Which sounds simple until you realize how much of your identity is tied to showing up, contributing, and being important. Apparently, I can give myself permission and still request supporting documentation.

Gurl, where the f*_ have you actually been?

That’s for me to discern and for me to disclose. Stepping away from publishing hasn’t meant stepping away from paying attention. It made me think about how easily a commitment becomes a role and how rarely we stop to ask whether that role still fits.

The pause brought me back to a question I’ve been sitting with:

You’re capable of leading. But where are you taking everyone—including yourself?

So, where’s the ship?

A few companies have caught my attention. A few emerging medical device companies are worth watching in 2026.

Teal Health’s FDA-authorized Teal Wand enables at-home sample collection for HPV cervical cancer screening. Bloomlife combines maternal-health monitoring devices with connected care outside the clinic.

Meanwhile, United is expanding Starlink connectivity and making it easier for passengers to check whether their flight has it. HubSpot is giving customers more control over what they spend on AI.

Inspire Medical Systems on my radar too. The company develops implantable neurostim technology for obstructive sleep apnea. October 1st it announced approval of new procedure codes that include it’s Inspire V system, scheduled to take effect Jan ‘28.

Very Different industries. Different decisions.

Phew. That’s a lot of information.

So what do we do with it?

We ask what it means. What changes for patients and customers? For the people delivering care? For the teams expected to turn a decision into something that works?

That’s where my attention goes: the distance between announcing a direction and helping people move toward it. The results will matter. So will what happens after the announcement.

A vision needs people who have what they need to carry it forward.

Which brings me back to the ship and the people aboard.

Do they understand where we’re going? Do they have what they need to contribute? Can they tell the captain something isn’t working without being invited to swim home?

I’ve been under the guidance of brilliant leaders. Those seasons were exciting, and we created meaningful work together. I knew what I was contributing to, and I wanted to contribute.

I’ve also worked with people who made me question the ship itself. Where were we going? What were we building? And did I still want to be aboard?

Useful questions to ask before unpacking.

Side Note: I have occasionally asked them after decorating my own cabin.

Experience has made me more attentive to what happens after the vision is announced. Does anyone listen when something isn’t working? Are expectations clear? Does the person steering understand what the journey is asking of everyone else?

A compelling destination matters. So does how people are treated on the way there.

And when we’re the ones leading, those questions belong to us, too.

What do I want to build?

That experience shapes what I’m looking for now.

Then there’s a part of me that feels pulled back toward consulting, owning my own brand and helping other people grow from the ground up.

I love building. I really do.

Especially relationships. Getting to know the client. What makes them tick? What are they trying to accomplish? What problem can I help them solve?

And then there’s operations. The systems. How the work actually gets done. Where things get stuck, who’s carrying too much, and what keeps the enterprise moving forward.

Apparently, I want to know the people aboard and take a look at the engine room.

That’s the kind of work that interests me: understanding people well enough to build something that works for them. A mission I can stand behind. People I can learn from. A place where my strategy, empathy, and ability to build relationships can contribute to work worth doing.

I have a few ideas about where Ms. Davis can make a meaningful contribution.

And I’m getting more deliberate about which ships I’m willing to board.

Would you choose this destination today?

Maybe you’re asking your own version of that question.

A full calendar tells us we’re occupied. Understanding where our commitments are taking us requires a closer look.

We can spend years pursuing a role, growing a business, or becoming the person everyone relies on. We get good at it. People recognize us for it. Eventually, the recognition can make it harder to ask whether we still want it.

Do you want the role you’re pursuing—and the life that comes with it?

The daily rhythm. The responsibility. The demands on your time. The version of you who comes home after giving so much of yourself at work.

Sometimes we’re still navigating toward something an earlier version of us wanted.

There’s humility in admitting that. Especially when we’ve invested years becoming qualified for a role we’re no longer sure we want.

But surely growth gets to influence the itinerary. (Let this last sentence sit with you before moving on).

Not everyone needs the same hat

Not everyone is designed to climb the corporate ladder.

Some people thrive leading teams. Others want to master their craft, build a business, or contribute to meaningful work with enough energy left to enjoy their lives.

I can wear many hats. That doesn’t mean I want custody of all of them.

There are roles we’re capable of performing that we don’t want to keep. There are responsibilities we’ve carried so well that everyone — including us—has stopped questioning whether we should still be carrying them.

Knowing your place aboard takes honesty about your strengths, your values, and what you want to give. It also takes enough respect for other people to let their contributions look different from yours.

A ship needs people who know what they’re doing and have room to do it. Leadership includes creating those conditions.

Less chasing. More choosing.

Knowing yourself won’t make every decision obvious.

The work can still be hard. Conditions change. People disappoint us. Sometimes we disappoint ourselves. Though, you have a clearer place to return to. You’re clearer about why you’re doing the work and what you’re willing to give to it.

You begin to recognize which ambitions are yours, which you’ve inherited, and which looked particularly convincing on someone else’s LinkedIn profile.

You can appreciate an opportunity and let it pass. You can learn from a leader while deciding their mission isn’t yours. You can adjust your course and take responsibility for how that change affects the people counting on you.

You get more discerning about what deserves your energy.

I can research everyone else’s next move. I still have to choose my own.

A voyage you actually want

When I imagine myself on a boat somewhere in the South Pacific, sun on my skin, ready for a swim, I’m struck by how little I picture needing.

Although sunscreen and someone who knows how to operate the boat would be appreciated.

What appeals to me is the feeling of being fully there. Enjoying the life I’m in without mentally negotiating the next thing I need to become. I want that feeling to have a place in my decisions on dry land.

The work I choose. The people I build with. The commitments I make. The space I leave to enjoy what all that effort supports.

Knowing your place aboard and choosing a voyage you actually want to take.

Before I accept the next hat, I’d like to know where the ship is going.

Family I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years arrived with something from a life I lived more than twenty years ago. I wasn’t expecting the painting. I wasn’t expecting what came with it either. They remembered her. The woman I was in my twenties.

They spoke about her with such pride that for a moment I had to reconcile their memory of me with my own.

Because when we look backward, particularly during seasons of change, it can be tempting to evaluate our former selves through everything we already know now.

What I should have known and what I would have done differently. What took me entirely too long to figure out was apparently wisdom enjoys arriving after the meeting.

But they weren’t looking at her that way. They were proud of her. And they were proud of the woman standing in front of her now. There was something humbling about being seen with that much generosity when I had spent so much time evaluating myself by what still hadn’t happened.

Maybe sometimes progress is having enough room inside yourself to hold who you were, who you are now and who you are becoming at the same time.

I think the same is true of leadership.

We talk a lot about becoming better leaders. Developing new skills. Expanding our capacity. Adapting to change. Learning how to communicate differently as the rooms we enter become bigger and the stakes get higher.

And, growth doesn’t always require becoming someone else. Sometimes it requires becoming more capable of accessing more of who you already are.

The confidence you had before you knew to second guess yourself. The humility you earned after getting something spectacularity wrong.

The instinct experience taught you to trust. The flexibility to change your mind without losing your center.

What happens to all of the versions of ourselves we’ve already been?

I think leadership isn’t choosing between who you were and who you’re becoming. Maybe it’s developing enough capacity to lead from all of it.

In this season I’ve been called to bring them all together.

Did I ignore them?

Did I outgrow them?

Did I ever sit down long enough to listen to them?

Thank them?

Or perhaps the work was never to leave them behind.

Maybe the work was making enough room for all of them.

Not because she got every version of herself right. Oh, gurl, no she definitely did not. There are many chapters of my past I would happily control + alt + delete. Becoming does not require erasure. It requires integration. ALL of it.

To be completely honest, I have ignored many parts of myself in the pursuit of transformation. In the pursuit of growth. It’s easy to do so. Staying more productive. Find the next opportunity. Fill the calendar. Keep becoming.

But busy changes nothing if all that movement keeps me from hearing myself.

Dance is probably the easiest example.

I can build, lead, sell, write, coach, strategize and create all I want. But I remove dance because it doesn’t fit neatly into some version of who I think I’m supposed to become, am I actually becoming more myself?

Nope.

I’m editing myself.

A dear friend sat with me in the midst of all of this and said something I needed to hear: “Be in the state of joy.”

Within two hours my state shifted. I listened and I went with the flow. Not because I suddenly did not have things to do. I definitely did. Not because joy was some foreign concept. I know what joy feels like.

I think what she gave me was permission. Permission to remember that I am so much more than a job title — even if a previous version of me believed I needed one to tell me who I was.

And then there is basic chemistry.

What makes me happy?

Do those things.

Not because every decision should be dictated by pleasure or because a meaningful life is supposed to feel good all the time. But because joy is information, too.

What gives me energy? What makes me laugh? What makes me lose track of time? What leaves me feeling more like myself afterward—not less?

Dance does that.

Certain people do that.

Writing does that. Travel does that. Spanish guitar does that. The local plant shop does that. A good conversation does that. Sometimes it’s music, sunshine, sharing a meal, or doing something completely ridiculous that serves absolutely no productive purpose. Like jumping into a pool with no plan other than: well, that was fun!

What brings me closer to myself?

I’m getting better at listening to the answer.

Maybe we don’t always need another strategy, another plan, or another version of ourselves to become.

Sometimes the chemistry is remarkably basic:

Notice what makes you come alive. Do more of it.

The work is never ending and it always will be.

BE-ing holds a lot more weight than being busy.

Getting away from the noise is the one of best things I’ve done for myself during this transition. Not because the noise disappears. It doesn’t. There will always be another meeting, another opportunity, another decision, another reason to get busy.

The practice is learning to hear myself anyway.

I am open to my past and I am open to my future.

And I am becoming more interested in the woman standing between them. Not perfect. Not finished.

Just getting better at listening.

Building. Selling. Traveling. Dating. Working. Dancing. Moving. Creating.

From the outside, it probably looked like momentum. It felt like momentum back then. This season has asked me to learn that motion and momentum aren’t the same thing.

Motion shows me something is happening.

Momentum shows me something is building.

And I think that’s an important distinction, particularly for those of us who are very good at “doing.” Because doing can be intoxicating.

A full calendar can make us feel important. A new opportunity can make us feel like we’re advancing. Even change itself can create the sensation of progress.

But movement without intention can become its own form of distraction.

What is all this motion actually creating?

That question has made me look more closely at the things I say yes to. An opportunity can be exciting and still take me further from the life I’m actually trying to build. A new project can switch up the mundane routine though pull me away from the progress I was already creating. A packed week can be productive and still leave no room for what matters most to me.

The activity is real. So is the effort. I’ve had to learn that effort alone doesn’t tell me whether I’m headed where I want to go.

Throughout this season, I’ve spoken with many industry leaders about what separates an excellent sales rep from a standard one. The qualities they name are familiar: drive, strategic thinking, empathy, organization, and excellent communication.

But drive alone can keep you busy in the wrong direction. Working smarter asks you to use the rest of those qualities, too.

In a recent interview, I was asked how I define growth.

I’m usually the one asking that question.

My answer has changed over time. Growth means knowing your season. Knowing your territory. Paying attention to your personal and professional development. It means growing from within while building relationships that may open the right doors at the right time. And it means taking stock of what you’ve achieved instead of immediately moving the goalpost. Knowing when to push, when to press pause, when to pull back and when to pull through.

Every successful sales rep wants to see their name near the top of the leaderboard. I understand that ambition. I’ve lived it. I also know that some seasons ask for diligence and patience before the results become visible.

That’s still growth. And recognizing it takes a different kind of leadership.

I recently returned back to Alex Soojung-Kim Pang’s book Rest. The idea of deliberate rest has become much more personal to me this season. (hachettebookgroup.com)

I never took naps before. Now, I savor them.

There’s plenty of research behind the value of a pause.

I’m glad the research exists. I also don’t want to make rest justify itself with a performance metric.

There’s a spiritual part of this for me, too. When I slow down, I can hear myself again.

I can notice what I’m feeling, what I’m avoiding, and what I actually want. That space is easy to give away. If we don’t protect time for ourselves, someone else will gladly take it from us.

Sometimes protecting that time looks like a nap. Sometimes it looks like a longer pause. Sometimes it looks like taking a season off. Either way, I’ve learned that I don’t have to fill every opening in my life just because it’s there.

Sometimes the most aligned thing I’ve done has looked remarkably unimpressive from the outside.

I’ve stopped. I’ve said no. I’ve waited — Even when I wanted to jump.

2026 has required me to slow down and at times it was frustrating as hell. Though more discernment has come through.

I’ve allowed an opportunity to pass without immediately replacing it with another one. That was particularly inconvenient when you are someone who enjoys movement.

I mean, I am literally a dancer.

Standing still felt suspicious.

Like, what am I supposed to do when the music slows down?

But even on a dance floor, moving constantly isn’t the point. You have to hear the music. You have to know when to step, when to turn, and when to let a moment breathe. Otherwise, you’re just doing a lot of footwork.

And the music will pick up again. When it does, I get to choose how I respond. I can say yes to every invitation because I’m relieved to be moving, or I can discern which ones are taking me where I want to go.

That has been a great lesson in leadership, too. Pausing gives me room to make a choice I can stand behind. Then I can move with intention.

Just because “I can” do something doesn’t mean “I have to.” And for any high achiever reading this essay I hope this reasonates with you.

Perhaps maturity isn’t learning how to keep yourself in motion. Perhaps it’s learning which movements deserve your energy.

Because I don’t want to spend my life simply proving that I can move.

I want my movement to mean something.

That’s momentum backed with alignment.

It was a perfectly reasonable question.

The wedding was beautiful. The people asked to attend were intentionally chosen which made everything feel rich and wonderful. The love between these two is unshakeable.

AND…they were doing things their way.

Which, as it turns out, is both beautiful and mildly rattling when you’re standing in the middle of it trying to figure out what happens next.

At some point, someone had to step up. That someone was me. (I know…shocking.)

I had been asked to run the agenda. So, there I was with some notes on my iPhone paying attention to timing, figuring out what was supposed to happen next, checking in with all the important humans, and occasionally wondering whether anyone else had received the memo.

Apparently, leadership sometimes looks like standing in a wedding venue thinking, Okay… I guess the most important details are intact. We’re doing the damn thing now.

And yet, as I watched these two throughout the event, something struck me. They weren’t trying to make their wedding look like everyone else’s. They also weren’t trying to perform partnership for an audience.

They were simply creating something that felt like them.

And somewhere between the laughter, the beautiful chaos, the logistics, the dancing, and the moments that didn’t go exactly according to plan, I found myself thinking about harmony.

Not balance. Harmony.

People constantly talk about balance. Work-life balance. Equal partnership. Give and take. That’s not how life actually works. Or love. Or leadership.

Because sometimes one person carries more. Sometimes one person leads more. Sometimes one person has more capacity, more clarity, more energy, or simply knows what needs to happen next. Sometimes one person understands they are a good second in charge.

And sometimes that shifts depending on the season.

When you’re the coordinator for a friends wedding that can shift by the hour or sometimes shift two times within 30 minutes you are required to adjust in real time. And somehow, things flowed without ever feeling chaotic.

Maybe that’s not imbalance. Maybe that’s harmony.

And perhaps this is where the language of the divine feminine and divine masculine becomes interesting to me.

Not as a prescription for how women and men should behave or a set of rules about who leads, who follows, who provides, who receives. And certainly not as another way to squeeze ourselves into a role that doesn’t fit.

I think of the feminine and masculine as energies that exist within all of us.

The masculine carries qualities like direction, structure, action, protection, decisiveness and grounding. The feminine carries qualities like receptivity, intuition, creativity, connection, expansion and flow.

Neither is better and both are important. Neither is meant to operate alone. Because structure without flow can become rigidity. And flow without structure can become chaos. Action without receptivity can become force. Receptivity without action can become passivity.

Direction without intuition can take us somewhere we never actually wanted to go. And intuition without direction can leave us circling the same beautiful idea forever.

Perhaps the point isn’t to balance the two. It’s to bring them into relationship.

That, to me, is where harmony begins.

In social dancing, it’s pretty challenging to flow with someone if you’re both trying to lead. (That took me a couple years to undo). But you also can’t create much of a dance if neither person is willing to lead. (Standing on the sidelines waiting for someone to initiate gets boring).

I learned this long before I had the language for it.

As a dancer, you learn to listen with your body.

You learn that partnership isn’t about controlling every movement. It’s about connection, timing, trust and responsiveness.

Someone initiates. Someone receives.

The roles can change and the energy can shift.

And when two people are really connected, you don’t spend the entire dance wondering who’s in charge. You just dance.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t leadership because there absolutely is. It means leadership and receptivity are working together.

And perhaps that’s what I witnessed in my friends this weekend.

Not two people trying to be equal in every moment. Two people willing to be in relationship with one another.

There is something profoundly feminine about allowing. And something profoundly masculine about directing. There is something feminine about creating space. And something masculine about holding it.

There is something feminine about intuition. And something masculine about deciding. And the beautiful thing is that none of these qualities belong exclusively to women or men. We all carry both.

The question isn’t:

Which one am I supposed to be?

Maybe the better question is:

What does this moment require from me?

Sometimes the answer is to step forward and sometimes it’s to soften. It’s knowing when to hold the line and when to let go. Sometimes it’s leading and sometimes it’s following.

And sometimes, perhaps most importantly, it’s to trust the person beside you enough to let them lead you while also respecting that you can hold your own space.

That requires something we don’t talk about nearly enough when we talk about partnership: trust.

Not blind faith or surrendering your discernment.

But the kind of trust that says:

I know who I am and I know who you are. I don’t need to control every moment for what we are creating to be okay.

Maybe that’s the art of harmony.

It is not about being perfectly balanced and equal in every aspect of life.

But knowing when to move, when to pause, when to lead, when to receive and having enough connection to recognize when the music has changed.

Otherwise, you’re not moving forward. You’re just moving around.

This past weekend, I went out dancing.

I hadn’t been dancing in months. I love social dancing—Latin dancing specifically. There is something about movement, music, connection and responding to another human being in real time that brings me back to me.

And yet, part of me felt guilty for going out and experiencing some joy.

Should I have stayed home instead?

Sure, I could have locked myself in a room, submitted more proposals, applied for more jobs and done more research. There is always more do be done.

Then Saturday morning hit, and I found myself wondering:

What more can I really accomplish by simply staying home?

That sent me down an interesting and thankfully brief rabbit hole.

If I rob myself of the things that bring me joy in the name of achievement, at what point do I stop fully experiencing myself?

On the other hand, if I abandon myself completely to the work, perhaps I will become successful, yet, what might I miss along the way?

We hear say yes to the right things. Fine.

But what are the “right” things?

And then something happened on the dance floor that finally made sense…

I realized I can prepare all I want. I can practice the steps. Learn the technique. Understand the timing. Know where my feet are supposed to go.

But the moment another human being invites me to dance, preparation can only take me so far. Because, now I have to listen, respond and feel the rhythm.

I have to allow myself to be led without abandoning my own movement.

I need to flow while still protecting my own space.

Maybe that is what adaptability actually looks like.

Not abandoning structure or surrendering your boundaries.

Not gripping so tightly to what you prepared that you become incapable of responding to what is actually happening.

We live in a fast-paced world where the expectation increasingly seems to be: do the work of ten people. Anticipate what’s coming. Stay ahead. Always deliver. Respond faster. Produce more.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that— be innovative.

But where exactly is innovation supposed to happen when every available inch of our lives has been allocated to production?

Maybe space isn’t the opposite of productivity. Sometimes our best thinking requires space to be more productive.

Which makes something I recently read particularly interesting.

Deloitte’s 2026 Global Human Capital Trends research found that 85% of leaders say developing the ability to adapt at the speed required today is critical.

Only 7% say they are actually leading in that capability.

One-third of workers experienced 15 major organizational changes in the previous year. Continual change was associated with decreased well-being for 68% of workers, increased workload for 60%, and 58% feeling less relevant or left behind.

85% know adaptability matters.

7% believe they’re actually leading it well.

So where is the gap?

Perhaps leadership isn’t merely knowing how to withstand change.

Perhaps it’s knowing what to preserve, what to release, what to integrate, what to renegotiate and how to remain yourself while doing it.

Because a leader who cannot bend eventually breaks.

A leader who bends without knowing her center eventually loses herself.

Which then made me think about something else: I looked back at the threads running through my several recent essays.

Movement. Agility. Becoming. Letting Go.

Hurricane Lowell passed the Hawaiian Islands last week. It did not make direct landfall, but Kauaʻi and Niʻihau took the worst of it: infrastructure damage occurred, and roughly 90% of Kauaʻi’s electric customers lost power.

And Lowell came only weeks after Lala affected Hawaiʻi in August. That is the unusual part.

What is actually happening?

Hawaiʻi normally has several natural advantages against hurricanes. But is nature doing something out of its normal rhythms?

2026 is behaving differently.

The tropical Pacific is exceptionally warm during a developing El Niño. This year, storms have also been developing farther south and west, putting them in better positions to travel toward Hawaiʻi rather than weakening long before they arrive.

And the numbers are striking. Basically running 306% above normal.

Conditions that historically helped protect Hawaiʻi aren’t necessarily operating in quite the same way.

Interesting Thread:

New Territory.
Boundaries Questioned.
A Different Way of Being.

Nature adapts. Organizations adapt. Markets adapt. Communities adapt.

People try adapt. Leaders have to adapt.

And perhaps the question isn’t whether our boundaries were wrong.

Perhaps the question is:

What happens when the conditions that created our boundaries are no longer the conditions we’re living in?

2026 has been showing up much differently than anticipated. The year of the Fire Horse. I listened to a podcast from Richard Rudd back in February. He mentioned that this year is about reigning the horse energy. From a numerological perspective it’s a 1 year energetically.

Richard Rudd is the founder of the Gene Keys, a contemplative system he began developing in 2002 after years of spiritual study and travel. His background is unusually eclectic—metaphysics and literature, poetry, Chi Kung, extensive travel, and contemplative traditions—and Gene Keys describes the work as something to contemplate and embody, rather than simply intellectually understand.

And the broader symbolism checks out: 2026 is indeed the Fire Horse year, beginning with Lunar New Year on February 17. The Smithsonian describes the Horse in this tradition through qualities including bravery, resilience and hard work.

Then you layer numerology over it.

2 + 0 + 2 + 6 = 10 → 1.

Within numerology, that makes 2026 a Universal Year 1—traditionally interpreted as the opening of a new nine-year cycle, associated with beginnings, independence, initiative, identity and leadership. Importantly for the essay, numerology is an interpretive tradition, not an empirical explanation for world events.

And suddenly your horse metaphor gets much more interesting.

A horse is movement. And a Fire Horse suggests movement with tremendous energy behind it.

A 1 year symbolizes initiation. And, yet, none of those things necessarily mean: GO FASTER.

That’s the trap. Maybe the leadership lesson of 2026 isn’t learning how to create more momentum. Maybe it’s learning how to lead momentum.

A powerful rider doesn’t destroy the horse’s energy. She doesn’t suppress it. And she doesn’t simply hang on while the horse decides where they’re both going.

She learns the animal and feels its movement. She knows when to loosen the reins and she knows when to apply pressure. She knows when the terrain requires a different response. And most importantly she has a direction.

Because perhaps boundaries are the reins.

Too tight, and nothing can move naturally. Too loose, and power becomes chaos.

The skill isn’t choosing between control and freedom. It’s developing enough awareness to know what the moment requires.

Maybe expansion isn’t asking me to abandon the reins. Maybe it’s asking me to develop a better relationship with them.

A leader who cannot bend eventually breaks. A leader who bends without knowing her center eventually loses herself.

Alignment gives you a center.
Adaptability gives you range.
Leadership requires both.

I have lived in approximately 10 different cities at various points in my life. I’ve been a dancer first, then a business owner, a consultant, then a corporate leader, and now rediscovering how all these different parts of me led me to where I am now.

Learning when to stay, when to move, and when the circumstances require a different response.

Martha Graham famously said: “Movement never lies”

Perhaps that’s why it resonates with me and I keep returning to it. Not running. More like adaptability. Movement Agility.

I also hate it when summer ends.

I am a sun seeker who prefers to spend approximately 80 percent of her life in 80 degree weather wearing beautiful sundresses, cute workout clothes and ideally in vibrant colors. Apparently, there is also some post–Labor Day rule suggesting I should stop wearing white and pink and discontinue decorating my home in accent shades of coral and teal blue.

I will not be participating.

So, yes, I hate it when summer ends.

And I also love September.

September offers us something December cannot: the opportunity to evaluate the year before declaring it over.

The kids return to school. Summer begins to soften. The final quarter hasn’t arrived yet, and there is still enough year left to change something—to reflect, recenter, realign, and reengage.

A season is arriving to completion.

And yet the year hasn’t fully ended. For any anyone in Business Development, Sales, Management or running their own Company listening to this essay: we are not in Q4 yet, darling. So there is time left to make some decisions.

Reasons

We have all heard the saying that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Some people enter our lives to awaken something in us. Some experiences reveal what we want and a little more of what we don’t want. Others make painfully clear what we will no longer accept.

A job can teach us what we are capable of while also showing us where we no longer belong. A friendship can be deeply meaningful and still reach its natural conclusion. A relationship can change us without being meant to accompany us forever.

And some relationships remain intact because alignment and reciprocity have demonstrated, over time, that there is still reason to stay.

I continue to choose you. You continue to teach me. We continue to grow in our individual ways. I continue to enjoy spending time with you. I continue to love you.

There are also reasons we have not yet done the thing. Let’s speak to that part as well —

Reasons we have not put ourselves out there. Reasons we keep stalling on a decision or postponing a that dream. Reasons we remain where we are even when some part of us knows it is time to move. Reasons we stay stagnant.

Most of the time, we know what those reasons are.

We simply only admit them aloud to a carefully chosen few or keep them quietly to ourselves.

Some reasons become clear only after the experience has ended. Others have been clear all along, but we weren’t yet ready to confront them.

So we search for explanations. We replay conversations. We start thinking about December when it’s only September.

Eventually, we realize that honoring why something entered our lives does not require us to keep it there.

Traditions

Traditions can be beautiful.

They connect us to our families, our cultures, our communities, and earlier versions of ourselves. They create rhythm. They give us something familiar to return to as the world and we continue to change.

Some traditions deserve to remain. The harvest is soon to come and we will replenish from the fruits of our labor. Tend to the plants, the earth, the animals, the humans around you who care about you and you’ll understand the natural rhythms of the things.

Others deserve to be questioned.

Because sometimes a tradition is a meaningful ritual passed down through generations. And sometimes it is simply something we continue doing because no one has stopped long enough to ask why.

We gather in the same places. Play the same roles. Prepare the same meals. Observe the same holidays. Follow the same rules.

No white after Labor Day. Apparently.

Traditions can ground us, but they can also become containers we have quietly outgrown. What once created belonging may eventually feel like obligation. What once brought comfort may begin to feel performative. What once reflected who we were may no longer represent who we are becoming.

Changing with the seasons, I think, asks us to become conscious about what we carry forward.

What deserves to remain?

What needs to evolve?

And what are we continuing simply because we have always done it that way?

Some traditions anchor us and some need to be reimagined.

And some have served their purpose and can be released with gratitude for what they gave us and without guilt for no longer needing them.

There may also be new traditions you choose to create for yourself moving forward without obligation or anyone else telling you what they should be.

This essay wasn’t intended to be the deepest of one. Just enough to keep your attention long enough to keep listening. September can be great time to reflect on where the hell I am as the seasons are changing.

The land is grounding and the waters are healing.

Modern minds might try to explain it. Science might eventually give us language for some of it. Others might simply call it supernatural. But I wonder if the ancients knew something we’ve forgotten.

Something about the land.

Something about the water.

Something about grief, forgiveness, and what happens when we finally become willing to release what we were never meant to carry forever.

Perhaps the ancients knew far more than we can explain.

Making Things Right

I had been thinking about forgiveness before I ever stepped into those waters.

Not the greeting-card version of forgiveness. Not the version where everybody hugs at the end, agrees that we’ve all learned something, and does a happy skip into the sunset.

Actual forgiveness.

The kind that asks: “How do I no longer give charge to this situation?”

As a former devout Catholic the first thing that came to mind was reconciliation. “How many Hail Mary’s do I need to recite until I feel complete with this thing?”

Does it mean someone gains access to me again? Does it mean forgetting what happened? Does it mean pretending someone wasn’t wrong?

The Hawaiian practice of hoʻoponopono offers a much richer idea than the four-line mantra many of us have encountered through modern spirituality.

At its roots, hoʻoponopono is concerned with restoring harmony through truth, responsibility, reconciliation, repentance and forgiveness.

Because making something right is not necessarily the same as putting something back the way it was.

Sometimes making things right does means reconciliation.

Sometimes it means an apology. Sometimes it means accountability. Sometimes it means changing your behavior.

Sometimes it means sending someone love from a distance who will never apologize…EVER!

And sometimes making things right means walking away without needing to make the other person wrong.

That one took me a while.

I learned over the years that forgiveness isn’t only about what someone else did to us. There are things we’ve done, too.

Perhaps the people we didn’t mean to hurt. The conversations we’ve avoided. The times where pride won or when fear made decisions for us. The relationships where, whether we like admitting it or not, we contributed to the fracture.

There is tremendous freedom in being able to say: That part was mine.

Not as self-punishment or groveling.

Not as an invitation for someone to walk all over you. Just truth. Which feels like this:

“I acknowledge what happened. I acknowledge what it cost me and perhaps what it cost you. I take responsibility for what belongs to me and I release what belongs to you. I also refuse to keep carrying all of it forward.”

Complete neutrality.

An Ancient Human Question

The Hawaiians were hardly the only ancient people wrestling with this.

Across cultures and centuries, human beings have been asking some version of the same question: How do we live after we’ve been hurt?

Hindu traditions speak of kshama—forgiveness, patience and forbearance.

Buddhist teachings have spent centuries examining suffering, attachment, compassion and the consequences of continuing to grip resentment.

Different traditions, languages and understandings of the divine and of human suffering. Each one uniquely different, though, I am fascinated that civilizations separated by oceans, geography and centuries kept returning to this human need to loosen our grip:

To restore, forgive and release.

We like to think we’re discovering these new things:

Therapy has language for them.

Coaching has frameworks for them.

Psychology studies them.

Instagram definitely turns them into inspirational quotes.

Meanwhile, humans have been sitting beside fires, entering temples, gathering families, praying, meditating, confessing, forgiving and walking into bodies of water trying to figure out what the hell to do with being human for thousands of years.

And then, Dolly Parton died.

I Will Always Love You

Dolly Parton died on Tuesday, August 25th, 2026.

Like millions of other people, I grieved a woman I had never actually met.

People immediately began writing about her. Sharing songs. Telling stories. Remembering her humor, generosity, faith, business savvy and her extraordinary ability to somehow belong to everyone without ever becoming anyone other than herself.

And I found myself thinking about her while I was already thinking about forgiveness.

Which admittedly seems like an unexpected place to take an essay about ancient wisdom.

Stay with me…because there is a thread here.

Among the thousands of songs Dolly wrote during her lifetime was I Will Always Love You. Most of us know it as one of the great love songs.

However, Dolly, originally wrote it while she was leaving.

She had decided it was time to end her professional partnership with Porter Wagoner, the man who had played an enormous role in helping launch her career.

He didn’t want her to go. She went anyway.

But she didn’t need to destroy everything that had been good in order to honor what she knew was next.

Sit with that for a moment…

One of the most enduring declarations of love in modern music is also a declaration of departure.

I can love you. And I can leave.

There is something remarkably mature about that.

What Dolly was saying in essence, was:

This mattered to me. You mattered to me. What we had was real. I am grateful. And, it is still time for me to go.

Sometimes forgiveness allows us to leave without needing to destroy everything that came before us.

Love and departure aren’t always opposites.

Two people can love each other and respectfully know they are not right for each other long term.

A successful business partnership can run it’s course and understand when it’s time to move on.

A long time friend can still be a good friend and you no longer give them the same access to your life.

You can understand why someone behaved the way they did without volunteering to experience it again.

You can be grateful for what was and still choose what comes next.

And perhaps most importantly: You can forgive without rewriting history.

Grace Without Erasure

There is something else about Dolly Parton that keeps coming back to me.

She was so unapologetic.

Behind that Big Hair, Big Boobs and Big Rhinestones was a woman of faith, music, books, humor, generosity, and philanthropy.

Dolly never seemed particularly interested in shrinking herself to make herself easier for other people to understand. And somehow, she brought people together anyway.

People who couldn’t name five country songs still loved Dolly.

She managed to remain unmistakably herself while extending enormous grace outward.

That feels increasingly rare. We’ve somehow confused being unapologetic with being combative. As if becoming fully ourselves requires rejecting everyone who doesn’t understand us.

Dolly seemed to embody something different.

Grace doesn’t require self-erasure.

You don’t have to become smaller to be kind and you don’t have to abandon yourself to love someone.

You don’t have to make everyone who came before you wrong in order to become who you’re becoming.

Maybe that’s another kind of wisdom.

What We Carry Back to Shore

We can all go snorkeling and see some cool coral reefs under water. The deeper question:

What have human beings carried into oceans, rivers, temples, churches and sacred spaces long before any of us arrived here?

Perhaps forgiveness isn’t forgetting and it’s also not a reconciliation.

Maybe it is not pretending something didn’t hurt, excusing what shouldn’t be excused, or reopening a door you’ve finally had the courage to close. (And, please do not open that side window because you know sure as hell they will try to crawl back through the front door).

Maybe forgiveness is much quieter than that.

Maybe it’s the moment we decide: I am no longer willing to carry this with me.

I can honor what happened without allowing it to determine what happens next. I can take responsibility for what was mine. I can release what wasn’t. I can apologize where an apology is owed. I can forgive where forgiveness is needed. I can grieve what has ended. I can love what was and I can still choose differently moving forward.

Maybe that’s what the ancient teachers already knew.

Making things right doesn’t always mean putting things back together.

Sometimes it means putting them down.

The ocean didn’t erase anything.

It simply reminded me that I didn’t have to carry everything back to shore.

The woman who could walk onto a stage or a basketball court in front of thousands of people and perform without wondering whether she belonged there or not.

She was younger then, certainly. Her joints were also considerably more cooperative.

But lately I’ve started wondering something. Years ago when I entered corporate sales I started to deny the dancer in me. I thought I needed to keep that wild, creative, freeform being in a place of the past. Why?

My only logical explanation is that life was presenting a certain chapter that demanded a refined version of me to emerge forward. So, I put that beautiful dancer in a box and only allowed her to come through when I thought no one else was watching.

I mistook professional evolution for permission to amputate a part of what made me…ME.

Maybe we don’t actually need to leave all of our former selves behind. Maybe the best parts come with us. Because it is what shaped us.

The discipline I learned in dance rehearsals became the discipline I carried into business.

The ability to read a room became leadership. Performance became presence. Movement became intuition. And that woman who learned how to take up space without apologizing for it?

She became me.

I spent years thinking dance was a chapter of my life that had ended.

Now I see it differently. Why did she need to leave? And, did she ever really?

Sometimes the world places expectations on us, and for a few seasons of life we learn how to meet them. We become more polished. More appropriate (I’ve never really liked that word…ever…by the way). More professional. More reasonable.

And none of those versions are necessarily false. They just don’t tell the whole story.

I don’t want to abandon the woman I became in business any more than I want to abandon the dancer who came before her. Maybe that’s the point.

We’re not supposed to keep replacing ourselves.

Leadership, I think, requires the full authentic parts of us to come forward.

Authenticity & Presence:

So, here’s the deal: anybody can read a script.

Anybody can learn the appropriate language, put on the right clothes, memorize the corporate jargon, and become very good at looking the part.

But leadership asks something different of us.

Guiding an organization through a pivotal change? Leading people through uncertainty when you don’t know exactly what’s waiting on the other side?

Ain’t no script for that.

You must lean on something a hell of a lot deeper.

Instinct. Presence. Courage. The ability to read the people. The willingness to improvise when the choreography changes halfway through the performance.

I was told several years ago that “my dancing days were over”. That I needed to sacrifice. There simply wasn’t time for ‘things like that’ if I wanted to be successful.

Seriously???

Because here’s the paradox I still cannot quite reconcile:

If we create no space in our lives to actually BE creative, how exactly are we supposed to summon creativity the moment our careers demand it?

We tell people to put away the things that look like play:

Dance. Music. Art. Writing. Imagination. Curiosity.

Grow Up. Get Serious. Focus. Save. Retirement.

Then we walk into the board rooms and ask those same people to innovate. Think differently. Solve something that’s never been solved before. Adapt when the plan falls apart. Lead when there is no obvious next move.

So….where exactly do we think that capacity comes from?

Rediscovering that piece of you —

Creativity isn’t just a switch we flip on because somebody added “brainstorm jam sesh” to the meeting agenda on a Tuesday morning.

It’s a muscle.

And maybe some of the things we’ve been taught to sacrifice in the name of success are the very things that make us exceptional once we get there.

Maybe becoming more professional was never supposed to mean becoming less of myself. Maybe maturity isn’t the process of refining ourselves until all the edges disappear.

Maybe it’s learning which parts were never meant to be edited out in the first place.

Because being a dancer actually never made me less credible as a businesswoman. She actually taught me how to be one.

And ultimately, I thought I had left her behind.

Turns out, she never left.

I hope I keep dancing until the day I die. And I hope I keep doing it for more than the joy of it. Although, thorough the joy of it would be enough.

Dance is good for the body, but it’s benefits reach far beyond physical fitness. Research has linked regular dancing with better balance, coordination, cardiovascular health, strength and mobility. It can also support brain health by requiring us to remember sequences, respond to rhythm, make split-second adjustments, and coordinate movement with music and other people. In short — dance asks the brain to pay attention, adapt, create, and connect all at once.

That kind of mental and physical engagement matters. Studies have associated dancing with improved mood, reduced stress, stronger social connection, and lower risk of cognitive decline as we age. Every step, turn and improvised movement is a small reminder that the brain is not separate from the body. It is shaped by what we ask the body to do and how we fully allow ourselves to participate in the world.

I hope I keep making a positive impact — in the boardroom, in my community, and in the lives of the people I’m fortunate enough to meet along the way.

And I fully intend to keep doing totally ridiculous things. Taking risks. Laughing way too loudly. Saying yes to the trip. Building things I believe in. Trusting myself. Playing in the midst of uncertainty. And choosing, as often as I can, to live an intentional life that’s worth pursuing.

Maybe that’s what I understand now that I didn’t understand then.

I never had to choose between the woman who wanted to be taken seriously and the woman who wanted to dance. I needed both.

She wasn’t a version of me I needed to outgrow. She was a part of me that knew how to stay curious, connected, resilient and alive.

She never left.

Not when you think about it. Not when you talk about it. Not when you do the vision board on a weekend retreat, buy the notebook, tell your “new found-friends” the exciting plans or spend the next 6 months deciding if you are ready. You actualize it.

I’m talking about the moment you actually do the damn thing.

You press play. You say yes. You open the doors. You make the offer. You sign the paperwork. You hire the person. You go for it. You take accountability.

You take an idea that has been living safely inside your head and give it a body to live in. That moment when the head and heart connect.

There’s a probably a moment that felt like:

“Holy Shitaki…NOW I must LIVE it? Am I even ready?”

Not the version you imagine when everything is finally aligned and the timing is perfect. You meet the version of you who has to actually live it.

And that can be exhilarating AF. It can also be terrifying as hell.

Because now the idea is real. The dream has decisions attached to it. The vision requires something from you. And suddenly, you are no longer simply asking:

“Can I do this?”

You are living the answer.

Only another Entrepreneur would know that feeling.

The Question -

“What would happen if I stopped imagining a version of myself and gave my future self an opportunity to live in the real world.”

Welcome to the party.

The most exciting moment about being a coach is when my client arrives at this space. Because they think it was because of me. Quite the opposite. I simply asked the right questions and guided them through the process. I BELIEVED in them and saw a higher more expanded version of them before they did.

But the person who told me “I did the damn thing” they arrived there on their own. I was simply their guide. And that is the most rewarding part about my work: To see the person actualize the thing they said they wanted. And I was a part of that.

Who Witnesses the Arrival?

Ultimately, It’s you. And that’s the beautiful part. Because there is something profound about being the person who witnesses yourself cross the threshold.

The person who had the idea. The person who was afraid. The person who questioned it. The person who almost talked themselves out of it.

And then—

The person who did it anyway.

Side note: You’re lucky to have a few quality humans beside you in that moment of becoming.

But ultimately?

The witness is YOU.

And maybe that’s why doing the damn thing changes us in a way that thinking about the thing never could. Because once the mind expanded, it can never retreat back.

You have evidence.

You have experience.

You have a new reference point for what is possible.

Your mind expands because your lived experience has expanded.

And suddenly, you’re not imagining the person who could do it.

You are the person who did it.

The next time you find yourself standing at the edge of something unfamiliar, you don’t arrive empty-handed.

You arrive with memory.

The memory of every time you moved while you were afraid. Every time you made the decision anyway. Every time you figured something out mid-flight. Every time you survived uncertainty. Every time you said yes before you had all the answers.

You have a new relationship with possibility.

And that changes everything.

Because maybe the thing you are building isn’t just asking to exist.

Maybe a part of you is asking to be experienced through it.

Maybe the business is the vehicle. Maybe the creative project is the vehicle. Maybe the risk you’re taking is the vehicle.

A way for some previously imagined part of you to become real.

A part of you that wanted to create, to lead to build to risk, to trust.

To find out what happens when you stop waiting for permission and start participating fully in your own life.

And perhaps that’s the spiritual journey of entrepreneurship.

Not the money.

Not just the title.

Not even the business itself.

The experience.

The experience of meeting yourself in motion.

Because some parts of us cannot be discovered through contemplation alone. We have to live them. At some point, we have to stop asking: Someday? When I’m ready?

And do the damn thing.

Then one day you look around and realize:

You’re standing inside something that once existed only in your imagination. And maybe that’s when you understand:

You didn’t have to become that person before you started.

Doing the thing gave you the opportunity to experience that person. The thing wasn’t simply asking you to build it.

It was giving you the opportunity to meet yourself through it.

And maybe—

just maybe—

the doing is the arrival.

On paper, there was some real upside.

Potentially more money.
A different opportunity.
A chance to build something new.

But there was also a significant cost. They would be leaving a team they had worked with for nearly 12 years. Twelve years is a long time. That kind of history isn’t something you simply put in a box and carry with you to the next opportunity.

And then there was another consideration.

Their current company had made several decisions over the last year that had resulted in the loss of three major clients. Decisions that they had no control over.

Ouch.

So we talked through the risks and the fears. We explored the upside, the loyalty and the possibility of something better. And, somewhere in the middle of the conversation, they said something that stopped me.

“I’ve always had one foot out the door.”

They weren’t saying it with judgment. It was more of an observation. A pattern they had noticed throughout their career. Then came the question:

“What would happen if I FULLY COMMITTED to this in the way you do with other areas of your life?”

That one stayed with me.

Because I realized I had spent a lot of time thinking about commitment as though it were something I either did or didn’t do. But maybe that’s not actually the question. Maybe the question is:

What do I need to see before I’m willing to commit?

Because I have absolutely gone all in before. I have rearranged my entire life around a company in its early stages. I have taken risks, moved things around, made sacrifices.

Believed in the vision before there was much evidence that the vision would work.

I have been all in professionally. I’ve done it with people I believe in. I’ve done it with ideas that mattered to me.

So why then, when it came to romantic relationships in the past 6 years, did I seem to have an entirely different operating system?

Why was I willing to rearrange my life for a company that was still trying to prove itself…

…but unwilling to stay when a relationship became uncertain?

Why could I tolerate ambiguity in business but not in love?

And then I realized:

Maybe I needed proof of concept.

Not proof that the person was perfect. Not proof that the relationship would never hurt. Not proof that there would never be conflict.

Something much simpler.

I needed evidence that the thing we were building actually worked. That the investment was reciprocal. That the vision aligned. That when I moved closer, they moved closer too. But also that when I made room, they didn’t simply occupy the space and take away from me.

Because there is a difference between being afraid of commitment and being unwilling to commit to something that hasn’t demonstrated that it can hold your commitment.

Those are not the same thing. And I think we confuse them.

Discernment

Sometimes staying is abandoning yourself in the name of proving that you’re capable of commitment.

That’s a very different thing.

We tell ourselves that if we were really committed, we’d stay. That we will try harder. That we’ll give things more time. That we’ll believe. And sometimes that’s exactly what commitment requires.

But sometimes staying isn’t commitment. It’s about when the effort is mutual. When the people involved are willing to make decisions that protect the future they are trying to create and the goals they are trying to pursue.

I don’t need certainty. But I do need evidence: of alignment, reciprocity and building.

Maybe that’s my version of proof of concept. And perhaps that’s why this particular conversation nudged at me. Because maybe I was asking myself the wrong question.

I wasn’t afraid of going all in. I’ve done that many times. The real question was:

What am I willing to risk before I have proof that the thing I’m investing in is viable?

And perhaps that’s an even bigger question: What kind of proof do I actually need?

Because with proof of concept:

You don’t need the finished product.

You don’t need guaranteed success.

You don’t need every variable accounted for.

You need enough evidence to believe that continuing to invest Makes Sense.

I’ve spent a lot of my life being incredibly courageous about taking risks. But courage without discernment becomes self-abandonment. On the flip side — discernment without courage can become self-avoidant.

There is a sweet spot somewhere in between.

Go all in when there is something worth building. But don’t confuse going all in with ignoring what the thing is showing you.

Success isn’t one-dimensional — neither am I

After we wrapped up the conversation I was reflecting on something they said to me. That I’m not one dimensional. It felt nice to be seen in that way. And then I started reflecting on what it means to have a successful life.

Maybe success isn’t about choosing one thing and giving it everything you have. Maybe it’s about having enough self-trust to let the different parts of you exist fully.

You can be successful in career and devote to your creativity.

You can build your business and your body.

You can pursue your ambitions and your relationships.

You can be committed without being blindly loyal.

You can stay without abandoning yourself.

You can leave without being afraid of commitment.

And, you can ask, “is this still worthy of my investment?”

What if being all in doesn’t mean giving everything to one thing?

What if being all in means being fully present for the life you’re actually choosing to build?

Spidey is one of my plants.

Spidey hasn’t handled the transition very well.

Spidey is one of my plants.

A few weeks ago, I moved all of my plants into my very small bedroom.

It wasn’t the original plan, but for this season of life, that’s where we all landed.

I wanted them together.

Like a family.

I had researched — the secret nerd that I am — that many houseplants benefit from being grouped together. They create their own little ecosystem, sharing humidity, breathing together, and creating an environment where they can thrive.

So I gathered them into one room.

Most of them settled in just fine.

Spidey did not.

His leaves began to droop, and despite my best efforts, he appeared to be grieving.

Or, perhaps, just not adapting particularly well to the move.

Standing there one morning, staring at this somewhat dramatic little spider plant, I caught myself wondering:

How often do we assume that what works for us will work for everyone else?

And just like that, my plants started teaching me.

One wanted more light.

Another had too much.

One needed less water.

Another bounced back only after I stopped trying to rescue it.

Every plant seemed to have its own language.

Its own rhythm.

Its own needs.

It made me wonder if humans aren’t all that different.

We call ourselves sentient beings.

But how often are we actually observing?

How often are we trying to get the outside world to adjust to our expectations instead of asking what the person — or situation — in front of us actually needs?

Why do we assume what works for a few people should work for everyone else?

Where do we overcorrect instead of observing a little longer?

Where do we rearrange things that may already be working?

And perhaps most importantly:

Are we actually connecting with one another, or are we simply exchanging information?

Are We Really Checking In?

I’ve been thinking about how casually we can abuse one another’s time.

We say we’re checking in.

But are we really checking in?

Or do we just want to give someone an update?

Are we there to witness?

Or are we keeping score?

Are we offering support?

Or are we looking for reassurance?

Even something as simple as checking on someone can become transactional when we’re not actually present.

And then there is the endless stream of social media.

We’re more connected than ever and, somehow, increasingly disconnected from the people sitting right in front of us.

It makes me wonder what nature understands that we’ve somehow forgotten.

Maybe connection isn’t about constant contact.

Maybe it’s about presence.

My Sister Taught Me Something Too

In the last few months, I’ve also had the honor and privilege of becoming an Aunie.

Yes.

I’m officially Auntie Jades now.

Not just a plant mama.

And watching my sister become a mother has been one of the most humbling things I’ve witnessed.

I don’t know how she does it.

The baby cries, eats, poops, sleeps, plays, cries again, eats again, maybe sleeps some more…

And then we do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

We all step in to help where we can.

But my sister said something to me a few weeks ago that stopped me:

“Everyone wants to see the baby. But nobody has really checked in on me. Not really. Not the way I would like them to.”

Damn.

That hit home.

Because everyone was tending to the visible thing.

The baby.

The thing everyone was excited to see.

But what about the person carrying the invisible weight?

It made me think about how often we do this.

We celebrate the accomplishment without checking on the person who accomplished it.

We admire the bloom without asking what the plant needed to get there.

We see the baby without seeing the mother.

We see the performance without seeing the person.

And leadership, at its best, creates an opportunity to bring more of the person forward — not just the performance.

What If We Paid More Attention?

Maybe that’s what my plants keep teaching me.

Pay attention.

Before you fix, observe.

Before you rearrange, ask.

Before you assume, listen.

Before you offer advice, get curious.

Before you ask someone how the thing is going, ask how they’re doing.

I’ve had to ask myself some hard questions recently too.

Where am I truly being present?

Where am I not stepping up?

Where am I neglecting my plants?

Where am I neglecting myself?

What am I doing well?

What could I tend to a little better?

Even in the small ways?

Because perhaps the small things aren’t actually small.

Maybe the daily devotion means more than we realize.

Light.

Water.

Attention.

Rest.

Community.

The things we repeat become the lives we live.

And perhaps prosperity isn’t always about doing more.

Maybe sometimes it’s about tending well to what has already been entrusted to us.

And Then There Is Spidey

I still check on Spidey every morning.

Has he perked up yet?

Are those leaves standing a little taller?

Looking a little greener?

Is Spidey finally deciding that this new home isn’t so bad after all?

I don’t know what Spidey’s timeline is.

And maybe that’s the point.

Growth has never been something we can force.

We can create the conditions.

We can offer care.

We can provide light, water, and patience.

But every living thing has its own rhythm.

And if we’re lucky, we learn to respect it.

I keep thinking about something else lately.

If a civilization capable of traversing galaxies appeared tomorrow, I’d wonder whether our consciousness — not our technology — would be what separated us.

What would they notice?

How we build?

How much we own?

How productive we are?

Or how we care for one another?

How we tend to what has been entrusted to us?

How we treat the person nobody else is checking on?

Maybe consciousness isn’t measured by how much we can accomplish.

Maybe it’s revealed in how deeply we can care.

So for now, I’ll keep tending to Spidey.

And if you’re reading this…

I have a feeling you’re rooting for him too.

Maybe because somewhere along the way, we’ve all been Spidey.

Trying to adjust.

Trying to find our place.

Trying to find our peace.

Trying to figure out what we need to truly thrive.

Here’s to Spidey.

May he find his light.

May he grow at his own pace.

We’re rooting for every living thing trying to adjust to a new season.

And may we all remember that needing a different environment doesn’t mean something is wrong with us.

Sometimes it just means we’re still becoming.

Spidey is one of my plants.

A few weeks ago, I moved all of my plants into my very small bedroom.

It wasn’t the original plan, but for this season of life, that’s where we all landed.

I wanted them together.

Like a family.

I had researched — the secret nerd that I am — that many houseplants benefit from being grouped together. They create their own little ecosystem, sharing humidity, breathing together, and creating an environment where they can thrive.

So I gathered them into one room.

Most of them settled in just fine.

Spidey did not.

His leaves began to droop, and despite my best efforts, he appeared to be grieving.

Or, perhaps, just not adapting particularly well to the move.

Standing there one morning, staring at this somewhat dramatic little spider plant, I caught myself wondering:

How often do we assume that what works for us will work for everyone else?

And just like that, my plants started teaching me.

One wanted more light.

Another had too much.

One needed less water.

Another bounced back only after I stopped trying to rescue it.

Every plant seemed to have its own language.

Its own rhythm.

Its own needs.

It made me wonder if humans aren’t all that different.

We call ourselves sentient beings.

But how often are we actually observing?

How often are we trying to get the outside world to adjust to our expectations instead of asking what the person — or situation — in front of us actually needs?

Why do we assume what works for a few people should work for everyone else?

Where do we overcorrect instead of observing a little longer?

Where do we rearrange things that may already be working?

And perhaps most importantly:

Are we actually connecting with one another, or are we simply exchanging information?

Are We Really Checking In?

I’ve been thinking about how casually we can abuse one another’s time.

We say we’re checking in.

But are we really checking in?

Or do we just want to give someone an update?

Are we there to witness?

Or are we keeping score?

Are we offering support?

Or are we looking for reassurance?

Even something as simple as checking on someone can become transactional when we’re not actually present.

And then there is the endless stream of social media.

We’re more connected than ever and, somehow, increasingly disconnected from the people sitting right in front of us.

It makes me wonder what nature understands that we’ve somehow forgotten.

Maybe connection isn’t about constant contact.

Maybe it’s about presence.

My Sister Taught Me Something Too

In the last few months, I’ve also had the honor and privilege of becoming an Aunie.

Yes. I’m officially Auntie Jades now. Not just a plant mama.

And watching my sister become a mother has been one of the most humbling things I’ve witnessed.

I don’t know how she does it.

The baby cries, eats, poops, sleeps, plays, cries again, eats again, maybe sleeps some more…

And then we do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

We all step in to help where we can.

But my sister said something to me a few weeks ago that stopped me:

“Everyone wants to see the baby. But nobody has really checked in on me. Not really. Not the way I would like them to.”

Damn.

That hit home.

Because everyone was tending to the visible thing.

The baby.

The thing everyone was excited to see.

But what about the person carrying the invisible weight?

It made me think about how often we do this.

We celebrate the accomplishment without checking on the person who accomplished it.

We admire the bloom without asking what the plant needed to get there.

We see the baby without seeing the mother.

We see the performance without seeing the person.

And leadership, at its best, creates an opportunity to bring more of the person forward — not just the performance.

What If We Paid More Attention?

Maybe that’s what my plants keep teaching me.

Pay attention.

Before you fix, observe.

Before you rearrange, ask.

Before you assume, listen.

Before you offer advice, get curious.

Before you ask someone how the thing is going, ask how they’re doing.

I’ve had to ask myself some hard questions recently too.

Where am I truly being present?

Where am I not stepping up?

Where am I neglecting my plants?

Where am I neglecting myself?

What am I doing well?

What could I tend to a little better?

Even in the small ways?

Because perhaps the small things aren’t actually small.

Maybe the daily devotion means more than we realize.

Light.

Water.

Attention.

Rest.

Community.

The things we repeat become the lives we live.

And perhaps prosperity isn’t always about doing more.

Maybe sometimes it’s about tending well to what has already been entrusted to us.

And Then There Is Spidey

I still check on Spidey every morning.

Has he perked up yet?

Are those leaves standing a little taller?

Looking a little greener?

Is Spidey finally deciding that this new home isn’t so bad after all?

I don’t know what Spidey’s timeline is.

And maybe that’s the point.

Growth has never been something we can force.

We can create the conditions.

We can offer care.

We can provide light, water, and patience.

But every living thing has its own rhythm.

And if we’re lucky, we learn to respect it.

I keep thinking about something else lately.

If a civilization capable of traversing galaxies appeared tomorrow, I’d wonder whether our consciousness — not our technology — would be what separated us.

What would they notice?

How we build?

How much we own?

How productive we are?

Or how we care for one another?

How we tend to what has been entrusted to us?

How we treat the person nobody else is checking on?

Maybe consciousness isn’t measured by how much we can accomplish.

Maybe it’s revealed in how deeply we can care.

So for now, I’ll keep tending to Spidey.

And if you’re reading this…

I have a feeling you’re rooting for him too.

Maybe because somewhere along the way, we’ve all been Spidey.

Trying to adjust.

Trying to find our place.

Trying to find our peace.

Trying to figure out what we need to truly thrive.

Here’s to Spidey.

May he find his light.

May he grow at his own pace.

And may we all remember that needing a different environment doesn’t mean something is wrong with us.

Sometimes it just means we’re still becoming.

We’re rooting for every living thing trying to adjust to a new season.

Divorce.

Career uncertainty.

Reinvention.

Starting over.

Moving my entire life.

But apparently…

My final test was a shower.

To be clear, I wasn’t asking for a luxury experience.

I wasn’t asking for a five-star spa.

I wasn’t asking for eucalyptus towels, aromatherapy, or a rainfall showerhead imported from Italy.

I simply wanted water to come out of the wall at a reasonable temperature.

That’s it.

That was the dream.

Isn’t that how life works sometimes?

It isn’t always the mountain that breaks you.

Sometimes it’s the tiny pebble in your shoe…

…after you’ve already climbed the mountain.

After a week of holding firm boundaries.

Navigating a relationship transition.

Managing family dynamics.

Moving everything I owned into a storage unit.

Interview after interview ending with,

“We’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.”

I wasn’t asking life for answers.

I just wanted a proper shower…

…and maybe a decent meal.

Several people called that week.

“Just checking in. How are you doing?”

In my head I wanted to answer,

“How do you think I’m doing? It’s moving week. This is organized chaos.”

Thankfully, my neighbor stepped in.

A teammate showed up exactly when I needed one.

My family surrounded me.

Moments like that remind you something important:

It really does take a village.

They also reveal something else.

You quickly discover who shows up to help…

…and who simply wants access to your energy.

Here’s something no one talks about.

Some people weren’t checking in because they wanted to support me.

They were checking in because they needed something from me.

Apparently, the sound of my voice soothes their anxiety.

Normally?

I’m happy to be that person.

I’m a coach.

A damn good one.

But that week…

…I had reached capacity.

One person asked,

“So…are you stressed? Are you sad?”

Inside my head I answered,

“No. I’m a robot. I have no feelings.”

Of course I was stressed.

I had simply run out of room to carry one more thing.

Then came…

The Shower.

I stood there staring at it.

Turned the handle.

Nothing.

Turned it again.

Still nothing.

It became so loose that I knew I wasn’t getting any water tonight.

And before I knew it, I was yelling…at the shower head…

“For the love of everything holy…FIX THE DAMN SHOWER or just go away!”

Then I cried.

For about ten minutes.

Then…

I laughed.

Like, really laughed.

The kind of laugh that comes after you’ve cried so hard your body decides,

“Well…this is ridiculous.” Because honestly, that shit was funny!

Because it wasn’t about the shower.

Not really.

It was about finally realizing…

I’d spent years becoming incredibly skilled at adapting.

Accommodating.

Enduring.

Making things work.

At some point resilience quietly turned into tolerating things that simply didn’t work.

I hadn’t noticed.

Until the shower.

After my “holy hour,”

I accepted one simple fact:

No one was coming to fix this for me.

So I grabbed a wrench.

Removed the showerhead.

Made a temporary repair.

Water.

Finally.

Flowed.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like a breakthrough.

Sometimes it looks like clean water finally coming out of the showerhead…

…and realizing you’ve spent the last month holding your breath.

And it’s time to put a damn wrench into the whole situation.

A Note on Functionality

The shower ended up asking me a much bigger question.

Does this work?

Does this relationship work?

Does this environment support the person I’m becoming?

Does this routine give me life…

…or slowly drain it?

After a season of survival…

…you’re no longer asking,

“How much can I tolerate?”

You’re asking,

“Does this support the life I’m building?”

That’s a very different question.

Ten years ago, I probably would’ve written this story differently.

It would’ve been about grit.

Pushing through.

Hustling harder.

Proving something.

Today…

It’s about capacity.

It’s about standards.

It’s about admitting that even the strongest people have limits.

It’s about creating a life where the basics actually support you.

It’s about finding humor while standing in the middle of uncertainty.

The shower was just an experience.

The real story was this:

I don’t need a perfect life.

I want a healthy one.

A functional one.

One where the things that are supposed to support me…

…actually do.

Because the shower was fixed.

But the woman who demanded it?

That was the real transformation.

The truth is something may be happening that isn’t visible yet.

High achievers know how to sprint.

Very few know how to stay present while nothing seems to be happening.

The hallway asks for a different kind of strength.

The hallway is uncomfortable because it doesn’t offer immediate feedback.

There’s no promotion to celebrate.
No finish line to cross.
No visible evidence that your life is changing.

Just quiet. And an open corridor to somewhere unfamiliar.

And if you’re not careful, you’ll mistake that quiet for failure.

Your ego wants certainty.

It wants timelines.
Proof.
Guarantees.

But the wiser part of you already knows that not everything meaningful can be measured while it’s being built.

Maybe you’re between careers.

You did everything you knew to do.
You showed up.
You worked hard.
You were the one people counted on.

And now you’re waiting…on that call back from a recruiter.

Waiting can make even the most capable person question their value.

But your value was never determined by a job title.

Maybe it’s your relationships.

You’ve stopped settling for what’s familiar, but what you’re hoping for hasn’t arrived yet.

The old dynamic is no longer entangled.
The new chapter just hasn’t begun.

And you’re wanting a different kind of connection. So, if you rush through the door you might end up in a similar pattern.

Maybe it’s your health.

You’ve been showing up.
Choosing differently.
Going to the gym when you’d rather stay home.
Making decisions your future self will thank you for.

The mirror hasn’t caught up yet.

Your body is still catching up to your choices.

The hallway isn’t where your life pauses. It’s where your identity catches up to your decisions.

The world applauds the destination.

But identity is forged in the journey often when no one else sees it.

If you’re standing in the hallway today…

Pause, Breathe and maybe Saunter.

Avoid rushing through it to the next exit door.

Silence and uncertainty does not mean you’ve taken a wrong turn.

Some of the most important transformations happen long before anyone—including you—can see them.

Keep showing up.
Keep choosing the person you’re becoming.

One day the door will open.

And you’ll realize…

Sometimes it was the room that changed you.

Maybe it was also the hallway.

Life rarely punishes us with dramatic failures. Instead, it quietly invoices us for our hesitation.

Every day we remain undecided, we continue paying for a version of our life we’ve already outgrown.

We tell ourselves we’re “thinking it through.” Sometimes we are.

Though most often, we’re negotiating with uncertainty, hoping that if we wait long enough the right answer will become obvious. It almost never does.

Clarity isn’t usually found before the decision. It’s found because of the decision.

For years I believed confidence came first. Now I think confidence is simply the memory of having survived previous decisions.

You don’t become confident by waiting. You become confident by deciding.

Though decisiveness doesn’t mean rushing.

A close friend shared something with me recently that hit home:

“Anytime I’ve made a decision from a place of urgency, it never lasted very long.”

It landed for me. Because urgency and decisiveness often look the same from the outside. However, they are in fact very different.

Urgency is driven by emotion. It wants immediate relief. It whispers, “Just do something so this feeling goes away.”

Decisiveness is different.

It comes from alignment. It isn’t fueled by panic or pressure; it’s grounded in your values. It doesn’t require every answer. It simply reaches the point where remaining stuck costs more than taking the next step.

There’s a difference between running from discomfort and moving toward purpose.

One is reaction. The other is intention.

The cost of indecision isn’t an invitation to become impulsive. It’s an invitation to stop waiting for certainty that was never promised.

There’s a hidden cost to indecision that doesn’t appear on a balance sheet.

It costs momentum. Once you’re moving, opportunities appear that were invisible while standing still.

People respond differently.

Your thinking changes.

Your identity begins catching up with your actions.

But indecision freezes all of it.

The world can’t respond to a version of you that never commits.

Indecision also disguises itself as responsibility.

We tell ourselves we’re gathering more information.

Doing more research.

Waiting for the timing to be right.

Sometimes that’s wisdom.

But eventually, preparation becomes procrastination wearing a nicer suit.

The truth is uncomfortable:

Most of us aren’t waiting for better information.

We’re waiting for certainty.

And certainty was never part of the agreement.

One of the greatest misconceptions about successful people is that they make perfect decisions. They don’t.

They simply make decisions once they have enough information to move forward. Then they adjust.

Direction matters more than perfection.

Movement teaches. Waiting rarely does.

I’ve learned something surprising during a season of uncertainty.

The wrong decision often costs less than no decision at all.

It redirects.

It reveals.

Indecision teaches almost nothing except how to become comfortable standing still.

There will always be risk.

Every choice closes one door while opening another.

That’s the price of living intentionally.

The alternative is allowing life to decide for you.

And that’s still a decision.

Just not one you made.

If you’re waiting for a sign, perhaps this is it.

Not because you now know exactly what to do.

But because you probably already know the next step.

You just haven’t trusted yourself enough to take it.

Move neither from fear nor from urgency. Move from alignment.

The future isn’t built by people who eliminate uncertainty.

It’s built by people who know what matters most and are willing to act before every doubt has disappeared.

Because in the end, indecision always sends a bill.

The only question is whether you’re willing to keep paying it.

We assume it will come.

And most of the time, it does.

But somewhere along the way, many of us begin living there long before we’ve arrived.

We rehearse conversations that haven’t happened. We anticipate outcomes that don’t exist. We solve problems that may never appear. We carry the emotional weight of an imaginary future until it feels just as real as today.

In a sense, we’re borrowing tomorrow’s currency.

And like any loan, there’s interest.

The interest shows up like anxiety, exhaustion and future trippin…

I’ve been there myself: rehearsing the role play script and the what if scenarios over and over in my head the night before and walk into a high stakes moment the next day and everything they asked me was off script.

Years ago, a mentor told me something that sounded almost too simple.

“The only time you have is the present moment.”

I nodded politely.

Then I spent the next twenty years misunderstanding what they meant. Well…hey, time takes time.

I thought living in the present meant saying yes to every adventure. Traveling more. Being spontaneous. Chasing experiences. While those things have their place, that’s not what they was actually talking about.

Presence isn’t about squeezing every drop out of life.

It’s about fully inhabiting the life that’s already in front of you.

Because there’s only so much one person can do in a day.

And perhaps that’s exactly the point.

Tomorrow will come.

God willing, it will arrive right on schedule.

But if you’re already emotionally living there, you’ve unknowingly abandoned today.

I’ve noticed this pattern in almost every season of my life.

Early in my corporate sales career, I wanted to win.

Every quarter.

Every account.

Every opportunity.

I thought if I just prepared a little more, worked a little harder, anticipated every objection, stayed one step ahead of every possible scenario, success would become inevitable.

Preparation is valuable.

Obsession is expensive.

There’s a difference.

Eventually I learned one of the greatest lessons sales has ever taught me:

Prepare thoroughly.

Walk into the room.

Then let go.

Because no discovery call, boardroom presentation, interview, or negotiation has ever unfolded exactly as planned.

The plan gives you direction.

Your presence is what gives you adaptability.

The best salespeople I’ve met weren’t the ones who memorized every script.

They were the ones who trusted themselves enough to respond to what was actually happening instead of clinging to what they hoped would happen.

That lesson followed me far beyond business.

It showed up in relationships.

In starting over after jobs ended.

In heavy unexpected life conversations that I was totally unprepared for.

In the quiet moments where I realized I was spending today’s energy trying to control tomorrow’s possibilities.

High achievers are especially vulnerable to this.

We’re rewarded for thinking ahead.

For anticipating.

For solving problems before they happen.

Those qualities build incredible careers.

But unchecked, they can quietly steal your peace.

Because eventually every future problem begins requesting a deposit from today’s emotional bank account.

And we keep paying.

I’ve become gentler with myself over the past year.

Not because I’ve lowered my standards.

Quite the opposite.

I’ve simply learned that discipline and trust belong together.

I still prepare.

I still study.

I still train.

I still care deeply about doing excellent work.

But when the preparation is complete, I stop negotiating with tomorrow.

I release it.

Tomorrow will ask something different of me than today ever could.

And when it arrives, I’ll meet it there.

Not here.

There’s something deeply freeing about accepting that some days your entire assignment is simply to do today’s work well.

Nothing more and nothing less.

Write the article.

Make the phone call.

Take the walk.

Finish the workout…even if it’s 30 minutes.

Have the difficult conversation.

Read the chapter.

Love the people in front of you.

Rest when your body asks for it.

Then close the day.

There will always be another mountain visible from the one you’re climbing.

If you’re constantly staring at the next peak, you’ll never appreciate the view from the one you’re standing on.

Ironically, the more I’ve stayed rooted in today, the less frightening tomorrow has become.

Not because tomorrow became predictable.

Because I became more present.

More trusting.

More available for whatever actually arrives.

The future has a way of convincing us it deserves today’s attention.

It rarely does.

Tomorrow doesn’t need you yet.

Today does.

Practice is how you respond when things don’t go your way.
It’s how you speak to yourself after a mistake.
It’s whether you choose courage over comfort.
It’s showing up when no one is keeping score.

That’s why I dance.

The audience sees three minutes of an epic performance.

Three minutes of confidence.
Three minutes of movement.
Three minutes of smiles, synchronization, and applause.

What they don’t see are the months that came before it.

The rehearsals when the choreography refused to stick in my brain.

The countless times the music stopped halfway through because someone missed an eight-count.

The bruises.
The sore muscles.
The self-doubt.
The corrections.
The mirror that reflected every mistake before it ever reflected confidence.

As a former NBA dancer, I know this rhythm well.

Months of hard work…
for three minutes of glory.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something.

The performance was never the point.

The practice was.

Because practice wasn’t teaching me choreography.

It was teaching me discipline.

It was teaching me humility.

It was teaching me how to stay present when I wanted to quit.

How to trust my body.

How to recover after a mistake without letting one missed step become the rest of the routine.

Dance became one of life’s greatest teachers.

Because life moves exactly the same way.

Most of our lives are not lived on stages.

They’re lived in ordinary Tuesdays.

In early mornings.

In difficult conversations.

In choosing patience instead of reactivity.

In sending one more email.

Making one more phone call.

Taking one more walk.

Returning to the gym.

Returning to ourselves.

No audience.

No applause.

No standing ovation.

Just repetition.

The days feel like practice because they are.

The weeks become a collection of those repetitions.

The months invite you to ask,
“Why am I still freaking doing this??!!”

And if you stay with it long enough…

The years answer the question for you.

You realize you were never practicing for the performance.

You were practicing becoming the kind of person who could keep dancing—through uncertainty, disappointment, success, loss, transition, and joy.

The beautiful thing about dance is that eventually the music ends.

The beautiful thing about life is — well it actually doesn’t.

Every conversation is another rehearsal.

Every setback is another correction.

Every ordinary day is another chance to practice becoming the person you’re meant to be.

Maybe that’s why I keep dancing at this point in my life.

Not because I’m chasing another performance.

But because every time the music starts, I’m reminded that who we become is built long before anyone is watching.

And maybe that’s true for all of us.

The life everyone admires is usually only three minutes long.

The practice is where the real story lives.

The lights are bright. Cameras flashing. Questions coming fast.

“So what do you think about…”
“Walk us through that moment…”
“What’s next for you?”

And I see it happen in real time.

My client freezes.

Not because they don’t have the answer -
but because no one prepared them for THIS part.

The part after the performance.

Their eyes start scanning. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable.

Looking for someone.
Anyone.

A glance that says:
“I see you… I got you… I’m right here.”

But there’s no one.

Just more questions.

More expectation.

More pressure to keep showing up at the same level they just emptied themselves to reach.

And here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud:

After you’ve just done something epic
the last thing you want to hear is:

“Do you got this?”

Nope. No Thank You.

What the high achiever is actually thinking is:

“When do I get to sit down?”
“Can someone else finish the game?”

Because what most people don’t see is
that performance cost something.

Energy. Presence. Time. Pieces of you.

And instead of relief,
you’re handed the baton again.

Keep going.
Keep leading.
Keep delivering.

No pause. No exhale.

Just expectation disguised as opportunity.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

After I left the world of being an entrepreneur
and decided to enter the corporate world —

I still kept pushing.

Different arena. Same pattern.

Produce. Perform. Prove.

And if I’m honest, I wasn’t doing it alone.

I had coaches who stepped in.
And others who told me to keep going.

Different voices. Different guidance.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it—
there was still a decision that was mine to make.

When do I pause?
When do I pass it over?
When is enough… enough?

That part doesn’t get outsourced.

That part is yours.

Because at the end of the day—

YOU are the CEO of your own life.

So the real question becomes:

Who’s guiding you?
Who’s truly in your corner?
And what are you doing about it?

Because this is the part we don’t talk about.

The quiet disorientation after the high.

The moment where you realize:
you don’t just need to know how to win—

you also need to know when to pass.

When to hand it over. When to say no.
When to let someone else carry the weight.
When to choose sustainability over applause.

Because if you don’t—

you’ll keep proving you can do it all
while slowly resenting the fact that you have to.

And that’s not on anybody else but you.

But if you’re honest—

you’ll eventually see where that pattern has been costing you.

I was an awkward kid growing up. I was creative and introspective. I was also a natural born leader. Heck, I was swimming before I could even walk. Though, I also felt a tad unsure of myself. I was always a little out of place, trying to find where I fit. So my mom did what a lot of parents do when they see something in their child that hasn’t quite found expression yet—she enrolled me in dance.

And within two hours everything shifted.

She dropped me off, and by the time she came back, I was front and center.

I believed in myself.
I was also having fun.
I even made a friend.
And as it turns out… I was actually really, really good at dance.

That moment stayed with me.

Not just because I found something I loved—but because I found something I could be good at.

And if I’m being honest, that became a pattern.

Over the course of my life, I’ve discovered a lot of things I’m good at. Performing. Leading. Selling. Building relationships. Reading people. Creating momentum.

Capability has never been my issue.

But capacity? That’s a different conversation.

Because at some point, you stop asking:
“Am I good at this?”

And you start to ask:
“Why am I still doing this?”

That’s where it gets quiet.

I recently watched Nyad. The story of Diana Nyad swimming from Cuba to Flordia.

And, it felt conflicting.

Here me out…I was absolutely moved! When she crossed that finish line, I felt it! Relief. Admiration. Emotion.

A quieter question: “At what point is enough…Enough?”

Because what you’re watching is undeniable grit. Relentless pursuit. A refusal to quit.

At the same time you’re also watching someone push past limits beyond what the human body was even capable of. Over and over and over again. In the pursuit of something they decided had to be done.

And that forces you to sit with an uncomfortable truth:

Just because you CAN keep going doesn’t mean you have to.

That’s where high achievers start to feel the tension they usually don’t want to talk about.

I hear it all the time:

“I know I’m capable.”
“I know I’ve proven myself.”
“I still have drive.”

But underneath that is another question…

“Is this still what I actually want for my life?”

That question doesn’t come from a lack of ambition.
It comes from evolution.

Because when you’ve built an identity around being excellent, around performing, around delivering—there’s an unspoken pressure to keep proving it.

Even when no one is asking you to.

Even when you’ve already done enough.

So you push.

You stretch.

You say yes one more time.

You take on one more challenge.

You chase one more win.

Not because you need it—but because some part of you is still asking:

Do I still got it?

And if you’re not careful, that question will run your life.

You’ll start overextending—not for growth, but for validation.

You’ll confuse momentum with alignment.

You’ll keep performing long after the performance has stopped meaning something to you.

And that’s the trap.

Because the hardest question to ask a high achiever isn’t:

“Can you do more?”

It’s:

“When is your best effort enough for the day?”

Not when you’re exhausted.
Not when you’ve burned yourself out.
Not when there’s nothing left.

But when you’ve done what actually matters—and you choose to stop anyway.

That requires a different kind of discipline.

It requires you to detach your worth from your output.

To stop measuring yourself by how much you can carry.

To trust that who you are isn’t on trial anymore.

Because at some point, “too much” isn’t about workload.

It’s about identity.

And learning when enough is enough?

That might be the real work.

Not performative.

Just… reverence.

And, I didn’t always understand that. In fact, I still struggle with this often.

For a long time, I thought honoring a day like today had to look a certain way. Structured. External. Ceremonial for sure though in a way that felt distant from my actual life.

The old me would have needed to be out on a boat to be seen or hosting a BBQ to be with community.

But, today felt different.

I spent the afternoon by the pool, book in hand, sun resting gently on my skin.
No urgency. No noise. No need to be anywhere else.

I read slowly.
I journaled honestly.
I let myself be.

And somewhere in that stillness, I realized—
reverence isn’t loud.

Sometimes it just presence.

We honor those who came before us—
those who sacrificed, those who carried weight we will likely never understand.

But there’s another layer to this.
One we don’t always talk about.

The responsibility of being here.

Of being alive.
Of having the space, the breath, the choice to slow down.

To reflect.
To feel.
To actually witness your own life as it’s happening.

Today, reverence looked like honoring that.

Honoring the version of me that keeps going.
That rebuilds.
That chooses again.

Not in a dramatic, “look at me” kind of way though in the quiet, honest recognition that being present with yourself is a form of respect.

It’s a form of gratitude.

There was a moment

A subtle shift when I found myself at peace.

There was no fear of missing out and no anxiety about the weeks ahead.

Just the awareness that I’m fully here in my own life.

And I can choose how I want this day to be.

Because it’s reverent.

So today, I didn’t rush to fill the space.

I let it stretch.

I let it breathe.

I let it mean something.

Maybe that’s what reverence actually is:

Not only honoring what’s been lost—
but also deeply, intentionally honoring what still remains.