A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 296 of 365 Yesterday, in Learning to Let Go of What Was Never Mine to Carry, I wrote about a hard truth someone handed me and the question I've started asking before I pick anything up. Today began with a rough morning. By the afternoon, I had some of the answers I'd been waiting for. Then my phone rang. It was a medical professional, calling from their own cell phone, just to see how I was doing. The details of my health and that conversation are staying private. What I can tell you is how it felt. I felt cared for, in a plain and ordinary way that reached me before I had time to brace for it. Someone had kept thinking about me after I left their office, and they picked up the phone to let me know. I've thought about that call all evening. I'm Usually the One Who Calls If you know me at all, you know I’m usually the one checking in. I’m the one who remembers your appointment and texts afterward to ask how it went. Lately, I haven’t done it as often as I’d like, and I’ve made peace with that for this season. I still love doing it. It’s one of the ways I let people know they matter to me. Being on the other end of it is less familiar. When the call came, part of me wanted to wave it off, tell them I was fine, and let them get back to their day. I didn't. I stayed on the line and let it land. Maybe that's the piece of yesterday's lesson I didn't see coming. Letting go isn't only about putting things down. Sometimes it means opening your hands long enough for someone to give you something. If you're the dependable one in your circle, you might know how strange that can feel. Receiving takes its own kind of courage. It asks you to believe you're worth the phone call. Why Small Acts of Kindness Stay With Us Maybe someone's face came to mind as you read this. A friend who remembered the date of your appointment without a reminder. A coworker who followed up on something you'd mentioned once, weeks earlier, and you realized they had actually been listening. When you describe these moments later, they sound almost too small to mention. They called. They remembered. And yet you can still feel it. Years from now, you might not recall what the weather was or what you ate that day, but you'll remember who thought of you. That's what makes small acts of kindness so powerful. They rarely cost much, and they don't take long. What they say, quietly, is you were on my mind. When you're scared or worn down, hearing that can steady you in a way a grand gesture sometimes can't. This call came from a personal cell phone, from someone who chose to reach out on their own time. I noticed that, and I won't forget it. Choosing Where My Attention Goes After yesterday's post, I could easily have spent today writing about what I'm still waiting on and what still feels uncertain. That would have been honest, too. But this afternoon handed me something good, and I decided it deserved my attention just as much. I gave a parking app an entire blog post in Parking App Problems: I'm Trying to Give You Money. If a parking app can earn a few hundred words of my frustration, someone taking the time to check on me can certainly have a few paragraphs of my gratitude. Most of us are very specific about what went wrong. We can repeat the curt email word for word and replay the tone of a bad phone call for days. The kind moments get a quick "that was nice," and then they slip away. I'd like to give the good ones the same detail and the same staying power. To me, that's discernment: deciding which moments get to shape how I remember a day. Today, I'm choosing the phone call. You Might Be Someone's Phone Call There's one more thing I want you to hear. You have almost certainly done this for someone without ever knowing what it meant to them. You sent the "thinking of you" text. You asked how the appointment went. From your side, it may have taken thirty seconds and felt like nothing special, maybe even a little awkward. You might have wondered whether you were intruding. From my side of the phone today, I can promise you it wasn't nothing. It was the best part of a hard day. So if someone has been on your mind, consider this your nudge. You don't need the perfect words. "I was thinking about you" is plenty. And if you're usually the one doing the checking in, I hope someone calls you soon. When they do, stay on the line and let it in. I'm grateful for the answers I got today. I'm even more grateful for the person who wanted to know how I was holding up. I get to keep the details to myself and still say this part out loud. Thank you for thinking of me. It felt good to be cared for. 🩷 About the Author | Day 296 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like staying on the line when someone called to check on me, and letting myself be the one who was cared for. Day 296 of 365. Still showing up. Still noticing the good. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 295 of 365 Yesterday, in Between the Appointment and the Answer: What Waiting for Test Results Feels Like, I wrote about wanting answers and being scared of what they might say. I’m still waiting today, and I’m still in a fair amount of pain. The details of my health are staying private for now, but something happened this afternoon that I want to share, because I have a feeling it might be meant for you, too. Someone I see from time to time looked at me and told me the truth. They were kind about it, but they weren’t gentle. An angel with absolutely no interest in small talk. I’m paraphrasing and leaving out anything that would identify them, but the message is worth passing on. They had noticed how much I was holding, and they named it, piece by piece. Then they asked a question I wasn’t ready for: what’s the worst that could happen? Before I could answer, they answered it themselves, plainly. If I died, everyone would have to figure it out. I cried right there. I have a little girl, and my mind went straight to her. For a moment, she was all I could see. Then the meaning landed. If the people around me would find their way without me, why was I so sure they couldn’t handle more of it while I’m still here? Learning to Let Go Starts With One Honest Question Sitting there with mascara on my cheeks, I realized something. Nobody had asked me to carry all of this. I’d been carrying it because some part of me believed that holding it was how I kept everyone safe. Thinking a problem through one more time felt like protection. Running through what might happen next felt like love. Maybe you know that feeling. Someone offers to take something off your hands, and before they’ve finished the sentence, you’re already writing the instructions in your head and wondering whether it would be easier to just do it yourself. You can be sitting on the couch with your feet up and still not have handed a single thing over. If that’s you, it probably comes from a heart that cares a great deal and has gotten very good at being the dependable one. I know mine does. But I’m learning that worrying about something and doing something about it are two very different things, no matter how productive the worry feels at two in the morning. My results won’t come back any sooner because I’ve rehearsed every outcome. The people I love aren’t any safer because I’ve pictured every way things could go wrong. Choosing What Stays in My Hands So I’ve started asking myself one question before I pick something up. Does this actually need to be carried by me? Sometimes the answer is yes, and I’m glad it’s yes. There are things I want in my hands because they’re mine and I love them. My daughter’s bedtime is one of them, and I’m not giving it to anyone. A lot of what I’d been holding didn’t pass that test, though. Some of it belonged to another capable adult. Some of it was a question I kept asking at night even though nothing new had happened to answer it. This is where learning to let go stops feeling like defeat. To me, it’s discernment. I still care just as much as I did yesterday. I’m simply choosing where that care goes, instead of spreading it so thin that there’s barely any left for the one body I’ve been asked to look after right now. Mine. I’m noticing something else, too. When I hold on to everything, I quietly tell the people around me that I don’t trust them with it. Handing something over can be a form of respect. It says, I believe you can do this, even if they’ll do it differently than I would. And they will. That’s allowed. The Gift of Someone Who Tells You the Truth Think about the people in your life who would say the hard thing to your face. They say it because they can see you’re about to run yourself into the ground, and they care too much to stay quiet. Maybe it’s a friend who has known you since before you had anything figured out. Maybe it’s a near-stranger who happened to say exactly the right sentence on exactly the right day. People like that are rare. If you have one, you already know how lucky you are. I’m so grateful for the one who looked at me today. It would have been easier for them to nod politely and let me keep going. They chose the uncomfortable conversation instead, and it may turn out to be one of the kindest things anyone has done for me this year. If You’re Holding More Than Your Share If any of this sounds familiar, maybe there’s one thing you could put down today. Just one. Let someone else take it, and let them handle it their way, even if their way makes you twitch a little. Or maybe there’s a worry you can name out loud and then leave alone, without trying to solve it before bed. I’m still waiting for answers, and I haven’t become someone who hears “stop worrying” and cheerfully complies. But I heard something important today, and I heard it through tears, which is sometimes the only way the truth gets in. I love my daughter. I love my family and the life we’re building together. And I’m learning that loving them well includes leaving some room for me. About the Author | Day 295 of 365 I’m a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like hearing a hard truth through tears, and choosing what stays in my hands. Day 295 of 365. Still showing up. Still learning to let go. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 294 of 365 I haven’t been feeling well for a while, and I’ve been quietly looking for answers. Today I had more tests done. One result is already back. The others are still on their way, and I’m scared of what they might say. I’m keeping the details private for now. But I didn’t want to skip today or write around it as if it were an ordinary Tuesday. Somewhere, someone reading this is sitting with the same kind of fear, and I’d rather she didn’t sit with it alone. Maybe you’ve been here. You wanted an answer so badly, for so long, and then the moment one started to arrive, you wished you could slow it down. There’s relief in finally getting closer to understanding what’s been happening in your own body. There’s also a question that keeps tapping you on the shoulder, no matter what else you’re doing. What happens next? Waiting for Test Results Is Its Own Kind of Hard Waiting for test results doesn’t pause the rest of your life. You still answer the email. You still make dinner and laugh at the right part of the story your kid is telling you. The whole time, part of your mind is somewhere else, rereading the one result you already have and trying to turn it into something you can understand. If you’ve ever carried that, you know how much quiet effort an ordinary day can take. Nobody around you sees it. From the outside, you look completely fine. Looking for Answers Is an Act of Self-Respect Here’s what I keep coming back to tonight. I’m scared, and I’m also the reason these tests happened at all. When something felt off, I didn’t talk myself out of it. I didn’t wait for it to get loud enough that I had no choice. I kept asking. I made the appointments and went back when I needed to, trusting that I know my own body well enough to say, something isn’t right, and I want to understand it. A few weeks ago, I wrote about learning to listen to my body before it has to shout. This is what that looks like in real life. It isn’t always calm or graceful. Sometimes listening means sitting in your car after an appointment, keys in your hand, not quite ready to drive yet. If you’re waiting on something right now, I hope you’ll give yourself some credit, too. Fear has a way of making us feel small and powerless. But you asked the question. You walked into the appointment you’d been putting off. That took courage, even if it didn’t feel like courage while you were doing it. Letting the Fear Be Real I’d love to wrap this up with something reassuring. Honestly, I’d love to feel reassured myself. What I actually have tonight is one answer and a handful of new questions, and the feelings are still being sorted. I’m not going to rush myself toward a silver lining. I’ve tried that before, and it has never once made the waiting shorter. I’m genuinely grateful I could get more testing done today, and that I’m closer to clarity than I was this morning. I’m also scared. One doesn’t cancel the other. What I can choose is how I treat myself in the meantime. Tonight, that means being gentle with myself and not pretending to anyone, including me, that I’m fine. If You’re Scared Too I don’t have advice to offer you yet. What I can offer is company, for anyone who’s frightened and still getting through her day. You’re allowed to tell someone you’re having a hard time. You don’t have to tidy it up first, or wait until you know how the story ends. I’ll be here tomorrow, still waiting and still hoping. 💗 About the Author | Day 294 of 365 I’m a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like trusting my body enough to keep asking for answers, and letting myself be scared while I wait for them. Day 294 of 365. Still showing up. Still grateful. Still waiting for answers. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 293 of 365 I pulled into a lot, found a good space, and went to pay. A small sign on the post told me to download an app, so I did, sitting in the car with the engine off and watching the little circle spin while it installed. It was the wrong app. It worked perfectly well. It had simply never heard of this lot. What makes this funny is that I already had parking apps on my phone. More than one, on purpose. I like comparing rates before I commit, and I’ve saved real money doing it. Finding a better price at a garage two blocks over gives me a small, private thrill, and I’m not embarrassed about that. Paying attention to where your money goes is a good habit, and I’ve worked hard at it. But every app seems to know its own corner of the world, and this lot belonged to somebody else’s corner. When the Parking App on Your Phone Isn’t the One the Lot Wants Maybe you’ve sat in this exact spot. You look from the sign to your phone and back again, waiting for one of them to explain itself. Your card is saved and your plate is entered somewhere. Just not here. It’s a strange kind of stuck. Nothing is broken, and you fully intend to pay. You’re standing at the counter with your wallet open, and nobody’s at the register. A while back, in another city, it was worse. My usual parking app refused to cooperate at all. I tried the fixes I knew. Then I deleted it and downloaded it again, a fresh start in the same parking space. It greeted me with the same error. At that point I had a decision to make, and I’m proud of how quickly I made it. Knowing When to Stop Trying the Same Door There’s a version of me who would have stayed in that car another twenty minutes, determined to win. A lot of us grew up believing that if you try one more time, you’ll eventually earn it. Persistence has carried me through some genuinely hard seasons, and I appreciate that. From the driver’s seat, though, persistence and stubbornness can look an awful lot alike. I had given the app a fair chance. Another attempt wasn’t going to tell me anything new, and the place I was actually headed was still waiting. So I texted my husband and asked if he could book it from his end. Asking felt less like giving up and more like choosing a better route. That small exchange is one of my favorite things about being married to him. I can send a message that says can you try this? and know he’ll take it seriously. If you have someone like that, a partner or a friend who picks up when you’re stuck on something small, you know how much those little rescues add up over the years. They rarely get talked about. They should. The Point Was Never the Parking When I think back on these moments, the frustration isn’t what stays with me. What stays is how easily I lost sight of why I was parking in the first place. I was on my way somewhere. Someone was expecting me, or something good was about to happen, and for ten minutes the whole outing shrank down to a spinning circle on a screen. I think a lot of us do this, and not only with parking. A small obstacle shows up, and before we notice, it has become the main event. We pour our best energy into the thing that was only supposed to get us in the door. These days I’m practicing a simple kind of discernment. I give something an honest try. If it still isn’t working, I stop asking how to force it and start asking what will get me where I’m going. Sometimes the answer is a different app, and sometimes it’s a person I trust. Neither one makes me less capable. It just means I’m clear about what I came for. Still Here for the Good Deal I’m keeping my parking apps. When they work, they’re wonderful, and I’ll keep comparing prices with real enthusiasm. A good deal is still a good deal, even when it comes with the occasional detour. And if you have a whole folder of parking apps right now and none of them seems to recognize the lot you’re sitting in, I hope this made you smile. You’re not the only one out here, phone in hand, ready and willing to pay. You know what you came to do. Go do it. 🩷 About the Author | Day 293 of 365 I’m a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like giving a stubborn parking app an honest try, then texting my husband for backup instead of fighting it on my own. Day 293 of 365. Still showing up, and still trying to give a parking lot my money. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 292 of 365 My husband wanted to know why there was about $300 from Amazon on the credit card. Normally, I can explain a purchase. I'm good at it. Nordstrom? I can walk you through every item and exactly why it was necessary. But this time, with Amazon, I had nothing to explain, because I hadn't ordered any of it. Oh, you didn't know about Nordstrom? Never mind. A few weeks earlier, I'd gone into my Subscribe & Save and made changes. I canceled a few things, adjusted a few others, and closed the app feeling organized. Somewhere between my screen and the warehouse, those changes didn't stick. The boxes came anyway, full of things I had already decided we didn't need. Maybe you've had one of those moments. A subscription you were sure you canceled, or a charge that made you squint at your own statement. There's a small sting to it. You made the decision and did the responsible thing, and the world kept shipping. I didn't stay annoyed for long. I knew what I wanted, which was to send everything back and see the money return to the card. So I started the returns. The products, it turned out, needed headshots first. Our Amazon Returns Became a Full Photo Shoot To process these Amazon returns, I had to photograph each item from several angles to show it was unopened and undamaged. Fair enough. Everything was exactly as it had arrived. I was ready to snap a couple of quick pictures and get on with my afternoon. Then my husband got involved. "How's the lighting over here?" he asked, sliding a box a few inches closer to the window. A minute later, he decided the clutter in the background had to go. I stood there and watched this man give unopened merchandise the kind of attention some of our photographer friends give their paying clients. He adjusted the angles and stepped back to check each shot. If you had walked in without any context, you would have assumed we were launching a product line, not sending one away. I wanted a refund. He wanted these items to leave our home looking their very best. Somewhere in the middle of it, I started smiling. There's something tender about watching someone you love take a small, slightly silly task completely seriously, simply because it's yours and he wants it done right. He didn't have to jump in. He could have asked about the charge, heard my answer, and gone back to his day. Instead, he picked up the phone and went looking for the good light. If you have a person like that, you know exactly what I mean. Maybe they're the one who reads the fine print you skimmed, or quietly handles the errand nobody would ever think to thank them for. Those moments almost never make the photo album, yet they say more about the person you're sharing your life with than most of what does. Every Box Needed Its Own Way Home Then came the drop-off options. Some items could go to Whole Foods, while others had to go somewhere else entirely. Scheduling a pickup came with its own instructions, and handing them to a UPS driver came with a different set. They had all found our front door together. Leaving, apparently, required separate travel arrangements. Amazon, I love you. Truly. You've saved me more last-minute store runs than I could ever count. But when I tell you no thank you, I'd love for you to believe me the first time lol. As I sorted through them, I noticed something I was quietly proud of. I never second-guessed myself. Not once did I look at a box and think, well, it's already here, maybe I'll just keep it. I had made that decision weeks earlier, and a delivery on the porch didn't change it. It's so easy to keep something simply because returning it is a hassle. Most of us have a closet shelf or a kitchen drawer full of proof. This time, I trusted the choice I'd already made and let the extra effort be worth it. You probably know the bag I'm talking about next. It's the returns bag that rides around in the car for a week or two, because you always seem to be near the wrong drop-off or holding the wrong code. Eventually you open the back seat and greet it like an old acquaintance. Oh, good. You're still with us. If that bag is in your car right now, I hope you're smiling a little. Mine is still on its journey, too. What I'm Keeping The returns are still in progress, so I don't have a triumphant refund announcement to close on. I'll finish them. Those products weren't staying before they arrived, and they aren't staying now. But when I tell this story, I don't lead with the credit card or the drop-off instructions. I tell people about my husband checking the lighting. Long after the money is back where it belongs, that's what I'll remember. I'll picture him by the window, moving a box two inches to the left so it would photograph well, because he wanted to help me finish something. I'm grateful for that. It's a funny thing to be thankful for, a husband who takes return photos seriously, but I'll take gratitude wherever it turns up, even in the background of a product shot once all the clutter has been cleared away. And if anyone needs campaign photos, I know a guy. About the Author | Day 292 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like letting my husband step in on a stack of Amazon returns, and realizing his care for something so small was the best part of the whole errand. Day 292 of 365. Still showing up, and still waiting on a refund with excellent lighting. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 291 of 365 I don’t like being lied to. Most people don’t. But when someone looks right at me and tells me a story I don’t believe, my facial expressions tend to respond before I’ve decided what to say. I can choose my words with care. My face has usually started without me. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. Staying quiet has never meant my opinion stayed private. Maybe you grew up with a mother who could read your whole afternoon off your face the second you walked through the door. Or maybe you have a friend who leans over mid-conversation and whispers, “Fix your face.” If you’ve ever sat through a meeting feeling wonderfully diplomatic, only to find out later that your eyebrows had already filed their report, you know exactly what I mean. Our mouths were being polite. Our eyebrows had concerns. When My Facial Expressions Join the Conversation I can usually tell when a story isn’t holding together. A detail doesn’t match, and I have a question before the person has finished explaining. Sometimes they start talking faster and adding more, until it feels like they’re trying to convince themselves along with me. Meanwhile, I’m still back at the part that never got explained. I know feeling suspicious doesn’t automatically make me right. I’ve misread situations before, and I want to leave room for that. What I can’t do is nod along and act convinced while I’m quietly asking questions. My face has never been willing to go along with that, and honestly, I’ve come to respect it for that. I don’t even have to say, “I’m having trouble believing this.” Somehow the message gets delivered anyway. An Honest Answer Gives Us Somewhere to Go What I value most is someone who can tell me the truth when it’s uncomfortable. “I forgot.” “I made a mistake.” Those words might disappoint me for a minute, but they give us something real to work with. I can understand a mistake. I’ve made plenty of my own. The harder thing is sensing that someone expects me to step over what doesn’t make sense so the conversation can stay comfortable. Then I’m half listening to the story and half wondering why I’m being asked to believe it. You’ve probably been there too. You want to give someone a fair chance to explain, and you keep circling back to the same unanswered question. You aren’t looking for a fight. You’d just love a straight answer. I’m grateful for the people in my life who give me one. With them, I can admit something awkward, they can admit something awkward back, and nobody has to build a whole house of explanations around it. That kind of honesty feels like a gift every time, and I treasure it far more than any polished version of events. I Still Get to Choose My Words An expressive face doesn’t mean every thought behind it has to come out of my mouth. That part is still mine to decide. I can ask a question instead of making an accusation. If I’m irritated, I can let a moment pass before I respond. I want to be fair to the person in front of me, and I also want to trust what I’m noticing. Sometimes I find out I was missing a piece of the story. Other times I realize a clear answer isn’t coming, and I decide what to do with that. I don’t have to win a conversation to make a decision about it. That’s where my honest face and my judgment start working together. My face notices, and I decide what it means and what happens next. I wouldn’t trade this face for a more practiced one. The people I love can see when I’m happy to be with them and when something they said made me laugh out loud. I’d hate to get so good at hiding my reactions that I hid those, too. If your face tends to speak before you do, maybe it’s time to stop apologizing for it. It’s honest. You still get to choose your words, and that choice belongs to you. I’ll keep choosing mine with care, and I’m grateful I get to. The eyebrows remain a separate negotiation. About the Author | Day 291 of 365 I’m a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like appreciating the people who tell me the truth, and trusting my own judgment when a story doesn’t add up. Day 291 of 365. Still showing up. Still letting my face tell the truth. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 290 of 365 I had 62 tabs open this week. I counted. It seemed like something I should admit before writing about self-compassion. When a woman I care about starts tearing herself apart, I'm usually the first one to stop her. I remind her of everything she's already gotten right, and of the grace she would give anyone else in her position without thinking twice. I mean every word of it. I've seen those words land, and I've seen someone's shoulders finally relax because of them. Then a few hours later, I'll hear myself talking to me in a tone I would never use with her. I suspect I'm not the only one. Why Self-Compassion Is Easier to Give Than to Receive Think about the last time a friend called you upset over something she said in a meeting, or a text she wished she could take back. You probably didn't need a minute to find the kind words. You knew her heart. You knew one awkward moment couldn't undo years of showing up for the people she loves, and you told her so and believed it. Now think about the last time you were the one replaying a moment. Did you give yourself that same benefit of the doubt, or did you start asking for proof? Most of us start asking for proof. We understand the people we love without hesitating, and then we cross-examine ourselves the minute something goes sideways. I don't believe that makes us harsh people. We've just spent years being gentle with others and very little time letting that gentleness come back our way. Noticing this helped me more than I expected. I already know how to be kind. I've done it with friends and with my daughter more times than I could count. Self-compassion wasn't something I had to learn from scratch. I only had to start offering some of it to myself. That was a relief. Traffic, Running Late, and Where My Attention Goes Recently I was running late, and traffic had no interest in my schedule. I'd love to tell you I took a deep breath and felt peaceful about it. I was annoyed. That's allowed. Wanting to be patient doesn't mean irritation stops showing up. I do get to decide how long it stays and what I let it mean. Being late was something I could work with. Next time I can leave earlier and give the morning more room. Traffic was never going to take my feedback. Once I separated those two things, the annoyance had much less to hold onto. One late morning said nothing about who I am. It told me to leave ten minutes earlier. For me, that's self-compassion on a regular day. I can be honest about what happened and still choose where my energy goes. What 62 Open Tabs Taught Me About Discernment About those tabs. I opened every one of them for a reason. Some held ideas for Karma Penguin I wanted to come back to. Others were things I'd promised to look into for someone I love. They were good intentions, every one, and they'd been piling up for a long time. When I finally sat down with them, I stopped wondering how I got to 62 and started asking which ones still deserved my attention. I went through them, kept a handful, and closed the rest. I felt lighter with each one I closed. Not everything you open has to be finished. Some things were worth looking at once, and it's fine to let them go. I'd like to treat more of my life that way. I can keep what matters and close what doesn't without lecturing myself about why I opened it in the first place. Taking My Own Advice I'll keep telling the women in my life that they deserve rest, and that asking for help is a strength. I believe that completely. The difference now is that I've added my own name to the list. If you've ever given someone advice you knew you needed yourself, you're in good company. You already know what kindness sounds like. So the next time you hear that harsher voice in your head, stop and ask what you'd say to a friend standing exactly where you are. Then say it to yourself, out loud if you need to. You've been offering that kindness to everyone else for years. You're allowed to receive it too. I'm grateful I already know how. I'm also grateful for every person who said those kind words to me first, long before I learned to say them to myself. About the Author | Day 290 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like closing the tabs that no longer deserved my attention, and offering myself the same grace I'm so quick to give everyone else. Day 290 of 365. Still showing up. Still taking my own advice, one tab at a time. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 289 of 365 I had 24 people to get back to. Each one was someone I cared about, someone who had reached out with a question or just to say hello. Somewhere along the way, those messages stopped looking like separate people and started looking like one big unfinished thing. It's been a week of broken sleep, the kind where you wake up already tired and stay that way. When I opened my phone and saw that number, I didn't see 24 quick replies. I saw one more thing asking for energy I wasn't sure I had. I answered them anyway. Every single one. Then, of course, people started answering me back. The Inbox Was Never Going to Stay Empty I'll be honest about what I was hoping for. I wanted the feeling of done. I wanted to set my phone down, look at a clean screen, and finally stop carrying around the thought that I owed everyone a response. What I got instead was a phone that lit back up, one name at a time. My first reaction was a small, tired groan. My second was a smile, because I understood what was happening. Every one of those replies came from someone who was glad to hear from me and wanted to keep talking. That's the part that's easy to forget when you're running low. A message from someone who loves you isn't a bill. An inbox that never stays empty usually means you're surrounded by people who keep reaching for you, and that's something to be grateful for, even in a week when I don't have much to give back. Maybe you know this feeling. You finally answer the text you've been putting off for days, and the reply arrives before you've even set your phone down. Part of you is happy. Part of you wonders when you agreed to an ongoing conversation. Both parts are telling the truth. What Texting Back Taught Me About My Own Pace When I'm rested, texting back takes almost nothing. When I'm this tired, even a message I'm happy to receive can sit there for days. Then it sits long enough that I start thinking about how long it's been sitting, which takes more energy than the reply ever would have. So I made a decision this week, and it felt better than finishing the list. I answered the messages that came back when I had something real to say. The rest are waiting, and I'm letting them wait. I used to call that falling behind. I'm starting to call it discernment. A reply doesn't sign me up to stay available until every conversation reaches its natural end. I can be glad you wrote, mean it completely, and still answer you tomorrow. For years I treated a fast reply as proof that I cared. If someone reached out, I owed them my attention right then, no matter what else the day was asking of me. Texting back became one more way to prove I was a good friend. But the people who matter most to me don't measure our relationship in minutes. They'd much rather hear from me when I'm actually present than get a rushed answer from someone who's barely there. I would rather give them the better version of me, even if she shows up a day later. If You're Behind on Your Messages, You're in Good Company Maybe you have your own list right now. Names you think of while you're driving or brushing your teeth. Messages you open at exactly the wrong moment, promise yourself you'll answer properly, and then lose to the rest of the day. If that's you, I hope you can go a little easier on yourself. Being slow to respond doesn't make you a bad friend. Sometimes it just means you're doing your best with what you have, and right now what you have is less than usual. I'm also hoping to remember this the next time I'm the one waiting. When someone takes a while to get back to me, I want to offer them the same grace I'm learning to offer myself. I don't know what their week has looked like. A late reply might simply mean they're tired, or carrying something I can't see. That's how I'd want to be understood, too. Grateful for Every Name on the Screen So here's where I landed. Twenty-four people heard back from me this week. A few of those conversations kept going, and I enjoyed every one of them. The others will pick up again after I've had some sleep. I'm grateful for every name on that screen. I'm grateful to have so many people who want to hear from me that answering them all takes real effort. That's a good problem to have, and I don't take it lightly. And I'm grateful to be learning that caring deeply about people and answering them on my own timeline can live in the same life. If you're waiting on a message from me, I'm so happy you wrote. I'll get there. 🩷 About the Author | Day 289 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like answering 24 people during a week of broken sleep and giving myself permission to finish the rest of those conversations at my own pace. Day 289 of 365. Still showing up. Still grateful for every name on my screen. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 288 of 365 I was packing for a trip somewhere much colder than here when I went to grab my winter clothes and stopped with my hand halfway to a closet that wasn’t mine. My coats are in storage, and so are the boots I’d already planned to wear. I knew exactly where they were. I could have told you which side of the unit, and probably which box. I hadn’t lost a thing. I’d simply put an entire season somewhere I couldn’t reach it, and the weather at my destination had no interest in our moving timeline. So I packed what I had. Somewhere in the middle of folding a sweater that was almost right, I realized it wasn’t really my stuff I was missing. It was the ease that came with it. And that ease didn’t appear out of nowhere. I built it. The Wardrobe I Built on Purpose Every piece in that storage unit is there because at some point I chose it. I tried it on and knew it felt like me. Over the years, those small decisions added up to a closet where I didn’t have to think very hard in the morning. I knew which shoes worked with which dress. I knew which purse could carry my whole day without complaint. If you’ve ever owned a favorite pair of shoes that made an entire outfit make sense, you know what I mean. That isn’t vanity. It’s knowing yourself well enough to make your own mornings easier. I used to feel a little guilty admitting I miss my things. It can sound shallow when so much of life is bigger than handbags. I’ve stopped apologizing for it. I like my purses. I chose them with care, and I enjoy carrying them. Wanting to get dressed and feel like yourself is a perfectly reasonable thing to want. What Living Out of a Suitcase Teaches You About Ease When you’re living out of a suitcase, ordinary tasks pick up an extra step. Before you can do the thing, you have to answer a question first: is it here, or is it in a storage unit in another state? It’s a small question. It adds up anyway. Lately, though, that question has started teaching me something. Every time I reach for something that isn’t here, I learn a little more about what I truly rely on and what I could honestly live without. Some things I haven’t thought about once in months. Others I reach for nearly every day, and their absence has told me more than their presence ever did. You don’t get that kind of clarity while everything sits in its usual place. Living out of a suitcase hands it to you whether you asked for it or not. My Desk Was Never Just a Desk The other thing I keep reaching for is my desk. I miss my papers waiting where I left them, in a setup that was ready for work before I ever sat down. At my own desk, I never had to think about the space, so I could put all my attention on the work. Now every beginning comes with a few minutes of finding a surface and gathering what I need before the real thinking can start. I still do the work. I’ve written every one of these 288 days, many of them at a temporary table that has never once felt like mine. That counts for something. It turns out I can create in a space that wasn’t built for me. Knowing I can adapt doesn’t mean I have to pretend I prefer it, though. I’m proud I can work anywhere. I’d also really love to work at my own desk again. Both of those are true at the same time. Choosing What Comes Out First Maybe you’ve been here too. Maybe you lived out of a suitcase longer than you planned, or spent a season with a smaller version of your usual life while you waited for the rest of it to come back. If so, you probably remember the first thing you unpacked, and how good it felt to reach for something and find it right where it belonged. I already know my first unpack. Nessie and Nessoo, my Nespresso machines, have had that spot reserved ever since I wrote My September Reset Needed a Reset: When Temporary Doesn’t Feel Like Home. After them, the cold-weather clothes are moving up the list, right alongside my desk. When everything is finally in one place again, there will still be work to do and dinners to make. I’ll still stand in front of a full closet some mornings and announce that I have nothing to wear. The difference is that I’ll be saying it with all the evidence in the room. What I’m carrying out of this stretch is a clearer sense of what makes my days feel like mine. I know which things make life easier now, because I’ve lived without them. When I do unpack, I’ll do it on purpose. Until then, I’m grateful we have a safe place to stay and that everything we own is waiting patiently for us. For this trip, I’ll layer what I’ve got. My good sweaters and boots are waiting. I know exactly where. 🩷 About the Author | Day 288 of 365 I’m a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like packing for colder weather with my coats in storage, and realizing the ease I miss is something I built on purpose. Day 288 of 365. Still showing up, and still owning the right coat in the wrong location. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 287 of 365 Today I got my hair done, and I feel like a billion dollars. Yes, a billion. We're well past a million at this point, and I'd appreciate it if everyone respected the updated valuation. Not long ago, I wrote about leaving my longtime hairdresser in Setting Healthy Boundaries When Loyalty Outlasts the Relationship. His work had changed, and I'd reached the point where loyalty alone wasn't a good enough reason to keep sitting in his chair. That post was about knowing when to go. What it didn't cover was the stretch afterward, when you've made the brave decision and you're still walking around with the hair that prompted it. If you've ever walked away from someone you relied on for years, a hairdresser or a doctor you kept seeing mostly out of habit, you know that in-between place. The old option is gone, and the new one hasn't shown up yet. You tell yourself you'll find someone soon. Meanwhile, the clip and the ponytail start getting a lot more use than you'd like to admit. Eventually, I stopped waiting for the right person to appear and went looking. How I Found a New Hairdresser: I Asked The answer was right in front of me, in the form of a woman whose hair I genuinely loved. I noticed it every time I saw her. The color was soft, and the cut moved the way hair is supposed to move. So one day, I simply asked who did it. There's something reassuring about a recommendation you can see with your own eyes. You don't have to decode reviews or scroll through filtered photos wondering how much of it was the lighting. The proof was right there, catching the light while she talked. She gave me her hairdresser's name, and when I looked into her background, my confidence went up even more. Fashion Week experience, and years of serious professional work behind her. This was someone who knew exactly what she was doing. Was I nervous about sitting down with a new hairdresser? Of course. Anyone who has ever settled into a salon chair with a stranger standing behind them holding scissors knows that particular flutter. But somewhere along the way, staying the same had started to feel riskier than trying something new. I already knew what another month of being unhappy with my hair would feel like, because I'd been living it. Choosing the unfamiliar wasn't reckless. It was me deciding that my own satisfaction counted. Building the Right Foundation Today's appointment was about toning my hair and bringing it back to a proper base before we highlight. The color came out darker than I'd pictured, and I loved that she explained why. This is the foundation the highlights will be built on. I appreciated that more than I expected to. She didn't try to cram every step into one visit to impress me. She was thinking about where my hair would be two months from now, not only how it would look in the mirror today. Patience like that tells you a lot about a professional. She was also wonderful to be around, warm and easy to talk to. She's the kind of person who makes you relax back into the chair instead of perching on the edge of it. Letting Someone Good Do Her Job I'll be honest. I'm particular about haircuts. Even when I know I need a trim, watching my hair fall to the floor makes me a little sad, and some part of me would like a moment of silence for every piece. So I told her the truth. I don't like taking off a lot, but cut whatever it needs to be healthy. And then I let her. I didn't hover, and I didn't try to negotiate with the scissors. I sat back and trusted her. That trust surprised me almost as much as the result. I hadn't stopped caring about my hair. I'd simply found someone whose skill I believed in, and that made it easy to step out of the way. There's a real freedom in that. When you've done the work of choosing well, you no longer have to guard every decision. You get to let someone who's good at this take care of you. Maybe that's the gift of discernment. Leaving the wrong fit took courage, but choosing the right one is what finally let me relax. Sometimes It Really Is About Your Hair I don't need to turn this into an enormous life lesson. I wrote about letting some days simply be days in Personal Growth Doesn't Mean Every Day Has to Become a Life Lesson, and this one gets to be a happy one. Something had been quietly bothering me for months, and today it got fixed by someone who cared about getting it right. You don't always realize how often a small thing has been nagging at you until the nagging stops. On the way out, I caught my reflection in a shop window and smiled at it. That hadn't happened in a while. It felt good to look good. I'm allowed to enjoy that without explaining how it contributes to my personal growth. Sometimes I would simply like to like my hair. I'm So Glad I Asked That earlier post was about recognizing it was time to leave. Today feels like its happy ending, because I found someone I'm excited to go back to. I'm grateful to the woman who shared her hairdresser with me so freely. People don't always do that, and plenty of us guard a good stylist like a family recipe. And I'm grateful for the care and skill that went into every minute of today's appointment. Maybe there's something like this in your life right now. Something small and fixable that has bothered you for a while and keeps sliding to the bottom of the list. It might be your hair, or it might be a provider who stopped being the right fit years ago. You don't have to wait for it to become a crisis before you deal with it. Being a little unhappy is reason enough. And if you see someone whose hair you love, tell her. Then ask who does it. Most of us would be thrilled to be asked, and that one question is how this whole good day started for me. I walked out with healthier hair and a new hairdresser I can't wait to see again. A very good day. A billion-dollar day, actually. 🩷 About the Author | Day 287 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like asking someone with beautiful hair who does it, then trusting a new hairdresser enough to let her do her work. Day 287 of 365. Still showing up, and still admiring my hair. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 286 of 365 My wedding ring had been feeling tight for days. The air was heavy and humid, my finger had swollen, and one evening I slid the ring off and set it on the dresser. Then I looked at that dresser the way mothers look at furniture. Could my daughter get up there? Realistically, no. But I've watched her figure out plenty of things I was sure were beyond her, and this was the ring my husband placed on my hand the day we married. I wasn't willing to stake it on "probably not." Some people might call that overthinking. I call it knowing my daughter. So I moved it somewhere more protected and went on with my evening. A few days later, I reached for it and came up empty. What My Mind Chose to Hold Onto What struck me was how much I did remember. I could recall taking the ring off, the exact worry that made me move it, and the relief I felt once I had. The reasoning was all there. The only thing I hadn't held onto was the location. We tend to call moments like this forgetful, usually with a sigh, as if they prove we're slipping. When I looked at what my mind actually kept, I saw something else. It stayed fully alert to a two-year-old's safety and let go of the coordinates of an object that wasn't going anywhere. That's not a mind failing. It's a mind putting first things first. I knew the ring was in our home, so there was never any panic. I made a mental note to look properly when I had a quiet minute, and life kept filling those minutes first. The Man Who Knew Where My Wedding Ring Was Then my husband mentioned it in passing. He knew where it was. A shirt had landed on top of it, and he'd noticed. I laughed, and something in me softened at the same time. There's a particular kind of love in being noticed like that. He didn't make a point of it or turn it into a story. He just knew, the way people who share a life tend to know things about each other without being asked. That's what partnership looks like most days. It rarely shows up as a big romantic moment. It's two people quietly catching what the other one sets down. I've caught more than a few things for him over the years, and this time he caught one for me. Have You Ever Kept Something So Safe You Couldn't Find It? I'd bet you have. Maybe it was the passport you put away weeks before a trip so it would be easy to find, or the birthday gift you bought in July and tucked away so carefully that it surfaced at Christmas. Somewhere in that moment, a voice said this matters, protect it, and you listened. That voice deserves more credit than we give it. We're quick to tell the part of the story where we couldn't find the thing, and we skip the part where we were paying close attention to what mattered most. I'd like to tell both. Giving What Matters a Home A few weeks ago, I wrote How to Trust Yourself Again When Someone You Thought You Knew Blindsides You, about someone who surprised me in a way I never saw coming. This is a much smaller, much happier version of the same lesson. My instinct to protect that ring was right. I'd make the same call again tomorrow. If there's anything I hope you take from this, it's to honor that protective voice, the one that says this matters, keep it safe. Then give it somewhere to land. My ring now has a home for the times it comes off: a small dish on a high shelf, out of my daughter's reach and easy for me to find without a second thought. That's what discernment looks like to me right now. My protective side doesn't need to work harder. It needs a place to set things down so it can rest. I'm grateful my husband noticed. And I'm grateful for the instinct that moved the ring in the first place, because it's the same one that keeps watch over my daughter every day. What have you tucked away somewhere safe? And who helped you find it? I'd love to hear your story. About the Author | Day 286 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like protecting something precious a little too well, and letting my husband be the one who knew exactly where it was. Day 286 of 365. Still showing up. Still grateful. Still keeping the important things safe, now with a designated dish. 🐧

A commitment to show up and write my truth | Day 285 of 365 I don't know what to make for dinner. I wish I had something more exciting to report, but here we are. Everybody needs to eat, and I'm fresh out of ideas. The rude thing about dinner is that we already did it yesterday. Apparently that doesn't count toward tonight. What to Make for Dinner? Please Give Me an Actual Answer There are so many things we could eat, and somehow that makes choosing harder. Pasta sounds easy, but then I have to decide what goes on it. Rice sounds good, but rice with what? A bowl of rice and my best wishes? I want something reasonably easy that's also reasonably likely to be eaten by my daughter. That last part adds a little suspense. If you've ever fed a toddler, you know a meal can look perfectly good to you and still earn a review that consists entirely of "No." No explanation. Just no. It's a very tough restaurant to work in. And when I ask the grown-ups what they want, "Whatever" is not the answer I'm hoping for. Whatever is not sold at the grocery store. I've looked. Please name a food. The Easy Recipe That Is Actually Easy Sometimes I go looking for inspiration and find an "easy weeknight dinner" whose ingredient list sends me straight back to the store. Then there's the chopping and the sauce and something that needs to marinate for four hours. Friends, I'm trying to make dinner tonight. I need the kind of easy where I read the recipe and think, Yes, I can do that, instead of wondering whether I should have started after breakfast. And please tell me how many things I'll have to wash. That belongs right at the top: "Serves four. Uses every bowl you own." Thank you. I'll keep looking. Maybe We Can Have Pasta Again Somewhere along the way, I decided every dinner needed to be a different answer. I think that's the recovering perfectionist in me, the one who still believes a good mother produces something new and impressive at five-thirty every single night. Nobody at my table has ever asked for that. Pasta hasn't offended anyone. Neither have eggs, or a simple rice bowl, or whatever familiar meal takes the least amount of thinking. Repeating something that works isn't a failure of imagination. It's a decision, and I get to make it. I'd just like to remember what those meals are before everyone is hungry. Including me. Especially me. Choosing dinner while hungry is a lot like grocery shopping while hungry, except I'm standing in my own kitchen and somehow still tempted to buy everything. So maybe tonight is the night I finally write the list down, so the next time I wonder what to make for dinner, the answer is already waiting for me in my own handwriting. The Table Is the Part I'll Remember I'm standing in a kitchen that isn't quite mine yet, in a house that's still temporary, with a good part of our life waiting in storage. Some nights that lands harder than others. But when I picture the dinners I'll remember, they aren't the clever ones. They're the ones where the three of us sat down together and somebody laughed with their mouth full. My daughter announced her verdict. My husband reached for seconds. Nobody checked the time. I used to think home was a place I'd get back to once everything was unpacked. I'm starting to believe it's whatever happens when we sit down together, even over pasta, even in a borrowed kitchen. Maybe your table has changed, too. A new house, a new season, a chair that's empty or one that's suddenly high enough to need a booster seat. Whatever the dinner is, I think the feeding is the love, and the menu was never really the point. Moms, What's Your "I've Got Nothing" Dinner? If you've ever stood at the open fridge around five-thirty hoping it might change its mind, you're in good company. I'm grateful for food to choose from and for the people I get to feed. I'm also very interested in getting through this evening without washing a blender. Both of those are true. So tell me your easiest dinner. The one you make when you don't know what to make. Nothing fancy, and nothing with an ingredient I'll use once and then keep in the cupboard until we move. Just a reliable meal that gets everybody fed. Bonus points if it uses one pan. Extra bonus points if someone else washes that pan. I don't know what to make for dinner, but apparently I know exactly what I want from the cleanup. About the Author | Day 285 of 365 I'm a soul-led coach, entrepreneur, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating healing, uncertainty, temporary chapters, motherhood, work, big transitions, grief, nervous system healing, overstimulation, emotional growth, and the ongoing lesson that life works a whole lot better when we stop trying to carry everything alone. Today that lesson looked like not knowing what to make for dinner, being perfectly willing to have pasta again, and asking other moms for the easy meals they actually make. Day 285 of 365. Still showing up. Still grateful. Still accepting dinner ideas—especially if they come with someone who washes the pan. 🐧