It was easier before when I didn't feel.
 
Before my illness, I didn’t feel my emotions. They were neatly stuffed down, and I was numb… with the occasional explosion, of course. It took a liver disease, and being in bed staring at my ceiling for what felt like forever, to crack the thick layer of ice I had defensively coated my emotions with.
 
In the past I’ve traveled, and moved around the globe, and not felt a thing. I truly couldn’t relate when other people said they missed me – I thought, well that’s weird, I’m on an adventure! No breath. I felt nothing of this human “missing.”
 
This time is different.
 
As the plane lifts off from the mainland sweeping me back, once again, to my new little island home I realize for the first time that I’m homesick. I hate to admit that. Hate it. I “should” be above such a 13-year-old-at-summer-camp experience. Be that as it may, everything in me wants to dig claws in and prevent the take-off of this plane. Breathe. My life is clearly on this trajectory for a reason. And in this moment it is so that I can experience missing for the first time.
 
I have not written a single blog since I made this big move. My mind has created all sorts of good explanations about why that is, speaking at conferences, not having time, traveling, it wasn’t relevant, etc. Although all true, it’s important not to trust only our thoughts about what’s actually going on.
 
The truth in my body: I’m homesick. Ugh. My gut feels like an achy cavern. I don’t want to feel that. And I certainly don’t want to share it. Doesn’t that make me weak? Shouldn’t I feel more excited about exploring, and my choices to slow down and support my health?
 
Palm trees are great, but don’t make up for the gaze of your mother. The touch of your partner.
 
So, more accurately than home-sick, I would say that I am people-sick.
 
What is my imprint, my ripple, my impact. How does this get affected by distance and lack of contact? How do I remain in connection? What’s the opposite of out of sight, out of mind?
 
For the most part I am okay, but there are a few key people that I weep for in the distance. I am told, it is fine. It’s not a big deal. Don’t overthink it. A phone call is a phone call. On the other hand, I feel somehow it is heartbreaking how far I am away. And I try to tell myself it is fine, no big deal.
 
There is a battle going on: I want to protect myself from feeling the sadness by shutting it down, yet at the same time I want to feel it because I know it is human and healthy. And I also struggle, wanting to make other people feel more comfortable around me: they all do better when I  say I’m fine. Then they don’t hurt as much. Of course I know I’m not making them do anything. Yet in my self-judgment I tell myself that me feeling is mean – like I’m causing them to then feel the pain they can’t tolerate. And at the same time they’re trying to tell me they’re just fine too. We are all trying to save each other from the feeling of sadness, loneliness, and longing to be together.
 
On certain days, like today, the distance feels like a punch in the gut.
 
Oh, life is so short. To me the most important thing is connection. Relationship. Feeling our humanness. We regulate by gazing into the face of another. This is what we feel from our caregivers, and it is no different today as adults.
 
When we understand illness we understand disconnection. From our bodies, our families, our communities. We realize mortality is knocking at our door, the inevitable disconnection. We realize there is not time to waste in the precious life.
 
I ask myself, is it okay to sit in the discomfort of missing those I love? Of course the answer is yes. I am slowing down and supporting my health, which is why I came here in the first place. And I still feel the threads of connection to my people. Through the distance I feel aching and I also feel all of our strength and resilience.
 
Sometimes it’s harder to feel, but I think it is worth it in our quest to experience an integrated and rich life. To be with each other in a real, raw, honest, and human way, rather than run away. I don’t have the luxury of not feeling anymore. My illness blew that privilege out of the water. So, instead of being “just fine,” I commit to keep feeling. And today, that means missing. 

I don’t want to write this. I have the title at the top of my page and stare at it blankly each time I open up my computer, refusing to type a word. Ending. Yuck.
 
I’ve been wrapped up, consumed, overwhelmed with transition, completion, saying goodbye. I’m terrified and sad.
 
I just keep soothing myself; my adult self telling my scared child self that I’m going to be okay.
 
It’s dry and warm. I can feel my lower lip slightly chapped, as I wet it with my tongue. I am the last one to board the plane, my feet feel like lead as the slowly carry me forward, my breath is a mystery. I sit in my seat, hot, cold, not sure. My body remembers this feeling, it is the same before every medical procedure, every potentially challenging conversation, every final _________ . The anticipation of the unknown.
 
I call my Mom… she’s emotionally stranded in the main terminal, not able to leave either. I’ll be the one who has to leave. I’m always the one who leaves… an interesting role I’ve chosen.
 
The plane takes off and tears roll down my face. I don’t wear sunglasses. People in community can learn to tolerate the discomfort of emotion. I’m trying to do so with my own. This feeling of crying without anyone noticing or responding feels familiar.
 
I have gone through major transitions before in my life, many times actually. Many big moves, endings of relationships, and new adventures. This is different. Exhale. Tear. Because this time I’m feeling. In the past I stuffed down my emotions, pushed them forcefully away without even knowing I was doing it. I’m pretty sure I would have imploded at the time if I hadn’t. Our bodies are smart.
 
But now, apparently I have “skills” and can handle the gut-wrenching feelings associated with the grief and loss of saying goodbye to the world as I know it. To choose on purpose to shake up my life and delve into the unfamiliar in hopes of health and impact. Of staying awake and feeling through it all, because this is human. The pain at razor’s edge with the excitement and potential of what it will be like to step off this airplane and be bombarded with humidity, plumaria, and salt-water.
 
And I want you to know, that I will miss you. That you have changed me by being my friend, my inspiration, my reader, my illness, my hard mountain earth. That now our relationship will change because we are constantly becoming different people, and my life experiences are about to be vastly altered. And I have so much sadness, as well as so much excitement for what that will look like! 
 
We want to go unconscious during the ending, but this is the time to feel our humanity. The suffering and the joy only exist because of each other.

Wishing you all the gift of feeling through the many endings. It's worth it, to create space for the beginnings. Exhale.

​I am choosing a different way.
 
Choosing to change before I collapse.
 
This is the time for courage, for drastic life changes, in service of breaking a pattern that has had me in it’s clutches. No more.
 
My belief and story that I must constantly do, accomplish, and perform to make my mark. To help. To have influence. To be of service. To feel I have value and worth.
 
I am painfully aware that just being feels like failure.
 
This insidious pattern has reared its head again. And I am choosing to do things differently. I refuse to collapse again.
 
Instead, I’m going to move to Hawaii. Yup, seriously, moving to Hawaii.
 
Let me be clear, this is not a “geographical intervention.” I mean, it is, but it’s not. I am moving. And it is a very intentional reasons, with eyes wide open.
 
Stress is the worst. It wears me down, my body screams at me to stop, and often it is too late before I hear my body’s pleas. So, it’s time to try something new. I am saying, not just saying but shouting out loud to the heavens: I choose my health.
 
I choose a life worthy of being present to, of remembering, of not missing. I am not dropping out, I am dropping in. I am showing up to be rather than do.
 
And I am giving the system of my body a break. It’s been working hard, but I’ve crossed a line of business that cannot continue. So it’s time to slow down, and soak up the potentially uncomfortable slowness, and space, to bring my pacing back to a healthy place.
 
This time it’s not because I’m sick and have to, but because I choose to preventatively.
 
What in your life feels like is asking to happen to support your health that you have not been willing to change? How do you move from talking about doing it, to having the bravery to step into the fire of change? 

With your constrictive, boring, brown shell, one awkward foot, and waving antennae
I had no interest in knowing you
In fact, I don’t think I ever paused long enough to know you were there
Or had value
And now, here we are.
I’m moving in, and this isn’t going to be pretty.
 
The thrill of going fast
My former home is more like the flea-circus
Seeing the world whip by
Adrenaline
Faster, faster, faster I spin in my circle
Absolutely convinced I am going somewhere
Even though I’m imaginary
Until I fly off the ride and get thrown into myself.
 
My speed numbed me out to the present moment
Suddenly a lifetime is gone
Only I actually lost it one second at a time all along the way
Life is intimately connected to that present moment I was numbing to.
 
And guess what?
The snail has been patiently waiting for me there all along
I mean, it’s a snail, what else does it have to do?
With a little sign: for sale by owner.
 
So I move in.
Thinking that downsizing is the way to go. More economical, right?
Let me tell you, the process of moving into snail-dom is painful.
 
Trapped in my shell, pushing outwards, in a space that feels cramped, tight, not my size.
I have too much furniture, too many thoughts.
This shell is exerting pressure on me to just be me.
Slowing down feels like suffocating,
Being strangled.
There must have been a mistake.
This clearly isn’t my shell.
Somehow I was given a tiny house, when I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have a mansion.
 
How could this be what my body and life want me to do?
Slow down.
Is this really the "lesson" that seems to keep showing up?
 
My body is desperately trying to live out my souls work, and teach my mind.
It says, listen mind, it’s okay to:
Take a breath
Then breathe into relationship, with yourself, and the people you love.
Slow down enough to feel every part of your environment impeccably
Attuning, sensing, being.
Suction to the present moment so that it can be felt intimately
Move in, and take time to discover the inner world that you’re inhabiting
Realize that there is a mansion in this tiny house…
 
I just didn’t know it because I happened to be swinging on a little flea-sized trapeze at the time.
 
Although I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while
I’m suddenly realizing that going so fast maybe isn’t the way to go about life.
Brilliant insight, I know.
 
Am I trapped?
What am I trying to put on a fantastical circus act to get away from?
 
What could it look like to consider accepting that I’ve already put a sizeable down-payment on this this shell?
Could feeling trapped turn into support?
The relief of simplifying.
Space and time to explore the magic of what is here, and who I am.
So much scenery potentially missed.
A breath taken right now.
 
I want to trust.
I’m still going somewhere, but the path is guided by this shell.
It has gravity and weight as opposed to death-defying feats.
It’s a recalibration, and that takes time.
And it can be painful and uncomfortable for us, and those around us to get used to.
 
It’s brave to downsize so we can appreciate the preciousness of what we already have,
Finding the intricacies of Self in our snailshells. 

Yesterday one of my closest friends told me I’d betrayed her by making choices to move a different direction in my life, which would forever affect our relationship. It hurt deeply to hear this.  We were both being a bit reactive and intense, but the sentiment is true: my thoughts and choices lead me to becoming a different person.
 
Sometimes I feel like I’m letting everyone else down by asking the question Who am I now?  Because I continue to come up with new answers, and those answers continue to lead me away from who I once was.  And sometimes away from the people my older self was closest to.  For me, on a good day, it feels like the phoenix of my identity is rising! But, here’s the problem, as I try to continually shed my old identity (because every moment we are a new version of ourselves) it can feel like some people I love dearly try to grasp and cling to it. 
 
Here’s an example.  My parents are amazingly supportive, and have been my sounding board as I continue to ask these questions of who I’m becoming.  But then in some moments like this, right now, they are watching old video clips of me in a show I did and was interviewed for… actually my last show I did before I got sick.  I hear it playing in the background and it’s like someone punched me in my stomach. “That was such a great show, wasn’t it Zina?” I hear my mom say from their living room. “Yes mom.”  Yes it was. 
 
Could I be that person again right now, just for a moment?  Black lashes, red lipstick, heels, and dreams?  Before I knew about liver enzyme levels, and blood panel numbers that all have negatives next to them.  Before I knew about what mortality feels like in your cells battling each other.  Before I woke up.  Just right now for a moment- I promise I won’t tell anyone you let me step into my old life for a big inhale, to soak it in, how light and sparkly it was. 
 
Yes, I can take a trip in my memory, but it’s just not the same.  Which I grieve. It’s like looking through underwater, or frosted glass. I could cry right now for the weight and sorrow of it all.  I feel the heaviness in the back of my throat, the clenching. I realize I’m holding my breath, and I sigh out.  Ahh, relief. Big breath in, big breath out.  Look around. Oddly enough, the colors in this room right now are brighter than the ones in my memory.  Much more vibrant.  My breath is real.  The weight is real, but so is the color.  The past is past.  The present moment beckons.
 
This is a drastic example involving 6 years of time, illness, and change in who I am. In a smaller simpler way, though, this is happening every moment of every day, as our past selves fade from the moment, and a new reality appears.  We are constantly growing, changing, evolving.
 
I am trying to make this moment okay.  Sometimes that’s exhausting, but honestly, most of the time, it is okay.  And it’s much more exciting than the past, because this moment is still unfolding into mystery, whereas the past has already been known.  Not so exciting when I think about the past that way, it’s more like old news.  This present has potential for discovery.  For new things.  In the present we actually feel.  Feel it all.  Which can be overwhelming, but vital. .
 
It continues to feel sad to let go of our former selves, our former lives that we will be forever shedding like snake skin.  It is so hard to make choices, or to have them made for us, that make us feel like we’re disappointing the people around us that we love the most.  By becoming more yourself, in the most authentic and present moment version, it can feel like we’re hurting others who need or want us to be who we once were.
 
When I worry, I remember that everyone else around me is stronger than I can imagine, they’ll get through it too without me protecting them, and they’re growing into their present and next selves in the same way I am.  It goes both ways: I don’t want to treat them like their past selves either.  There’s space for us all to continuing to grow into the next version of ourselves.  Truly there is no one else we can be, and we’re in this evolution together.
 
And suddenly I hear myself on that video in the background and giggle, oh how naïve I was.  How sweet.  How frozen in time.  And I stretch, because right now I can actually move freely, and with choice, and am not trapped in a video box. 
 
There are some people we will let down as we change.  We just will. But we can’t take responsibility for it all, or be too afraid to take a breath and step into now.  Wishing you the continued space and courage to be who you are becoming, and to allow your relationships to shift with you.

​I hate quilts. Don’t worry, I didn’t just change my blog to be themed around an anti-pioneering sentiment. I hate quilts because of all those patterns. Sometimes I look at the patterns and get immediately overwhelmed and lost in them. 
 
Honestly, it feels like forever since I sat down to publish a blog. Why? (Thanks for asking by the way.) Because I scared myself with what I wrote 2 weeks ago when I began a blog. It felt so raw, dictated into my iPhone between sobs: poor Siri had no idea what I was talking about. I had to get a decoder ring out to decipher the dictation today. It was so personal I wasn’t ready to release it out into the world yet. There’s something to be said for honoring yourself and your timing.
 
This blog is about one of my many patterns… and really about patterns in general (so as I talk about mine, insert one of your own in there… the thing you want to change, and try to, but keeps coming back at varying degrees between slightly annoying and pull-your-hair-out-and-throw-something annoying. Ya, that one).
 
Do you ever notice that when you try to change that ingrained pattern that the universe pushes up against you, to test you, to see if you're strong enough to actually change? (Frustrated sigh)
 
Two weeks ago was that it’s-hard-to-shift-no-matter-how-hard-you-try kind of day. I couldn’t get any perspective because my stupid pattern felt like it was engraved in the fiber of my being, rather than just conditioning. You know, that moment where it seems like sometimes no matter how hard you try, those few patterns keep haunting you.
 
So here’s what I wrote:
 
I really want to slow down, I swear. Today I learned, no matter how hard I want this to shift, it's a battle. Over and over. Because not only do I have to convince myself, but it feels in this moment like I have to convince my family, and my culture.
 
Everyone wants me to keep doing. Achieving. All the time. No break. More more more.
 
Me? I just wanted a day off. But instead I got five hours of working out mountain biking, after four intense days of regular work. This happened because I couldn't use my voice. So instead of shifting things, I just did the same thing all over again. Doing, achieving, checking something else off the list. Another self-damaging activity disguised as an achievement.
 
I cried for the hour getting ready to go bike, straight through into the first two hours on my bike. I was so angry and sad I was doing the snotty weeping (which is extra not cute, by the way, when there’s wind). I was so upset at myself, because I couldn’t actively speak up to my family, my culture, and most importantly, my mind. Because I couldn’t advocate for the fatigue in my body when my relationships felt at stake. My health vs my dearest relationships. I value both so much, and sometimes they come head to head.
 
I want to create new neural patterns. Repeating the same thing deepens that pattern all over again. Literally it makes that neural pathway in our brain stronger. Again. Reinforces it. Yet here I am. Five hours of exercise stronger, making everyone around me happy, but my heart a little bit more broken for not honoring myself and my body. I guess I can always rest tomorrow. I am so aware that this is one of the reasons I got sick. And stay sick. And I don't know how much more strength I have to keep trying. (Knot in my stomach)
 
… Annnnd, flash forward to today. It hurts me to read what I wrote. But I also have a little more space from it, which feels refreshing. I wanted to share it with you because we all have those moments where we are in our brokenness, and feel like all the work we’ve done is pointless, because, well, here we are again.
 
And then there’s a new day. Brush off the dirt, and start anew. In the last 2 weeks I’ve fought for my rest time with new vigor. This was a painful experience to go through to be reminded that I’m my best advocate, but sometimes I suck at it. Here’s a fact: my important relationships will still be there at the end of the day. Even if I didn’t go on the silly bike ride. We can repair the ruptures, and still love each other. But my health has to come first. (Remind me I said this next time I blog about slipping up into over-achieving again… of course it’ll happen, because it’s not done teaching me yet.)
 
Painful to feel the “lather, rinse, repeat”… that I’m sometimes stuck in Groundhog Day. So hard to watch myself do things when I “know better.” When I want to honor my relationships, when I want people around me to be happy and I feel falsely like I actually have some control of that… maybe I do in the short term, but is it worth making myself literally sick over? Of course not. But sometimes it’s so hard to stand up for your own truth in your relationships.
 
So here are the bigger questions: How do we be kind to ourselves when our “dormant” patterns rear their ugly heads? (Because they will, and we won’t always be able to change in that moment.) How do we look back at a pattern that frustratingly got the best of us 2 weeks ago, and see how it pushed us to get more real with ourselves? How do we stay curious in honoring both our relationships and ourselves?
 
Maybe there are ways to enjoy the warmth of a quilt, despite the patterns.
 
Somehow we’re peeling layers of the onion, and turning coal into diamonds, and uncovering what’s already our inner wisdom, and all that. Wishing you kindness to yourself: we’re all still figuring this stuff out.

Feel free, as always to comment below if this feels true (or not!) for you too~

The snow falls down outside my window and blankets everything in white. It's mid-April in Colorado. 
 
Underneath, there’s a seed in the dirt, with lots of roots and a little shoot of a few new leaves reaching for the sky. It says: I’m afraid. I’m brave. I’m ready.
 
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that the snow will crush me. Of loving too much and getting hurt. Of not making the impact in this world that I know I was meant to. Of dying too young. Of hurting someone. Of not trusting myself. Of never starting. Of being sick, sicker, sickest. Even worse, I’m afraid of success. Of having to grow into my potential fully, and the energy it will take to become a real plant, not just a seed.
 
I’m brave. I’ve lived through a lot. This isn’t the first snow of the season. I’m no bullshit. My body and I are friends more now than ever... seed, roots, leaves.. I know what my needs are. I have a fire burning inside of me… correction, raging, to make a difference. To contribute. I know when it’s time the sun will come out, and I say, bring it!  
 
I’m ready. (My brain immediately says, are you sure?) This is a tough one. This brings up the question for me: when do I know I’m ready? When do I know enough to begin, to start, to change? I want to know it all first, and then start. I don’t want to be messy, look silly, or lead someone astray. Maybe I'm not ready...
 
Okay, let’s try this again… I’m ready. Why? Because I know I’m both afraid and brave. And that I can be both, and still begin. In the past I’ve been afraid, or I’ve been brave. Either hiding in a corner, or out in the in the spotlight. Maybe it’s okay to have the parts in the shadow supporting the parts in the light… and maybe they can even get a little of the light themselves. Maybe they should.
 
Honestly, we’ll never be fully ready. Waiting for that time is a great way to avoid it. So we need to be ready enough. And we need to admit that it’s scary and amazing. And maybe that’s when we know that it’s actually time to begin something.
 
And, lastly, we get to tell our community, to be seen, validated, and held accountable (that cozy hiding place is looking pretty appealing again all of a sudden). Go figure, nature thinks this sometimes too… here it’s been warm and sunny spring, those leaves and buds are starting to come out, and now we’re under a blanket of snow. The buds are afraid yet brave. They’ll perservere and be stronger for it. And so will mine. Timing is everything. When you know it’s time to start… start.
 
So, is there somewhere in your life that you are actually ready to begin something new? To step into change? Maybe you don’t have to wait any longer. Maybe you’re ready… enough. Sometimes not feeling fully ready means you actually are ready. Spring teaches us the seeds in ourselves that are ready to start growing. My suggestion is to write it and share it, or say it out loud. Somehow it gets more real. It freaks you out just enough to give you greater conviction.
 
So here's the idea: 
1. Pick one “seed” or area that seems ready enough to start to grow.
2. Write down what it is. Set yourself up for success and be concise, to the point, try for a pithy phrase. Make it your mantra, stick it to your mirror, somewhere you can see it.
3. Tell one trusted person. Let them help support you. 
This doesn't have to be big drama. But it does need to help you start the process. Now. 
 
This is what I’m doing today. Time to get some seeds sprouting folks! 
 
 

I sit down to meditate. Instantly I see myself in a pile of debris, of World War II post air raid fallout piled around me, and a big piece of concrete on my diaphragm, pressing so I can’t breathe. I touch my diaphragm, my abdomen, with my hands. I hold her: I soothe and rock myself. I tell myself I’m okay.

This current acute insult on my organs is bringing up residual memories of 3 years of pain and fear. My mind knows there is no more physiological invasive attacks planned, but my body doesn’t. My body is locking up to protect itself, to protect from further tragedy… it’s smart. And also the tension is hurting me, its literally painful. I tell myself, I’m safe-enough, okay-enough, and thank you.

The tension eases up almost imperceivably. I can see it looking at me like a four-year-old child that tilts her head and isn’t quite sure whether to trust the adult or not. Is this a trick?

I can’t lie, it could be, I’ve tricked myself before. For years. Telling myself I was okay when I actually wasn’t. Until my body screamed so loudly I couldn’t lie any more. So she has a point, which is currently living as tension in my abdomen.

Right now myself doesn’t trust my Self. Wow, that’s hard to write, hard to admit… breathe, stare into space, necessary dissociation. Myself doesn’t trust my Self. How do we gain this trust back with ourselves and our bodies, when we have a past record of lying to ourselves? When our bodies had to turn the volume up so loud that it was a scream, for us to finally listen? 

And now with one tiny painful invasive procedure it’s like we’re back at square one, with my body saying fuck you… you didn’t listen for 30 years, why should I trust you now? She says, I tried to tell you. I gave you inability to sleep, nightmares as a child, tingles of anxiety on the skin of your arms and face, shortness of breath, pounding heart, colds, injuries, stomach problems, a hard time relating with others…

While you were going: perfectionism, control, business, awards, beauty, party, perfect, spotlight…

So I was like, okay: fear, pain, jaundice, shutdown, hospital…

And then you were like, big insight: oh, maybe something’s wrong. Maybe I need to change?

And now you have a measly 5-ish years of attempted good behavior.

So now I’m scared. I don’t trust you. If I don’t scream, you may not listen or realize we’re hurting. I’m doing this for both of us.

Alright. I get it. But you need to trust me. Please. I know so much more now, because of you. I am trying to tell the truth, and I’m willing to keep changing. This is just a setback. Let’s get a little bit cheesy and work together on this one. We need each other for the collective wisdom. Thank you for the protection, sounding the airraid siren, building a concrete barrier when you were scared. You saved our lives.

Okay, well, thank you for trying to listen even though sometimes you’re a shitty listener. But, seriously, thank you for understanding that I’m only trying to help, and I won’t freak out so much if I know you’re paying attention and we keep communicating. I want a relationship, I don’t want to have to just take over all the time.

Diaphragm releases, deep full breath, a moment of relief.

It’s amazing what happens in relationship, when we listen to the parts of ourselves that in that moment know better. When we figure out it’s safe-enough. When ourselves can trust Ourselves. 

What do you think? Comment below:

Sometimes things seem too potent to try to share using narrative writing. At moments like these I watch myself turn towards my own bastardized form of poetry, to get to what’s vital. So here we go...
 
I wanted to share with you a little bit of what I learned from conversations in my relationships (with myself and others) this week:
 
​
Isn’t it sad how we come into the world in diapers and then go back to diapers. It’s pathetic.
No, it’s humbling.
 
What am I doing with my life?
I want to curl into a ball, in a cave, and never come out.
To give up. Because I’m overwhelmed.
But instead it’s time to create
These are growing pains.
 
They rock me like waves.
What lies beneath the waves?
What anchors me so I don’t float away from my potential?
 
You and your potential are fruit
The pain right now lies in how ripe you are, yet still on the stem
You will fall to the ground at some point regardless of ripeness, and be incorporated there.
So, how do you nurture yourself to feed your own fecund earth?
 
I know I need to nurture, I need to slow down… I’m overwhelmed, and I did it to myself again.
My business is how I cope.
I judge myself for not being able to internally motivate to change.
Right now it just feels like it needs to come from the outside.
But you don’t want it to come from your doctor.
(No, I want it to come from you.)
 
This is the hospital calling to schedule your next procedure.
 
Ego check.
Reality check.
Vulnerable. Scared. But of course I’ll be fine. I always am.
There’s my external motivation. It’s not the one I wanted. It never is.
But part of me is relieved. Now I have permission to come back to what matters.
Health. Relationship. Purpose.
 
And I’m reminded to:
Live your truth and share it,
You never know who you’re going to inspire.
 
 
Humbling growing pains
rock me like waves
The ripe fall.
 
Slow down.
Change is calling you.
 
Health. Relationship. Purpose. Inspiration.