transformed.

There were days I was bone tired and frustrated. But I came home. I rested. I took ibuprofen when I needed it. I took time off when I needed it. And little by little, it all came together. 

Step by next right step.

The other day, a friend who had been with me when I first picked up my “new-to-me” RV came to see it after all the renovations. As she stepped inside, she stopped in the doorway and said,
“Wow … this looks sooooo good.” She wandered through the space repeating, “Wow … what a difference.”

The funny thing is that when you work on something little by little, day by day, you stop seeing the transformation yourself. You still notice the small things that need attention or the paint splotches that need cleaning up. But in that moment, hearing her reaction, I realized something. I didn’t just renovate an RV. I created a space that feels cohesive, calm, and full of light and good energy. And along the way, I learned a lot of new skills and something important about myself.

I learned that I can move through the world on my own; using my resources, asking curious questions, and trusting my instincts.

Step by next right step.

And if I get off course, I can take a breath, adjust, and get right back on track.

If there’s something in your life that feels overwhelming right now—a decision, a project, or a transition—maybe you don’t need the entire path mapped out today.

Maybe all you need is the next right step.

Get quiet.
Give yourself a moment to get out of your head and reconnect with your heart.
Breathe.
See what shows up.
Then take that next right step.
And then the next.

You might be surprised where the path leads. ✨

Download my free Heart Breathing Tool and learn the powerful technique I use to move from stress to clarity and to my next right step.

There are moments in history when the world feels like it has tilted off its axis. We are in one of them.

We feel it in our bodies before we can explain it with words. The constant stream of breaking news. The arguments that divide families and communities. The sense that something fundamental—decency, accountability, shared responsibility—has begun to erode.

Lately, I’ve caught myself feeling something I don’t particularly like admitting. I’ve wanted to check out. Not dramatically. Not in a “sell everything and disappear into the woods” kind of way. But quietly. Subtly. A kind of emotional withdrawal. A temptation to look away from the chaos and retreat into my own small world.

I’ve felt the pull to isolate. To stop engaging. To stop caring quite so much. Because caring, right now, can feel exhausting.

It’s hard to watch systems fail people.
It’s hard to watch leaders evade accountability.
It’s hard to watch human beings dismissed, diminished, or devalued.

If I’m honest, there are days when the sheer weight of it all makes me want to shut the door and say, “I’m done with this.” In addition to all that is going on in the world, I've been supporting my dad through some health challenges and through his transition to assisted living. I recently celebrated my 67th birthday. I was touched by the card my dad gave me and the conversation he initiated. "I appreciate all you've done for me over the past year or so, but now it's time for you to start living your own life, whatever that means for you." His words were genuine and sweet and I took them to heart. Yes, indeed, it is my time! He is settled. He is safe. He is surrounded by people who take good care of him. And it's time for me to get on with planning the next phase of my own life. 

I drove away from my visit with dad feeling free. I just finished renovating my RV. I just got word that I received a scholarship to attend an RV training program to help me build confidence and a bit of autonomy for when I hit the road this summer. For the first time in a long time, I felt excited for what's next for just me and not having to spend another brutally hot summer in Florida.

Two days later, while I was at my computer mapping out my trip to RV training school in the spring and then continuing on to New England, I got a call from my dad. Actually three calls. He always forgets something on the first call. And then he calls to be sure I got the other two messages. His messages told me that he needed a ruler to measure his puzzle, an ear syringe (he lost the one that came in the package) so he can prep his ears for wax removal at the audiologist appointment, and a box of Kix cereal because he forgot to put it in his recent grocery order and he didn't want to pay the delivery charge.

In a matter of a minute, I no longer felt free. I felt trapped. And, if I'm honest, a tad bit angry and resentful. How did my life turn into being a delivery service for things that seem so unnecessary to my own life. Use a sheet of paper to measure the puzzle. You don't need a syringe to put Debrox in your ears. And how many other boxes of cereal do you have in the cupboard that are not Kix that will get you through until your next grocery delivery. Or go to the breakfast meal we're paying for!

I took a deep quick coherence breath and could feel myself calming down immediately. The truth is, it has been an honor to support my dad through some huge transitions and difficult decisions over the past year. The other truth is that it has been challenging and I need a break. The old me would have rushed to bring him the ruler, the ear syringe, and the box of Kix. Instead, I called him back when I knew he'd be at dinner and left him a message that I would be there in a couple of days ... and I went back to planning my RV trip.

I did not react on emotion. I allowed the emotion to move through me. I felt them all. And then I responded with intention. I acknowledged that reactions show up in the midst of the emotions. However, if I take an intentional breath while I'm focused on something I'm grateful for, my responses are calmer and much more effective for all involved. 

And that realization brought me back to something important that I have been teaching, in one form or another, for most of my life. A simple equation that I believe is a powerful formula for life: 

E + R = O
Event + Response = Outcome

The events of our lives are not always within our control. In fact, many of them aren’t. We cannot control:

• the political climate
• the economy
• other people’s choices
• global crises
• the systems we inherit

But there is one thing that always remains available to us. Our response.
Not our reaction. Our response.

A reaction is automatic.
A response is intentional.

A reaction is driven by fear, anger, or overwhelm.
A response is chosen with awareness.

And that distinction changes everything.
For decades, I’ve watched this principle play out in real life.

I saw it as a teacher working with teenagers navigating risk and pressure.
I saw it coordinating reproductive health services for young people facing life-altering decisions.
I saw it in conversations with parents trying to understand their children.
I see it now in families caring for aging parents and dealing with complex healthcare systems.
I see it in women navigating major life transitions including divorce, career change, health challenges, and retirement.

In every one of those situations, the event matters, but it is the response that determines what happens next.

Two families can face the same diagnosis.
Two teenagers can face the same pressure from peers.
Two adults can face the same career ending or life transition.

The event may be the same.
But the outcome is shaped by the response.

That truth has never felt more important to me than it does right now.
Response matters. The world we are living in is pulling us toward constant reaction based on pent up emotion. Outrage. Blame. Fear. Division. These emotional reactions spread quickly and easily. They are contagious.

But reaction rarely creates meaningful change. Response does. Response requires something deeper. 

Pause.
Reflection.
Discernment.
Courage.

Response asks us to step out of the emotional storm long enough to choose who we want to be in the moment we’re facing. That is not always easy, especially right now with 24 hour news cycles, social media, algorithms, and automatic notifications delivered to us in real time.

There are days when I feel frustrated enough with the state of things that the idea of responding thoughtfully feels almost naïve. But I keep coming back to the same realization. If we give up our response, we give up our power.

Not political power.
Not institutional power.
Something far more fundamental.

Human agency. Agency is the ability to decide who we are going to be in the face of what is happening.

That is why I’ve decided to focus on this idea right now.
Not because the world is calm and stable.
But because it isn’t.

We are living through a time when people feel overwhelmed, angry, exhausted, and powerless. And in moments like that, it becomes very easy to believe that the events of the world have total control over our lives.

But they don’t.

The event matters.
Our emotions mater.
But our response matters more because it is our response to the events that create our outcomes. 

This is not about pretending things are fine when they aren’t. It’s not about suppressing anger or frustration. It’s about remembering that those emotions do not have to make our decisions for us.

We still have a choice.
We can respond with curiosity instead of contempt.
We can respond with courage instead of avoidance.
We can respond with compassion instead of indifference.
We can respond with boundaries when necessary.
We can refuse to participate in systems or conversations that diminish our humanity.

Those choices shape our lives. They shape our families. They shape our friendships. They shape our communities. And collectively, they shape the future.

Today I am thinking of this as The Response Revolution. I am choosing to allow my responses (not my reactions) to prevail.

This is not a revolution of protests or politics. It is a revolution of personal agency. A quiet but powerful shift in how we show up in the moments that test us most. Because every day, in ways both large and small, we are being presented with events we did not choose. These events elicit emotions that, if we're not careful, can push us into reactions that are not in our best interest.

We are never completely without a response. When we pause, take a breath, and allow our emotions to move through us, we regain the ability to choose one. And the response we choose determines what happens next.

That idea is simple, but it takes practice. When emotions are strong, it’s easy to slip back into old patterns of reacting instead of responding. Over the years, I’ve found that the more we intentionally pause and reflect on the R in the equation, the easier it becomes to choose responses that create better outcomes.

If the idea of the R Factor resonates with you and you’re curious about exploring it a little further, I created a short 3-Day Reflection Experience built around the formula we’ve been talking about:

E + R = O
Event + Response = Outcome

Over three days, you’ll look at real situations from your own life and experiment with choosing responses that create different outcomes. It’s simple, practical, and a powerful way to begin noticing the role your responses play in shaping your life.

You can download the 3-Day R Factor Experience here and begin whenever you’re ready.

Lately, I’ve found myself captivated by Alysa Liu, the U.S. Olympic gold medal figure skater. For me, it’s not about her athleticism, although she is incredibly talented. It’s not about her technical precision or creative choreography, although both were beautiful to watch. It’s not just about her medals or rankings.

It’s about the journey that got her to gold. She skated for the pure joy of it.

There is something unmistakable about her. She doesn’t appear burdened by anyone else’s expectations or opinions. She isn’t performing to prove something. She looks alive. Free. Lit from within. As if the ice is simply the place where her joy gets to fully express itself.

And I found myself reaffirming what I already feel deep in my soul:
Isn’t that what life is really about?

Today is my birthday. It’s a big one, with big questions and big feelings. And that question feels less philosophical and more personal.

When I look at my own life right now, I see that I am choosing joy. And yet, I have to admit, I sometimes feel a twinge of guilt about what I’m not doing to support a more traditional, predictable, or socially acceptable lifestyle.

Instead of doing things that might put more money in my bank account, I’ve been immersing myself in a major RV renovation project. It’s way outside my comfort zone. It’s challenged me physically. It’s consumed time. It’s cost money that many would say should stay safely invested.

And it has been pure joy.

It’s not just an RV renovation. It’s eliminating what doesn’t inspire me and slowly replacing it, step by step,  with colors, curtains, linens, and decorative details that make me feel comfortable, cozy, and alive. It’s creating a magical and inspirational space where I can write, work, play, rest, and live freely and lit up from within.

I found a magical coverlet in a department store hidden beneath a pile of comforters that felt like a treasure hunt victory. To make it even more magical, it was marked down to just 44.99 (from 149.99) and I had a gift card left over from Christmas that still had 42.00 on it! In another store, I stumbled upon the perfect shower curtain in the same gauzy fabric of the coverlet. It was in a place in the store it shouldn’t have been, as if it was waiting for me. And it was on clearance, of course. I'm adding a lamp from one of my guest rooms at Ripple, a cherished painting an artist friend of mine created out of a scene she captured on the way to our favorite ski mountain, and a couple of other touches that warm my heart.  My RV bedroom is shaping up to be my sanctuary.

I’m one coat of paint away from cleaning up the construction zone and pulling all the pieces together ... just in time to begin planning my spring adventure.

In the middle of the renovation are the curl-up moments with my cats, the messy middle of Pinterest analytics, preparing for my next webinar and the program I'm offering in April. On top of that is taking care of my dad and managing the ordinary tasks that make up a life ... qll woven together with the righteous fire of my “so done with this” stance against the cruelty of the current administration.

In the middle of it all, I feel something.

I feel joy.

Not the loud, performative kind.
But the quiet, intentional, chosen kind.

Joy in the renovation.
Joy in imagining life on the road.
Joy in time with my dad.
Joy in aligned connection.
Joy in helping other women rediscover their magic.
Joy in purpose.
Joy in freedom.
Joy in the sacredness of ordinary moments.

I’ve been skating for joy on my own kind of ice. Even in the struggle. Even in the heaviness. Even in the uncertainty.

There are still financial pressures. There is still political anger. There is still physical and emotional fatigue some days. There are still unanswered questions about what comes next. But underneath it all, there is something steady.

A decision.

This next year, and most likely all the years I have left, will not be about proving, chasing, or performing.
It will be about joy. It will be about finding magic and purpose in each moment, no matter what is happening around me. It will be about choosing alignment over approval. Presence over panic. Response over reaction. Freedom over fear.

Watching Alysa skate reminded me that excellence and joy are not opposites. In fact, joy may be the very thing that unlocks excellence. What if the point isn’t to win? What if the point is to feel alive while you’re doing it? What if legacy is not built from grinding but from devotion to what lights you up?

On this birthday, I’m not asking, “How much did I accomplish?”
I’m asking:
Did I pursue joy?
Did I honor what feels magical?
Did I build a life aligned with the essence of who I am?
Because in the end, medals fade. Numbers fluctuate. Noise shifts.
But the way you feel while you’re living your life?
That’s everything.

This is the year I choose joy on purpose.
In the RV.
In the writing.
In the resistance.
In the quiet mornings.
In the imperfect middle.

This is the year I skate on my own kind of ice, simply for the love of it.
The truth is, I think that’s what life has been inviting me to do all along.

Happy birthday to me. And maybe … to the next version of you too!

If this reflection stirred something in you, take five quiet minutes and answer this question honestly:
If the point were joy … what would change?

And if you need help calming the noise long enough to hear your own answer, you can download my free Heart Breathing reset here.

There’s a kind of tired that sleep fixes. And then there’s the kind that settles deeper. The kind that feels physical, emotional, and spiritual all at once. Not dramatic. Not collapsing. Just … heavy.

You’re functioning. You’re showing up. You’re doing what needs to be done. But there’s a weight in your body, a fog around your spirit, and a quiet ache in your heart that, more than likely, no one else sees.

This isn’t laziness. It isn’t lack of discipline. It isn’t weakness. It’s what happens when you’ve been carrying a lot. Responsibilities. Deadlines. Decisions. Other people’s emotions. The state of the world. And your own  questions about what this life is really all about.

Women in this phase of life often carry more than they admit. Caregiving. Transition. Reinvention. Financial pressure. A desire to make the years ahead meaningful while wondering, is this really all there is? We don’t always stop to acknowledge the toll. We just keep going.

But here’s the quiet truth: you cannot access clarity from exhaustion, you cannot have the impact from a place of burnout, and you cannot build legacy from a state of depletion. 

You don’t have to power through this season to prove you’re strong. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is pause long enough to feel what your body and spirit are asking for. Not a full retreat. Not a dramatic overhaul. Just one small act of honoring and caring for yourself. Just you. In the moment. Perhaps that means a longer exhale, having a conversation you don’t rush, rescheduling a task to next week, taking ten minutes outside without your phone, a moment to focus on gratitude, pausing to allow joy to find you.

This isn’t quitting. It’s recalibrating. And recalibration is sacred.

This Week’s 3 I’s
Insight: Deep fatigue is often a sign that you’ve been strong for a long time.
Inspiration: You don’t have to prove your strength by continuing to push.
Inquiry: What would it look like to honor your tired instead of overriding it this week?

If this resonates, let yourself answer that question honestly. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not failing at this phase of life. You may simply be carrying more than anyone knows.

It’s okay to set some of it down and put yourself first. Even if just for a moment.
When I'm in this place, there is one tool I use that provides near instant results:

Quick Coherence Heart Breathing 
(click here to get my version of this tool)

Add that to some extra snuggle time with Luna and Sundae over a cup of tea in my favorite chair and I'm on my way back to myself. 

For more than two decades, I worked in classrooms and clinics talking with young people about sexuality, consent, power, and protection. I sat with teenagers navigating confusion, shame, coercion, and sometimes trauma. I coordinated care. I helped them find their voices. I advocated for them. And I looked them in the eye and honored their stories.

I have spent years teaching that power must be exercised with responsibility. That when harm occurs, accountability matters. That protecting victims means protecting their dignity. Not their abusers’ reputations.

So when I watched recent congressional testimony that treated sexual abuse allegations like political theater, saw evasion where there should have been accountability, and performance where there should have been gravity — something visceral rose in me.

It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just grief. It was a deep, embodied disgust.

Not because of politics. But because I have sat across from real victims. I know what courage it takes to speak. I know what retraumatization looks like. I know what it means to protect confidentiality. I know what harm looks like when powerful people come together around a narrative.

Watching that testimony, I felt the collision between my professional life, which was built around safeguarding the vulnerable, and what appeared to be indifference to that same vulnerability.

​So I stepped away.

I took some time away from the news and social media and buried myself in my RV renovation project and took some extra time snuggling with furry friends and lots of tea.

Today, as I sit quietly and look back over the past week, I found myself asking a different question than the one I expected ...

Not just: What is happening in this country?
But: How am I going to show up in response?

I found myself asking a question I suspect many others are quietly carrying:What is my role right now?

There are so many versions of me vying for the microphone.

• The outraged moral witness who cannot stomach corruption or cruelty.
• The grieving citizen who feels the weight of what’s unfolding.
• The protective daughter wondering what will happen to her father.
• The aspiring nomad still dreaming of the open road.
• The entrepreneur with a launch runway ahead of her.
• The cat-cuddling peace-seeker who just wants quiet and tea.
• The activist-curious part asking if more is required.
• The writer who only moves when inspiration strikes.

Some days they all speak at once. Yet, underneath the noise is a quiet pressure I know I’m not alone in feeling:

• If I’m not making signs and protesting …
• If I’m not posting constantly …
• If I’m not escalating …

Am I doing enough?

The Dichotomy
We are living in a time that rewards volume. The loudest voices rise fastest. The most outraged posts travel farthest. The sharpest statements get the most engagement. And so it can begin to feel as though there are only two acceptable responses to a destabilizing world:

Escalate. Or you don’t care.
But that is false.

The truth is, some people are wired for the megaphone. Some are wired for the courtroom. Some are wired for investigative journalism. Some are wired for organizing. Some are wired for public confrontation.

• Others are wired for something quieter.
• For holding spaces.
• For stabilizing nervous systems.
• For tending families.
• For creating coherence in small circles.
• For building communities that are durable rather than loud.

One is not morally superior to the other. They are simply different forms of contribution.

The Guilt Beneath the Question
If you are a thoughtful, values-driven person, you may be feeling a subtle guilt right now. If I am not marching, am I complicit? If I am not shouting, am I indifferent? If I am not amplifying constantly, am I failing the moment? But guilt is not the same thing as calling.

Guilt often simply means you care. It means you are paying attention. It means you do not want to look away. But guilt is not strategy. Guilt is not identity. It does not tell you who you are meant to be in this season.

Multiplicity Is Not Confusion
I used to think that not knowing which version of myself to lead with meant I was unclear. Now I’m beginning to see it differently. It means I am multi-dimensional.

• The outraged moral witness keeps my values sharp.
• The grieving citizen keeps me human.
• The protective daughter keeps love close.
• The aspiring nomad keeps freedom alive.
• The entrepreneur keeps momentum intact.
• The peace-seeker keeps my nervous system from burning out.
• The activist-curious part keeps my conscience awake.
• The inspired writer keeps my voice authentic.

None of these are wrong. None cancel the others. The tension I feel isn’t identity ... it’s timing.

Seasons, Not Permanent Roles

Maybe the question isn’t: Who am I supposed to become right now?
Maybe the question is: Which part of me is meant to lead this season?

Not permanently. Not for the next decade. Just for today. Just for this moment.  Just for now. 

In destabilizing times, it is easy to believe we must consolidate into a single, dramatic role ... the protester, the organizer, the relentless truth-teller. But what if the work for some of us is not escalation? What if it is steadiness? What if our contribution is to refuse to let our own interior world become corrupted by chaos?

Becoming steadier is not apathy. Protecting your nervous system is not betrayal. Choosing your form of contribution is not selfish. In fact, it may be the only sustainable way to remain engaged over the long haul.

You Don’t Have to Become Someone Else
There is a particular kind of pressure in moments like these. It's the pressure to become someone else in order to prove that you care. To become louder, harder, sharper. But integrity does not require shape-shifting.
You do not have to abandon your temperament, your wiring, or your season of life to respond to what’s happening.

If you are called to protest, protest.
If you are called to write, write.
If you are called to organize, organize.
If you are called to hold small circles of coherence in a loud world, do that.
And if you are in a season of tea, cats, caregiving, reflection, and quiet contemplation of what comes next,  that is not nothing. It is a form of stewardship.

The Question That Matters
Instead of asking: Why am I not doing more?
Try asking: Which version of me creates the most life force for me right now?
Not adrenaline. Not righteousness. Not fear. Not expectation.
Grounded, coherent, and clear life force.

You are not required to choose your permanent role in history this week. You are required only to remain coherent enough to act from your own integrity. In a world that feels loud and unstable, that might be one of the most radical things you can do.

Much of my work lives here. I help women stay emotionally awake without burning out, and learn how to choose boundaries, contribution, and next steps from a place of steadiness rather than pressure or expectations. To do that well, I have to practice it myself. Contemplate. Feel. Listen. Breathe. Integrate. Then take the next step.

There is no single correct way to respond to a complicated world. There is only the work of going inward, listening honestly, and moving from there.

There’s a moment many of us recognize, even if we don’t talk about it out loud. Nothing is technically wrong. Life works. You’re functioning. You’ve handled what needed to be handled. And yet … something inside you keeps whispering:

There has to be more than this.

Not more in a dramatic, burn-it-all-down way, but in a quieter, truer way. More alignment. More meaning. More room to breathe. More freedom.

Where You Were
At one point, the path you chose made perfect sense. It matched who you were then. It gave you what you needed, including the events, situations, relationships, challenges that you needed to learn and grow.

You showed up. You learned. You contributed. And if you didn't learn the lesson the first time around, you may have been presented with another opportunity to learn the lesson in a more profound way. There’s nothing to regret there. The truth is, it was all perfect to support your growth.

Where You Are
But now you’re standing in a different place. You may feel:

• less willing to tolerate what once felt acceptable
• more sensitive to misalignment
• more aware of the cost of living on autopilot

This isn’t restlessness. It’s awareness. It’s your inner compass recalibrating.

What’s Next
“What’s next” doesn’t usually arrive as a clear answer. It arrives as:

• a question that won’t leave you alone
• a tug you can’t explain
• a sense that staying put would require giving up pieces of yourself that you don't want to give up now that you've rediscovered them

And here’s the important part:
You don’t need to decide everything yet.
You just need to listen honestly to where you are.

Your Weekly Spark
Take a breath and sit with this question:

What feels complete in my life — and what feels quietly unfinished?

Don’t rush to answer it. Just notice what surfaces. Allow it to move through you. 

If you're ready to go a bit deeper, here is an invitation ...

I’m hosting a live webinar around this exact moment.
It's on February 12th from 11:30am - 12:30pm ET
It's designed for women navigating career and life transitions. 
Click here for more details and to register. 

If it speaks to you, you’re welcome to join me. If not, let this question walk with you this week. Either way, you’re not behind. You’re simply standing at a threshold.

When people hear the word legacy, they often think about the end. What will remain after they’re gone. Money. Possessions. A name remembered. But legacy isn’t something that begins later. It’s something that’s already unfolding.

This week’s Weekly Spark invites you to reconsider what legacy really means. It's not something you leave behind. It's something you live every day.

The Question for This Week
What would your life be like if you thought of legacy as something you live, not just something you leave?

Not someday. Not when everything is settled or complete. But now, in the way you show up, in the choices that you make, the impact that you have, and in the way your relate to others. 

A Living Legacy
Legacy is shaped in ordinary moments.
Every conversation.
Every decision.
Every act of kindness or courage.

You’re living your legacy in how you love your family, mentor others, contribute to your community, and align your life with your deepest values. Whether you realize it or not, you are already telling a story through your presence, your priorities, and your integrity.

What if you redefined legacy as something active and alive? What if each day became an opportunity to embody the story you want to be remembered for?

Why This Question Matters
When you begin to live your legacy, something important shifts.

• Presence — You make more intentional choices in the here and now.
• Consistency — Your daily actions begin to reflect your long-term values and vision.
• Fulfillment — You experience meaning that isn’t dependent on achievement or recognition.

Legacy stops being a distant idea and becomes a daily practice.

You don’t have to wait to matter. You don’t have to earn significance later. You’re already living it one choice at a time.

Where This Fits in the HUMBLE Pathway
This Weekly Spark connects with the HUMBLE Pathway, a heart-centered framework designed to support women through life transitions with clarity, confidence, and purpose.

Living your legacy draws on all of the HUMBLE steps:

• Honoring where you’ve been
• Listening to your inner wisdom
• Imagining what’s possible
• Creating supportive structure
• Surrounding yourself with people who uplift you
• And ultimately, embodying your legacy with confidence and joy

Legacy isn’t a finish line. It’s the throughline that weaves your inner values into your outer life.

Journaling Prompts
Use these prompts to bring your living legacy into focus. Take your time — one question is enough.

• How do you want people to feel when they’re around you?
• What values do you want your daily choices to reflect?
• Who in your life is already part of your legacy story? How are they part of it?
• If you lived as though your legacy were unfolding today, what would change?

Key Insight I Gained:


One Next Step I Will Take:


👉 You can download the journal pages for this question here.

Often, the smallest shift in how you show up carries the greatest meaning. You don’t have to wait for the “right time” to live with intention. Your legacy is already in motion. It can be found in what you value and how you choose to love, lead, listen, and live.

Legacy is not only about what you’ll leave someday. It’s about how you live today.

If you’re feeling a desire to live with more intention, clarity, and support, I’d love to invite you to join me
on Wednesday, February 12, from 11:30–12:30 ET, I’m hosting a free live webinar called:
​
From Career to Calling
Create a Next Chapter That Reflects Who You Are Becoming

This is a guided, reflective space where we I'll introduce the HUMBLE Pathway as a supportive framework for living your next chapter with confidence, clarity, and connection.

👉 You can learn more and register here:  https://www.fromcareertocalling.com/register-w-021226

Perfection whispers that you’re never quite enough. It tells you to wait until everything is flawless before you begin, share, or celebrate. But perfection is a moving target and chasing it often keeps you stuck, circling the same questions instead of moving forward.

Progress speaks differently. Progress honors movement. It celebrates the small steps, the messy drafts, the lessons learned along the way. It reminds you that growth doesn’t come from flawless execution, but from showing up again and again while learning, adjusting, and continuing to move forward.

This week’s Weekly Spark invites a simple but powerful question:

What would your life be like if you focused on progress rather than perfection?

What might open up if you released your grip on perfection and allowed yourself to be a work in progress;  still growing, still learning, and still moving forward with courage?

Why This Question Matters
Shifting from perfection to progress creates meaningful change:

• Freedom to try, fail, and try again without shame.
• Momentum with each small step building toward something bigger.
• Joy by celebrating milestones along the way instead of waiting for the finish line.

Perfection often delays action.
Progress turns ideas into movement and dreams into lived experience.

For women navigating transition, reinvention, or a new chapter, this shift is essential. Progress creates traction without pressure. It allows clarity to emerge through action, rather than demanding certainty before you begin.

Ready. Fire. Aim rather than Ready. Aim. Fire.

Where This Fits in the Bigger Picture
This Weekly Spark aligns with Step 3 of the HUMBLE Pathway: Map Out Your Purposeful Path.

Dreaming is essential, but a legacy isn’t built on ideas alone. It requires clarity and direction. Not a rigid, big picture plan, but rather a supportive structure that allows movement without overwhelm.

This step isn’t about having the whole roadmap figured out yet. It’s about choosing forward motion, one aligned step at a time. Before you ask "What’s the perfect plan?" you’re invited to explore a much simpler option, "What’s the next doable step?

Journaling Prompts
Take your time with these. Let one question be enough.

• Where in your life has striving for perfection stopped you from starting?
• What recent example shows how imperfect action still brought value or growth?
• What would it look like to celebrate progress as much as outcomes?
• What is one area where you could choose done over perfect this week?

Key Insight I Gained:

One Next Step I Will Take:

You can download the journal pages for this question here.

What’s Next
Progress is not about rushing. Progress doesn’t ask you to know everything. It simply asks you to begin by taking one simple step.

It’s about choosing to take one simple step with compassion and intention rather then remaining paralyzed with uncertainty around the bigger picture. 

If this question is stirring something in you and you’re noticing a desire for more structure, clarity, or support around what comes next, I'd like to invite you to join me for an upcoming event. On February 12, I’m hosting a live webinar called:

From Career to Calling
Create a Next Chapter That Reflects Who You Are Becoming

It’s a guided, reflective space to learn more about the HUMBLE Pathway as a supportive framework for what comes next.

No pressure. No requirement to have it all figured out. Just the next simple step.
👉 You can learn more and join us here.

You don’t need perfection to move forward. You need permission to begin. One step is enough. Progress will meet you there.

So much of life is lived in the realm of obligation. The to-do lists. The deadlines. The quiet, persistent shoulds and have-tos.

Responsibility is part of being human, of course, and many of us carry it with care and integrity. But over time, responsibilities that feel like obligation can grow so loud that it drowns out something essential: the voice of your deeper desires.

Passion speaks differently. Passion energizes instead of drains. It pulls you forward instead of weighing you down. It’s the spark you feel when something aligns with who you really are — not who you’ve been expected to be.

The Question for This Week
​What would your life be like if you allowed passion, not obligation, to guide your next steps?

Not recklessly. Not irresponsibly. But intentionally.

What might shift if you trusted joy, curiosity, and genuine interest as valid guides? What if, when faced with a choice, you leaned in the direction of your passion?

Passion doesn’t require abandoning responsibility. It simply asks that what you love be allowed a seat at the table ... so that what you do becomes not just sustainable, but deeply fulfilling.

Why This Question Matters
When passion leads, subtle but powerful shifts begin to happen:

• Alignment - Your actions reflect what truly matters to you.
• Energy - You feel more alive, motivated, and engaged.
• Fulfillment - There’s a sense that your time and gifts are being used well.

Obligation might keep things running, but passion is what helps you soar.
For many women, this question surfaces a quiet, tender realization: I’ve been living a life that made sense to everyone else.

That awareness is both meaningful and fragile. This question isn’t here to push you into action. It’s here to offer permission.

Journaling Prompts
Give yourself permission to dream as you reflect.

• When was the last time you felt fully alive and energized? What were you doing?
• If you set the “shoulds” aside for a moment, what would you choose to spend more time on?
• What passion or interest have you placed on the back burner? What small step could bring it forward now?
• How might your life feel different if even one decision this week was guided by passion instead of obligation?

You don’t have to answer everything. Let one prompt be enough.

Key insight I gained:

One next step I will take:

📄 Prefer to journal offline?
You can download a journal worksheet for this question here or
click here to explore the full published What If? 12-Question Reflection Journal on Amazon.

Where This Fits in the Bigger Picture
This Weekly Spark aligns with Step 2 of the HUMBLE Pathway: Unleash Your Inner Power and Wisdom. Passion is not frivolous. It’s fuel. The more you allow it to guide you, the more vibrant and aligned your life becomes. This is the step where passion, values, strengths, and inner knowing begin to reclaim their rightful place. Before we can talk about what’s next, we have to acknowledge what’s been quietly draining our energy.

This week, let this question be an anchor, not just a reflection. You don’t need to overhaul your life, but you do need to tell yourself the truth about where obligation has been running the show and where passion has been sidelined.

Passion doesn’t demand dramatic change. It asks for recognition. It asks to be taken seriously as a source of guidance, not treated as a luxury you’ll get to “someday.”

Clarity grows when you stop dismissing what energizes you. When passion is allowed a seat at the table, decisions begin to feel less heavy and more honest. What once felt draining starts to make sense — and what matters becomes easier to see.

One question.
One honest answer.
One step toward a life that feels aligned rather than managed.

Have you ever noticed how quickly we move on to what’s next? The next chapter. The next goal. The next version of who we think we should become. So often, we rush forward without ever pausing to honor what’s already been lived.

The Question for This Week
What would your life be like if you could see how all your experiences have prepared you for this moment?

Most women skip this step. We downplay our stories. We brush off compliments with, “Oh, it was nothing.” We look ahead, driven by a quiet pressure to keep doing more, becoming more, proving we’re still relevant. But when we move forward without honoring the growth, resilience, and wisdom that brought us here, we disconnect from the very foundation of our purpose. For women navigating reinvention, retirement, or a new chapter, this pause isn’t optional. It’s essential.

When you take time to truly see the value of what you’ve lived, something shifts. You stop searching for purpose. You start standing in it.

This is the first step of the HUMBLE Pathway. Honoring Where You’ve Been. It sets the tone for everything that follows.

Journal Reflection
Life rarely unfolds in a straight line.
The jobs, relationships, wins, and losses may have felt random,  even unfair at the time. Yet when you pause and look back, patterns begin to emerge.

Even the detours shaped you. Even the hard seasons taught you something. Nothing was wasted.
What if every experience, even the struggles and especially the ones you questioned, was quietly preparing you for this moment?

Journal Prompts
Take your time with these. Let your pen move freely. There are no right or wrong answers.

1. Over the last ten years, what three experiences most shaped who you are today?
2. How did those experiences prepare you for where you are right now?
3. From a difficult season, what strength, skill, or quality did you gain?
4. If you wrote a letter to your past self, what would you say to reassure her that everything was preparing her for this moment?

Key Insight I Gained:

One Next Step I Will Take:

📄 Prefer to journal offline?
You can download a journal worksheet for this question here.

This question is one of twelve in What Would Your Life Be Like If…?: 12 Reflections to Create a Life of Love, Legacy, and Lasting Impact — a guided journal many women use to clarify what’s next before making any big decisions. You can find the journal on Amazon here.

Last week, I shared an invitation to begin the year with better questions instead of rushing toward answers. My original intention was to offer a set of twelve questions I use with clients as they move through my HUMBLE Pathway. But as I sat with it, one thing became clear. For the purpose of this series, six is enough. One question for each step along the pathway that allows you to gently lean into what is a powerful process for women contemplating their next steps or creating a new chapter.

So for the next six weeks, each Weekly Spark will focus on one reflective question, aligned with one step of the HUMBLE Pathway. This is the framework I use to help people navigate transitions and consciously create a life with more purpose and fulfillment.

What to Expect
Each week, I’ll share:

• one What if? question
• one step of the HUMBLE Pathway
• one short set of journal prompts to use as you wish
• delivered right to your inbox

There’s no right way to engage.
You may choose to write in your journal.
You may choose to reflect quietly over a cup of tea.
You might simply carry the question with you as you move through your days.
All of it counts. The process is yours.

If You’d Like to Dig a Little Deeper
On January 21, I’ll be hosting a free webinar where I’ll walk through the full HUMBLE Pathway and talk about how these questions fit together.
There’s no obligation to attend.
It’s simply an opportunity to step back and take a peek at the map.

I’ll share registration details next week.

For Now, This Is a Recalibration
One question.
One step.
One spark.
One week at a time.

We’ll begin on Tuesday. I hope you'll follow along and find value.

With love,
Trisha

PS As always, if there is anyone in your world who might benefit from this series, feel free to send them this link so I can set them up: ​https://trishajacobson.kit.com/39de509e91

I’ve been sitting with something uncomfortable lately and instead of pushing it away or trying to “rise above it,” I decided to look at it honestly.

Contempt.

That word makes many heart-centered people flinch. We associate it with superiority, cruelty, or moral failure. Something we shouldn’t feel if we’re committed to compassion, nuance, and love.

And yet… here it is. I've been feeling it. 

In the wake of recent events, I’ve noticed moments of sharp judgment, frustration, and even hate arise in me, especially when I encounter willful denial, cruelty wrapped in certainty, or blatant gaslighting presented as truth.

I questioned myself.
Is this who I’m becoming?
Am I losing my softness?

A conversation with a friend helped to put my emotions into context and name what I've been feeling.

Contempt.

The deeper I listened and the more I allowed myself to feel, the clearer something became:
Contempt, when consciously held, is not the opposite of being heart-centered. It’s often what shows up when compassion has been overdrawn and a boundary is finally forming.

Contempt as a Signal, Not a Home
What I’ve come to understand is this that contempt is not something to live in, but it is something to listen to.
It’s a signal that says:

• This violates my values.
• I will not engage here.
• I refuse to normalize what harms.​

For heart-centered people, contempt often carries grief underneath it. It appears after we’ve tried to understand, empathize, explain, and stay open ... only to realize that openness is being exploited or met with bad faith.

In that moment, contempt isn’t hatred. It’s self-respect activating.

The Danger Isn’t Feeling Contempt. It Is Identifying With It
​The problem arises when contempt becomes an identity or a residence. When it turns into:

• cynicism instead of clarity
• superiority instead of discernment
• constant engagement instead of conscious withdrawal

That’s when the heart begins to harden.

But fleeting, acknowledged contempt, held with awareness, doesn’t do that. In fact, it can protect the heart by preventing endless emotional bleeding.

What Integration Looks Like
For me, integrating contempt without becoming it means a few things:

• Naming it honestly, without spiritual bypass or shame
• Feeling it in the body, rather than feeding it through endless mental stories
• Letting it do its boundary work, then disengaging
• Processing it away from the object, through writing, movement, tears, or quiet reflection
• Returning to my values, rather than virtue signaling
  
  

I don’t ask myself, “Am I being loving enough?”
I ask, “What value is asking to be protected right now?”
Truth. Dignity. Humanity. Sanity.

Withdrawing Energy Is Not Withdrawing Humanity
There’s an important distinction I’m learning to live by: I can withdraw my attention without withdrawing my humanity. I can disengage without becoming cold. I can see clearly without hardening. Choosing not to debate, not to explain, not to participate in bad-faith conversations isn’t failure — it’s discernment.

Some spaces are not meant for dialogue. Some moments simply call for witness, not engagement. Some boundaries are acts of love for ourselves and for what we value most.

Staying Awake Without Burning Out
​We are living in a time that asks a lot of the heart. Staying awake, feeling deeply, and refusing numbness is not easy work. It requires pacing, boundaries, and a willingness to feel emotions we might rather skip over.

Contempt doesn’t mean the heart has gone offline. Often, it means the heart is protecting itself so it can stay online.

And that distinction matters. Because only hearts that remain awake — not hardened, not collapsed — are capable of shaping what comes next.

January 2 has a very different energy than January 1. The noise has mostly passed. The declarations have quieted. The pressure to name something bold has softened. What’s left is often something subtler. It's a mix of curiosity, longing, and quiet knowing.

Something is ready to shift… but I don’t yet know what that looks like. I hear it from so many people I work with, and I've been feeling it myself:

For some, it’s the sense that a chapter has ended ... perhaps a career, a caregiving role, an identity, a season of life, or the old ways of defining success no longer fit.

For others, it’s not dissatisfaction so much as restlessness. A longing for meaning, contribution, or clarity that hasn’t fully formed into words yet.

And underneath all of that, there’s often a quieter question humming: 
What comes next — and how do I choose wisely?

This year, instead of rushing toward answers, I am choosing to begin with better questions. Over the next six weeks, I’ll be sharing a series of Weekly Sparks built around inquiry — two reflective What if? questions each week — designed to help you gently orient yourself toward what’s emerging.

This isn’t a challenge.
There’s nothing to keep up with.
There is no right way to do this.

You may choose to read the questions and allow your mind to reflect. You may choose to journal your answers. You may choose ask yourself the questions just before you go to sleep and allow your subconscious to answer in your dreams. You may skip weeks, come back later, or simply let the questions linger.

These inquiries are connected to a path I use in my own life and work. It's a way of navigating transition that honors both where you’ve been and where you’re becoming. I’ll share more about that as we go.

For now, it’s enough to know this:
You don’t have to force clarity.
You don’t have to have a five-year plan.
And you don’t have to leap before you feel ready.

Sometimes the most meaningful change begins not with a declaration, but with permission.
Permission to pause.
Permission to listen.
Permission to be honest about what no longer fits and to be curious about what might.

As this new year settles in, consider this a gentle invitation to lean into reflection before resolution. Not to fix yourself. Not to reinvent everything. But to simply begin paying attention— with self-acceptance and a bit of structure — to what’s asking to be named.

Next week, we’ll begin with the first set of questions. But for now, let this be enough: You’re not behind. You’re not late. You're right on time. And you don’t have to do this alone.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon with my dad at his assisted living community.

My niece and nephew were there with my sister-in-law — my brother’s widow. Dad’s caregiver of six years, who has become family in every way that matters, surprised us with an unplanned visit. We all sat together in the common room and snacked on an impromptu spread of cheese, crackers, fruit, nuts, and chocolate. A couple of residents joined us.

And we talked.
About life.
About what’s happening in our country right now.
About worry, hope, confusion, grief, and love.

It didn’t feel like a performance of Christmas. There was no stress. No ritual. No expectations. It felt calm and connected — full of acceptance, belonging, and love.

At one point, I found myself thinking about Christmases long ago, spent with our Jewish friends, and how natural it felt at the time. Different traditions, same table. Shared food. Shared stories. Shared laughter. I don’t remember anyone trying to convince anyone else of anything.

Just people choosing to be together. Sharing food, stories, and space.

At the time, I didn’t have language for how meaningful that was. Now I do. And I am forever grateful that my parents created that environment long before I could ever understand how much it mattered.

Yesterday felt important. It was not loud or dramatic. It was just quietly profound. The kind of moment that doesn’t announce itself but stays with you. The kind that nudges something open inside and whispers,
Pay attention. This matters.

I also shared my dad’s website with him — something I created as a Christmas gift. It’s a living archive of stories, photos, memories, and books he has written that I will help him publish. His legacy, gathered and honored while he’s still here to witness it.

That felt important too.

As I sat beside him, wise, present, and slowly fading, I felt myself step into a different role. Not just daughter, but witness. Elder-in-the-making. The one sitting close enough to hear and repeat the stories, even as his hearing makes it harder for him to follow every thread of the conversation.

There’s a tenderness in that place.
And a responsibility.

Later, we gathered with the rest of the family on a Zoom call with all my brothers and their families. I set it up. So many faces in several different places. Lives that have diverged and evolved. So much has changed over the past few years.

We weren’t together in the way we once were. The same love in a different form. Not perfect, by any means, but perfect in the moment.

It struck me how seasons shift, how roles change, and how we are constantly being invited to become someone new while still honoring who we’ve been.

The truth is, we each have a story. And we each want to be seen for who we are — and for who we are becoming. We want to be accepted. We want to be heard. We want to belong. We want to contribute. We want to love and be loved.

And when all is said and done --
when this life loosens its grip --
none of the rest of it matters.

Not money.
Not power.
Not who was right or wrong.
Not who won.
Not what we owned.
Not what we accumulated.
None of it.

As I drove home that evening, I remembered my mother’s last words to me before she slipped away. I remember it like it was yesterday. She took my hand, looked straight into my eyes, and said,
“Only love. Only love. Only love. It’s all that matters.” 

I’ve carried those words with me ever since. I wear them as a bracelet on my wrist every single day. Yesterday reminded me why.

Today, as I reflect on the past year and find myself easing into the new year, I am standing at my own threshold and embracing my final act. I am reflecting on my own legacy — on what’s next, and on how I want to spend whatever time remains. I keep coming back to the same truth.

In the end, it’s not about building something impressive. It’s about building something that makes my heart beat happy and honors the impact I hope to have on those who know me personally and on those I may only ever touch through my words and work.

Every one of us has a story.
Every one of us carries skills shaped by experience.
Every one of us holds passions refined by our lived experiences.
And somewhere inside each of us, there’s a quiet nudge.
A desire to contribute.
To matter.
To leave something of ourselves behind that helps, heals, or opens a door for someone else.

Not impact measured in numbers or applause, but impact measured in connection.
In courage.
In truth.
In love.

My impact. Your impact.

What does this look like now, in this season of your life?

​If this reflection resonates, I’d love to hear what this season is asking of you — here in the comments or in a private message, whichever feels right.

This year, though, something shifted for me. Scrolling on social media, I came across an image of a holiday list rewritten in a way that made me stop my scroll. It turned all the doing into being:

• Be present
• Wrap someone in a hug
• Send peace
• Donate food
• Share love
• Be the light

Simple. Human. True.

It was such a powerful reminder of what I am actually craving. It's not the perfect gift, or the perfect menu, or the perfectly curated December. It's connection, presence, and moments that feel real.

The Myth of Holiday “Doing”
We’ve been conditioned to believe that more doing = more meaning.
More gifts = more joy.
More activities = a more memorable season.

But here’s the secret most of us discover quietly, painfully, and late in the game.

Presence is the thing people remember. Not perfection.

The calm conversation instead of the rushed one.
The soft moment on the couch.
The deep breath before reacting.
The hug that lasts a few seconds longer than usual.
The peace you bring into a room when your own nervous system is calm.

Those are the things that land. Those are the things that matter. Those are the things that stay with people long after the decorations come down.

The Hard Part: Being Present When You’re Overwhelmed
Of course, it’s easy to talk about presence and peace when things are smooth. It’s much harder when you’re juggling family dynamics, caring for aging parents, missing someone you love, navigating financial stress, or simply exhausted from living your life with the busyness of the holiday season piled on top.

Presence doesn’t just happen. It has to be created.

That’s why I started using, and have been teaching, a practice called Heart Breathing. It’s a one-minute reset that calms your nervous system, brings you back into your body, and helps you show up as the version of yourself you want to be … not the version stress tries to turn you into.

I’ve used it before difficult conversations, before walking into crowded rooms, before making caregiving decisions, and honestly, before many holiday gatherings!

It’s simple. It’s grounding. It increases our ability to connect with our loved ones. And it works!

That's also why I love teaching Heart Hugs. It's a specific way of hugging that deepens the connection with those we love. 

And Heart Talks, which is a communication process that enhances communication, allows everyone to be heart, and helps all involved to feel more connected.

Here is my Heart Reset Toolkit, which provides you with the specifics of Heart Breathing, Heart Hugs, and Heart Talks. Just in time for the holidays.

So this year join me in making a different kind of To Do list:

• Be present
• Offer a real hug
• Send peace with your words
• Give what you can
• Lead with love
• Be the light in your corner of the world

And if you want a set of tools to help you actually live it — not just read it — I’d love to gift you my Heart Reset Toolkit that makes it possible in each and every moment.

✨ Click here to download the free Heart Reset Toolkit here.
​
The truth is, calm, grounded presence is the holiday magic we’re all really searching for.

The recent news of Rob Reiner and his wife Michele being killed by their son has stirred something deep and unexpected in me. Not because I knew them personally, but because I recognize that moment. The moment when love collides with addiction, when the familiar becomes unrecognizable, and when life fractures to the point from which there is no return.

As I have watched the news coverage unfold, I’ve found myself revisiting a story I don’t believe I’ve ever shared publicly. It’s a story I didn’t plan to write. But somehow it feels necessary for me to share in light of the world we are living in now,

Hope isn’t optional. It’s essential. And yet, hope is often forged in the darkest places.

My ex-husband was a cocaine addict. I state that so easily now, but it took years before I could name it without shame or fear tightening my chest and making it difficult to breathe. Addiction doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in quietly, distorting reality, rearranging priorities, slowly erasing the person you thought you knew. At first, it looked like stress. Then distraction. Then unreliability. Then chaos.

Although I had filed for divorce three years before I finally went through with it, I remember the exact day I knew, without question, that there was no going back.

My parents were hosting a going-away party for my younger brother, who was about to leave for the Peace Corps. It was a big deal. Family was coming in from all over. My mother was trying to wrap her mind around the idea that her baby was leaving the country, heading to Africa, and stepping into the unknown. She asked my husband to gather some coolers for drinks and ice. He agreed.

The day before the party, my mother called me. There were no coolers. She asked me to check in with him.

I don’t recall if I ever told her we were separated. Back then, I kept a lot to myself. What I did know was that he was actively using. I also knew where he was staying. He was back at his father’s house, in the room where he grew up. And I knew enough to stay away ... until my mother called looking for coolers.

Mom didn’t ask for much. This party mattered to her. So I drove over to my father-in-law’s house to check on the coolers. His father answered the door. He looked at me, shook his head slightly, and pointed upstairs. No words were necessary. He knew. I knew.

I walked up the stairs and knocked.

When my husband opened the door, I stepped into a reality that still lives vividly in my body, even after all these years. The curtains were drawn. The room was dark. The posters that I remembered covering the walls from our teenage years were gone. In their place were small pieces of duct tape covering the holes left from the push pins that held up the posters. When he saw me looking at them, he told me planes were flying over the house and spying on him and that the tape prevented them from seeing into his room.

For context, his father’s house sat under a flight path for a nearby airport. No one was spying on him. It was cocaine paranoia.

As he spoke, he was rummaging frantically, trying to hide something. In the corner of the room, on a table, sat a piece of glass with lines of cocaine carefully laid out. I remember the razor blade. The rolled up dollar bill. I had known he was using. But seeing it, right there and undeniable, was something else entirely.

I stood between him, the drugs, and the door. I asked about the coolers. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I do remember something about Mom never asking for much of anything. And that this was important to her. And to me. He tried to bolt. When he felt shame, he ran and hid. But I was standing in his way, blocking the doorway. I stood my ground.

The next thing I knew, he shoved me backward into the wall at the top of the stairs. His hands were around my neck. He was erratic, frantic, no longer the man I knew and loved.

The man I loved did not have a violent bone in his entire being.

I remember thinking he might push me down the stairs. I remember seeing his father standing at the bottom, watching his son with his hands around my throat. 

That moment was my point of no return. I stopped fighting. I went limp. I shifted my body just enough to let him pass. He ran out of the house. I waited. I heard his car screech out of the driveway.

I walked downstairs, got into my car, and drove to the store to buy coolers. I went through the party on autopilot. I said goodbye to my brother before he boarded the plane to Tanzania. And the next day, I called my lawyer and told him to proceed with the divorce.

The truth is, I loved my husband. I still love him as my ex-husband. Loving someone through addiction is the most painful experience I’ve ever known. I am profoundly grateful that he is still alive. I’m grateful that he is straight. I am grateful that he has done his best to make amends for the damage his addiction has caused both of us. And I am grateful that we have been able to stay connected through our mutual healing.

I am also grateful that day didn't end my life. It is only now, almost twenty years later, that I fully realize how lucky I was. I am also grateful that I was able to set a boundary that put me on a whole new path of personal growth and self discovery.

​And I am grateful—deeply grateful—that he was my husband and not my child.

I cannot imagine the agony of watching your child suffer from addiction. I have sat beside countless parents in the halls of Al-Anon and Nar-Anon, bearing witness to a pain that has no clean edges. In those rooms, I found hope. Hope for the addict. Hope for myself. Hope born from surrender, from community, and from the radical honesty that is demanded by the Twelve Steps.

I found hope rooted in the belief that even when I don’t understand why something is happening to me, it is more than likely happening for me. For my growth. For the impact it will have on others I am connected to.

The deaths of Rob and Michele Reiner are tragic beyond words. And yet, even here, especially here, I find myself returning to hope. Hope that their lives, their love, and their legacy will continue to ripple outward.

Hope that this tragedy will spark deeper conversations about addiction, mental health, and the urgent need for compassion, kindness, and support.

Hope that light can still emerge from unbearable darkness.

I have no easy answers. But I do know this: even in the most devastating moments life brings, hope remains. I can always find peace. I can always find gratitude. I can always find joy.

And I will always choose hope.

A Quiet Invitation
You don’t need answers to these questions right now. Simply let them meet you where you are.

What would your life be like if you trusted yourself enough to recognize your own point of no return?

What would your life be like if you allowed love and boundaries to exist together, without believing that one cancels out the other?

What would your life be like if you released responsibility for someone else’s choices, healing, or recovery?

What would your life be like if you stopped asking “Why is this happening to me?” and gently asked “What might this be inviting me to learn?”

What would your life be like if you chose hope, not because the story ended the way you wanted, but because choosing hope was the only way forward?

Last night I went to Lights in Bloom at Selby Gardens in Sarasota.

I’ve always wanted to go, but this time felt a little special. I wasn’t there just to wander. I went to photograph an engagement ... not professionally, just as a favor to a friend of a friend. She took video. I took stills. It was fun to move through the crowd, stealthy, setting up without being seen so as not to spoil the moment.

The moment itself was sweet and joyful in that unmistakable way. He was so proud of himself for pulling it off. She was giggly, glowing, floating somewhere just above the ground. When he got down on one knee under the massive tree strung with thousands of lights, strangers nearby started applauding. It was spontaneous and kind and exactly what you hope a moment like that will be. And I loved being part of it.

Afterward, we wandered through the gardens. Two million lights were woven through trees, paths, water, and architecture. Selby sits right on the bay, and even at night you can feel the openness of the place. Beauty layered on beauty. Light everywhere. People wandering along the pathways, taking it all in.

As happy as I was soaking it all in, an old thought passed through and caught me by surprise. It’s one that used to land very differently than it did this time.

I’m so happy for them. But it’s not for me. At least not now. And maybe never.

Not with sadness.
Not with resignation.
Just clarity.

What I felt instead was contentment — a deep, steady kind. The kind that comes when you’re no longer trying to fit yourself into a story that isn’t yours.

I imagined coming back to Selby on my own. Getting a pass. Exploring every nook and cranny slowly. Perhaps sitting on a bench with my laptop, letting thoughts spill out while surrounded by beauty and water and light.

I wandered through the gift shop. It was beautifully curated and softly festive and calm. I didn’t want to rush. I didn’t want to buy everything, though I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the hanging orchid display. I've never seen anything like it. I just wanted to be there, among them and their intricate beauty.

I’ll come back, I thought. And I meant it.
​

Later, at home, with a cup of tea in hand, I looked around my living room. The day before I’d picked up a simple string of garland, some red berries tossed into a clearance bin, and a couple of strands of tiny white LED lights — all half off. Nothing fancy. Nothing overdone. Now they’re draped across the fireplace screen, quietly glowing.


That room has become a small sanctuary. A place for morning tea. For writing. For thinking. For being watched closely by my ever-present feline stalker, who sits next to the white ceramic Christmas tree my grandmother made in one of her first ceramics classes decades ago. It’s not trendy. It’s not perfect. And I love it deeply. Her hands are still part of my holidays and still part of my light.

As I sat there, I realized how full this all feels. Witnessing love without longing. Creating warmth without an audience. Honoring memory without being anchored to the past. Enjoying the peace and quiet. Choosing freedom without closing my heart.

Even losing my phone somewhere in the middle of it all was inconvenient. I still don't have it, but even that has not shaken the feeling that I am okay. I am grounded. I am present.
​
This is the life I’m choosing right now.
Quiet.
Beautiful.
Intentional.
Often unplugged.
Not small.
Not lonely.
Just … mine.
And it feels exactly right.