You guyyssssss, they’re growing up so fast!

And this year, there are BIG changes to contend with — not just new teachers and a new class, but a new principal, and thanks to rezoning, a school that probably feels pretty unfamiliar even to kids like ours, who have been there since kindergarten. A new elementary school opening this year in our county meant many of the friends they’ve made over the years have been moved. In fact, there are less returning students than there are new students at their school, which means their classes are both full of new faces.

New classes, new routines. And boy, let me tell you: our kids have some feelings about it!

They were hoping for different teachers. They wish more of their friends were in their classes. They miss their old principal and all the things they remember from last year. Our oldest is especially having a hard time with the newness of it all.

For better or worse, that kid is a lot like me.

I joke with him that it’s become like an annual tradition for him to lose sleep over the first week or two of a new school year. He worries about making new friends, about adjusting to a new teacher. He worries about the work getting more challenging.

Ironic, considering he never ends up having trouble with any of those things! But it doesn’t make the anxiety any less. He’s super hard on himself, and whenever something is new or uncomfortable, his tendency is to get anxious about it and jump right to the conclusion that it will always feel this way.

I can totally relate.

And as his mom, there’s this deep, desperate urge to fix it for him.

Because I want him to love his teacher and be surrounded by all of his pals at the lunch table. I want him to come home smiling and excited for what the next day will bring.

I want his last year of elementary school to be the best one yet!

However…

I’m also a stubborn Taurus, and as much as all my instincts are to activate Mama Bear Mode™, I refuse to ask the school to move him to the classroom he would prefer to be in… not that they’d do it anyway.

The thing is, as hard as these changes are, as much as I want my kids to be happy — I believe with all of my heart that making it better for them means helping them figure out how to get through it.

So instead, I ask them:

How can you build a relationship with your new teacher, even though they may not be the one you wanted?

What’s one thing, no matter how small, that made today not so bad? (Disclaimer: 99.999% of the time, the answer is recess or lunch.)

What can you do to make tomorrow a little bit better?

These types of questions help them navigate life through elementary school.

And you know what? That way of thinking can also help their 25-year-old mom (don’t Google it, just go with me here) navigate a new job, too.

Because just four short months ago, that was me.

After spending nearly my entire adult life in public service, I joined a (very) small nonprofit. I went from working in organizations and programs I understood, inside and out, to learning something completely new. And the few colleagues that I have are scattered across time zones all over the globe.

Everything from the processes to the terminology to the organizational culture are completely new for me.

And let me tell you, I have spent plenty of time over these last four months wondering, worrying at 2am, if I’m doing literally anything right.

Confession: I may have mentioned this before, but I’ve wanted to quit every job I’ve ever started in the first few months.

Dead serious. Don’t judge me!

Because I didn’t. In fact, my resume will tell you the complete opposite story. I’ve actually stayed in every job I’ve ever had for years!

But every time, without fail, my anxiety takes over and convinces me that this isn’t working. I don’t fit in. I’ll never figure it out. I mean, look at everyone else — they all know what they’re doing! But me? Nothing comes naturally. Everything requires so much effort.

It can be exhausting.

However, before you know it, another month has passed, and I’ve learned the new process. I’ve figured out the acronym that puzzled me a few weeks ago. Things that were totally intimidating are beginning to feel somewhat easier.

And eventually, I start to realize, I’m doing it! I’m riding the bike without training wheels! Hey, everyone, look at me!

(But also OMG, stop looking at me — now you’re just making it weird!)

Anyway…

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, watching my kids struggle to adjust to a new school year.

Sometimes, I think we talk about “resilience” as though it’s something we can teach our kids. And sure, we can talk about it… usually, at bedtime, when they should have been asleep at least 30-minutes ago…

But more importantly, I think we have to allow them the opportunity to discover it themselves.

That resilience is built by figuring out how to make new friends when all of the people you know are in the classroom down the hall.

It comes from learning how to understand and meet the new teacher’s expectations.

It’s feeling nervous, but showing up with confidence anyway.

They have to learn that they can have a hard day, or an awkward moment, but that tomorrow has the potential to be better.

I tell my kids all the time to “find the joy.” To me, it’s all about perspective and finding the positive, regardless of how hard that might be.

Many years after elementary school (again, don’t Google it, but I’m totally 25!) I’m admittedly still learning to do this myself.

And yeah, there’s a balance that I’m still figuring out as a parent. I’m always, always, always going to advocate for my kids when something genuinely needs to change. I will always listen to them, take their feelings and concerns seriously, and stand up for them when they need me.

But…

I also need them to know that it IS okay to be uncomfortable. That feeling doesn’t necessarily = danger.

Sometimes, discomfort is necessary. It can be super uncomfortable doing something new. And it’s totally normal to be nervous about that.

I really think that’s the distinction here.

Look, if we could make our kids happy all the time, we’d all want to (um, hello — less whining? SIGN ME UP!). Of course, we don’t ever want to see them sad or lonely or hurting.

But if every parent could rearrange every classroom, pick their favorite teacher, make sure their sweet little angel baby is surrounded by besties, and may they never meet a bully or a difficult worksheet or a boring reading assignment, so help me God? I feel like that would make an already difficult job at school a lot harder.

And the thing is, we’re not always going to be able to fix it for them.

One day, they’ll go to middle school, then high school, and maybe even college. The work will get harder. The relationships may get complicated. Hopefully, they’ll get jobs and maybe they won’t click with a colleague — or worse, their boss.

They’ll walk into lots of unfamiliar rooms. They’ll take on new opportunities and probably question their own capability.

But my hope for them is that they’ll have the confidence to go forth and do it anyway. They’ll have to prove themselves to themselves.

And I guess, sometimes, I could use that reminder myself.

Four months into this job, there are days I feel like I’ve got it, and there are others where I feel like I don’t.

Those are the days that I have to remind myself that I know more now than I did just a few months ago.

And it will continue to get easier as I go.

That’s what I hope my kids will come to understand in their new school year, and for what it’s worth, every new school year and situation that follows.

Because you don’t have to love every new thing right away. And let’s be honest: most things, you probably won’t.

You don’t have to know what you’re doing.

Nobody is expecting you to be a rock star on Day 1.

But you have to give yourself a chance.

Make a new friend. Ask a question. Get frustrated. Then figure it out.

Got it wrong today?

Try again tomorrow.

And somewhere along the way, they will start to build that muscle — the one that can remind them, “hey buddy… you’ve been new before. You might feel scared, and that’s okay. Just stick with it — you can figure it out.”

Because honestly? Of all the lessons they’ll take home this school year, I think that’s the most important one of all.

Then one day I caught myself and thought... why should I feel guilty?

Because I happen to like watching women have petty fights next to their insanely expensive handbags?

Because I can speak almost entirely in quotes from the Real Housewives of Every City since the beginning of time?

Because I’ve been to BravoCon?

Yeah, the truth is: I don’t feel guilty about any of that! So why would I feel like I needed to apologize for something that I enjoy?

Maybe because somewhere along the way someone decided that every hobby needed to somehow be productive or make us better (or was that just me?).

I thought, if I’m reading, it should teach me something. If I’m going to exercise, it should result in weight loss.

There was a point that I felt this insane, self-inflicted pressure anytime I was awake to be job searching.

Here’s the thing: that kind of pressure isn’t sustainable. And it certainly does not spark joy.

But if all I’m doing is watching TV after my kids go to bed… shouldn’t that at least be fun?!

If you’ve been following my journey, you already know that I spent fifteen years working in public service.

You don’t spend years thinking about disasters, national security, continuity, and catastrophe without carrying some of that burden home with you.

Even after work, it was easy to feel like I should always be doing something useful to get smarter or make the world a better place.

I was constantly adding to my reading list, downloading books to make me smarter on Audible (not an endorsement by the way… but big fan of being read to while I cook/drive/walk/fold laundry!). I was signing up for webinars, taking extra trainings, applying for fellowships.

At some point during my underemployment, I fell down a total AI rabbit hole, listening to every podcast that was recommended to me, reading every book, article, thought piece, you name it.

Because if I wasn’t being productive, then wasn’t I just wasting time?

Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself that every spare minute had to make me better somehow.

Learn AI policy.
Build a podcast.
Read books about being more productive (LOL).
Get a job.
Accomplish something.

Fun had not only disappeared from my life; it became something I felt like I had to earn.

It was almost like I didn’t deserve it. HOW SAD IS THAT?!

I started to fall behind in all of my reality TV shows, from the Real Housewives, to Below Deck, to Summer House and Southern Charm. I missed an entire season of Love Island USA, and realized I couldn’t keep up with any of the trending memes online — the horror! Friends would mention movies and documentaries and series they were watching, and I realized I hadn’t seen any of them.

Who was this person I was becoming? And why did she have so many episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta to catch up on?!

Then it hit me: I wasn’t allowing myself to have fun. Like, ever.

I was so hyper focused on productivity that I wasn’t enjoying life.

Let’s be very clear here: I don’t watch Bravo because it’s intellectually enriching… although I would absolutely die on the hill that reality TV in general is a fascinating study of human behavior.

I watch because sometimes I want to laugh at the complete absurdity of grown adults arguing about who gets first chair next to Andy Cohen at the reunion. I want to roll my eyes at how a group of 20-somethings define a “situationship.” And ponder how many sandwiches have been made for Lindsay Hubbard.

Listen, I could go on and on here, but… IYKYK.

I watch because, for an hour, my brain can escape into something totally silly and inconsequential.

I watch because honestly, these days? Low-stakes drama gives me something to laugh about.

And isn’t that the point?

Not everything we do has to make us more successful, more informed, or more efficient.

Ironically, reality TV can be exactly what allows us to escape our own reality for a little while.

And maybe for you, it’s not reality TV.

Maybe it was spending the last month glued to the World Cup (because, SAME).

Maybe for you, it’s baking sourdough, or gardening, or indulging in trashy romance novels, or fishing, or rewatching The Office for the fifteenth time…

Whatever it is, if it gives your brain permission to step away from the weight of everyday life for a little while, maybe it’s time to stop calling it a guilty pleasure.

Yes, I love reality TV.

And no, I don’t feel guilty about it at all.

I was having coffee (go figure!) last week and talking about Careers & Coffee Talk when it occurred to me: exactly a year ago, I published the very first episode!

At the time, I had no idea where it would lead.

I just knew I loved hearing people’s stories. Looking back, I think the seeds of Careers & Coffee Talk were planted during my time at FEMA. I organized weekly, informal coffee sessions where small groups of employees could spend time with senior leaders, learning about their career journeys, the lessons they'd picked up along the way, and the work they were leading. More than anything, the goal was to create opportunities for people to connect across the organization at a time when so much of our work had shifted online. I didn't realize it then, but I was already building the kind of conversations I'd eventually want to share with a much bigger audience.

Before I launched the podcast, I was watching something unfold that was hard to ignore. So many smart, accomplished people were suddenly finding themselves out of work. These were people I’d respected for years, yet I kept hearing the same things: I don’t know what else I’d do. I’m not sure anyone would hire me. Maybe it’s too late to start over.

That honestly broke my heart.

And I didn’t believe any of it was true.

I believed people needed hope. They needed to hear from others who had faced uncertainty, changed careers, taken risks, and built something new. They needed real stories from people who had been where they were and came out the other side.

That’s where Careers & Coffee Talk came from.

I wanted to pull back the curtain on successful careers and remind people that almost every one of them includes unexpected turns, moments of doubt, and decisions that feel scary at the time. If someone could listen to an episode and walk away thinking, Maybe I can do this too, then it would all be worth it.

As it turns out, I ended up needing those conversations every bit as much as I hoped other people would.

Fast forward a year, and I’ve had the opportunity to sit down with more than 30 incredible guests. We’ve talked about everything from disaster response and cybersecurity to entrepreneurship, leadership, sports, AI, content creation, and public service.

Some episodes made me laugh. Some left me thinking for days afterward. A few genuinely changed how I look at my own career.

Reflecting on the last year, the biggest lessons I’ve taken away don’t even have anything to do with podcasting.

Here are a few that have stayed with me:

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1. Almost nobody ends up where they thought they would.

When I started the podcast, I assumed I’d hear stories from people who had carefully planned every step of their careers.

Instead, I heard the opposite.

One of my favorite examples came from Rich Serino. He spent nearly 40 years with Boston Emergency Medical Services and was perfectly happy doing the work he loved. He wasn’t looking for another job. And he most certainly wasn’t expecting the White House to call.

As Rich joked, getting that call “wasn’t on my bingo card.”

That unexpected opportunity eventually led him to FEMA, where he served as Deputy Administrator, briefing President Obama in the Situation Room and shaping emergency management at the national level.

When he looked back on that experience, Rich said:

“Every time I went into the White House... I came out, I pinched myself, saying, ‘Is this real? What am I doing here? I’m just a medic from Dorchester!’”

That conversation reminded me that careers rarely unfold the way we imagine they will. Sometimes the opportunity that changes your life is one you never planned for in the first place.

That's become one of the biggest messages I hope people take away from this podcast, that the job you lose — or choose to leave — doesn't have to define the career you build next. Some of the most accomplished people I've interviewed never set out to do the work they're now known for. Their stories are a constant reminder that an ending and a beginning often look exactly the same while you're living through them.

2. The people I admire most are still learning.

I'll give you a sneak peek at tomorrow's episode: I had the chance to sit down with Camille Stewart Gloster (stay tuned! I’ll add a link to her episode in the comments), and she said something I immediately wrote down.

Camille has served at Google, the Department of Homeland Security, the White House, and now leads her own AI and cybersecurity firm. She’s publishing her own book, The Insider You Built, coming out in September. I mean, if anyone had earned the right to walk into a room acting like they had all the answers, it would OBVIOUSLY be Camille, right?

Instead, she said something that is now etched in my brain:

“I really respect people who own what they know and what they don’t know equally.”

She went on to explain:

“Walking in with bluster and pretending like you know all the things is never the way to gain trust, to gain credibility.”

That challenged something I’d been thinking about.

So many of us feel pressure to be the experts and have the perfect answer, especially when we’re interviewing for a job or leading a team.

But after a year of conversations, I’ve started to believe the exact opposite.

The people I’ve admired most aren’t the ones who know everything. They’re the ones who stay curious. They ask good questions and surround themselves with smart people. And they never, ever, ever stop learning.

Talking to people like Camille has reminded me that expertise isn’t a finish line. The people at the top of their fields still describe themselves as students. They read. They ask questions. They seek out perspectives that challenge their own thinking.

That’s been encouraging for me, because it means none of us ever have to have it all figured out… we just have to commit to always learning and growing.

3. Every conversation is a learning opportunity.

One of the biggest surprises this past year has been the relationships.

When I started Careers & Coffee Talk, I thought I was creating a space to learn from interesting people. I never expected so many of those conversations to continue after we finished recording.

Some guests have become mentors. Others have become collaborators. Several have even become real friends!

And every single conversation has left me with something, whether it’s a new perspective, a book recommendation, or even a challenge to think differently. And sometimes, it’s simply the reminder that there are really good people doing meaningful work who are willing to share what they’ve learned with the rest of us.

Dr. Lori Moore-Merrell captured that idea perfectly when she reflected on the people who shaped her own career:

“Whether you’re learning something from an individual who’s trying to help you, to mentor you, to open a door for you, or whether you’re learning something from an example of something you don’t want to become. Those are opportunities.”

That really changed the way I think about relationships.

Every person you meet knows something you don’t. Every conversation has the potential to teach you something, if you’re willing to listen.

Looking back over the past year, I realize these guests haven’t just been part of the podcast; they truly have become part of my story. They’ve challenged me, encouraged me, introduced me to new people, and helped shape how I think about leadership, service, and my own career.

I hope, in some small way, I’ve become part of their journey, too.

4. Behind every impressive title is a human being.

When I started the podcast, I thought I was interviewing FEMA Administrators, CEOs, founders, authors, firefighters, and policy experts.

But as it turns out, I was talking to people. They are parents. People who spent their lives dreaming of a career that they later realized was absolutely not meant for them. There were people who got kicked out of college. People who questioned whether they belonged in the room. People who changed careers, battled self-doubt, made mistakes, and took chances.

The title might be what gets you to click. The person is what you remember.

That reminded me of a conversation I had with Gabriel DeSanti, whose entire career is built around showing people what jobs really look like, from the perspective of the people actually doing them.

His work challenges the assumptions we make about careers before we’ve ever met the person behind the title.

This podcast has done the same thing for me.

I’ve learned that the most interesting part of someone’s career usually isn’t the promotion, the award, or perfectly curated LinkedIn post — it’s the chapter before that.

It’s the risk they almost didn’t take, when they weren’t sure they’d make it. It’s the mentor who encouraged them, when they doubted themselves. It’s the completely unexpected opportunity that altered the whole trajectory of their career.

THESE are the stories that stay with people.

It’s also changed the way I meet people. I find myself asking fewer questions about what someone does and a lot more questions about how they got there.

5. Sometimes, you just have to jump.

When I asked Coach Kelly Grissom about imposter syndrome, I expected him to give me the exact roadmap to overcome it and gain confidence as a leader.

Instead, he admitted that those feelings never completely disappeared:

“I really struggle with imposter syndrome every day... I felt that way when I got selected to be the company commander. I did not feel at all like I was the person who should be doing it... but I’m into people and supporting people... so who do I need to be to help this organization around me be the best version?”

That really changed the way I think about imposter syndrome.

He never answered the question by talking about confidence. He answered it by talking about service.

Instead of asking, Am I good enough? he asked, Who do I need to be to help the people around me become the best version of themselves?

When Cybersecurity Girl Caitlin Sarian first started posting cybersecurity videos online, she says:

“I was mortified, but I still posted three times a day. You literally have to show up and bring yourself, your full self to the table... it's very uncomfortable at the beginning.”

Now, she has over 2 million people following her for tips to stay safe online.

Neither of them waited until they felt ready. The mission mattered more than the fear.

Now I realize that’s exactly what this podcast has taught me. Almost every guest has wrestled with doubt. Almost every guest has taken a chance before they felt completely prepared.

And almost every one of them is glad they did.

A year ago, I didn’t know if anyone would listen to Careers & Coffee Talk. I didn’t know if guests would say yes. I didn’t know if I’d actually be any good at interviewing people. I didn't know if it would become one episode or one hundred.

There was only one way to find out.

I closed my eyes and jumped… and here we are.

Looking back over this first year, I realize every guest has given me something different.

Rich reminded me that careers rarely go according to plan.

Camille reminded me to stay curious.

Dr. Lori reminded me that every relationship has something to teach us.

Gabriel reminded me to look beyond the job title and get to know the person.

Coach Kelly and Caitlin reminded me that confidence isn’t a prerequisite for taking the first step.

Each and every one of my guests, in one way or another, has reminded me why I started this podcast in the first place.

I wanted people who were facing uncertainty to hear from others who had been there, to realize they weren’t alone. I wanted to help people to believe there could still be another chapter waiting for them.

Looking back now, I realize something else.

As it turns out, I ended up needing those conversations every bit as much as I hoped other people would.

This podcast wouldn't exist without the people who've been willing to share their stories or the people who've taken the time to listen and share. If you've been part of either, thank you for making this first year more meaningful than I ever imagined.

I can't wait to see where the next conversation takes us.

☕ Laura

“The days are long, but the years are short…”
“Enjoy every minute!”
“You’re gonna miss this one day…”
“Don’t blink!”

(And don’t forget, sleep when the baby sleeps!)

Whether you’re a stay-at-home mom or a mom who works outside the home, everyone seems to have thoughts on what you SHOULD be doing and how you should be doing it.

If you work full-time outside the home, it’s “don’t you feel bad letting someone else raise your kids?”

And if you stay home, it’s “don’t you miss interacting with other adults?”

The thing is, no matter how you choose to raise your family, you always tend to question whether we should be doing something differently.

I remember when our first child was born and I was terrified to take him anywhere. What if I couldn’t remember how to take the car seat out? What if he had a blowout (this is a very legitimate fear, by the way).

I absolutely hated taking him to daycare at only 13 weeks old, but so many people reminded me how “lucky” I was to have saved enough leave to take that time off. This was before Congress passed the Federal Employee Paid Leave Act in 2019, which granted eligible federal employees up to 12 administrative workweeks of Paid Parental Leave. I worried about missing his first words, or his first steps. I wondered if he would eventually love the daycare workers more than me.

Just over a year after he was born was the devastating hurricane season of 2017. I was working in Congressional Affairs at FEMA and found a new fear unlocked: having to deploy for long periods of time away from my baby. Even from headquarters, responding to three back-to-back hurricanes meant 12+ hour days in the office. I would leave him at daycare early in the morning and basically get home just in time to put him to bed.

And on top of sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion, there was the guilt.

Mom guilt.

At work, I worried that motherhood had changed me in ways I was still learning to navigate. And at home, I worried that my career was taking so much of me from my family during the years I’d never get back.

So regardless of where I was, I had this crushing guilt that I should be more.

More present.
More grateful.
More organized.
More intentional.
More productive.
More patient.

More. More. More.

There’s something about motherhood that can feel like living inside an endless evaluation of your own choices. Every decision is a tradeoff. Time at work = guilt at home. But time at home can create anxiety about your reputation at work, your ambition, and even your identity.

I remember when one of my former bosses was contacted by my background investigator —the same investigator who told me that I was “boring” and insisted that this was a compliment in his line of work.

My boss told me, “You know, he asked about your hobbies, what you do for fun. I told him, you’re a mom — I think you just watch TV after the kids go to bed.”

I laughed because it was so absolutely true. But then I wondered, what DO I do for fun? Who am I outside of being a mom? I’m not even sure what I enjoy anymore, because I haven’t had time to do it in years.

And then last year, things took a very unexpected turn.

After losing my public service career, for the first time in many years, I had the opportunity to slow down. I was suddenly able to be home more. I could volunteer at school and have lunch with my kids. I got to chaperone every field trip. I didn’t have to worry about rushing to pick up because of meetings or rushed deadlines.

People would constantly point out, “at least you get more time with your kids.” And for that, I was grateful.

But I was also more stressed than I’d ever been. There’s something about unemployment that doesn’t exactly feel peaceful.

Constant rejection, worries about finances, questioning your self-worth. I felt like I was working harder than ever.

And then on top of that, I stressed out about not appreciating the time enough.

I worried that the stress that stolen time with my family more than work ever had. I worried that I’d spent so much time mentally living in the future that I hadn’t been able to enjoy the present, staring me right in the face. There were days where, yes, I was physically home with my kids. But emotionally, I was juggling interview prep, networking calls, podcast episodes, budgets, and all of the uncertainty about what would come next.

And now that I’m back to work, there are more questions…

Did I work too hard?
Not hard enough?
Did I make the right decisions for my family?
Am I setting the right example for our children?
Am I doing… anything right?

And since I’m a mom? I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering.

I may not have all the answers, but here’s what I do know: never has there ever been a season of motherhood that felt completely “balanced.” Rather, every chapter seems to require letting go of your expectations in order to hold onto something else. Sometimes that means sleep. Other times, it’s career growth. Or financial security. Or time.

Sometimes, you’re just desperately clinging to parts of yourself that you’re trying to rediscover underneath all of the roles you play for everyone else.

And maybe part of the problem is that we’ve set impossible expectations to begin with.

We’re told to build meaningful careers but also be fully present at home. We’re told to enjoy every moment, but also to prepare for the future. We’re reminded that self-care is important, while also carrying the mental load for our entire household. We’re told not to blink before we miss our kids’ childhoods, as we struggle to survive the logistics of everyday life.

Somewhere along the line, we started believing that if we weren’t exhausted and overwhelmed, we must be doing it wrong.

But that can’t be right.

I think loving our kids deeply and still struggling to make it all work can exist in the same space. So can gratitude and exhaustion. And guilt and ambition.

There are seasons where survival can take more energy than presence — and that does NOT make you a bad mom.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m trying to let go of the idea of perfection.

Instead, I’m choosing to believe that my children will remember feeling loved more than they remember if I volunteered at every event or stayed home enough or worked enough.

I’m realizing that motherhood was never supposed to look totally balanced.

Honestly, I’m still figuring it all out.

And I think I’m far from alone in that.

To all the moms out there feeling this in your souls: happy Mother’s Day. You deserve it!

At the time, I felt fully prepared to dive headfirst into the job search. I diligently worked on my resume, getting it from six pages — typical for federal resumes, or at least it was then — down to two. I researched templates, followed recruiters and coaches on social media for tips to make improvements, iterating on my resume over and over again. I tailored it to different job postings and even allowed myself to get excited about certain applications.

When I think back to last May, I realize I truly had NO idea how difficult the search would be.

But as of April 13, I’ve started a new role, just one month shy of a full year later.

And what a year it has been!

I didn’t keep an exact count, but I can tell you very confidently that I submitted hundreds of applications and cover letters. And in turn, I received hundreds of automated rejection emails — some arriving months later, long after I had forgotten I even applied.

So, yeah. That was cool.

Still, I knew I was on the right track (sort of) because I also had dozens of interviews. Some were promising. Some… not so much.

At one point, I even had an offer! It came in December, right on my husband’s birthday, and we celebrated both events over dinner.

… and then, two months later, that role was canceled. So, it was back to the drawing/job board again.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that I had unintentionally adopted a bit of a theme song for this whole experience: I Want You to Want Me (thank you, Cheap Trick).

It’s fine, laugh at me all you want — but seriously, I just held onto this foolhardy belief that the right organization, the right hiring manager, would see me for me. That they’d recognize my value, my experience, my drive, and really want me to be part of what they were building.

Like, really want me.

No jumping through hoops, no endless rounds of interviews. No performative exercises to prove something I’ve already spent years doing. Just… pure and utter alignment. I desperately hoped for a sense of, “Yes! This is the person we’ve been looking for!” and also, for that person to be me.

So, I held onto that.

But in the meantime, I refused to sit still.

I started an LLC.
I picked up consulting work where I could.
I launched a podcast (which turned into a website, an Instagram account, and yes — this Substack!).

Plus, I networked constantly. Like, CONSTANTLY.

Old colleagues, friends of friends. People I had never met before but connected with anyway. I registered for conferences, attended free events. I signed up for webinars on any topic I found remotely interesting. I stayed booked and busy.

And I admit, I wasn’t always patient, so staying busy was a welcome distraction. Otherwise, it felt like the wait was slowly killing me! So rather than wait, I obsessively refreshed my email. I complained to my friends when I got ghosted by recruiters. I spent time on LinkedIn as if LinkedIn were paying me to do so (to be clear, they didn’t, but come to think of it, they really should have).

I do need to pause here for a moment — because one of the things that genuinely surprised me the most over this past year was just how generous people were willing to be with their time and support.

Whether it was letting me vent endlessly about rejections, offering to connect me with contacts, giving me advice, sending along job opportunities that looked like a good fit, sharing openings within their own organizations, putting in referrals, helping me prep for interviews, even pitching projects for me or bringing me into potential opportunities… the list truly goes on and on.

And those moments mattered more than I can probably articulate.

They kept me going on the days when I felt stuck. They reminded me that I wasn’t doing this alone. And more than anything, they gave me a reason to stay positive, even when things felt uncertain.

And honestly, I stayed (cautiously) optimistic 99.9% of the time. Even when it felt like I was pushing uphill. Even when nothing seemed to be moving, I maintained this belief that I would find the right opportunity at the right time.

Or that it would find me.

Spoiler alert: it found me!

I’m so incredibly excited to be joining Global Shield, working on policy issues in the United States office.

Global Shield is a nonprofit that focuses on helping governments reduce the risk of large-scale global crises — think of the kinds of events that could seriously disrupt lives around the world, from pandemics to technology or infrastructure failures. The work is about strengthening how we think about what catastrophic risk actually means, and how to build our collective resilience before something goes wrong, not just reacting after the fact.

THAT PART…

If you know me at all, you know just how much this work matters to me.

In my years of public service, I spent my time translating policy into communication people could actually trust and use. Whether it was helping people understand risks, take action to protect themselves, or translating complex issues into something usable, the throughline was always the same: resilience.

Something that shows up in how we prepare, how we respond, and how we support each other when things don’t go according to plan.

This past year tested that idea in a different way.

It may not have been a national emergency this time. It wasn’t even a policy challenge.

My experience over the last year was incredibly personal.

And it forced me to live out the same things I’ve spent my career talking about — adapting, staying steady, and pushing myself to move forward despite all of the uncertainty.

As I’ve said before, and I’ll say again: I really do believe that we are always where we’re meant to be.

And I’m walking into this next chapter with a much, much deeper appreciation for that.

One year later, I’m so excited to be starting something new. And this time, I didn’t have to convince anyone.

I’m just really glad I didn’t give up along the way.

If you’re in the middle of a job search of your own, let this be your reminder to hang in there. Keep going. Keep pushing. The right opportunity has a way of showing up even when you least expect it.

And there I was, in my mid-20’s and doing everything I could to stifle my laughter.

We are where we’re meant to be?

What kind of nonsense is that? It’s like when people say, it is what it is! Things happen for a reason! Very c’est la vie.

I mean, does that even mean anything? Maybe I should’ve gone to Zumba. I was obviously far too immature and ill-prepared to handle these deep, philosophical thoughts during yoga at my local gym.

But whether I understood it or not, that phrase stayed with me.

Years later, as I was studying to become certified as a yoga teacher myself (a real full circle moment, huh?), I shared the ridiculousness I still perceived in that memory.

“That’s what I tell myself when I’m sitting in traffic and in a rush to get somewhere,” another student volunteered. “Maybe I could be a few red lights ahead but get into an accident or something. I’d much rather be a few minutes late and safe,” she shrugged.

Hmm. Well, that’s a thought.

It made me think of those difficult, sometimes life-altering moments we all face at one point or another. An accident. A break-up. Job loss. The death of someone you love. Things we think we’ll never overcome and then, somehow, someway… we do.

And as you go through those challenging times, some well-intentioned person will say something like, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Honestly, it’s true. We are resilient that way, I suppose.

In my own life, I’ve certainly had my share of those moments I thought I might never find my way through. I’ve been angry. I’ve cried. I’ve even blamed other people for whatever predicament I found myself in. All pretty normal parts of the grieving process.

But what I always, always come back to? I am where I’m meant to be.

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Because we can always learn something from those difficult experiences. That’s how we grow. It’s how we become the version of ourselves that can carry what life eventually asks of us.

And even when you are deep in the muck of it all and you don’t believe it — one day you’ll look back and realize, if I can get through that? I can totally get through anything.

I became a certified 200-hour yoga teacher in 2015, before my children were born. Although it’s been years now since I’ve taught a class, that experience was a deeply personal and transformational process for me. There was so much self-reflection and self-realization that truly changed my life.

It helped me realize that we are, in fact, where we’re meant to be.

Maybe that break-up led you to the love of your life (whether that’s yourself, or someone else…). Maybe that layoff pushed you toward a new path you never imagined for yourself. Maybe that illness taught you to appreciate life more fully (I swear, I always promise to appreciate breathing more every time I have a cold, but I digress…).

As I completed my yoga teacher training, my brother-in-law Adam brought me to his good friend and tattoo artist to design an idea that I had: a sun on one foot and a moon on the other. To me, it represents balance, the understanding that you need darkness in order to recognize the light.

Adam passed unexpectedly in June of 2019, just two months after our daughter was born.

Losing him was surreal, something I never imagined our family going through. The kind of loss that makes the world stop and leaves everyone trying to figure out how to move again.

And in moments like that, the idea that we are where we’re meant to be can feel almost impossible to accept.

Because when someone you love dies too soon, nothing about it feels meaningful or purposeful at all. It just feels unfair.

There are moments in life when the only honest thing you can say is that something hurts like hell.

And yet, over time, something subtle begins to happen.

The grief starts to soften, at least a bit. You find yourself smiling over memories that once made you cry. Stories are shared and someone repeats a thing he used to say. A song comes on your playlist, and you can literally see the light in his eyes again.

And you realize that even though someone is gone, the impact they had on your life never leaves you.

Adam was one of those people. The kind who made things happen, who showed up for people, who — for better or worse! — always left an impression, everywhere he went. The fact that he’s the one who brought me to the tattoo artist to design something that represented balance in my life will never be lost on me.

Sun and moon.

Light and dark.

Energy and rest.

Joy and grief.

Life certainly has a way of handing us both, doesn’t it?

And over the years, I’ve come to understand that phrase from my yoga class in a very different way than I did back then.

Being where we’re meant to be doesn’t mean everything happening in our lives is easy, fair, or even understandable in the moment. Or ever.

It means that our lives are still unfolding.

It means that every experience, from the joyful ones to the painful ones, becomes part of the story that shapes who we are.

It means that even when we feel completely lost, we are still moving forward, still growing.

And sometimes, the only thing we can do is take a deep breath and trust that one day, we’ll look back and understand how we got here.

Because if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s this:

The places that feel the hardest to stand in are often the ones that shape us the most.

Maybe we don’t recognize it while we’re living through it. But one day we look back and realize, we were exactly where we needed to be all along.

In emergency management, we use it to describe the ability of a system or community to withstand a disaster, adapt, and recover. A resilient city is one that is able to keep functioning. A resilient power grid comes back online. A resilient community rebuilds.

It’s a technical term. During my time at FEMA, it came up constantly — what does “resilience” actually mean? How do you know if you’ve built it? Are we investing enough? Are we investing in the right things?

But when the word gets applied to people, it becomes something else entirely.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get through it. You’re so resilient!” someone says, usually after you’ve shared something hard — a job loss, a health scare, a family crisis, something that didn’t quite go according to plan. It’s meant as encouragement, or as a compliment. It’s proof that they believe in you.

And yet, sometimes it doesn’t feel encouraging at all.

Because being resilient doesn’t mean something wasn’t painful. It doesn’t mean you weren’t scared, exhausted, angry, or constantly worried about how things would turn out. It doesn’t mean you moved forward gracefully or without help. It certainly doesn’t mean the path was clear.

It just means you kept going anyway.

The thing about resilience is that we rarely discover it in the good times. We discover it when something tests us, when something pushes us to our absolute limit, when the plans we had completely fall apart.

Over the past year, a lot of us have found ourselves in that exact space. Job disruptions. Financial strain. Natural disasters. Personal losses. All sorts of *fun* lingering uncertainty! Different stories with the same underlying demand: adapt to your new circumstances… or else.

From the outside, resilience looks like strength.

From the inside, it doesn’t feel that way.

For you, being resilient might mean you’re getting through the day on autopilot. You may be holding it together for other people while falling apart yourself. You have no choice but to do the next right thing because there isn’t another option.

But here’s what we don’t talk about enough: being resilient doesn’t make hard things easy. It doesn’t fast-forward you to the other side. (I know, I wish it did, too.)

If anything, resilience often means living inside the difficulty longer than you expected and finding ways to keep functioning.

So why is resilience so valued, and yet so incredibly difficult to carry while you’re in it?

It’s been a year since I started my own job search.

In that time, I’ve watched incredibly capable people — leaders, experts, people who used to be actively recruited — struggle to find solid ground. People who have spent decades building careers are now scrolling LinkedIn obsessively and refreshing job boards at midnight (not that I know from experience or anything…). People who did everything “right” are now left wondering what the heck they’re doing “wrong.”

The advice is always well-intentioned: keep your head up, stay positive, don’t give up hope, stay strong, you’ve got this, your time is coming…!

But resilience hits differently when you have a family to support, bills to pay, and no guarantee about what comes next and more importantly, when. The timeline is financial, emotional, and deeply, deeply personal.

Sometimes resilience looks like sending the next application even when you’re already drained, reaching out even when you’d rather disappear, and taking rejection in stride because you don’t have another choice.

Sometimes, if we’re honest, what looks like “resilience” can feel dangerously close to hopelessness.

Over the past year, I’ve had the privilege of talking to people who have taken enormous risks, walked away from stability to pursue passion, and rebuilt after big setbacks. The funny thing is, nobody ever describes feeling fearless at the time. In fact, most will admit how utterly terrified they were.

When I talked to Cynthia Gutierrez-White, she candidly shared what happened after she unexpectedly lost her job — not just the professional fallout, but the identity shock that followed. For years, her role had provided structure and purpose. When it disappeared, it felt like she’d lost the ground beneath her.

What followed wasn’t a triumphant reinvention. It was grief, reflection, and a long stretch of not knowing. She had to sit with uncomfortable questions about her worth, her direction, and what she actually wanted — the kinds of questions most of us avoid until circumstances force them.

Eventually, that led her to write Redefined, a book about reclaiming identity and purpose after job loss.

Looking back, it reads like a story of resilience. And it is.

Her story has a hopeful ending, but the part that feels most honest is how long she lived in the middle — that stretch where nothing feels stable at all and the future has yet to take shape.

A lot of people are living in that middle right now.

And sure, not everyone will write a book. Unfortunately, not everyone will pivot into a dream career either. For many of us, the goal is far more straightforward, just to rebuild something steady enough to stand on.

And that, too, is resilience.

You can see this kind of resilience not only in people, but in the cities and towns forced to redefine themselves after the unthinkable happens.

Take Asheville, North Carolina, for example.

For years, Asheville has had this reputation as a gorgeous mountain getaway — the kind of place people would go to recharge. It’s also home to the Biltmore Estate, a place I’ve always wanted to visit in person. And then came Hurricane Helene, rewriting that story overnight. Historic flooding destroyed homes, crippled infrastructure, and left communities isolated.

A year later, Asheville is open again. Restaurants are serving, downtown is active, visitors are returning. But recovery hasn’t been in any way easy, let alone complete. Some parts of the city are still visibly damaged. Businesses are hanging on by a thread, and people are carrying memories that don’t fade after the water recedes.

From a distance, that may look like an awful lot like resilience.

Up close, it means that people are painstakingly rebuilding their lives, one decision and one day at a time.

Communities don’t recover through optimism alone. They need time, resources, coordination, and support. People are no different.

My friend Dr. Natalie Enclade once put it this way: we can’t expect people to invest in the “what-if” when they’re just trying to get through the day. After years spent helping communities prepare for disasters, she knows resilience isn’t just a state of mind.

We often talk about resilience as if it’s purely internal, as if it’s just a simple decision to stay positive no matter what. But just as Asheville didn’t rebuild through willpower alone, people navigating loss or uncertainty rarely do it by themselves.

Resilience isn’t just about pushing through. It’s about having the time, resources, and support to keep going when the going gets tough.

Resilience is so valued because it means that life goes on.

But going on isn’t the same as feeling okay. Grief and fear don’t disappear; they just become part of the landscape. In practice, resilience is less about heroic strength and more about refusing to give up.

And sometimes it means believing (or at least acting as if you believe) that the future can still hold something good, even if you can’t see it yet.

I still want to visit Asheville someday. Not to see a city that bounced back perfectly, but to see one that endured and kept going anyway. I can relate so much to that.

If this past year has taught me anything, it’s that resilience doesn’t mean you feel strong. It means you haven’t given up on the possibility that things can get better.

Maybe that’s the most honest definition of resilience I know.

No, seriously.

And listen, I know this doesn’t exactly scream, “hire me!” to prospective employers — but please, stay with me here.

Within the first few weeks of every single job I’ve had, I’ve wanted out. Because let’s be honest: it kind of sucks to be the new person.

It’s uncomfortable.

People are tossing around acronyms you’ve never heard of (or worse, acronyms you have heard, but they mean something completely different here). They tell you to talk to Bob about that — except not the Bob you’ve already met, the Bob in another department. You don’t know how to connect to the printer. You don’t even know where the printer is! And apparently you were supposed to log your TPS report in Blorble last week, but you don’t know how to log into Blorble, and now it’s overdue.

It. Is. So. Overwhelming.

I remember my first few months in public service. I was in an admin role at the Department of Homeland Security, and I swear, half the time I had no idea what anyone was talking about. There were so many acronyms there was literally a book of acronyms and abbreviations. By the way, I don’t think anyone shared that with me until Month 3.

But the one I couldn’t find? S1 and S2.

Everyone kept referring to S1 and S2, and for at least six months, I nodded along pretending I knew exactly what they meant.

Finally, I worked up the courage to ask.

Turns out S1 was simply the Secretary of Homeland Security. S2 was her Deputy.

That was it. Mystery solved.

I remember wishing I’d asked sooner and spared myself months of feeling stupid.

I used to think that feeling stupid simply meant I wasn’t cut out for the job. That maybe I wasn’t as capable as everyone thought.

But looking back, I don’t think it was incompetence. I think it was just discomfort. I went from being known to being new. From being confident to asking basic questions.

My ego really didn’t love that.

After my first full week on the job, I went to pick up my now-husband for a double date with friends. I sat in the car outside of his apartment with my head slumped over the steering wheel. He looked at me, concerned, and asked, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Let me tell you, I unloaded…

“Everyone is talking in code, and I got on the wrong train going the opposite direction to come home and didn’t even realize it until the third stop, and then I had to switch platforms to go back, and I should have been on the YELLOW LINE, not the BLUE LINE, and everything that’s up is down and I JUST CAN’T DO THIS!”

Okay, fine. Maybe that was slightly dramatic.

But in my defense, it had been an exhausting week!

Long story short? I figured it out. I spent the first five years of my public service career learning how to work with Congress at DHS. Then I moved to FEMA and kept at it for nearly a decade. And then, I spent a year learning an entirely new role at the Cybersecurity & Infrastructure Security Agency, aka CISA (where, I’m fairly certain, there were at least 329487 Bobs… shout out to Bob).

Here’s the thing: even when every bone in my body was screaming that I couldn’t do it — that I’d never figure out all the different Bobs — I did.

Was it uncomfortable? Umm, YEAH.

But was it actually impossible?

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Okay, fine. Some days it was hard.

There were days that stretched me. Days I pushed myself way past what I thought I was capable of. Days my bosses pushed me, too.

And looking back now, I don’t think they were trying to break me (well, I’m pretty sure they weren’t).

I think they saw something in me I couldn’t see yet.

And somewhere along the way, I started to understand something.

I think about my early years at FEMA, specifically a farewell party for one of my favorite bosses. She was leaving for a role in the private sector.

I asked her how she was feeling. Was she excited? Nervous?

Candidly, she admitted, “I’m scared as hell. But I also know I need to be scared in order to grow.”

Her response shocked me. If she was scared, why was she doing this? At the time, I’m not sure I totally got it.

But I do now.

Because I’ve seen that pattern play out in my own life, over and over again.

And lately, I’ve been hearing that same theme in the stories of the people I talk to on Careers & Coffee Talk, too. I just finished recording an episode with Nitin Natarajan, whose path to national leadership wasn’t exactly something he mapped out on day one. He said yes to roles he wasn’t sure he was ready for, stepped into unfamiliar territory again and again, and figured it all out along the way. Listening to him, I kept thinking: this is what growth actually looks like. It’s messy, uncomfy, and sometimes, it’s the exact opposite of what you were expecting.

It was scary as hell to walk into my first government job. Scary to be the new kid at another agency. Scary to meet an entirely new team and learn an entirely new way of doing things.

And if I’m being honest?

It’s downright terrifying to be on my own now.

Starting something new in my 20s was scary. Starting over in my 40s? Yeah, that gives “scary as hell” whole new meaning.

The stakes feel higher. The voice in my head is louder.

But the lesson hasn’t changed.

There is growth in discomfort.

I’m still learning how to lean into it instead of running from it. Some days I probably do that better than others.

But when I look back at every version of myself who wanted to quit — the 16-year-old kid behind the desk at the newspaper, the overwhelmed DHS admin assistant, the FEMA staffer convinced she didn’t belong, the new leader at CISA — I’m so grateful that she persevered.

Because every time I stayed, I grew.

And that growth? It has changed everything.

So maybe the urge to quit isn’t proof you’re failing? Maybe it’s proof you’re growing.

Because you CAN do hard things.

In disasters, that truth is obvious. In life, we have a tendency to take it for granted.

Talking with Craig Fugate, former FEMA Administrator and someone who has spent a career making decisions when time was certainly not on his side, kept bringing me back to that idea. It was a constant theme throughout our conversation, and it stayed with me even after we stopped recording.

Time is one thing you never recover. You don’t get it back. Time doesn’t give you second chances.

When it comes to emergency management, that reality shapes everything. Waiting for perfect information doesn’t make decisions better; it just makes them later. Waiting can be the difference between life and death.

Listening to him recount mass-casualty events and relentless hurricane seasons, I was struck by how little certainty he ever had to operate with. His job required moving forward while the information was still coming in.

He talked about some of the specific moments when people were still asking questions while the clock was ticking. His point was simple: response isn’t about having the best plan or the perfect process. It’s about whether help reaches people in time.

That idea has come up again and again on this podcast, even beyond emergency management. We reach a moment where we know something needs to change, but we wait for conditions that may never arrive. The right timing, the perfect role. A sign that says, now you’re ready.

I get it because I’ve been there, too.

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There was no perfect moment to launch Careers & Coffee Talk. I had a hundred reasons to wait — family responsibilities, questions about whether anyone would listen, whether I was doing it “right.” Not doing it felt sooooo much safer.

And don’t even get me started on leaving public service.

I didn’t want to leave. The timing was all wrong; I didn’t feel ready. I had built a career I was proud of, doing work that mattered deeply to me. But ready or not, circumstances changed. The universe (DOGE, whatever you want to call it) had other plans. The decision wasn’t really mine to make.

There’s something disorienting about being pushed before you feel prepared. I would’ve preferred having a sense of control. It would have been comforting to have a clear vision of the future. I didn’t have any of that, yet I had to jump anyway.

Because here’s the truth: even when you don’t control the moment, you DO get to control the move.

Launching the podcast wasn’t fearless. Sure, it was bold, but I was still scared. At the same time, it was something I could build while everything else felt unsettled. And if I had waited until I felt 100% confident, trust me — I’d still be waiting.

Waiting would’ve cost me something I couldn’t get back.

So, what pushed me forward? I guess I just stopped waiting to feel ready. And truly, every conversation I’ve had over the last year (on the podcast and otherwise) has validated that. I’ve talked to so many people who have left stable careers to chase dreams. I’ve talked to leaders who have had to make tough calls without all of the answers. I’ve talked to people who have taken bold steps forward, knowing exactly what it might cost.

At the same time, this part of my life has taught me something totally different about time.

Fact: unemployment is hard. We don’t have to sugarcoat that. It comes with worry and a constant stream of what-ifs in the background. But it has also given me something I didn’t expect…

Time.

Time to have lunch with my kids at school. Time to chaperone field trips and volunteer in ways I was never able to before. Time to podcast. Time to write this Substack!

As a parent, people love to remind you that “the days are long, but the years are short.” Unfortunately, it’s true in a way that really does sneak up on you. Some days are exhausting. Truly. But somehow, they’ve also flown by faster than I could have ever imagined. One minute you’re counting down to bedtime, the next you’re wondering how your kid went from mispronouncing words (one of my favorites was “thingers” instead of “fingers” — man, do I miss that!) to explaining what it means to ethically-source cocoa (real conversation in the car this week).

Anyway, this is where Craig’s words keep coming back to me:

“You never get time back.”

It’s so true. But time also shows up as a gift. And it’s easy to miss that if you’re too busy wishing it looked like something else.

Craig talked about how speed creates space. Acting early, even imperfectly, gives you room to adjust. It’s okay to make mistakes; as long as your intentions are in the right place, you can always course-correct. But waiting too long may lead to decisions being made for you.

You may be living in a season where the uncertainty feels constant. The instinct to wait it out is understandable. But the lesson I keep carrying forward — from Craig, from so many guests, and from my own life right now — is this: waiting is always a choice.

And so is action.

No, you don’t get time back. Not in disasters, not in careers. Not in childhoods that seem to be racing ahead of us.

But what you do get is the chance to decide how you’ll spend the time you’ve been given, moving when it’s time to move, and holding still long enough to recognize the gift when it’s right there in front of you.

Not sure what to do with your time next?

▶️ Watch the full episode with Craig Fugate now on YouTube
🎧 Listen on Apple Podcasts
🎧 Listen on Spotify

But here’s the thing: after hundreds of applications, countless AI-generated rejections, dozens of interviews, and even a job offer for a role that was later canceled, I’m still unemployed.

This, my friends, is life after DOGE. And it hasn’t been easy.

Unfortunately, I know I’m far from alone in this. More than 300,000 federal employees were impacted by RIFs and coerced buyouts last year, and the ripple effects haven’t stopped there. The private sector and nonprofit world are feeling it too, with tens of thousands of workers facing layoffs already this year. If one thing is clear, it’s that this isn’t exactly a job seeker’s market, even for people with strong experience and solid track records.

In an overly crowded job market, the feelings of loss and repeated rejection can really do a number on your sense of competence and self-worth. “This was a difficult decision, but…” You don’t even need to finish the email to know you’ve seen this film before.

And it’s really, REALLY hard not to listen to that voice in the back of your head — the one that keeps insisting that it’s YOU that is the common denominator here.

It’s hard to reject the idea that you are a complete and utter failure.

But then the other night, I got some important advice from an unexpected source.

It was a school night at our house, a welcome return to routine after more than a week of snow days. My six-year-old was reading to me from her older brother’s chapter book, which on its own felt like a small miracle. She’d gone from pretending not to recognize sight words to reading with ease, almost overnight.

And it just so happened that the characters in the book were talking about “failing miserably.”

When we finished, we did what we always do and talked about it.

Without missing a beat, she declared proudly in her sweet little voice: “Even if I fail miserably, I still love myself.”

She said it like it was obvious. Like it didn’t need defending. Because of course it didn’t. She should always love herself!

I couldn’t help but smile as a mix of pride and pause came over me — the kind where you realize your kid might be way wiser than I’ll ever be. I told her she was exactly right: that loving yourself is so important, even when things don’t go your way. That’s how you keep showing up.

And then, it clicked.

Because that’s exactly what this season is asking of me, too.

Despite the rejections. Despite the cruel whispers in the back of my mind. Despite the losses that don’t make headlines or even my own LinkedIn posts.

I’m still showing up.

I’m still doing the work.

And I’m still choosing to believe that I’m worthy and exactly where I’m meant to be in this moment.

My six-year-old didn’t linger on the word “fail.” She skipped straight to loving herself for who she is.

So that’s exactly what I’m carrying with me now.

It always surprises me when someone I admire admits they struggle with imposter syndrome. From the outside, they look confident and completely capable. But underneath, the same thought keeps telling the same lie: everyone else belongs here but me.

Most recently on Careers & Coffee Talk, I interviewed Kelly Grissom, a retired Marine officer, successful small business owner, and former government-civilian intelligence professional. Any one of those titles would be impressive on their own, but Kelly was pretty candid about the doubts that continue to follow him anyway.

I caught myself thinking: if someone like him still questions himself, no wonder so many of us do, too.

Of course, that doesn’t make what Kelly has done any less real. His service, his leadership, his success… those things don’t disappear just because doubt shows up. The disconnect is about believing, like really believing, deep down in your gut that the work you’ve done actually counts as yours, and that it matters.

In fact, so many people I talk to experience this same phenomenon. Guests on the podcast, friends at happy hour — it’s almost validating to realize we’re all just walking around wondering if we’re good enough!

But maybe that’s the point. Doubt doesn’t mean you don’t belong. It just means you’re human.

Now, aside from a minor in psychology, I’m no expert, so do with this information what you will. But here are a few ways I’ve learned to cope with my own imposter syndrome:

1. Talk about it. Do you wish you felt more confident? Be honest — the people around you probably feel the same. Naming the feeling out loud, especially with people who support you, can help ease the anxiety. And sometimes we all need our cheerleaders to remind us that no matter what our inner demons are telling us, they’re wrong. We’ve got this.

2. Be honest with yourself. (Maybe I should have started with this one?) Think about what you’re feeling and why you’re feeling that way, then separate fact from fiction. Why do you feel insecure? Is it because you’re surrounded by people smarter than you? Great! Sounds like you have the opportunity to learn from the experts. Is it because you’ve failed before? Think about what you’ve learned and how much you’ve grown! Is it because you’re doubting your own accomplishments? Stop that! Make a list of your achievements and remind yourself that you ARE a bad ass. (Note: this is actually a great reminder to keep a running list of the amazing things you’ve done. It’s something you can refer back to in moments of doubt or when job hunting!) Bottom line: when you acknowledge the feeling and reflect on why you’re feeling it, you can work through reframing your thoughts more positively.

3. Kelly’s advice? Fake it ‘til you make it. You don’t feel confident? That’s fine — treat it like an acting job and pretend you are anyway. Eventually, you’ll start to believe you know what you’re doing, and you’ll actually build the muscle to get really freaking good at it!

When I first came up with the idea to launch a podcast, admittedly, I struggled with a lot of doubts. Is this even a good idea? Would people actually want to talk to me? Would anyone even bother to listen? (By the way, are you a subscriber yet?)

I’ll be honest; those questions haven’t totally gone away. There’s a certain level of anxiety that comes with every episode. Yes, every single one! I always wonder how it will turn out and hope that people will find it valuable.

But guess what? I keep doing it anyway. And please don’t tell anyone, but yes, I am totally faking it!

Turns out, even my best guests are nervous, too. Everyone always notices their little quirks and wishes they said something differently. I guess we’re all our own biggest critics. But when a guest is authentic, vulnerable, and candid about their journey? Trust me, no one else is thinking about that time they said, “um” or paused for a half a second too long.

So maybe the goal isn’t to silence the doubt completely. Maybe it’s just to stop letting it run the show. To notice the negative self-talk for the absolute BS that it is and choose to show up anyway. Even when you’re uncertain. No, especially when you’re uncertain!

Take the risk. Apply for the job. Say yes to the opportunity. Start that thing you keep talking yourself out of. The worst that can happen isn’t failure… it’s staying exactly where you are because you’ve allowed that fear hold you back.

And if you’re waiting to feel confident before you dare to make a move, you might find yourself waiting forever.

It’s wild to think about where we were… what we were thinking, what we were doing, what we were planning… versus where we are now.

In late 2024, I was six months into a new job, and I was loving it. After many years at FEMA, I’d been asked to join the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency to lead the cybersecurity awareness program. It was an exciting moment: the program was still so new and full possibility. By December, I’d successfully led my first Cybersecurity Awareness Month. I traveled to Seattle, New York, Baltimore, and Colorado for conferences and speaking engagements. The program had generated more than 3 billion impressions through paid and donated media, our social channels were on fire, and post-campaign surveys showed a more than 10% increase in people taking concrete steps to improve their own cybersecurity habits.

What a time to be alive!

We had big plans for 2025, too. New toolkits, refreshed materials — we entered the new year excited for the possibility of what could come next.

Little did we know…

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No, really — he did.

When I first started working with Paul Huang years ago, we talked about this book. Shortly after, a copy showed up at my house. No agenda. No assignment. Just a simple, “you should read this.” That alone tells you something about the kind of book it is.

What makes The Five Dysfunctions of a Team so useful is how honest it is about naming the things many of us have felt but struggled to describe — what happens when everyone in the meeting nods and smiles politely while tension goes unspoken, and when work slows because let’s be honest, the trust was never really established.

And it sticks because it’s written like a story as opposed to a manual. You see how all of those seemingly small behaviors can tend to add up over time. You realize that avoidance becomes a bad habit. It’s so easy to recognize pieces of your own experience, whether you’re leading a team, part of one, or trying to understand why something that SHOULD work, that LOOKS like it works, just… doesn’t.

Professionally, this book asks you to look at how your teams operate when things get uncomfortable, and what happens when accountability is missing or goals aren’t shared. Personally, it’s a reminder that trust doesn’t come from titles or org charts alone. It comes from consistency, honesty, and a willingness to have the hard conversations that most people would probably prefer to avoid.

I think that’s why this book has been passed along so often, person to person, like it was from Paul to me. It’s about what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real (IYKYK).

And with that, we’ve reached the final day of Book-mas. Twelve days, twelve books, and so many thoughtful recommendations shared here (and in the Book Club — go check it out!).

If you’ve been following along, thank you. And if you’re just joining, welcome to the club — there’s plenty more where this came from. We’re still building and still learning together!

With that, I hope the holiday season is kind to you and that it brings plenty of reasons to feel merry and bright.

Check out The Five Dysfunctions of a Team: A Leadership Fable in the Careers & Coffee Talk Book Club

Click here to purchase on Amazon

What I really appreciate about this book is how practical it is. Emotional intelligence, or EQ, is framed as a set of skills you can practice and get better at over time. Things like catching yourself before you react, reading a room more accurately, or understanding why a conversation went sideways instead of replaying it on a loop later (usually while you’re trying to sleep… or is that just me?). It’s the kind of awareness that really changes how you move through the world.

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Luckily, I didn’t need to know how to code to read this one. In fact, I couldn’t put it down!

What Scott Shapiro does so well is tell the story of cyber conflict the way it actually plays out in real life. On one hand, it’s reassuring to know the machines aren’t turning against us. On the other, you see people making decisions, incentives that don’t quite line up, shortcuts being taken, and the consequences that follow. Yes, there are technical moments, but they never feel like a hurdle. They’re just part of the story.

As someone who has worked in public service and communications, I found this book really breaks down the mystique that cybersecurity sometimes hides behind. The hacks, breaches, and attacks that Shapiro walks through all feel so familiar. It shows how small things, like a single click or a reused password, can turn into much bigger problems.

I talked about this book briefly in my episode with Lauren Zabierek, and it stuck with me because it reinforces something she says often: cybersecurity should never be about blaming users. It’s about understanding how systems are designed and who pays the price when they fail. Shapiro’s storytelling makes that clear. You start to notice how often responsibility gets pushed to the last person in the chain, instead of the structure of the chain itself.

What also stood out to me is how readable this book is, even when it’s explaining complicated events. Remember how I struggled to learn coding in high school? Thankfully, Shapiro has a gift for turning dense material into something that feels almost conversational. I didn’t have to pause every few pages to Google acronyms or reread paragraphs. Each story throughout the book really brought the bigger picture into focus.

This is also one of those rare books that works for more than one kind of reader. True crime fans will recognize the patterns. History lovers will appreciate the context. Psychology nerds will see the human behavior woven throughout. And for anyone who’s cybersecurity-curious but not technical, it’s a genuinely welcoming place to start.

That range is what makes it especially effective. If you already work in or around cyber, this book gives language and context to things you’ve probably felt intuitively for a long time. And if you’re like me, curious but non-technical and trying to understand how the digital world shapes real-world harm, it meets you exactly where you are.

Fancy Bear Goes Phishing doesn’t require you to be tech expert. It just asks you to pay attention. And that is exactly why it belongs on the Book-mas list.

Check out Fancy Bear Goes Phishing in the Careers & Coffee Talk Book Club.

Click here to purchase on Amazon.

This is one of those books that doesn’t just inform you; it changes how you see and understand people in moments of crisis. Ripley’s reporting cuts through assumptions about panic, heroism, and rational behavior, replacing them with an honest look at how humans actually respond when everything goes wrong.

Here’s the thing: disasters are more than just physical events. Outcomes are shaped just as much — if not more — by psychology. Often times, it’s our perception and prior experience that’s more impactful than wind speed, water levels, or fault lines.

One of the most striking examples in the book is the comparison between Hurricane Camille and Hurricane Katrina. It’s said that Camille killed more people than Katrina in certain areas not because it was stronger, but because survivors of earlier storms believed they could ride out the next one. Experience bred confidence. That confidence dulled caution.

Survival, you are one dangerous teacher.

Humans are wired to learn from what we’ve lived through, but in disasters, that instinct can mislead us. We normalize risk and we make decisions based solely on past outcomes. We mistake that sense of familiarity for safety. Ripley shows how this cognitive shortcut can be deadly, especially when conditions are rapidly changing.

There’s another story I always come back to, about a young girl named Tilly Smith on Mai Khao beach in Thailand.

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Instead of:

What should I do next?
How do I get there?

You might need to ask: Why does this matter to me now?

That question sits at the center of Simon Sinek’s Start with Why, a book that continues to resonate not because it offers easy answers (even if we wish it did!), but because it insists on a more honest starting point. For people in career transition, or even those contemplating their next chapter, it offers a framework for reflection that feels especially grounding.

Let’s be clear, Sinek’s core idea is pretty well known: lasting motivation and meaningful leadership begin with a clear sense of purpose. But knowing your “why” isn’t as simple as coming up with a polished mission statement on LinkedIn; it’s about understanding the values and experiences that deeply shape your decisions, even when the path forward feels uncertain.

That idea came to life for me during my conversation with Garrett Ebling on Careers & Coffee Talk. Garrett spoke very candidly about navigating career shifts, personal trauma, and the long process of redefining his identity. He shared how reading Find Your Why helped him reflect not on discovering something entirely new, but on identifying the common thread running through the moments in his life that felt most meaningful, especially during periods of seemingly insurmountable change.

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Meanwhile, Natalie pulls out Catastrophic Incentives. Oh, and a highlighter.

And yes, I absolutely made fun of her for choosing something so cerebral to kick back and relax. I mean, come on — it was a girls’ trip!

Natalie later recommended this book on Careers & Coffee Talk, describing it as one of the clearest explanations of why disaster policy looks the way it does today, and why it so often fails to reward the behaviors we say we want to encourage.

After finally reading it myself, I finally get it.

At its core, Catastrophic Incentives examines a hard truth: our disaster systems are structured to respond, not to prevent. Federal funding, political attention, and public urgency naturally surge after catastrophe strikes, while investments in mitigation, preparedness, and resilience remain under-prioritized and underfunded. The authors make a compelling case that this isn’t a failure of knowledge; rather, it’s a failure of incentives.

Schlegelmilch and Carlin walk readers through how well-intentioned policies can unintentionally reward risk-taking, delay proactive investments, and reinforce the continuous cycle of disaster —> rebuilding. Communities that invest early in resilience often struggle to justify those costs upfront, while those that rebuild repeatedly after disasters receive steady infusions of aid. Over time, that imbalance tends to shape behavior at every level of government.

What makes this book especially effective is that it doesn’t rely on abstract theory. The authors ground their analysis in real examples: disaster assistance programs, insurance structures, infrastructure decisions, and recovery timelines that all seem to signal what matters most. The takeaway may be uncomfortable, but it is necessary to recognize that systems respond to incentives.

Listening back to my conversation with Natalie, one moment stood out even more after reading this book. She talks about growing up in Louisiana, surviving storms, and how prior experience can actually distort risk perception. The “we survived the last one, so we’ll survive the next” is a mindset that feels rational in the moment but can carry severe long-term consequences. That psychology sits at the heart of the book’s argument: when systems normalize recovery instead of resilience, people will adapt accordingly.

Why does this matter now?

Because disasters are becoming more frequent. They are more costly. They are increasingly more complex. Climate pressures, infrastructure strain, housing shortages, and inequitable recovery outcomes are colliding in ways our current frameworks weren’t designed to handle. Catastrophic Incentives doesn’t pretend there’s a single fix, but it does something just as important. It helps readers see the invisible architecture shaping disaster policy decisions.

And yes, it turns out maybe this is a good beach read… if your idea of a beach read involves questioning everything you thought you knew about resilience, recovery, and why we keep rebuilding the same way.

Natalie was right to pack this book. And fine, maaaaybe I was wrong to tease her.

Check out Catastrophic Incentives in the Careers & Coffee Talk Book Club.

Click here to purchase on Amazon.

Fun fact: this year, I completed the AI Policy Clinic as a Research Group Member at the Center for AI and Digital Policy, where I worked on policy research focused on AI and democratic values. Hao’s reporting gave real-world texture to many of the issues we examined academically: how governance structures matter, how incentives shape outcomes, and how decisions made by a small group of actors can have such incredibly far-reaching societal consequences.

Karen Hao’s deep investigative reporting offers readers a rare inside look at the rise of OpenAI, from its early days as a nonprofit with a mission to benefit all of humanity, to its evolution into a dominant player in the AI industry. Hao draws on interviews with insiders, correspondence, and meaningful context to help readers understand the complex forces that shape AI development today.

And let’s just say… wow.

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While still in public service, I had the unique opportunity to work with Stan and his team at the McChrystal Group. What struck me then, and what resonates so clearly throughout this book, is his deep humanity: a blend of genuine kindness, strategic clarity, and relentless integrity.

This book isn’t a traditional memoir filled with tactical war stories or a leadership playbook packed with platitudes. Instead, it’s closer to a first-person meditation on living with integrity, a reflective journey that feels as intimate as reading someone’s journal. McChrystal turns the lens inward and challenges each of us to do the same.

At the heart of On Character is a deceptively simple yet profound idea:
Character = Convictions × Discipline.

Because convictions are not casual beliefs that we wish we held; they are deeply examined values that have stood up to failure and the tests of life. Discipline, on the other hand, is the daily work of living in alignment with those convictions, even (and especially) when no one is looking. McChrystal shows us that it is not rank, accolades, or reputation that define a life, but instead, it is the choices we make consistently, over time.

What makes this book particularly powerful and deeply relatable is how McChrystal grounds these philosophical ideas in real life. He does not shy away from his own missteps, from moments like the end of his military command or the challenges of being present as a father while deployed. These reflections aren’t shared for shock or drama. They are offered as evidence of growth, humility, and the ongoing work of character formation.

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