Somewhere along the way, most of us stop doing something that once came naturally. We don’t drop it intentionally.

Life simply gets busier. Louder. More complex.

We become consumed with building careers, raising children, paying bills, caring for aging parents, navigating health challenges, and checking things off endless to-do lists. Productivity slowly replaces curiosity. Responsibility crowds out spontaneity.

And before we even notice...we have forgotten how to play.

Pause for a moment and think about it.

When was the last time you truly played just for the sake of play?

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Recently, I had a realization that completely changed how I think about The Adventuresome Life.

Over a decade ago, I began imagining what would eventually become this community. I knew it would be about exploration—of new places, new experiences, and new possibilities. I knew it would also be about discovery—traversing our inner landscape through reflection, breathwork, meditation, movement, and simply being willing to ask questions and listen for answers.

Those ideas have remained constant.

But for eleven years, something felt incomplete and I’ve been unable to put my finger on it. Until this week.

I realized what had been missing all along.

Play.

Not play as another thing to add to our already busy lives. But play as a way of living. As the foundation for feeling more alive.

Play invites us to explore.

Exploration leads to discovery.

And discovery changes us. It expands who we are, what we believe is possible, and ultimately, how we experience life.

In my recent pursuit of play, I started by taking an inventory of playful memories and experiences from my lifetime. Some examples include:

• Playing Yahtzee with my grandmother as a child

• Shooting hoops in the driveway with my older brother

• Having Nerf gun wars and building SO MANY Lego sets with my son

  

• Playing hide-n-seek in the summer evenings with all of the kids from our neighborhood, until our mothers started yelling for us to come home

• Spontaneous dance parties during RAGBRAI (The Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa)

• Dyeing my hair pink in my forties

  

• Experiencing a virtual reality headset for the first time as an adult, and almost falling over

• Riding the Guardians of the Galaxy roller coaster at EPCOT, two years ago, and still smiling every time I think about it

• Laughing so hard I could cry at how “pull my finger” and fart noises never failed to bring my grandfather joy

  

As I was taking this inventory of my playful memories, I realized that the majority of them were in my distant past, rather than recent or in the here and now.

Not because I’ve stopped loving to play. But because I’ve stopped making room for it.

That realization surprised me. Maybe even shocked me a little. Because if anyone should be living a playful life, shouldn’t it be the person building and sharing The Adventuresome Life?

However, rather than feeling discouraged, I feel excited.

What if my fifties became my most playful decade yet? Why not?

Who says growing older has to mean growing more serious?

Why shouldn’t this chapter include more laughter...

more curiosity...

more ridiculousness...

more wonder?

more spontaneity?

more joy?

more ease?

Somewhere along the way, many of us start believing that play belongs only to children (and all too often, even they are robbed of it prematurely). That joy is something we earn after we’ve finished everything else. That there’s a proper time and place for fun.

Maybe after retirement.

Maybe on vacation.

Maybe someday.

But I think we have it backward.

Play isn’t the reward for living well...

Play can be the reason we live well in the first place.

The August Adventuresome Exploration

Play improves everything.

It makes exercise feel less like exercise.

It makes work more enjoyable.

It makes learning more engaging.

It sparks creativity.

It helps us discover solutions we may never have found otherwise.

It brings us into the present moment.

It deepens our relationships.

It invites laughter.

It relieves stress.

It supports our physical and mental well-being.

And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us how to feel fully alive again.

So rather than making this month's challenge about accomplishing something, I'm making it about experiencing something.

I’m inviting you to join me. Not because I’ve mastered the art of play. Because I’m practicing it right alongside you.

Throughout August, I'll be sharing playful moments, ideas, reminders, or explorations in Notes. I hope you’ll reply and comment with your own input and experiences.

Remember, play doesn’t have to be expensive. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. It doesn’t have to impress anyone. It’s simply a catalyst for shifting into joy, wonder, appreciation, and creativity.

Rediscovering how to play may be one of our most adventuresome explorations yet!

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Until our next adventure,

Fear less. Live more.

If you enjoyed this and found value in what was provided, please take a moment to do one of the three things below:

1. Subscribe to The Adventuresome Life for just $5/month or $50/year.

   Paid subscribers receive immediate access below to The PLAY Practice—a simple four-word framework to help you bring more play, presence, and possibility into your everyday life.

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2. If a monthly or annual subscription is not for you, consider a one-time donation or tip for any amount you see fit or are able to offer. Be sure to leave me a message and include how TAL inspired, supported, challenged, or entertained you.

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3. Simply share The Adventuresome Life with other people you think might enjoy or benefit.

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Mother Nature has a way of reminding us of things we already know on some level:

Nothing stays the same forever.

The storm passes.

The flowers bloom.

The river keeps moving.

The sun rises again.

Even things that can be frightening or dangerous, often reveal unexpected beauty when we take the time to look more closely, as demonstrated by the lightening brewing in this storm cloud near my home.

That’s the inspiration behind my June Adventure Challenge.

I invite you to look to nature as a guide, teacher, and companion.

When we step outside with intention, nature can help us slow down, gain perspective, find appreciation, and even discover answers we couldn’t previously see.

Below are four ways to engage with nature this month and see what unfolds:

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1. Slow Down and Breathe

One of the reasons I love spending time outdoors is that nature naturally slows me down. The world around us may be moving at breakneck speed, but a walk through the woods, sitting beside a lake, or watching a summer sunset invites us into a different rhythm.

And when we slow down, something else happens.

Our breath transforms.

Not the shallow, hurried breathing many of us do while rushing from one obligation to the next, but deeper breaths. Fuller breaths. The kind that remind us we are alive and connected to something larger than ourselves.

2. Bring Your Questions Outside

Rather than constantly putting pressure on yourself to know the answers and to figure everything out, take a break and step outside. Refresh your energy, clear your mind, and reconnect with yourself.

Bring your questions.

Bring your worries.

Bring your frustrations, fears, uncertainties, and the things keeping you awake at night.

Offer them up to the universe.

Then get quiet.

Walk.

Sit.

Breathe.

Listen.

Maybe the answer you’re seeking arrives.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But perhaps you’ll gain a little more perspective. A little more peace. A little more trust in the natural processes and timing of life.

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3. Notice One Beautiful Thing

Nature is constantly offering reminders of beauty, resilience, and wonder.

As part of this challenge, I’d also encourage you to notice one beautiful thing every day.

Just one.

A wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk.

A colorful sunset.

A hawk circling overhead.

The smell of freshly cut grass.

The laughter of children playing in a park.

The magnificence of clouds.

Take a photo if you’d like. Write it down in a journal. Share it in the comments.

You may be surprised how quickly this simple practice shifts your attention away from what’s wrong and toward what’s possible.

4. Try Something New

Nature also invites exploration. Whether it’s exploring a new forest, kayaking, birdwatching, hiking a new trail, or something entirely different, step outside your routine and try something new.

One of my favorite summer activities is Yoga in the Park at Gray’s Lake in Des Moines. While runners circle the lake, bicyclists zip by, dogs chase Frisbees, and curious spectators look on, a fairly large group of us practice together in the open air.

Let me be clear:

I’m not particularly flexible.

Sometimes I wobble.

Sometimes I fall.

Sometimes I look completely ridiculous attempting a pose.

But I love it.

I love giving my mind and body that time. That care.

I love joining together with others in community.

I love the reminder that growth often begins with a willingness to try something new and step outside of your comfort zone.

Got Any Ideas?

As for me, I’m hoping to find something new to try outdoors this month.

I’ve spent much of my adult life exploring trails, rivers, mountains, lakes, and different events and gatherings all over my home city and beyond.

So I’m keeping my eyes, ears, heart, and mind open to new ideas.

If you have an outdoor activity you’ve always loved, a place that’s inspired you, or a new experience you think I should try, leave a comment and let me know.

Who knows? It just might become my next adventure.

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Until our next adventure,

Remember: Fear less. Live more.

If you enjoyed this and found value in what was provided, please consider becoming a paid subscriber of The Adventuresome Life for just $5/month OR simply share this article with others.

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The Adventuresome Life is a place for people who want to live more intentionally, explore deeply, and navigate life with curiosity, courage, and an everlasting sense of adventure.

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You might be codependent if:

• You always feel like you’re hesitantly peeking around a corner, waiting to see what will happen next, so that you will know how to respond.

• You pride yourself on fixing things… and people.

• You’re looking at someone else—or some situation—as the reason you aren’t living the life you want.

• You constantly feel exhausted and frustrated because so many people depend on you, and you tell yourself you’re single-handedly keeping all of the balls in the air.

• You keep finding yourself surrounded by people who “just can’t get it together.”
  (At least, not by your definition.)

• You believe someone won’t be okay without you intervening.

• You catch yourself defending, making excuses for, or trying to make up for another person’s disappointing, harmful, destructive, or abusive behavior.

If any of these bullet points resonate with you, remember:

Part of living an Adventuresome Life is having the willingness to keep learning.
Being open to seeing things you may not have noticed before.
And taking ownership of your part in this wild human experience.

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April is my birthday month. Every year around this time, I reflect on my life. Where I’ve been and where I’m headed.

• Does my life actually resemble what I want it to look like?

• What have I learned?

• Where have I grown?

• And where am I stuck… again?

• Am I living in alignment with who I want to be and what I value?

• Or am I still, in subtle ways, trying to please people, be accepted, live up to impossible standards, or just get through the day?

So this month’s Adventure Challenge is simple. Not easy. But simple.

Get honest.

The kind of honesty that doesn’t let you hide behind other people’s choices.
Or circumstances out of your control.
Or even your own past decisions.

For me, it started as a teenager and extended well into my adult life. I was the person people came to for answers, for comfort, to unload everything they were carrying. I could be relied upon to take care of things that needed handling. To offer acceptance and support when people I cared about felt like their lives were out of control.

And I really believed I could fix it—all of it. That people needed me in order to be okay. I loved picking people up and dusting them off. I believed I was helping. It’s where I found my value.

I developed an undeniable attraction to addicts, starting with my first husband, with whom I was head over heels in love. I truly believed that I could be the reason he would overcome generational trauma and addiction.

To be clear, I’m not insinuating that helping people is wrong. But when you need them to need you—when it becomes a pattern that repeats itself, no matter who comes in and out of your life—that’s something else entirely.

About fifteen years ago, I got my first real glimpse of clarity. It was the first time I heard the term codependent. After years of blaming my ex-husband’s alcoholism for the end of our marriage, I finally started to look at my part in it. Because the hard truth was that my next couple of relationships weren’t all that different. Different people. Same patterns.

I was the only common denominator.

I’m not minimizing the impact of addiction. It can absolutely devastate lives and families. But addicts often rely on the “help” of others to keep things afloat, to avoid whatever version of rock bottom might actually lead to change. It’s like throwing them a flotation device every time they are drowning… contributing to them staying in the water and never learning how to swim to shore.

There’s no end to that cycle.

Over the years, I started to see that codependency isn’t just about romantic relationships. It shows up everywhere. Work. Friendships. Family. Even with strangers. Anywhere you believe you have the answers, where someone else doesn’t. Anywhere you feel responsible for fixing, saving, or managing what isn’t yours to carry.

I’ve worked on this for years. And I’ve come a long way.

I can let people be who they are now. I’m able to set boundaries. I can watch someone make choices I don’t agree with without jumping in. I can step back and trust that people will either figure it out, or they won’t. But either way—it’s theirs.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect.

When you stop focusing on everyone else, there’s nowhere left to look but at yourself.

So, that’s where I am right now, headed into my 53^rd year of life.

It doesn’t feel as peaceful as I imagined it would, or empowering, or like “I’ve finally arrived!” Instead, I feel exposed. I’ve let go of the self-proclaimed responsibilities I felt in other people’s lives. Now it’s just me—looking at my own life. My own choices. Where I find myself at this stage. And in honor of the honesty I spoke of earlier, it’s making me pretty damn uncomfortable.

I have clear, well-defined dreams, yet I’ve recently felt low motivation. I find myself stalling when it comes to taking consistent action. A subtle kind of self-sabotage that I’m longing to understand and overcome.

For years, I had somewhere to put my energy. My frustrations. My judgments. My perceived solutions. My sense of responsibility. All of it, in and on other people.

There were people and things to fix, and I felt like my life had a point in doing so.

Now?

In the aftermath of releasing the consequences of individuals’ choices to their rightful owners, I’m left to my own devices. It’s just me.

Two versions of me, actually. One that knows exactly what I want and what to do about it. And one that feels lost and like an imposter. The latter often paralyzes the former.

What’s happening? Have I turned my codependency on myself? And how the hell does that work exactly?

And in the process of setting aside pressure, guilt, victimhood, and my “get it together, or else” threats, once directed at others, what am I left with?

Have I become my own “fixer-upper”? Does my self-identity depend so much on needing someone to need me that I’m finding value in becoming a version of myself that needs to be rescued?

While I don’t have a clear answer to any of these questions, I do know one thing. I have definitely entered a new arena.

I’m standing in an empty octagon, with nothing but mirrors lining the perimeter. Nothing is distracting me or standing in my way but the pull of the destructive patterns I’ve worked so hard to abandon, or the imagined obstacles in my mind.

So, here’s my current Adventure Challenge, if you want to step into it with me for the next 30 days.

I’m starting to face the obstacles I’ve been pointing to—both real and imagined. The ones I’ve been telling myself are standing in the way of what I want.

I’m noticing how often I stall.
What I tell myself in those moments.
The stories I lean on about why I can’t move forward.

A lot of them sound like “if only…”

If only this were different.
If only they would change.
If only that hadn’t happened.

Then I would do the thing.

I’m also catching myself still placing responsibility somewhere outside of me. The subtle blame. The justifications. The moments where it feels easier to point outward than to turn back toward myself.

And what I keep coming back to is this:

My job here isn’t to fix everything.
It’s not to wait until everything lines up.

It’s to see things as they are…
and then decide what I’m going to do next.

What I’m experimenting with now is taking all of that energy I used to spend focusing on and reacting to what I believed should be different… and putting it toward what actually feels like aligned action for me.

The things that feel like an expression of who I am.
The things I say I care about.
The things I’ve been circling but not fully stepping into.

And instead of overthinking it…
or waiting until I feel ready…

I’m gently noticing, while continually taking steps forward.

Not necessarily big steps.
Definitely not perfect ones.

But honest ones.

I’m also paying attention to how often that other voice shows up.

The one that says I’m too late.
Or not enough.
Or that I’ve made too many mistakes.

And instead of trying to fight it or shut it down, I’m just seeing it for what it is.

A voice. Not a fact.

So that’s where I am right now.

Practicing awareness.
Catching myself in the moments where I drift back into old patterns.
And choosing, little by little, to come back to what is actually mine to do.

If you’re in this space too, I’d be curious what you notice.

What shows up when you stop looking out there…

…and turn toward yourself instead.

What shifts.

And what opens up…

when there’s nowhere left to hide.

XO-

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In episode two of Adventuresome Conversations, I sat down with one of my dearest friends for more than 30 years, Steve Cannon—a wildlife and nature photographer, endurance athlete, filmmaker, author, keynote speaker, and one of the most adventuresome humans I know.

Steve has run 40 marathons in 40 days around Lake Michigan, ended up upside down in the Yukon River, and biked 1,000 miles across Alaska in the dead of winter. He has slept near roaring lions in Africa, stood within feet of silverback gorillas, and photographed polar bears in temperatures cold enough to freeze a camera battery between shots.

But this conversation is about more than epic adventures.

It’s about what happens when someone leaves behind the life that was familiar—even the version of themselves that once felt impossible to escape—and begins listening to something deeper.

Steve and I talk about recovery, risk, and reinvention, and how the same inner tools that get you through addiction, grief, fear, and uncertainty can also guide you toward a life that feels honest, expansive, and fully your own.

One of the things I admire most about Steve is that when an idea lands in him, he listens.

He doesn’t dismiss it as unrealistic or impossible. Instead, he allows himself to imagine, “What if?” And more often than not, he follows that question into a life that is boldly and authentically his.

This episode is for anyone who has ever felt the pull toward something more. Anyone standing at the edge of a decision. Anyone who is trying to figure out whether the discomfort they feel is a warning or an invitation.

Because, as Steve says in this conversation, if the thing in front of you doesn’t put at least a little pit in your stomach, it may not be big enough to change you.

An adventuresome life doesn’t belong only to people who climb mountains, race across states, or photograph wildlife on the other side of the world. It belongs to anyone willing to step away from the expected path, trust what resonates, and take the next brave step toward a life that feels deeply their own.

Think of this episode as a reminder that your own version of adventure is always available to you—if you’re willing to listen.

Subscribe to The Adventuresome Life for future podcast episodes (about once a month), plus Adventure Challenges, reflections, and stories to help you navigate life with a little more courage, curiosity, and boldness.

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What is one adventure—big or small—that your inner compass may be asking you to take? Or what line, story, or idea shared in this podcast made you pause and think?

Leave a comment

Explore Steve’s work:

Photography: stevecannonphoto.com
Documentary: 1,000 Miles to Nome on YouTube
Books: Upside Down in the Yukon River and 40 Days: Life, Love, Loss, and A Historic Run Around One of the World’s Largest Lakes on Amazon

Please share, restack, or recommend anything that resonates with you here at The Adventuresome Life. If it’s helpful to you, more than likely it will be helpful to someone else.

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I’ve always had a healthy respect for change and resistance sharing the same season. Maybe it’s linked to me being born soon after the worst late-season snowstorm in Iowa history, in April of 1973. A blizzard in springtime has never surprised me. Nevertheless, the comeback of Spring in March consistently produces the first buds on trees and blades of green grass pushing up through the ground that was frozen solid only weeks before.

Every comeback starts gently with just a glimpse of what is ahead. And this March, I’m choosing mine.

But before you can stage a comeback, it helps to remember what you’re coming back to.

The Unraveling

There was a time when running was so ingrained in my lifestyle that I never thought twice about it.

I would lace up my shoes, step outside, and my body would simply fall into rhythm. Breath would find its cadence. My feet would meet the pavement in steady agreement. Stress would loosen its grip, usually somewhere around mile two.

Running was never about medals for me. It was about clarity. About shaking loose whatever was weighing on me too heavily. About putting one foot in front of the other, literally and figuratively, to get to where I wanted to go.

It was my preferred way of navigating the world.

And then, gradually, it wasn’t.

Looking back, it was an onslaught of factors that led me to unintentionally end my love affair with running.

Loss of a business after over 20 years. A global pandemic. Navigating a once tumultuous relationship. Selling the home that I had raised my son in, and moving twice in a two-year span. Pinballing through four major career moves, each one more disappointing than the last, chipping away at my passion for how I earned a living. Somewhere inside all of that, the runner in me went dormant.

In early spring of 2022, I decided it was time to get back to my running roots. I signed up for the Iowa Trail Run Series 5K race at Ledges State Park. Just a few weeks into my training for the race, I was walking down the stairs when I heard a loud pop like a cork being dislodged from a champagne bottle. That “Pop,” combined with a searing pain in the back of my leg, took me straight to the ground. I stood up limping, barely able to put weight on it.

A trip to Urgent Care revealed a partial tear in my soleus muscle, which connects directly to the Achilles tendon. I still showed up on race day about a month later, confined to an orthopedic walking boot. Being a spectator allowed me to feel close to the action, living vicariously through the other runners.

But more than anything, I felt defeated. My intention to recommit myself to my love of running took an unexpected and disappointing turn. Paranoid of repeating the painful injury, it would be another year before I felt ready to try running again. Little did I know that what I would face next would be my greatest challenge to date.

The Reckoning

In May of 2023, before I could even lace up my running shoes, life shifted in a way that would reprioritize everything.

During a standard mammogram screening, I was called back for a second look. This had happened to me many times over the years due to my dense breast tissue, so I thought nothing of it.

But after my second screening, they asked me to get dressed and escorted me into a different room, where they informed me that the doctor would be joining me. This was unusual and had never happened previously.

The doctor cut to the chase, letting me know that they had found a couple of spots in my breast screening that they were suspicious of being cancer cells. Just a couple of weeks later, a biopsy and MRI confirmed my cancer diagnosis.

It felt like a gut punch. And yet there was a part of me that didn’t really believe it was happening. I wrestled with conflicting feelings of outright fear, optimism in the form of “I got this,” a few honest doses of “Why me?” quickly overridden by a more realistic “Why not me?” After all, the current statistics in the U.S. are that 1 in 8 women will receive a breast cancer diagnosis in their lifetime.

By July, I had undergone a successful mastectomy, meaning the cancer was gone, and my margins were clear. I then navigated a complicated reconstruction process that started in the fall of 2023 and ended a total of four surgeries later in the summer of 2024. Then, just six months later, in December, I had a total hysterectomy. All the while adjusting to life on estrogen blockers and eventually surgical menopause, to increase my chance of never having to hear, “It’s breast cancer,” again.

Recovery became a season of its own. A season that seemed like it would never end. And honestly still hasn’t. (Joint pain from estrogen blockers is real!)

My body, which had been my partner in pushing physical limits, had always delivered on whatever I asked of her, thriving on reaching ever-expanding thresholds. She now needed treatments. Surgeries. Medications. Supplements and transformed nutrition. She needed rest. Time to heal and to adjust. She needed my care, nurturing, and protection.

After navigating several years of life’s challenges, injuries, and cancer, my relationship to my body has changed. She is both miraculous and unfamiliar to me. Instead of taking her for granted, I now have deep reverence and appreciation for her.

She is softer now after seeing battle. Less interested in responding to demands or expectations. Nothing left to prove, other than her own survival.

And yet, something in me has been stirring. A restlessness pulling me back to my running roots.

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The Commitment

In April, I will return to where I left off in the Spring of 2022, with the Iowa Trail Run Series.

The first event of the 2026 nine-race series, from April through November, is a four-mile trail run, just under five weeks from now.

Committing to the series has me lit up inside. I already feel more alive thinking about being in the crowd of other runners, even if it means I’m bringing up the rear. Which is highly likely at this point.

I’m not doing this to prove anything, but rather to honor what my body, mind, and spirit have survived and conquered. Plus, I want to see what we create together in this new season of life.

Below is the simple progression I’m following. You’re welcome to join me and adapt for your own “comeback”, if my version is something that speaks to you.

The 5-Week Training Plan: Zero to Four Miles

If your comeback has nothing to do with running, stay with me.

This progression isn’t just about miles. It’s about the method.

It’s about starting smaller than your ego would prefer.
Building capacity gradually.
Allowing consistency to matter more than intensity.

Whether you’re returning to writing, movement, a relationship, or something entirely different, the principle is the same.

Small. Repeatable. Intentional steps.

Here’s what that looks like in my world right now:

Always start with a 5-minute warm-up walk.
Always end with a 5-minute cool-down walk.

No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Week 1 (3 days per week)

Alternate:

• 2-minute jog

• 2-minute walk

Repeat 6–7 times
Total time: 24–28 minutes

Week 2 (3 days per week)

Alternate:

• 4-minute jog

• 2-minute walk

Repeat 4–5 times
Total time: 24–30 minutes

Week 3 (3 days per week)

Alternate:

• 6-minute jog

• 2-minute walk

Repeat 3–4 times
Total time: 24–32 minutes

Week 4 (3 days per week)

• Jog 10 minutes

• Walk 3 minutes

• Jog 10 minutes

• Walk 3 minutes

• Jog 5 minutes

Total time: 31 minutes

Week 5 – Race Week (Taper)

Day 1:

• Jog 15 minutes

• Walk 3 minutes

• Jog 10 minutes

Day 2:

• Light 20-minute jog or rest

Day 3:
Race Day – 4 miles
(Walk if and when needed.)

Nothing overbearing. Just repetition. Patience. Listening.

And to kick it all off, I bought a new pair of ultra-sturdy and supportive Hoka Stinson 7’s. They are my cute/ugly comeback shoes! The obnoxious hue of blush pink is my wink to breast cancer awareness. A reminder that this body has scars and strength in equal measure.

Paid Subscribers can scroll to the bottom of this post to download my FREE 30-Day, Zero to 4-mile, day-by-day training schedule. You can also upgrade to a paid subscription in order to gain access.

Upgrade for just $5/month

The First Day

My first run felt muddy, much like the trails underfoot, wet from melting snow. My lungs expanded with gratitude more than effort. I kept a pace that would allow me to hold a conversation, because this wasn’t about speed. It was about giving myself something I really wanted to return home to while building trust and confidence in being back in my body.

If I’m being honest, this feeling of coming home is more like a lean-to shack at this point. There are creaks in the floorboards, a roof that could fly away in the gentlest of breezes, and if I were to move too quickly, the whole thing might just topple to the ground.

But lean-tos provide some shelter. They can keep you dry. And with time, tender loving care, and commitment to rebuilding, they can become something sturdier.

The Reason

When I toe that starting line in April, it won’t be about pushing myself or keeping a particular pace.

It will be about this:

I am still here.

This body has endured scalpels, stitches, disappointment, and doubt, but it still carries me forward.

It still longs to run free.

It will be about being welcomed home to one of my greatest loves: running.

And stepping into the question that lingers at the edge of it all.

What does this all look like now?

On Your Mark. Get Set. Go.

It’s your turn to recommit yourself to something you once loved and had to let go of or let slip away. Time to choose your own personal comeback.

Not to chase who you were, but to meet who you are now.

Maybe it’s movement after illness.
Writing after burnout.
Music after grief.
Friendship after withdrawal.
Courage after fear.

Start small. Take it slow.

Let it feel a little awkward, uncomfortable, and maybe even impossible. It wouldn’t be a comeback without them.

If you’d like a dedicated space to document your reflections along the way, paid subscribers receive a digital PDF copy of The Adventuresome Life Journal in their inbox.

The journal is a 52-Week companion tool, designed to help you document and navigate your personal experiences with:

• Each Monthly Adventure Challenge

• Inspiration from the Adventuresome Conversations podcasts

• Experiences with the TAL Self-Care Series

• Other reading recommendations, writing prompts, and periodic offerings

It’s a place to document the questions that arise, how you’re affected, and the steps you’re choosing on your personal journey.

Because growth doesn’t happen by scrolling. It happens with personal reflection. And taking action.

Remember, March is when thawed ground allows for green grass to return to the surface.

I’m returning to the trails, my love of running, and therefore myself.

• What are you returning to?
• Why did you leave or stop?
• What scares you about beginning again?
• What surprises you?
• What feels like coming home?

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A few days ago, I read a note by titled “Women who hike solo… you have (more of my) empathy.”

What unfolded in the comments was something more than a discussion. It was a collective unveiling of lived experience. Women hiking solo, sharing the reality of their instincts shifting from background awareness to foreground alarm.

As I read their stories, I was reminded of something that happened to me years ago while hiking out of the Grand Canyon with my young son.

I posted my story in the comments of Dan’s note, but decided to publish an expanded version here for subscribers, in hopes of increasing awareness of the subject.

For my son’s 14th birthday, we hiked the Grand Canyon. It was March, and ice still clung to parts of the top of the trail. We wore crampons on our boots as we began our 7.5-mile descent down the South Kaibab Trail from the South Rim of the canyon on day one.

We camped at the bottom of the canyon, in a bunkhouse at Phantom Ranch for two nights. Rustic as they were, accommodations there were in high demand (and still are) for people hiking the strenuous trails into and out of the canyon. I had booked it at least 18 months in advance through a lottery system, securing the last two spots available at the ranch on my son’s birthday weekend.

The hike out, two days later, would be 10 miles, with the final 4.5 miles consisting of a steep, relentless series of switchbacks to the top rim. We took off from camp as soon as there was enough light to see the path ahead, before other hikers were even stirring in their bunks. Fully loaded with gear on our backs, the hike down into the canyon had taken us about five hours. The hike out would take at least twice as long and include 4,800 feet of elevation gain.

I wanted to give my son, inexperienced at this level of hiking, as many breaks as he needed to enjoy the hike while also reaching the rim by nightfall.

Within an hour or two of the sun rising, a man came up behind us, briefly struck up a conversation as we hiked, and then moved ahead. We passed him later, as he sat on a rock having a snack. There were a couple more of these back-and-forths throughout the day. Each time he passed us, or we passed him, the hairs on my body stood on end. He made small talk each time, but hadn’t done anything necessarily concerning; yet something felt “off.”

The last time we saw him, he once again came up from behind us. We were still a few hours from the end of our hike. This time, he mentioned that he had seen us in camp at the ranch. Everyone at camp ate dinner together, and we met people from all over the world. I had not met or even noticed this particular man. It officially started to feel “creepy.”

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He started asking more personal questions. I was trying to behave normally and without alarm to avoid worrying my son.

My pace and breath quickened.

Then it happened. He asked if I was hiking solo with my son. Clearly, I was, so where was this going? I reluctantly but politely answered, “yes,” hoping my short answer would give him the hint that his prying was making me uncomfortable.

He didn’t seem to notice.

The conversation escalated in concern when he next mentioned that he found it very attractive (the fact that I was hiking alone with my son) and asked if I was single.

Everything about this felt wrong and alarming. If he had noticed us in camp while there were other people around, why was he waiting until now, out in the middle of nowhere with no one in sight, to strike up a conversation?

My first instinct was to concoct a lie:
“Sorry, no, I’m married, and my husband is waiting at the top of the canyon for us. We’re running late, and he’s probably hiking this way, looking for us, so we need to focus on our hike and get moving.”

But before I could respond, my young teenage son, who had seemed primarily unaware or indifferent to the man’s presence most of the time, chimed in:

“If you’re hitting on my mom, you don’t have a chance.”

A memory we laugh about today, thank goodness.

Whatever the true intention of this man, I’ll never know. Whether the “leave it to a teenager” comment made him aware that my son was paying attention and I may not be as vulnerable as imagined, it bruised his ego, or he was just a friendly guy who ultimately realized his timing was inappropriate due to the vulnerability of my situation, at that point, he hiked on ahead, and we never saw him again.

In hindsight, my guess would be that the situation leaned more toward the latter. Just a friendly guy with whom I probably shared common interests, but who had really bad timing and an inability to “read the room.”

In the years since, I’ve thought about that moment many times. Not with fear, but with curiosity about how I responded, and why.

As a little girl, I was taught to be polite. To be accommodating. To not assume ill intent. To avoid hurting someone’s feelings. Even at the expense of my own comfort or safety.

So in that moment, I didn’t say what I really felt. I didn’t say, “Your question makes me uncomfortable.” I didn’t say, “This isn’t appropriate.” I didn’t say, “Please stop.”

Instead, I searched for a polite exit. A way to create distance without creating offense.

It’s hard to override decades of conditioning in real time. Hard to know how to honor your instinct while also untangling the reflex to be agreeable.

Today, I hope I would respond differently. Something as simple and honest as:
“I’m here to hike with my son, and I’m not interested in having this kind of conversation.”

Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just clarity.

Because instinct isn’t rude and honoring your own boundaries isn’t unkind.

It’s something I’m still learning. To trust that voice when it speaks. To honor it without apology. And to know that clarity, even when uncomfortable, is sometimes the most respectful thing we can offer to ourselves and to others.

While we can’t control every situation, there are ways we can better prepare ourselves. Here are a few tips:

1. Get trained in self-defense. Not because you expect something to happen, but because confidence and preparedness shift how you carry yourself in the world.

2. Download the NomadHer: Solo Female Travel App to connect with other female travelers around the world and find safety in community.

3. And perhaps most importantly, educate our sons on such matters—so awareness, respect, and empathy become part of who they are from the beginning.

All subscribers receive new posts in their inbox about once a week, including Monthly Adventure Challenges, episodes of the Adventuresome Conversations podcast, and TAL Self-Care Series tips, trainings, and tools.

Paid subscribers help support this work and allow me to continue sharing stories and resources, while exploring what it means to live boldly, honestly, and awake to our own lives.

Valentine’s Day is traditionally a day when we celebrate love for others. We reach outward. We offer affection, appreciation, and attention.

But today, I want to invite you somewhere else.

Inward.

Toward your own heart.

This video marks the beginning of The Adventuresome Life Self-Care Series, where I’ll share simple, accessible practices to help you reconnect with yourself through breathwork, meditation, movement, and mindful awareness.

Not as something to add to your already full life, but as something to support you within it.

Because self-care, at its core, is simply the act of returning to yourself.

And breath is one of the most direct pathways back.

Having lived with asthma much of my life, breath was never something I took for granted. It was something I had to learn to work with consciously. Over time, I have come to understand that breath is not just something that keeps us alive—it regulates us, steadies us, and connects us to ourselves and others.

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Your Breath and Your Heart Are Always in Relationship

Every time you inhale, your heart rate naturally speeds up slightly. Every time you exhale, it slows down.

This relationship between breath and heart is measurable; it’s known as heart rate variability, simply defined as the variation in time between individual heartbeats. Higher heart rate variability is associated with improved cardiovascular health, greater emotional resilience, better stress regulation, and an increased ability to recover from both physical and emotional challenges.

In simple terms, a responsive, adaptable heart is a resilient heart.

And one of the simplest ways to support heart rate variability is through intentional breathing.

Practices like Heart Resonance Breathing help harmonize our breath with the heart’s natural rhythm, supporting the nervous system and allowing the body to shift out of stress and into a state of greater calm and balance.

This is not just emotional. It is physiological.

The Ventral Vagal Complex: Our Nervous System’s Pathway to Connection

There is another remarkable aspect to this practice, rooted in the nervous system.

Part of our autonomic nervous system, the ventral vagal complex, plays a key role in helping mammals form bonds, feel safe, and connect with others. It regulates states of calm, openness, and social engagement.

When we are stressed or overwhelmed, this system becomes less active. We may feel guarded, anxious, reactive, or disconnected.

But slow, steady breathing, like the practice you’ll experience in the video, helps activate this system. It sends signals of safety throughout the body. It allows the nervous system to shift from protection mode to connection mode.

It reminds your body that it is safe to soften.

And when that happens, connection becomes possible again.

Connection with others.
And connection with yourself.

It feels especially meaningful to practice this on Valentine’s Day—a day centered around the heart and our capacity to love. Because before we can fully extend love outward, we must also create space for it inward.

February’s Adventure Challenge: Extending Love Toward Yourself

This month, as part of The Adventuresome Life’s February Adventure Challenge, the invitation is to extend love, care, and acceptance toward yourself each day.

Not through grand gestures, but through small, steady moments of awareness.

Breathing intentionally is one of the simplest and most powerful ways to do this.

When you slow your breath, you slow your internal world. You create space between stimulus and response. You allow your body to shift out of stress and into a state of regulation and presence.

It is a quiet but profound act of self-care.

The Practice: Harmonizing Breath and Heart

The Heart Resonance Breathing practice in the video uses a simple rhythm known as a 5-0-5-0 breath:

• Inhale gently through the nose for 5 seconds

• No hold at the top

• Exhale gently through the nose for 5 seconds

• No hold at the bottom

This creates a smooth, continuous breathing pattern. Five seconds in, five seconds out.

This slower pace allows the breath and heart to synchronize, helping regulate the nervous system and support improved heart rate variability over time.

Even five minutes can create a noticeable shift.

With consistent practice, 10 to 20 minutes per day over several weeks, this technique can help strengthen nervous system balance, emotional regulation, and overall resilience.

But you don’t need to think about long-term outcomes right now.

Just begin with one breath.

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An Invitation

Today, on Valentine’s Day, I invite you to offer yourself this moment.

To place a hand on your heart.
To slow down.
To listen.

Not because anything is broken.
But because your nervous system, your heart, and your breath are always ready to support you.

In the video above, you’ll find the guided Heart Resonance Breathing practice. Follow along, and notice what shifts.

And perhaps, as you move through the rest of this month, you’ll return to this practice again—not as an obligation, but as an offering.

A small, steady way of harmonizing your breath with your heart and coming home to yourself.

With love,

I would like to give a shout out and expression of gratitude to Jesse Coomer, who was my breathwork teacher, and offers incredible breathwork education, training, and coaching through his books, classes, retreats, and many generous offerings. Find out more about Jesse Coomer and The Language of Breath here.

February tends to come with a lot of love messaging.

Hearts. Roses. Chocolates. Romantic expectations.
And sometimes… a reminder of all the ways we think we’re falling short.

So this month, I want to suggest a different kind of love offering.

Not the kind that requires another person.
Not the kind that asks you to become “better” first.
Not the kind that waits until you finally get it all together.

This one begins with you, exactly as you are in this moment.

Love as an active, conscious, and liberating form of acceptance.

With all of your perceived flaws, shortcomings, bobbles, and bad habits.

Let go of any rigid expectations of who you think you’re supposed to be. Wrap yourself in radical self-acceptance.

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We Have It Backwards

Most of us were taught this equation:

If I’m thin enough.
Young enough.
Smart enough.
Nice enough.
Accommodating enough.
Disciplined enough.
Successful enough.
Talented enough.

Then, and only then, will I be enough.

But what if it was never meant to work that way? What if we were meant to begin with our enoughness and let everything else build from that place?

So much would fall away—the need to prove ourselves, shrink ourselves, or cling to being right, while making someone else wrong.

When we forget our own natural worth, we look outside ourselves to find it—for someone to complete us or to affirm us so we feel accepted. We’ll even find reasons not to accept others, so we feel more acceptable by default.

We judge.
We focus on what we believe others need to fix.
We do this, often without realizing it, in an attempt to avoid where we ourselves feel lacking.

It’s exhausting.
And it’s a never-ending loop we often participate in unconsciously.

“X” Marks the Spot

This month, we’re focusing on the one place where you can make the most immediate impact.

Not out there.
Not in fixing others.
Not in winning arguments or controlling what other people see.

Right here. With yourself.

When you stop judging yourself so harshly, it becomes easier to loosen your grip on judging others.

When you learn to see beauty in yourself—not perfection, but beauty—your eyes begin to notice it everywhere.

Loving yourself is your jumping-off point.

This Is Not About Ego

Self-love isn’t arrogance.

It’s not a comparison.
It’s not pretending you’re better than anyone else.
It’s not spiritual bypassing.

It’s about noticing the ego-mind that often runs the show—the part fueled by fear, scarcity, entitlement, and shame. Then gently choosing not to let it drive every decision.

It’s choosing awareness instead of autopilot.

When You’re Struggling, Try This

There will be moments when self-love feels hardest—when you’re tired, discouraged, or caught up in some version of the way things “should” be.

When that happens, this isn’t the moment for discipline. It’s the moment for love.

Pause. Take a breath. And try giving yourself an alternative.

When you beat yourself up, offer this thought:
I’m allowed to make mistakes without punishing myself. I’m open to what this can teach me.

When you’re feeling ashamed or depleted, try this:
This feeling needs rest and compassion—not judgment.

When you notice yourself seeking approval, pause and remind yourself:
I don’t need permission to trust myself. My inner knowing matters.

When you find yourself over-explaining your choices, try saying:
I’m allowed to choose what’s right for me without defending it.

When you feel guilty for taking care of yourself, remember:
Taking care of myself isn’t selfish—it’s responsible.

And when you’re wondering why you can’t just “do better already,” introduce:
I’m allowed to meet myself with kindness and accept myself exactly where I am.

You don’t have to believe these words fully yet.

Just practice saying them.

That’s enough to create a shift.

A Gentle Truth

Everything you think about yourself has been shaped by standards that were handed to you:

Ideas of beauty.
Roles you were expected to play.
Definitions of success.
Cultural norms you didn’t choose.

And as long as those external rules remain your guidance system, self-love will always feel just out of reach.

This month isn’t about fixing yourself. It’s about loosening your grip on the need for external affirmation—letting go of the rules you inherited and have been carrying ever since.

An Adventuresome Intention

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of living at war with myself.

Tired of constant self-correction.
Tired of questioning my worth.
Tired of justifying my hopes and dreams—or silencing them because I think, Who am I to want this?

So for February, I’m choosing a loving rebellion.

Less self-attack.
More self-trust.

Not perfection—just presence. Not transformation—just tenderness.

This Month’s Adventure Challenge PDF

The attached PDF is not intended to be a performance tracker. It’s not something to complete, measure, or get “right.” It’s simply a reminder of your intention this month—to meet yourself with kindness instead of criticism.

You can use it to notice the familiar habits of self-talk that quietly cloud your access to your most loving, alive self.

For example, today I noticed the thought: I’m a failure for publishing this challenge on February 2nd, rather than my intended February 1st.

Instead of piling on, I practiced an alternative: I created this from a place of creativity, care, and presence. That’s what matters.

That’s the simple practice.

Grace.
Compassion.
Acceptance.
And yes—even delight.

And here’s the thing:

The more you notice, the more choices you have.
The more choices you have, the more freedom you feel.

And the more kindness you build within yourself,
the more naturally it flows outward.

Not because you earned it. But because it’s who you are.

TAL February Challenge

42.7KB ∙ PDF file

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Start where you can make the biggest impact. A daily exercise in self-love.

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Sharing this conversation doesn’t mean ignoring that reality. In many ways, it’s the reason I’m sharing it.

When the world feels heavy, we still need places to return to ourselves—to clear our minds, steady our nervous systems, and remember the values we want to live from. Not as an escape, but as preparation for being fully present in our lives.

This conversation isn’t about bypassing what’s happening. It’s about finding a way to meet it with clarity, compassion, and a little more inner ground beneath our feet.

If you need a moment of breathing room, I hope this month’s Adventuresome Conversation helps to provide it.

Back to the interview:

What if the greatest adventure isn’t the one that takes you somewhere new, but is actually the one that brings you back to yourself?

Welcome to the very first Adventuresome Conversation, a podcast exploring what it means to live boldly, follow your inner compass, and say yes to the life that’s uniquely yours.

For this inaugural episode, I couldn’t imagine a better first guest than . She’s a bestselling author, writing mentor, spiritual teacher, and Executive Director of Story Summit Writers School. I’ve known Deb for more than 20 years. She’s had a profound effect on my life, and I’ve had the privilege of witnessing firsthand how she lives what she teaches.

In this conversation, we talk about Deb’s upcoming book, The Writer’s Miracle Method: A Practical and Spiritual Guide to Writing with Freedom and Joy, and the ideas that inspired it, including:

• why a “miracle” isn’t something mystical, but a simple shift in perception

• how fear quietly shapes our creativity (and our lives)

• what it means to create—and live—from peace instead of pressure

• how listening to your inner guidance can open doors you didn’t even know were there

Though the book is written for writers, you’ll quickly discover that these ideas reach far beyond the page. This is a conversation about courage, trust, and remembering who you were before self-doubt entered the picture.

Think of this episode as an inner expedition—one that doesn’t require hiking boots, just a willingness to look at your life and mind a little differently.

To learn more about Deb, her books, and her coaching, visit:

debraengle.com or her Substack column

To learn more about Story Summit Writers School, visit:

storysummit.us or check them out on Substack

Please share any shifts in perception you may have experienced while listening to this conversation.

Leave a comment

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The excitement of starting something new has worn off. You may find yourself wondering if you’re doing the challenge “right.” Maybe you’ve already given up because it feels like you failed before you really got going.

I’ve noticed this pattern in myself over the years, not just with challenges, but with almost anything I commit to.

The beginning carries energy.
The middle often starts to falter.

This month, I’ve been paying closer attention to what happens when that middle moment arrives.

There’s often a temptation to push. To try harder. To tighten the rules. To tell ourselves we need more discipline or motivation. Or to give up altogether because we didn’t do it perfectly.

But there’s another option.

Instead of buying into the familiar voice of self-criticism, we can slow down enough to notice what’s actually happening. What we are resisting. What we’re drawn toward. What feels nourishing. What feels heavy.

Midway through anything is usually when doubt shows up. You start wondering if what you committed to still makes sense. If you’re behind. If you should be doing more.

This is often where old habits sneak back in. The voice of excuses gets louder. And for many people, this is where things quietly fall apart.

I didn’t create the January Adventure Challenge to check boxes or prove consistency. I created it to prioritize spending time outside every day—something I know supports me physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Some days it feels grounding.
Some days it feels inconvenient.
Some days it feels like exactly what I needed.

Some days I notice something I never noticed before, whether that’s out in nature or inside myself.

All of it matters.

Mid-month isn’t about recommitting harder.
It’s about adjusting how we pay attention.

This is your moment to check in more honestly.

To notice what’s working.
To notice what isn’t.
To notice what this challenge is actually showing you, not what you hoped it would prove.

For me, the purpose of this month isn’t perfection or streaks.

It’s daily contact with life as it is right now.

That may include simple movement or vigorous outdoor exercise.
Time for quiet reflection or space for fresh air.
Sometimes it’s about noticing I’m carrying more than I thought. This simple awareness provides me the option to let it all go before returning to my daily tasks and to-dos.

Every moment spent outside, regardless of weather or temperature, has offered me something important. Awareness. Breath. Health. Perspective. Connection. A reminder that feeling alive doesn’t have to involve drama or deadlines. Life can be simple and steady.

If you’re feeling resistance, doubt, or fatigue halfway through the month, you’re not alone. The middle is often where any commitment truly begins.

Not by doing more, but by noticing more.

Don’t give up on yourself.

Keep going, even if the first part of this month didn’t look the way you imagined it would. Recommit to where you are now, not to an ideal version of how you thought this month was supposed to unfold.

And if you’re just seeing this and haven’t started yet, it’s not too late to join the January “Get Outside” Challenge.

Here’s the original January Adventure Challenge post if you want to jump in or revisit it.

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Have you ever noticed the internal—yet not so quiet—negotiations you enter into with your own mind?

I’ve become acutely aware of mine during the first few days of my January Adventure Challenge. I committed to spending time outside every day this month, no matter the temperature or elements. And before I even step out the door, the chatter begins.

Is it too cold?
Am I tired?
Should I be doing something else first?
Should I go now or later?
Should I walk, bike, or do something else?
Which coat? Which hat? Which gloves?
Should I bring the dogs, call a friend, or go alone?
My knee hurts. My lungs aren’t at full capacity. I’m hungry.

All of these questions and debates feel important in the moment. Urgent, even.

And yet, they’re all just distractions from my original intention: to simply go outside. To fuel myself with a bit of nature.

When I go. How I go. What I wear. Who comes with me. None of it truly matters. What matters is the lens I’m looking through in that moment. And that lens—my perspective—is constantly changing.

Same Time. Same Place. Different Worlds.

The first day of the challenge delivered freezing temperatures. Low 20s. I’m still recovering from a respiratory virus I picked up in December, so I bundled myself in layers, covered my nose and mouth to protect my fragile lungs, and headed out for a short walk.

That’s when I saw them.

Four teenage boys riding their bikes down the street. No hats. No mittens. No coats. Sweatshirts at most. They were hooting and hollering, wind in their hair, entirely unconcerned with the temperature I’d been mentally preparing myself to endure.

A few minutes later, I saw them again down by the creek, goofing off like it was a mild spring afternoon.

Perspective.

Here I was—layered, cautious, braced—while they were simply in it. Same weather. Completely different experience.

Something opened in me. Memories flooded back. Building snow igloos for hours in my front yard as a kid. Jumping up and down at the start line in a tank top and shorts, trying to get warm before a cross-country race in high school. Not so long ago, diving into a northern Iowa lake in early May for the swim leg of a triathlon. The sting of icy water created the sensation of needles piercing my skin.

It reminded me that my current perspective wasn’t the only one available to me. My relationship with cold—and discomfort—has looked very different at various times in my life. And another perspective was available to me in that very moment. One more like those boisterous boys I witnessed, having a blast.

Unexpected Reunion

The next day, a couple of degrees warmer but still below freezing, I planned to take my mountain bike out while the trails were frozen solid—ideal conditions. Instead of heading out as soon as the morning light was right to illuminate the path, I let the questions take over.

Could my lungs handle the cardio?
Should I wait for warmer temperatures?
Should I get a few things done first and go later?

My learned default setting leaned toward fear and external expectations—toward what I should be doing instead.

By the time I looked up from my screen, the day had passed. I’d lost the window. Not enough daylight left. The ride wasn’t going to happen today.

I could have framed that as failure and decided not to go out at all.

Instead, as daylight turned to dusk, I bundled up once again and headed out for a short walk.

I passed a mountain biker loading up his fat bike. In an attempt to live vicariously through him, I stopped to ask how the trails were—and discovered he was the son of a dear friend I hadn’t seen in years. We hugged. We caught up. We lingered.

So instead of a long ride or walk, I had a long conversation. Outdoors. An unexpected, welcome reunion.

Holding the Leash

The next day offered a different scene—but a similar lesson about perspective.

My son came into town for a visit, bringing his dog Layla—a calm, steady, unbothered 60-pound golden retriever. For my time outdoors this day, I walked her alongside Rosie, my eight-pound, hyper-vigilant shadow.

Almost immediately, I realized I wasn’t just walking two dogs. I was managing two entirely different experiences of the exact moment—along with my own.

Layla moved out front with ease, confidently sniffing her way through the trail. Rosie needed to be as close as possible, either being carried or constantly looking up at me from the ground, seeking the security of my proximity.

And there I was—adjusting my pace, my attention, and my energy to accommodate both.

It struck me that this is what we often do in our own lives: navigate multiple perspectives at once. Our present self and our past experiences. Our desire for ease and our instinct for protection. Our longing to relax and our habit of bracing. And we’re rarely doing it alone. We’re carrying our own experience while moving in constant relationship with the perspectives of the people (and dogs) around us.

Perspective is something we’re constantly navigating. The question is whether we live in response to whatever shows up—or whether we choose our orientation in the present moment.

Why This Matters

This is the quiet work of living an adventuresome life.

Not chasing something new for the sake of novelty—but learning to notice, to question the frame we’re using, and to experiment with another way of seeing.

Sometimes that means stepping into someone else’s perspective.
Sometimes it means revisiting our own—with a little more compassion.
Sometimes it means asking, What happens if I don’t default to my first instinct or interpretation?

Perspective isn’t fixed.
It’s something we can explore.
And like anything worth exploring, it changes us as we go.

That, to me, is the adventure.

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Weekly Adventuresome Challenge: A Practice in Perspective

This week, choose one moment each day to pause and ask yourself:
What perspective am I bringing to this?

Without trying to fix or change anything, simply notice:

• What assumptions you’re making

• What you’re bracing for

• What story you’re telling yourself

Then gently ask:
Is there another way to see this?

That’s it. No action required. Just noticing.

Have a great week!

It’s the first day of the month.
The first day of a new calendar year.
And the first Adventuresome Life Challenge of 2026.

Here’s the challenge:

Spend time outside—in nature—every single day this month.

Not as a task to complete.
Not to optimize or improve.
But as a way of staying in relationship with the world around you.

Some days you’ll move your body.
Some days you’ll sit still.
Some days you’ll step outside only long enough to remember what cold air feels like in your lungs, or what winter light looks like in your particular city, town, or neighborhood.

The framework is simple:

• Every day

• Rain, snow, or shine

• Day or night

• In sickness or in health

• Cold, wind, ice all count

• 15 minutes minimum

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January meets many of us in winter. And winter has a way of shrinking our lives if we let it. It’s colder. Darker. Harsher. And as the years pass, it can feel easier to stay inside, to wait it out, to escape it by going somewhere warmer, to disconnect without noticing we’ve done so.

That’s often how it feels here in the Midwest, where I live. But wherever you are, seasons still shape how we move, how we gather, and how much of the world we allow in.

If you’re reading this from the Northern Hemisphere, this challenge may ask you to meet cold, snow, wind, and darkness more directly.

If you’re reading from the Southern Hemisphere, and you’re in summer right now. The spirit of the challenge still applies: go outside every day. Meet the season you’re in. Let the environment—heat, light, storms, long days—shape how you show up.

Different seasons. Same invitation.

This month, I’m inviting you to resist retreat.

When we were kids, winter didn’t stop us.
We didn’t hesitate. We didn’t weigh comfort against effort. We layered up and went anyway.

Snowmen were built. Hills were sledded. Cold hands were ignored until they absolutely couldn’t be.

Winter wasn’t a reason to stay inside.
It was an invitation.
And we answered it without question.

Meet winter as she is.

Dress for it. Prepare for it. Step into the season instead of avoiding it. Let your body remember what it feels like to be outside—even when it’s uncomfortable.

One of the gifts of living in the Midwest is experiencing all four seasons—sometimes gently, sometimes in full force, sometimes only partially. This year, the snow disappeared just before Christmas, taking with it the Midwestern ideal of a white holiday.

A few years ago, I noticed I had stopped enjoying winter altogether. The cold settled deeper into my bones. I stayed indoors more. I moved less. I saw fewer people. Without fully realizing it, I felt disconnected—from my body, from the earth, from something essential.

I knew I was missing out.

So I made a deliberate choice to engage winter differently.

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Living far from mountains but close to a strong trail system, I took up cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. There’s nothing like heading out just after a snowfall, especially when it’s soft and powdery, before the trails are plowed.

I love creating the first tracks in the snow, or following the faint line of someone else who came before me, venturing out to take in winter’s majesty.

The clean sheet of sparkling snow.
The deafening quiet of a still and sleeping world. The sensation of cold air biting at any exposed skin.
Nothing but the sound of skis gliding over fresh snow.
My breath working to match the cadence of my movement.

I feel so alive.

Not because I’m skiing.
But because I’m outside. Showing up. Present with and connected to the elements.

And that’s what this challenge is about.

Maybe this is the month you:

• Experiment with a winter activity you’ve never tried

• Travel to a place that offers winter adventures

• Help a neighbor shovel, salt walkways, or tend to outdoor upkeep

• Train for a spring race in winter conditions

• Keep walking outside—but take new routes

• Add traction, poles, or snowshoes when needed

• Let winter shape how you move, not whether you move

Time spent outside—with the elements—steadies my nervous system and clears my head. It asks me to feel more, not less. To stay awake to the season I’m actually in—an analogy not just for weather, but for life itself.

So this January:

Spend time outside. Every single day.

Let it be imperfect. Miss a day and begin again. This is a practice, not a performance.

I’ve attached a printable PDF below that you can use to track your days outside if that’s helpful. Use it lightly. Let it serve you, not the other way around.

January isn’t about reinvention.
It’s about meeting life as it is—and choosing to step into it anyway.

Let’s brave the elements together.
Go anyway.

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Tal January Challenge

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Your "Go Anyway" tracker for getting outside this winter.

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None of it is dramatic, but it is uncomfortable. It means missing celebrations and gatherings with friends and family. It means I am not operating at full capacity to meet end-of-year deadlines. This is my personal brand of practice for today. I can notice what is here, go inside, and set down my resistance. The physical sensations remain, but what I’m about to share keeps my thoughts about it from consuming me.

My cold is just one example of how this season can carry more than we expect.

Not just expectations of celebration and giving. It can also include reminders of loss or grief, and everything in between. Relief and exhaustion. Gratitude alongside resentment. Joy threaded with pressure. Hope mixed with uncertainty. Sometimes there is even a strange numbness when you think you should feel something, and don’t.

For some, this time of year brings connection, beauty, and meaning. For others, it brings stress, memories, comparison, loneliness, or the weight of unfinished things. For most, it’s not one thing at all, but a constantly shifting mix that changes day by day, conversation by conversation.

Across cultures and traditions, this season points toward light, renewal, community, and hope. Still, not everyone experiences it as easy or joyful. For many, expectations rise, emotions surface, and the nervous system stays on high alert, sometimes without a clear reason why.

I consciously make an effort to reflect on gratitude this time of year, an essential tool in my life tool kit. But if I’m being honest, gratitude can sometimes feel like a forced effort to acknowledge only what feels good.

When in reality, love and loss, and everything that lives between them, tend to travel together.

Even when life feels good, even when we are lucky in many ways, there are moments when what we are carrying feels like too much. This is not a failure of mindset. It’s an inevitable part of being human.

But there are ways to relate to what we are feeling differently.

Below is a simple, three-step practice I return to again and again. It is not about fixing emotions or forcing positivity. It is about converting intensity into steadiness.

You can use this anytime. During the holidays. In the middle of a complicated conversation. Or on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The Three-Step Practice

1. Sit.

Pause where you are.

You do not need silence. You do not need the “right” environment.
Just stop adding momentum.

Take a deep breath. Maybe a few.

Let your body settle enough to notice what is present.

Ask yourself:
What am I actually feeling right now?
Where do I feel it in my body?

Name it. Tightness. Heaviness. Heat. Resistance. Sadness. Frustration. Fear.

No story yet. No analysis.

Just acknowledge what you feel.

2. Go Inside.

Turn your attention inward rather than outward.

Instead of trying to change the situation, fix someone else, or defend yourself, stay with your internal experience.

Notice where you are gripping.
Notice where you are bracing.
Notice where you are telling yourself it should not be this way.

Let thoughts come and go without chasing or justifying them.

You are not trying to get rid of the feeling.
You are letting it be fully felt, without escalation.

3. Set It Down.

This is where conversion happens.

Once you have felt it and named it, see if you can loosen your grip on it.

You might imagine placing the feeling on the ground beside you.
You might visualize space opening around it.
You might soften your shoulders, jaw, or breath.
You might surround the situation with gentleness.
You might offer yourself understanding instead of judgment.

You are not dismissing what has happened.
You are releasing the extra suffering that comes from gripping it too tightly.

Pain may still exist. But it’s no longer running the show.

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What This Practice Converts

This process does not erase pain and discomfort. It transforms your relationship to it.

Pain becomes presence.
Overwhelm becomes steadiness.
Defensiveness becomes openness.
Heartache becomes tenderness.
Disappointment becomes clarity.

You reclaim agency, not by force, but by attention.

If this season feels joyful, may this deepen it.
If it feels heavy, may this steady you.
If you are somewhere in between, may you navigate it with care and confidence.

Remember:

1. Sit.

2. Go inside.

3. Set it down.

Whatever you can do today, it’s enough.
You’re not doing this alone. Others are sitting and setting things down, too.
Come back whenever you need.

A Note Before You Go

If this kind of reflection resonates with you, I would love for you to subscribe to The Adventuresome Life so you do not miss what is coming next.

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Next week’s column will be a special one. I will be sharing a first look at what is unfolding in 2026 for The Adventuresome Life, including:

Monthly Adventure Series
Each month, we will explore a single theme, something to live with, reflect on, and practice in real time. These series are designed to bring depth, continuity, and meaning to everyday life, one month at a time.

Weekly Adventuresome Practices
Simple, grounded practices you can return to throughout the week. They are not about fixing yourself or doing more. They are about noticing, softening, and choosing how you show up in your life.

Live AMA Opportunities
Live gatherings where we explore real questions and real life together. What is working? What is not? How to keep moving forward with clarity, courage, and support.

Adventuresome Conversations
Thoughtful interviews with people who are living an adventuresome life in their own way. Through creativity, resilience, curiosity, and presence. Less about achievement. More about how people actually live.

Together, these offerings are meant to support a life that feels more awake, more honest, and more intentionally lived. Not about becoming someone new, but about learning how to live the life you already have with more presence and courage.

Everything begins rolling out in the new year, and I could not be more excited to share it with you.

Until then, wishing you comfort, joy, and peace.

This week, I had three different conversations with three different people—three entirely different life circumstances.
The content of those conversations included spouses. Children. Parents. Addiction. Old wounds. Cycles repeating themselves for decades. Across generations.
Ages ranging from 25 to 75, all still wrestling with the same types of longing:

“If they would just apologize…”
“If they would just try harder…”
“If this hadn’t happened…”
“If only things looked different from what they do.”

Different stories. Same ache.

And every single one of them echoed something I’ve had to learn in my own life:

As long as your peace depends on someone else changing, apologizing, waking up, making amends, or doing the “right” thing—you will be a prisoner in your own life.

We don’t like hearing that. I definitely didn’t. My inner Aries (head-butting ram) and Enneagram 8 (The Challenger) want justice, understanding, resolution, and certainty. I used to think, “If I just explain it well enough, they’ll understand, and do what needs to be done.”
(Spoiler: they rarely do. And even if they do, it doesn’t fix the part of you that’s hurting.)

But here’s the truth I keep circling back to:

Love. Validation. Permission. Safety. Peace.
You already have access to every single one of these things.

The Inheritance We Never Asked For

The families we are born into are our first and greatest teachers on this earth—good or bad; sometimes intentionally, usually unintentionally—even through absence or neglect.
We inherit eye color, bra size, and male-pattern baldness, but we also inherit fears, coping strategies, avoidance patterns, and the belief that someone else holds the power to make our lives “okay.”

We repeat dynamics we swore we’d never repeat.
We despise characteristics in others that we shamefully attempt to hide in ourselves.
We wait around for apologies, recognition, or closure that never arrive.

And in that waiting, we hand over the key to our own happiness.

The Dangerous Myth of “If Only…”

Every version of it is the same prison:

If only he’d apologize.
If only she’d try.
If only they’d get sober.
If only I had more money.
If only it would stop snowing.
If only that thing that happened… hadn’t happened.

But it did happen. Or it didn’t.
They may never say the words you want to hear.
And your life is happening right now, not in some hypothetical future where everyone finally cooperates with your script.

Your joy will always be hostage to whatever conditions you place on it.

That’s the trap.

Spiritual Adulthood

Spiritual adulthood isn’t about religion or rituals. It’s about responsibility.
It’s the moment you stop waiting for someone else to fix what only you can heal.
It’s when you stop outsourcing your peace.
It’s choosing agency over blame, presence over expectation, and growth over the same damn patterns.

In other words, spiritual adulthood is simply the maturity of the inner self. The part of you that knows you are no longer a child waiting for someone else to make it right.

It means finally growing the fuck up and taking ownership of your life experience.

Not by denying the harm done to you.
Not by pretending everything is “fine.”
But by refusing to let the past keep derailing the present.

Most of us never learned how to regulate our emotions.
We walk around with nervous systems wired by our childhood experiences and call it “reality.”

So when someone says something we don’t like…
When life doesn’t unfold the way we planned…
When the old wound gets bumped…

We react like toddlers throwing a temper tantrum or hiding under the covers.
(Tough truth, I know. I’ve seen myself do it.)

But adulthood gives us a choice:
Do I want to be right, or do I want to be free?

Why Confrontation Rarely Works

I used to believe confrontation created understanding.
I imagined my ram-horned Aries self saying, “How dare you hurt me?”
and the other person saying, “You’re absolutely right. I’ll change immediately.”

It never worked that way.
Why?

Because humans defend themselves when confronted.
We’re built that way.
Most people don’t want to know they’ve caused harm.
And the ones who truly intended to cause harm?
They’re not currently in a position to give a damn.

So every battle left me exhausted, righteous, and no closer to peace.

The Mirror Moment

If you want your life to look and feel different—
if you want joy, spaciousness, alignment, ease—
there is only one place to look:

The mirror.

You are the conductor of your life.
You choose how to interpret things.
You choose your boundaries.
You choose whether to stay, leave, speak, or forgive.
You choose whether today is wasted waiting for someone else to behave differently.

And yes—this is wildly uncomfortable.
Because you can’t blame anyone else for your lack of peace anymore.
But the discomfort is the doorway to a new reality.

What We All Want

Under everything—beneath the addictions, the wounds, the cycles, the silence, the waiting, the hurt feelings—we want something achingly simple:

To know we are enough.
To feel worthy.

You were born enough.
Before your family dynamics.
Before your heartbreaks.
Before any mistake you’ve ever made.
Before you learned to feel unworthy or unsafe.

None of the circumstances of your life make you less deserving of joy, contribution, or belonging.
Not your income.
Not your family story.
Not your trauma.
Not your addictions.
Not your fears.
Not your age.
Not your past.

Your worth is your birthright.

The only question left is:

Do you want to live your life, or wait for permission to live it?

Waiting keeps you trapped.
Choosing sets you free.

And remember, not choosing is a choice. And keeps the portal open for other people to decide your circumstances.

You can’t avoid suffering—no human does.
But even inside suffering, you still have agency.
You still have power.
You still have the ability to choose peace over punishment, presence over resentment, and freedom over the familiar prison of “if only.”

You hold the key.
You always have.
It’s yours for the taking.

Thanks for reading The Adventuresome Life! Subscribe to receive my weekly column and to explore your own unique journey further. There’s so much more to come!

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This Week’s TAL Challenge: One Act of Freedom

Choose one place in your life where you’ve been waiting for someone or something else to change before you can feel okay or move forward.

Then ask yourself:

“What is one action I can take that does not depend on anyone else’s behavior, approval, or participation?”

Pick something small, doable, and fully within your control:

• Creating a boundary

• Taking space from a draining dynamic

• Stopping the emotional labor you’ve been carrying

• Moving ahead on something you’ve been delaying

• Speaking your truth without expecting a particular response

• Choosing a new perspective that frees you from being trapped by conditions

Then — take that one act of freedom.

Just one.

Not the whole mountain.
Not the entire pattern.
Just the smallest step that reminds you:

You are not waiting around for someone to save you.
You are choosing.
And choosing is freedom.

I always love to hear from fellow adventuresome spirits: People fully participating in their own lives. Willing to take accountability. Exploring their dreams. Pursuing their passions. Facing their fears. Exploring new possibilities. Please share what this column brought up for you, or how you’re using the challenge in your own life.

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A week ago, my son’s name was called to step forward and receive his firefighter pin. The whole room seemed to narrow until it was just him and me.

His uniform.
His posture.
The steadiness in his face.

It all caught me off guard.

Because in that split second, I saw two versions of him at once:
The boy who once reached for my hand
and the man now trained to reach for others in their darkest moments.

And for a few beats, my heart couldn’t decide whether to swell or ache.

There he was—my 22-year-old son, uniform pressed, shoes shined, shoulders broad.

The same kid who told me at two years old that I needed to “exercise my patience”—and he wasn’t wrong.

The same little boy who broke his arm and, waking from surgery, asked if the Pikachus he saw dancing on the surgeon’s head were real.

The same child who took off walking at 10 months, yet wanted nothing to do with riding a bike until he was eight.

The child whose fears I steadied and whose endless questions I answered—even when I wasn’t sure of the answers myself.

And then it hit me, clear and undeniable: The child I always vowed to protect has become the man who will protect and save so many others.

The Quiet Courage of a Single Mother

From the moment he was born, my life became about nurturing him, raising him, protecting him.

Raising him for most of his life as a single mom required a kind of courage no one is trained for.
The courage to make ends meet.
The courage to hope I would be enough.
The courage to try to play the role of both mother and father.
The courage to parent intentionally so he wouldn’t become one more statistic about boys raised by single mothers.
The courage to set firm boundaries without pushing him away.
The courage to love him fiercely without losing myself.

I didn’t always get it right.
But I kept putting one foot in front of the other.
And he watched me.
He learned from me.
He inherited more than my lessons—he inherited my determination and grit. And the understanding that sometimes you just have to figure things out.

The Handoff

Motherhood rewires us to protect our young.
Adulthood rewires our children to stand on their own.

And somewhere in the middle—somewhere in that invisible handoff—we become witnesses to our own work.

I spent years teaching him to look both ways, to speak up, to be kind, to be strong.
Though let’s be honest… the “pick up after yourself” part didn’t really stick. A perfect example of him learning to do as I do—or didn’t do in this case—rather than to do as I say.

Now this sweet, funny, empathetic, stubborn, thoughtful, loyal, kid—now a man— has chosen a path that requires a level of courage that most people will never have to access:

A path where he runs toward fire.
Toward danger.
Toward the very things I spent his childhood trying to shield him from.

The Adventure of Parenthood

If adventure is about confronting the unknown, then parenting is one of the greatest adventures we’ll ever undertake.

We think the adventure is in the raising—
the late nights, the balancing acts, the choices we agonize over,
the hopes whispered into pillows,
the fears we hide behind calm—and not-so-calm—voices.

But no one warns you about the next chapter:

The adventure of letting them go.

Letting them walk into their calling.
Letting them grow spine, spirit, and strength.
Letting them choose a life where danger isn’t hypothetical—it’s in the job description.

And the wildest part?

Your heart expands to hold it all:
the pride and the fear,
the letting go and the holding close,
the mother you were
and the woman you’re becoming.

Sometimes the most adventuresome act isn’t the climb or the leap.
It’s the quiet, brave stillness
of watching your child rise into themselves.

What I Didn’t Expect

After the ceremony, he hugged me the way grown men hug—tight, confident, sure.

Not the blonde-haired little boy who once wrapped himself around my leg,
but a man who now towers above me, looks me in the eye, and carries his own well-earned steadiness.

And in that embrace, something wordless passed between us:

Gratitude.
Pride.
A mutual knowing that we had crossed a threshold.

He may never fully understand what it meant for me to be there in Alabama that day. To watch him step forward and receive his pin, and take his oath.

But I do.

It was the moment his courage surpassed mine.
The moment my adventuresome life shifted
from raising him
to truly witnessing him.

If you’re in a season of becoming—or a season of releasing—remember this:

Adventure doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it stands quietly beside you.
Sometimes it wears a uniform.
Sometimes it looks like your child stepping into a life you once hoped would be safe, and now simply pray will be meaningful, fulfilling, and uniquely his own.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do
is let the world see the human you helped shape
and trust that the courage you poured into them
will carry them farther than you ever dreamed.

Because courage doesn’t end with us.
It continues through our children—in their choices, in their calling, and sometimes in a uniform, standing at attention.

And at the same time, courage circles back to us —
inviting us to rise bravely into this new season of our own becoming.

If you’re navigating courage, change, or a new chapter—subscribe and share with others. You’ll be in good company. We’re celebrating our Adventuresome Lives one brave step at a time.

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Happy Thanksgiving! I hope your day is filled with delicious, nourishing food, your favorite people, patience and forgiveness as needed, and one tiny adventure that reminds you you’re fully alive.

Thank you for being one of the first 25 subscribers to The Adventuresome Life—or one of the 510 curious souls who’ve stopped by to read so far. You’re helping shape this brand-new space.

This column is part of my own adventuresome journey. What does your version look like? Whether it’s clear or still forming, we get to explore it together.

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If you’re new here, welcome. Subscribe to join the fun—there’s so much more ahead.

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I didn’t go kayaking yesterday because it was convenient.
I went because something in me tugged—hard—and said, “Go now.”

And honestly? I listened because I was tired of listening to everything else.

Deadlines. Notifications. Emails. The endless to-dos that stack up around the edges of your life until you can’t even hear yourself think.

But then Mother Nature handed me a 72-degree November day, in Iowa, like a golden ticket. So I grabbed Rosie—my tiny white puffball of a co-captain—and headed to the lake.

The moment we pushed off, I felt my whole body exhale.
Warm sun on my skin.
A soft breeze tousling Rosie’s fur.
Water still enough to mirror the sky.

No voices.
No pressure.
No performative productivity.

Just the quiet thrum of being alive.

4 Quick Lessons the Water Taught Me

I spoke a few notes into my phone as we floated—because the water always has its own wisdom.

And yesterday, it was generous.

1. Row… but only when it matters.

Sometimes the water carries you.
Sometimes you need to paddle.
But constant effort leads to exhaustion, not accomplishment. The joy drains out when you treat life like something you have to muscle through.

2. Go with the feel, not the illusion.

The ripples on the lake can make you think you’re moving in one direction when you’re actually moving in another.
Life does that too.

Busyness can look like progress.
Chaos can feel like urgency.
Confusion can masquerade as momentum.

But when you tune into the feel instead of the illusion, you can always find your true direction.

3. Pay attention to the bow of your boat.

Not ten feet ahead. Not the entire lake.
Just the tip of the kayak.
Just the next right move.

When life feels big and tangled, narrowing your attention to what’s directly in front of you is enough.

4. Stop. Drift. Look around.

I rested my paddle across my lap, leaned back, and let Rosie sniff the November air like it was some kind of miracle.

And it was.

Because stillness isn’t the absence of movement.
Stillness is choosing presence.

Why This Tiny Adventure Matters

I forget myself sometimes—more often than I want to admit.

I forget that I’m someone who needs movement and sunlight and a brush of wind across my face to feel fully alive.
I forget how a quiet lake can dissolve the static in my head.
I forget how quickly clarity returns when I get out of the swirl and into something real.

But yesterday, just a few miles down the road from my home, my true nature found me again.

And it reminded me of this:

You don’t have to justify joy.
You don’t have to earn rest.
You don’t have to wait for a perfect moment.
You just have to answer the tug.

A Few Gentle Takeaways For You (Kayak Addition)

Because I always want to leave you with something practical to take into your own day—whether you kayak or not.

1. Check the water before checking your inbox.

Your inner water, that is.
Are you calm? Chaotic? Drifting? Fighting the current?
Identify your inner “weather” before diving into tasks.

2. Paddle with intention, not urgency.

Ask yourself: Is this moment asking for action… or permission to rest?

3. Adjust your course by feel, not fear.

If something looks overwhelming or confusing, pause. Breathe. Re-orient.
You almost always know the next right step.

4. Go outside—on purpose.

Put your face in the sun. Put your feet on the ground.
Let Mother Nature embrace you for a minute.

5. Bring someone or something who makes everything lighter.

A friend, a partner, a good book or journal, or, in my case, a dog named Rosie.
Companionship matters.

The Real Lesson

Life becomes infinitely more beautiful when you stop long enough to feel it.

Yesterday, I gave myself permission to come back to myself—on a quiet lake, under a warm November sun, with one very fluffy copilot.

I hope you find your version of that moment this week.

And when you feel the tug?
Go.

I would love to hear from you!

What “little adventure” brings you back to yourself? Lights you up? Allows you to reset?

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I woke up this morning with my brain doing backflips as usual. Not about somewhere I need to be. Not about the million things I want to get done today. No. My mind said, “Hey girl, rise and shine—it’s time to contemplate the meaning of existence!”

Fantastic. Just what I wanted before coffee.

I don’t know why some of us default to the Big Questions while others seem perfectly content thinking about, I don’t know… muffins. Or lawn care. Or which basket their hand towels should be rolled into. Meanwhile, I’m over here staring into space like, “What is reality? Why are we here? And who designed this whole setup, because I have notes.”

Maybe you, too, are one of those people who can’t just accept something without at least poking it a little. Or maybe a lot. Who hears someone say, “That’s just the way it is,” and immediately thinks, “Is it?” Who needs to dismantle ideas, conversations, and experiences—putting them back together like IKEA furniture—minus the existential crisis and leftover parts.

As a voracious reader, I’ve encountered numerous studies and stories throughout the years demonstrating that people who feel connected to something bigger than themselves tend to be happier and more resilient. Not because they’ve cracked the code on life, but because having a sense of meaning, however you define it, gives you a steadier place to stand when things get messy.

But here’s the twist: your purpose, your joy, your sanity, your coping mechanisms—they’re going to look completely different from anyone else’s. And yet society LOVES to tell us exactly what we should value, how we should behave, and which life path to follow—as if we all arrived with matching instruction manuals.

Spoiler: we did not.

And when the world’s expectations don’t match who you are? That’s when the internal questioning goes from “hmm” to “what the actual hell?” That’s when you can feel, deep down, that something about the path you’re on isn’t aligned with the person you’re becoming.

Some of us are just wired to question everything. We can’t help it. We’re seekers. Thinkers. Wanderers. Wonderers. The kids who asked “but why?” until every adult in the room regretted all their life choices. The grown-ups who still ask it—quietly or loudly—because we can’t make sense of the world unless we get to pull back the curtain.

Exhausting? Absolutely.
Boring? Not for a single second.

It’s a wild ride to live this way. But once you learn to stop fighting it and start riding the waves, it’s also weirdly exhilarating. Like life finally starts showing you the bonus levels.

That’s the space this column plays in. The question-filled, meaning-seeking, slightly unhinged-in-a-charming-way corner of the world. A place where we can discuss purpose without pretending we have our lives together. Where we can laugh—and cry— about the mess while still learning from it. Where we can look at the chaos and shrug, “Well, at least we’re in this together.”

So buckle up. Or fly free! Either way, you’re here. You’re curious. You’re thinking. You’re willing to give this life your all.

And if you need a reminder today, because I know I do: that’s a beautiful, brave, wildly human thing.

If this resonated, I’d love for you to follow along. I write for the seekers, the question-askers, and those who refuse to sleepwalk through their own lives.

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Have you ever woken up in the morning and realized you were living a life that didn’t feel like your own? You’ve worked hard. You’ve kept everything going, through good times and bad. But it’s been like hanging onto a runaway train at times.

Or maybe you’ve watched your life unravel, suffering loss, barely keeping it together, and feeling helpless. Maybe what once gave you purpose no longer resonates with you or with the people who once needed you. Or perhaps you’ve always felt a little bit lost, constantly asking: What is the point here, anyway?

The Adventuresome life is not about telling you that if you just do this, or buy that, or manifest hard enough, you’ll finally be happy. That would be like pouring fuel on an already destructive fire. We’re already immersed in messages from industries built on making sure we don’t trust ourselves—profiting off our doubts, insecurities, and fears:

• Religious institutions that preach compassion and forgiveness while sowing fear and guilt.

• Pharmaceutical and insurance giants that monetize illness and anxiety.

• The beauty and fashion machine that convinces you you’re not enough—until you buy whatever will “fix” that which has been deemed to be “wrong” with you.

• Higher education, entertainment, real estate, and even the self-help industry imply that happiness lives just one more purchase, achievement, or storybook ending away.

We’re inundated with programming that keeps us wanting more, comparing ourselves to others, and looking outside ourselves to define what happiness looks like.

Even social media, which was originally created to connect us, is nothing but a breeding ground for comparison. It promotes curating our lives rather than living them.

But The Adventuresome Life isn’t about railing against all that. It’s about remembering —and reclaiming—what’s real for you.

It’s about dreaming for the joy of dreaming, not because it earns you something.
It’s about stepping fully into the raw, unfolding mystery of your own one-of-a-kind existence.
It’s about connecting deeply with yourself, with others, with the world.

It’s about those moments that make your heart race, your eyes fill, or your knees buckle:

· Holding a family member’s hand as they take their last breath.

· Hearing a newborn cry out for the first time.

· Getting lost in a foreign city and finding your way through the kindness of strangers.

· Sitting quietly with someone you love who’s hurting, not needing to fix it.

· Laughing so hard with a friend that you pee your pants.

· Walking across a thin wooden balance beam sixty feet in the air, proving to yourself that your fear of heights need not define you.

It’s about saying yes to what lights you up and no to what dims your spirit – in the moment. Not weeks or even years later.
About pivoting when life asks you to—and it will.
About learning to lean on others, because nobody gets through this life alone.
About trusting yourself enough to take the next step, even if you can’t see the whole path.

It’s about NEVER giving up on yourself.

Because when you strip away the noise and tune back into your own knowing, something shifts. You start to remember that you were never broken. You’ve simply been buried under expectations—buying into a model of the world that tells you your worth depends on how much you make, how many things you can purchase, or whether you fit the beauty standards of the moment. You’re pushed to quietly fit the mold, fall into line, stop asking questions, and do what’s expected.

When you come home to yourself, you become still and at the same time unstoppable. There’s a lightness in your step and an enthusiastic fire in your chest. You move through the world with a confidence that reminds you of what has always been true: I belong here. Just as I am. And I have things of value to offer.

That’s when life becomes adventuresome.

Not because you quit your job to travel the world—though maybe you will.
Not because you scale mountains or run marathons—though that’s fun too.
But because you finally start living your truth.

You start paying attention to the smell of rain, to the laugh that erupts from deep in your belly, to the courage it takes just to keep showing up in your life, each and every day, asking, “What do you have for me today, universe?

The Adventuresome Life isn’t a destination. It’s how you choose to walk through this moment, and the next, and the next after that—awake, alive, and unafraid to live it all.

It’s the deep breath before the leap.
The yes that resonates in your gut before your mind has time to talk you out of it.
The knowing that this life, right here, is yours. To create with, to savor, to share.

There comes a moment in time when you must be true to yourself. To stop pretending that what you have convinced yourself was for you, actually isn’t. To stop telling yourself you should be happy. You should make it work. You should be more of this, or less of that. In fact, it’s time to quit “shoulding” all over yourself altogether.

If something inside you is saying, “No more!” Or better yet, “There’s so much more,” it’s time to true your compass and set off on your new journey.

Join me in taking the first steps of many to come, in the direction of the road less traveled. Down pathways you previously ignored, completely missed, or believed to be unavailable to you.

Welcome to The Adventuresome Life.

To this space. To this experiment. To this community.

Get ready to “Fear less. Live more.”

I’m so glad you’re here.

If any part of this message resonates with you, be sure to subscribe. There’s so much more to come!

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Please share, restack, or recommend anything that resonates with you here at The Adventuresome Life. If it’s helpful to you, more than likely it will be helpful to someone else.

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Plus, let me hear from you. What would living an Adventuresome Life mean to you in this moment?

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