We all know the social media version. I click on one post, and another, one video, watch it twice, send it to a friend, and suddenly my entire feed is dogs, surfing, love songs and everything Cancer zodiac. Mine has become extremely specific. I’m basically one click away from a husky on a surfboard telling me about my emotional moon with a soundtrack that blows my heart up.

The algorithm is constantly watching. What we stop for. What we click on. What we watch all the way through. What we like. What we react to. And then it just gives us more. More of what we’ve shown it we want. More of what we linger on. More of what we can’t seem to look away from, for better or worse.

But we have an algorithm, too. Women have an internal algorithm. And honestly, there’s something kind of magical about that. Because women are constantly taking in information. We notice things. We make connections. We absorb more than we realize. We adapt. We evolve. We are complicated as fuck.

And ours isn’t just being fed by what we click on. It’s being fed by what we believe, what we repeat, what we fear, what we desire, who we listen to, who we spend time with, what we tell ourselves is possible, and what we tell ourselves is impossible.

Psychologically. Behaviorally. Socially. We are constantly feeding it. And the algorithm takes notes. Not literally, of course. But we become very good at finding evidence for the stories we repeatedly tell ourselves. The algorithm doesn’t know the difference between a limitation we put on ourselves and a belief we’ve rehearsed long enough to make feel like a limitation. Tell yourself you’re not ready enough times, and eventually I’m not ready becomes a fact. Tell yourself you’re not qualified, and you start seeing every reason you don’t take the shot. Tell yourself you could never do something, and suddenly every obstacle becomes confirmation of exactly that.

I’m not ready. I’m not qualified. I could never do that. Now isn’t the right time. I’m too old. I don’t know enough. What if I fail? Who do I think I am? We feed it. And the algorithm learns.

Because fear is data. Self-doubt is data. Hesitation is data. But none of it is a verdict. And the algorithm is very good at turning data into a story. You feel afraid and suddenly the story is, I’m not brave. You hesitate and the story becomes, I’m not ready. You fail once and somehow it becomes, I’m suck at this. You don’t know how to do something and suddenly, I can’t do this. And eventually the story can start to feel like identity.

Fear isn’t the enemy. Believing every piece of data your algorithm hands you might be. But do something while you’re scared and you have new information. Make the call. Take the risk. Say the thing. Walk into the room. Do it badly. Survive. Now the algorithm has new data, and our mindset starts to shift.

Because things don’t magically happen. You don’t magically become a woman who trusts herself. You practice trusting yourself. You don’t magically become courageous. You practice doing things while you’re afraid. You don’t magically stop making excuses. You practice catching yourself making them. You don’t magically become powerful. You practice your power.

We are porous beings. We are constantly taking in information from the people around us. Not because some women are good influences and others are bad ones. It’s much more subtle than that.

The women we love, work with, follow, admire, compete with, learn from, envy, laugh with, disagree with, even the ones who drive us completely fucking crazy, are all giving us information. About what’s possible. What’s normal. What we go after. What’s too much. What feels too late. What a woman is supposed to want. What she’s allowed to change her mind about. What she can become, at whatever stage she is in her life.

Sometimes another woman gives you permission without ever knowing she did. Sometimes you see a woman do something you never imagined yourself doing, and suddenly the thing exists in your world. We are constantly recalibrating one another.

And maybe that’s what I love most about the female algorithm. It’s not a flaw to fix. It’s a fucking gift.

We are complex creatures. We are intuitive and contradictory and curious and wildly adaptive. We hold a thousand pieces of information at once. We notice things. We feel things. We remember things. We make connections. We carry stories. We change. We evolve.

We are mothers of the earth, whether or not we have ever been mothers. We create. We nurture. We destroy and rebuild. We make something out of nothing. We take in the world and somehow turn it into something that belongs to us.

Maybe the female algorithm is part of that magic. The ability to absorb. To learn. To adapt. To become. And maybe the most beautiful thing about it is that it keeps learning. It isn’t fixed. Neither are we.

Every choice. Every story. Every risk. Every excuse. Every woman we let into our orbit. Every time we say yes. Every time we say no. Every time we decide we’re not ready. It’s all data. And the algorithm learns.

So what if you gave it something new to work with?

With love and gratitude always,

Teri

The woman who follows a dream she’s had for years and moves to another country. The 50-year-old woman on a surfboard for the first time. The woman who starts her own business because she finally is brave enough to do it herself. The woman who lays down a hard boundary because she wants more of her own time back. The woman who walks away from someone who looks great on paper because she doesn’t feel the tingle.

Power. Power. Power.

Apparently, I’ve become a little obsessed with spotting it. Maybe its because I’m deep in writing my book aptly called The Practice of Power, and somewhere along the way, I started seeing power everyfuckinwhere. At dinner. In the ocean. In the grocery story. On the street. In conversations. You name it.

And the more I notice it, the less it looks like what I used to think power was.

I know the obvious kind. The title. The corner office. The person at the head of the table. The person everyone is waiting to hear from.

I’ve spent a lot of my life around that kind of power.

But this is different.

Because power doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s unexpected. Sometimes it’s hilarious. Sometimes it catches you completely off guard. And sometimes the woman wielding it doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

It can be a woman laughing so hard she doesn’t give a shit what her face looks like. It can be a woman saying, “No. I’m not doing that anymore.” It can be a woman who is spectacularly beginning at something and keeps showing up.

I think that’s what has surprised me most. How often power looks nothing like power. How often it looks like joy. Or curiosity. Or nerve. Or a woman trusting herself enough to try something new without needing to know exactly how it’s going to turn out.

There’s something beautiful about that. Not because she’s making some grand statement. She may not even think she’s doing anything particularly remarkable. She’s just living her life. And somehow, from the outside, you can see it.

You can feel it. That aliveness. That little something that makes you look twice and think, Oh, hell yes.

That’s the moment I’m interested in.

The moment someone seems to be fully occupying their own life.

That’s power.

And now that I’ve started seeing it, I hope you to start seeing it too. Not because I have another five-step exercise for you.

God forbid.

Just open your eyes. Pay attention. Look around.

Watch the woman across the room who is doing something you wouldn’t have the nerve to do. Listen to the conversation at the next table. Notice the woman who says something that makes you think, I wish I could do that. Notice the woman who is completely, unapologetically themselves. Notice the woman who takes the risk. The woman who walks away. The woman who begins again. The woman who says yes. The woman who says no.

And then pay attention to what happens inside you when you see it.

Because sometimes the person you’re watching isn’t just showing you something about power. They’re showing you something about your own. That little chill.That flash of recognition. That fuck, maybe I could do that too.

Don’t dismiss it.

That’s the good stuff.

These moments are everywhere for me now. Little sightings. Little transmissions.

Power in the wild.

And the funny thing is, I don’t think power was ever hiding.

I think I just got very good at looking for it in unexpected places.

So keep your eyes open.

Listen.

There’s power all over the place. And once you start seeing it, you may find yourself seeing something else, too. Your own.

And that’s the juice. That’s power in practice.

With love and gratitude always,

Teri~

Courtesy of @surfsweatserve @pixieacia ElSalvador retreat

I live in an optimistic world. My head. It’s a lonely place sometimes, but I’m cool with that. This weekend, I was speaking on a panel at Comic-Con filled with 1500 curious people. Dreamers. Writers. Directors. Actors. Artists. Fans. People who had spent their weekend celebrating their favorite Marvel character, movie star, fantasy, you name it. Brilliant costumes and all. And hoping just maybe, in one way or another, to become one.

My panel, Blockbusters to Indies: The Storytelling Power of Inclusivity and Diversity. Yep, fastball down the center for me. I was armed for battle. At one point, someone on the panel said what everyone in this industry already knows.

“It’s almost impossible to get anything made right now.”

Television. Movies. Almost impossible to get someone with power to say yes.

True. Painfully true.

You could feel it move through the room. Disappointment. Blank faces. And ss I listened to one of my fellow panelists, I looked out at the audience and had one thought. I have to be the representative of possibility.

Then I felt something I’ve known for as long as I can remember. Not a thought. Not an argument. A reverberation. A physical knowing that another truth was still sitting in the room. In me.

I’ve known that feeling for as long as I can remember. I just understand it better now. And after all these years, I’ve been fortunate enough to earn rooms where saying it out loud might help someone else.

So of course, I reached for the microphone and said, ‘True. It is hard to get things made, but it is not hard to get heard. Those used to be the same thing. They’re not anymore. You can write. You can publish. You can make a short film. You can build an audience. You can create work that finds people before anyone else decides whether to say yes. You all have a voice. An important one. So use it. Without fear.”

The old guard still exists, but they’re no longer the only way in. I could see eyes get bigger. Heads nodding. Smiles smeared across faces. And applause. I hope that applause was for them. To realize, fuck yes I can be seen and heard. Maybe even on my own terms.

But that’s not even what stayed with me. What stayed with me was realizing what I was actually trying to protect. It wasn’t optimism. It was an ecosystem of possibility. Because every industry has one. It’s made up of mentors who tell the whole truth. Leaders who don’t confuse honesty with hopelessness. People willing to acknowledge how hard something is without leaving the next generation believing they shouldn’t try.

That’s an ecosystem. And it’s precious. And it takes surprisingly little to damage one.

The truth is, this business is hard. It has always been hard. It will break your heart if you let it. That isn’t new.

What’s new is this. Never before have so many people had the ability to be heard without waiting for someone else’s permission to make something. It’s not the same as getting a television series picked up. It’s not the same as a studio financing your movie.

But it is a path. And paths matter.

Especially when you’re standing in a room full of people wondering whether they should keep walking. Maybe that’s part of our job now. Not to make the road sound easier than it is. To make sure we don’t accidentally erase the possibility that someone else might still find their way.

I know it’s mine.

With love and curiousity always,

Teri

That happened to me this week, and it started with creatine.

I was talking to a friend about muscle health, strength, and why I’m so interested in preserving both as I get older. Somewhere between protein, creatine, and lifting weights, the conversation took an unexpected turn into architecture. Then I heard myself say something I’ve probably said a hundred times without ever really thinking about it. “I’m always wondering if the architecture is strong enough to support everything that’s built on top of it.”

Then my friend said, “You don’t just use architecture as a metaphor, you think like an architect.”

Of course I do, I studied architecture in college. …yes, friends, another peel of the artichoke. That’s also around the time I was driving a Harley. But that’s a whole other leaf we’ll peel another time.

I haven’t thought much about that part of my life in years. What I hadn’t realized was that I never stopped thinking like an architect. I just stopped designing buildings.

Looking back, it’s almost embarrassingly obvious. Somewhere along the way, I started designing television shows. Teams. Businesses.Stories.

Eventually…My own life.

And without realizing it, I approached almost every challenge the same way I had in my architecture and design studies. I wasn’t interested in making something look better. I wanted to understand what was holding it up.

Architecture studies don’t teach you to admire beautiful buildings. It teaches you to question them. What’s carrying the load? Where are the stress points? What happens when pressure shows up? Can this structure adapt? Will it still be standing twenty years from now? You’re trained to look past what’s visible. Because beautiful design means very little if the structure underneath can’t support it.

As I sat with that conversation, I realized something that honestly made me laugh. I’ve been asking those same questions my entire career. Just in different rooms. As an executive, I wasn’t looking for ideas that were simply clever. I was looking for ideas that could carry the weight of an entire series.

As a producer, I wasn’t trying to fix scenes. I was trying to understand why they weren’t holding up.

When someone comes to me with a challenge, I rarely start with the obvious surface problem. My instinct is to go underneath it. What’s really going on here? What’s carrying too much weight? What isn’t being supported?

I’ve always thought that’s just how I solved problems. Now I’m wondering if it’s something deeper than that. Maybe it’s simply the way I’ve always seen the world. And here’s where everything shifted. Not because I studied architecture. Because I suddenly understood that architecture never really left me. It shaped the questions I ask. The way I make decisions. The way I lead. The way I write. The way I mentor. Even the way I think about power.

I’ve spent years talking about building a strong foundation. About maintaining my infrastructure. About creating a life that can actually support my dreams instead of collapsing under them. Until this conversation, I honestly thought those were just phrases that felt right. Now I think they were clues. Like little breadcrumbs leading me back to the first language I ever learned.

The older I get, the more I’m convinced that our lives make sense backward. Not in the sense that everything happens for a reason. I’m not talking about destiny. I’m talking about patterns. Sometimes you live them long before you recognize them.

And every once in a while, if you’re paying attention…the pattern introduces itself. This week, mine did. It looked alot like architecture. This wasn’t just a fun realization. It explained something I’ve been trying to understand about myself for a long time. Why I’ve always been less interested in the surface than the structure. Why I’m drawn to foundations instead of finishes. Why I instinctively ask what’s underneath before I ask what’s next.

I’ve spent years talking about power. Fuck, maybe what I’ve really been talking about all along…is architecture. Not buildings.

People.

The invisible structures that determine what we’re able to carry. The foundations that shape our lives. The parts no one sees.

So, here I am thinking I was having a conversation about creatine. Instead, I have a mind bending realisation. Funny how life works.

Sometimes the things we think we’ve left behind are the very things that have been quietly carrying us all along.

And something tells me, even after all the beautiful years I’ve spent on this planet, I’m only beginning to understand the blueprint of my life.

Always with love and admiration,

Teri

I’m going to tell you about it, and I need you to promise not stage an intervention.

The truth is, I can’t stop adding things to my plate. I add a project, and then I add another one on top of it, and I look at the whole ridiculous leaning tower and think, yes, more, please. I am, by every metric that’s supposed to matter at this stage, wildly, almost embarrassingly ambitious. And instead of the exhaustion I was promised, I get a kind of euphoria I didn’t have twenty years ago. I’m more curious. More interested in what’s next than I have ever been in my life. More fuck it, let’s do it.

But nobody warned me about this part. They warned me about the slowing down. Nobody mentioned the version where you get more dangerous with age, not less.

Somewhere, someone decided ambition was a young person’s game. Something you burn through in your thirties and then, mercifully, age out of, like a metabolism or a tolerance for loud bars. (ok, this one is debatable) I never bought it. And now I have three decades of evidence that the whole premise was wrong. The fire doesn’t go out. It's more like the universe keeps pouring kerosene on it. Every year I have more energy, not less. More ideas, not fewer. And I get stronger every day.

But this isn’t a just a story about me. It’s an invitation. For you. Whatever version of settle down you’ve been handed by an age, a job title, a relationship, a mortgage, or someone else’s idea of what’s right for you, you did not agree to those terms. Nobody asked you. Somewhere along the way you just stopped questioning the fine print. The plate you think is full? Add to it. The thing you think you’re too late for? You’re certainly are not. The fire you think you’re supposed to be banking for later? Burn it now. Take the risk. Throw caution to the proverbial wind.

So here’s my proclamation, and I’m making it to myself before I’m making it to you. I will not be slowing down. I will not be taking it easy. I will not be gracious about stepping back, grateful for the quiet, or relieved to finally rest. I have too many plates in the air, I intend to add more, and I am not sorry about a single one of them. (they’re all pretty f’kn fun) If that unsettles the people who think ambition has an expiration date, good. That was never my rule to begin with. It was never even my rule to negotiate. And it shouldn’t be yours.

Nope. I don’t have a bucket list. I have a bucket with a hole in it. I just keep pouring more plates in it. Which, now that I say it out loud, is probably exactly the moment someone reaches for the phone to call for backup. Don’t. I told you not to stage an intervention. I meant it. Consider this your official warning. The plate’s contagious.

Anyway, I’ve got things to build. And so do you. Go be annoying about your own ambition too.

Always with love and admiration,

Teri~

I’m still curious, annoyingly so.. I ask questions I don’t know the answers to. I read things outside my lane on purpose. I still get genuinely excited by an idea I didn’t have yesterday.

I’m still experimenting. Not eating a slightly new cuisine experimenting, but actual, put myself in a room where I might be new at something experimenting. New skills. New ideas. New versions of myself that earlier versions of me would not have predicted and would probably find a little alarming. Good. Let her be alarmed. She prepped for it.

I’m still seeking. Not because something is missing, but because seeking is the whole point. I’m not interested in arriving. Arriving sounds like the end of the story, and honestly, I think my story has crazier chapters left in it than the ones already written.

I’m strong. And not the inspirational poster kind of strong, the actually earned it kind. The kind you get from staying upright through things that could’ve flattened me. From working this body like it’s my temple, because it is. From choosing, over and over, to keep showing up curious instead of I’ve already done that. Been there.

I think aging has the worst PR team in human history. Somewhere along the way we all agreed to sell decline as inevitable, shrinking as grace, quiet as wisdom, like the only dignified way to get older is to be more guarded. Slowing down. To use more anti aging creams. I’m not buying that fucked up campaign. That’s just a story somebody told once, and everybody kept repeating it like it was fact. I read the fine print. I’m opting out.

So instead of a gentle, wistful little birthday note about the passage of time, you get this. Loud, cocky, confident, gorgeous, strong, entirely beyond grateful and a whole lot of blissful happiness. Gratitude for the people who’ve watched me keep changing and never once asked me to stop. Grateful for a body that still shows up and exceeds every expectation. Grateful, most of all, for everything I still don’t know because that’s not a gap in the story, that’s the whole point.

66 isn’t a finish line. It’s barely a chapter break. I’ve got more questions than answers, more things I want to try, and absolutely no plans to sit this one out.

So I consider this my Route 66. No map, no speed limit, and a suspicious number of unplanned detours. The Mother Road didn’t go in a straight line either and look how well that turned out for her.

Onward. See you at the next exit.

With love and gratitude always,

Teri

Human beings are fascinating.

Women just happen to be particularly spectacular examples.

Put a group of strangers together for a few days and something unexpected happens. Nobody stays impressive for very long.

Thank God.

Somewhere between coffee, movement, long walks, shared meals, and conversations that somehow wander late into the night…people stop introducing themselves and start revealing themselves.

I could watch that forever. Actually…I think I have.

I’ve spent most of my life witnessing people. It’s what producers do. We witness chemistry. We witness timing. We witness the conversation underneath the conversation. We witness the moment someone says something that quietly changes the room. We’re not just paying attention. We’re witnessing humanity.

I’ve always loved that part of my work. I still do.

This week, retreating in Costa Rica with a group of people mostly who I’d never met before, mostly women, a couple of wonderful men, I found myself doing what I’ve always done.

Witnessing.

Not because I was looking for anything. Because people are endlessly interesting when they feel safe enough to simply be themselves. Somewhere around day three, the introductions disappeared. The conversations got richer. The laughter got louder. People relaxed into themselves. And there is something incredibly moving about witnessing another human being become more themselves.

It’s one of my favorite things in the world.

Then, somewhere in the middle of all that, I caught myself. Old habits. Producer habits. My attention had quietly settled everywhere but on me. Not because I was avoiding myself. It’s just how I’ve been wired for a very long time. And then a question arrived.

What would happen if I offered myself the same curiosity. The same attention.

The same reverence that I’ve spent a lifetime offering everyone else? Not to fix myself. Not to improve myself. Not because something was missing.

Just to witness.

That thought has stayed with me all week. I’ve worked hard to build a life where I don’t have to wait until I’m exhausted to come back to myself. That’s why I come on retreats like this. Not to escape my life. I actually love my life. I come to hear it again.

Turns out, it’s a much nicer way to live. Somewhere between watching everyone else and paying attention to myself, another thought quietly arrived.

Attention is an act of love.

We know this when someone really listens. We know it when someone remembers the tiny detail we casually mentioned weeks ago. We know it when someone puts their phone down and stays with us.

That’s love.

Funny, we’re remarkably good at recognizing what attention feels like when someone else offers it. We’re not nearly as practiced at offering it to ourselves. Maybe that’s what I’ve really been doing here.

Not slowing down. Not disconnecting. Not finding myself.

Witnessing myself. With curiosity instead of criticism. With reverence instead of judgment.

Curiosity has always led me toward other people. Maybe now, it’s leading me toward myself. And somehow that feels less like self-care and more like coming home.

Maybe the practice begins…when we finally do.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

The clothes I wear every day, the brands I invest in, the fits I sweat in, the gear I put on my body before I get in the water or the mat, don’t really see me. Not fully. Not the way I actually exist in the world.

I’m 65. I move my body every day. I’m strong. I’m healthy. I’m more alive in my body right now than I have ever been. And I am almost entirely invisible to the brands built for exactly the life I’m living.

Cool. Cool.

Let me be clear about something. This isn’t insecurity talking. It isn’t bitterness. I’m not sitting here wounded by a campaign that didn’t include me. I’m sitting here thinking about opportunity. About what it means when an entire generation of women, the most powerful, most experienced, most financially independent women in the history of this country, are treated as an afterthought by the very brands they’re loyal to. That’s not a personal slight. That’s a massively missed opportunity. For the brands. And more importantly for the women.

But here’s what actually pisses me off.

There are women out there right now who are working really fucking hard on themselves. Getting strong. Getting healthy. Showing up for their bodies in ways they never did in their thirties. And every image they see tells them they still don’t look right. Still don’t fit. Still aren’t the version of a woman worth celebrating.

When women don’t see themselves represented, not as the exception, not as inspiration porn, not as the feel good one off campaign that disappears in the algorithm, we internalize the absence. We start to believe that this chapter of our lives is somehow non existent. That our best years of truth strength and power, and hard-won motherfuckin’ confidence is somehow behind us.

Fuck that. This is the point in our lives where we should be front and center. Not tucked into a corner of a website. Not featured once a year during a campaign about body positivity and ‘aging.’ Not the token silver fox in a sea of twenty-somethings.

Front. And. Center.

The woman at 55 who just finished her first triathlon. The woman at 56 who learned how to surf. The woman at 66 who shows up every single day committed to her body. She is everywhere. And she is spending real money. She has impeccable taste and zero patience for being ignored. And she deserves to see herself in the world she’s building.

Healthy is a conscious choice. Strong is beautiful. Showing up for yourself decade after decade with zero apology is baller. And it looks nothing like what most brands are currently selling.

Victoria’s Secret finally figured it out, after almost losing everything. Just sayin’. This isn’t a complaint. It’s a call. To the brands. We are your market. Your most loyal, most passionate, most financially equipped market. We have been here the whole time. Act like it.

To the women, I see you. I know what it feels like to walk into a room and wonder if you still belong there. To scroll through images of the life you’re actually living and not find yourself anywhere in it. To be strong, capable, experienced, and somehow still feel like you’re supposed to be in the backseat now. More grateful just to still be in the game.

That ends here.

You are not the before picture. You are not the inspiration story. You are not the token. You are the point. You have always been the point.

The woman who has built something real with her hands and her heart and her decades of showing up, she deserves to see herself reflected back. Not as an exception. Not as a surprise. As the standard.

Because here’s what I know about women like us. We didn’t get here by accident. We got here by choice. By discipline. By getting back up more times than anyone counted. By resiliency. And by choosing ourselves even when nobody else was.

That is power. Real power. The kind that doesn’t peak at 35 and disappear. The kind that builds. The kind that gets more interesting, more layered, more undeniable with every single year.

And to the girlies, pay attention. Because what’s on the other side of all that noise and pressure and trying to figure out who you are is something nobody tells you about. You get freer. Stronger. More magnetic. More you. And spoiler alert. We only get better.

You are not invisible to me. You never were. And this is exactly the chapter I’ve been waiting for.

This is The Practice of Power. And it starts with being seen. Front and center. Where we belong. Together.

Allow us to reintroduce ourselves. 👑

With love and admiration always,

Teri~

The girls reactions were priceless. I mean, they’re all stunningly beautiful with all the trimmings, and they absolutely lose their minds. Shock, confusion, disgust, NFW’s.

“Can she even... like... do it? What would that even feel like? Does it even still fucking work? Like the woman’s body just stops working at 50. Like her mouth forgot what to do.”

I’m dead. Dead. And I’m here at 65, absolutely laughing my very fine ass off. These girls are sitting there in their tiny bikinis, perfect skin, perfect bodies, genuinely mystified by the concept of a woman’s body still working at 50. “I mean, isn’t she just broken down by then?” Like our pussies have an expiration date stamped on them.

Girlies, let me tell you something. That 52-year-old’s didn’t just work. She showed that boy something he’ll never forget, and she made it look easy.

Because here’s the thing nobody tells you. Your 20s are glorious. Celebrate them. You’re beautiful, your skin is incredible, your energy is effortless. All of that is real and amazing. But here’s what also happens, you get older and it all just keeps getting better. It’s not that your 20s are wrong. It’s that as you age you’re gaining something on top of everything that is already incredible. No performance, no second-guessing. Just presence. Just power. Just you, completely.

That’s the upgrade nobody warns you about.

What Actually Gets Better

You actually know what turns you on. You know where pleasure lives. You don’t waste time on shit that doesn’t work. You ask for what you want. You demand it, actually. And it’s not because you couldn’t do that at 25, it’s that now you’ve earned the clarity to do it without apology.

You’re fully present. The self-consciousness gets quiet. You’re actually in your body for once. Present. Gone. You’re too busy feeling good to worry about how you look while you’re feeling good. That’s a gift that keeps expanding as you age.

You have the confidence that comes from survival. You’ve lived. You’ve been disappointed and gotten back up. You’ve figured out what matters and what’s noise. You’ve learned what you can tolerate and what you won’t. That’s not something you can fake or force at 25, it just comes with the miles. And it’s sexyAF in a way that’s irresistible.

You’ve become absolutely magnetic. There’s an ease about you. You walk into a room different. You move different. You speak different. Not better, just yours. Completely, unapologetically yours. And people feel it. Young women can sense it and it fascinates them because they’re still figuring out how to do that.

Stop Hating Your Own Body (Seriously)

The real tragedy? Women spend their whole lives at war with themselves. We’re taught that our wrinkles are failures. FUCK THAT. They’re a record of every time you lived. Every laugh, every worry, every year you survived. That’s not deterioration, that’s evidence.

You’re taught to hate cellulite like it’s a personal betrayal. It’s not. It’s just how human skin works. Men have it too, ps. They’re just never taught to weaponize it against themselves. You want to know who thinks your cellulite is a problem? Only you. Everyone else is too busy worrying about their own skin to be auditing yours.

Let your face tell the story. Let your body show what you’ve done, where you’ve been, who you are now. And it’s gorgeous. The crime isn’t aging. The crime is that we’re conditioned to believe our value depreciates instead of compounds.

What Those Love Island Girlies Can’t Even Imagine

When those 24-year-olds picture a 52-year-old woman, they can’t quite imagine what that looks like in bed. They don’t have the framework yet to understand.

What they can’t fathom because they haven’t lived it, is that a woman in her fifties can be the most gorgeous, present, powerful in her skin person in the room. Not in spite of her age, but because of everything she’s learned by living. She’s figured herself out. She’s survived the things those girls are just starting to encounter. She knows what matters and what’s bullshit. She knows how to move through the world like she owns it, because she does. She’s not wondering if she’s doing it right. She’s not performing. She’s being it. That’s real power. The kind that doesn’t need validation to exist.

This Isn’t Just About Sex

Here’s what else happens when you stop performing and start being. You stop tolerating mediocrity. You won’t stay in a bad job because you’re not sure you deserve better. You know you deserve better and won’t waste time pretending otherwise. You quit. You ask for the raise. You fire the clients who drain you. You stop showing up for people who don’t show up for you.

You speak up. You’ve learned that your voice matters. In meetings, you say what you think without apologizing first. With your friends, you tell the truth because you’re not afraid of losing people who can’t handle it.

You make decisions more decisively. You’ve been disappointed enough times to know that hesitation usually means no. You trust your gut because your gut knows. You stop asking for permission or consensus. You decide and you move.

You take up space. You sit how you want to sit. You speak as long as you need to speak. You don’t shrink yourself to make other people comfortable. You become someone people actually listen to.

There’s something about a woman who’s lived that makes people pay attention. Maybe it’s the confidence. Maybe it’s that you’re not trying to convince anyone of anything, you’re just throwin’ down facts. Either way, your words carry weight.

You stop seeking approval and start giving it to yourself. The voice in your head that spent decades criticizing your body, your choices, your career, your relationships? It gets quieter. You start actually loving yourself. That changes everything.

You become the person you needed when you were 25. You tell her the truth about what matters. You give her permission to be ambitious, sexual, angry, messy, firmly grounded in her power.

This is the real glow-up. It’s not about your skin or your body. It’s about your presence. Your authority. Your refusal to be any less.

To my sweet girlies reading this. Your future is not a countdown to irrelevance. Stop obsessing about your ass (I mean but keep it nice and tight, tho) and start paying attention to the whole package. Travel. Read. Take risks. Get your heart broken. Learn to cook. Have sex that feels good for you, not just hot for someone else. Learn to like yourself, the actual work of liking yourself, because that’s the thing that gets SO much better with time.

To every woman watching her reflection change, those aren’t lines of deterioration. They’re lines of becoming. They’re evidence. They are wisdom.They’re proof that you lived, and they are gorgeous.

But the most glorious punchline, the one the Love Island girlies will get in about 40 years, is that the best version of you is coming. It’s already here if you’re old enough. It’s hiding in all the stuff you thought was a problem. The wrinkles, the cellulite, the changed body, the worn hands, the complicated history written across your skin. That’s not aging. That’s a life well lived. That’s some fine shit. That’s a woman who finally knows herself. That’s power.

And yeah, we can absolutely still do it. You better recognize and take notes.

What’s your experience been? Are you living differently than you did at 25? What surprised you about aging? Drop a comment—I want to hear from the women who’ve been through the plot twist.

Because a year ago I stood on a TED stage and said some shit that woke a lioness. The theme was The Power in My Skin and how we age into it and not out of it. Real talk. No filter. All me sharing my inner most sanctum with the world. In perpetuity. That was no fucking joke. I hated public speaking. But the more I could hear me tell my story, the more I realized how comfortable I truly was in my own skin. I remember a particular moment when I talked about the lines on my face. I said, “This one right here? It’s from staying quiet when I knew I should’ve spoken up. And this one? That’s from laughing at the people who told me I’d never make it in this business.” The room went nuts, and I felt it in my bones. I knew I had so much more to say, and walked off that stage knowing that this was not just my story, but I could really be an integral part of other women's lives who were striving to live in their truest power too.

Spoiler alert? That’s exactly what I’m doing. And I love it.

But here’s what nobody really tells you about declaring your power on a red circle in front of thousands of people. The stage is the easy part. The practice is where shit gets real, and we are tested on the daily. But here’s the thing, it’s not hard for me anymore. Not because I figured out some big secret. Because I actually kept doing it. Every morning. Every choice. Every time I wanted to check out and didn’t. I showed up for myself the same way I show up for literally everything else. Not because it felt amazing every day, because I said I would.

And somewhere along the way I stopped white knuckling through it, and something shifted. It stopped being this thing I had to do and it just became this thing I longed for. Ritual. Routine. .

And when a difficult situation shows up now, and they do, trust me, I don’t spiral out. I don’t leave myself. I have the tools. I know how to stay grounded. I know how to come back. It’s integrated. It’s me.

That’s not confidence. That’s competence. And that shit changes everything. And because I actually did it and didn’t just talk about choosing myself every single day, something wild happened.

Doors opened. Real ones. Not the fake motivational poster kind. Stages. Opportunities. Places where people want to hear what I know because I’m not performing it, I’m living it. Standing on those stages now? What a gift. I’m comfortable. Present. Thriving. Just me. That’s the practice in action.

Not the TED moment. The Tuesday mornings. The mirror. The hard fought battles. The second you stand in front of yourself and honor your body instead of declaring war on it. The moment in a meeting when you use your voice because you promised yourself you would. The decision to stay instead of leave.

Every. Single. Day.

That’s the unsexy version of power. Nobody’s grabbing an Instagram snap, or cheering for you. It’s just you and yourself at 5am deciding you’re worth showing up for. And I’m so proud of that. Not of who I was on that red circle, but of who I’ve become since.

So if you’re reading this wondering if this actually works, if choosing yourself first, committing to the practice of the power that already lives in you, if it actually changes anything, I am living proof that is sure in the fuck does. It changes everything. But only if you actually commit to it. Not someday. Not when you feel ready. Not when you have ‘more time.’

Now. Today. Tomorrow morning. Feel the urgency, because that’s where the magic lives. In the daily practices. In the unglamorous, nobody’s watching, nobody cares version of power. Not because it’s impressive. Because your life well lived depends on it.

Now get to work.

Love and admiration always, Teri~

If you haven’t seen the TED Talk yet, go watch it. Not because I’m telling you to. Because you need to hear the full story. The one that started all of this. The one that changed everything.

Watch:

God. What a thing to carry around inside a body.

It’s not polite. It doesn’t wait its turn. It doesn’t check the calendar or ask if now’s a good time. It just pulls.

We feel it when something lands a little too hard. When we stay a second longer than we planned. When we say yes faster than usual, or no and mean it. When we want something that doesn’t quite match the life we’ve built.

And that’s where it gets interesting. Because desire doesn’t follow the version of us that makes sense. It follows the version of us that’s more open.

So suddenly we’re doing things that don’t fit neatly. We change our minds. We take the long way home. We book the trip. We flirt a little longer than we should. We start something we can’t fully explain yet. We leave something that technically works.

From the outside, that can look questionable.

From the inside, it feels like truth.

That quiet, undeniable, I’m not done here. I want more than this. This matters to me.

And yeah sometimes it’s about sex. Of course it is. Bodies are involved. Chemistry is involved. Attention, touch, presence. Actually being there instead of running the whole experience from our head like a project manager. Wild concept.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way we want to live. The way we want to feel in our own skin. The things we’re drawn to that don’t need to make sense yet.

Desire doesn’t hand us a plan. It gives us a direction. It flirts with us and waits to see if we’re going to follow it, or pretend we didn’t hear it.

And let’s be honest, we are very good at pretending. We can rationalize ourselves into staying exactly where we are. We can make a life look perfect on paper and still feel absolutely nothing inside it.

But every once in a while we don’t. We follow it a little. Just enough to see what happens. And suddenly we’re in a different conversation. A different room. A different version of ourselves. More present. More honest. A little less controlled. A little more willing to risk being seen. Not reckless. Not dramatic. Just not asleep.

That’s desire.

There was a time in my life when desire looked irresponsible. I wanted more than the life I had carefully built. More truth. More beauty. More freedom. More connection. More time in my body. More time in the ocean. More intimacy. More adventure. More room to become the woman I was still becoming.

Some of those desires made perfect sense. Some of them absolutely did not. At least not on paper.

Learning to surf in my fifties. Completing a triathlon when I didn’t even know how to swim. Writing a book at sixty-five. Standing on a stage and telling the truth to a room full of strangers. Letting myself fall back in love with my own life.

None of it was practical. ALL of it was desire. And every single time I followed one of those impulses, my life got bigger.

Riskier.

Sexier.

More honest.

More mine.

That’s what desire has given me.

A fucking dope life.

And once we all start listening to it, really listening, it changes things.

Not all at once.

We stop choosing what makes the most sense and start choosing what feels the most fucking fun and maybe even a little outrageous.

And that adds up. Until one day we look at our life and think, oh shit...I’m living my best life.

This is mine. And yeah. That explains a lot. 😏

The way we build. The way we carry. The way we adapt, lead, hold it all together and then somehow keep going.

This weekend reminded me of that in a deeper way. I was in a room with 375 women. Leaders. Builders. Creators. Experts in their fields. Women who have done the work, are doing the work, and are still showing up for more. And being in that kind of room does something to you. Not in a loud, performative way. In a quieter, deeper way. You start to feel the weight of it. The intelligence, the experience, the resilience sitting in every chair. It’s not just impressive. It’s undeniable.

I had the privilege of standing on that stage and giving a keynote. And even in that moment, looking out at all of them, I wasn’t thinking about what I had to say as much as I was thinking about what I was standing in. Because when you’re surrounded by women at that level, you don’t feel above it. You feel part of something. And that’s different.

And something else struck me. Most of the women in that room were in hospitality. I’m in entertainment. On paper, those worlds look completely different. But sitting in that room, listening, talking, connecting, I realized how aligned we actually are.

We’re all working in story. In experience. In how people feel.

Whether you’re creating a show, building a brand, running a restaurant, or leading a team, you’re shaping how someone else experiences a moment. You’re thinking about tone, energy, timing, what lands and what doesn’t. You’re holding space, reading the room, adjusting in real time.

That’s not industry-specific.

That’s instinct. That’s craft. That’s purpose.

And when you strip everything else away, we’re all doing a version of the same work—creating something that moves people.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect.

It wasn’t the titles. Or the accomplishments. Or even the conversations on stage. It was what was happening underneath all of that. You could feel women clocking each other, not in a competitive way, in a recognition way. Like, I see you. I know what that took. I know what it cost you to get here.

And something shifts in that moment.

You stop posturing. You stop managing how you’re coming across. You drop in.

Because let’s be honest. Most of us are used to walking into rooms where we’re calculating. Where do I fit? How do I sound? Am I too much? Not enough? Do I lead here or pull back? All of that subtle energy we carry without even realizing it. It’s exhausting.

But this wasn’t that.

This was a room where you could feel women exhale. Where the edges came down. Where people stopped trying to get it right and just started being in it.

And when that happens, the room changes.

And to the women who showed up as they were, confident, unsure, open, figuring it out. Thank you. That willingness to be in it, exactly where you are, is what made the room what it was. That energy will never be repeated again. What a gift.

What I’m taking from that room will stay with me well beyond this week. The perspective, the connections, the level of presence. It didn’t just pass through me. It’s sticking.

Women’s Hospitality Initiative, you did not disappoint. You raised the fuckin’ bar. I feel so deeply nourished professionally and personally. And that’s not something I take lightly.

With love and light,

Teri

And still..here I am.

In my body.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Feeling.

After everything it took to get here. Everything I’ve lived, built, lost, fought through, outlasted, proved, figured out. I’m aware of it. In awe of it.

It feels expansive.
It feels energizing.
It feels like possibility.

Like I get to be part of what’s happening right now. Not sitting back and watching it. Not commenting from the outside. But actually in the conversation using my voice to help shape what comes next, especially for the next generation.

The idea that I get to take everything I’ve lived, the wisdom I’ve gained and put it into motion in a way that helps build a world where people feel more confident, more secure, more supported, and freer to imagine something bigger for themselves, is a gift. And that’s not something I take lightly.

It’s a responsibility I’ve chosen. I’ve lived enough life. Done the work. Taken the hits. And stayed in it time and time again when it would’ve been so much easier to give up. So now I choose to give more of myself. Because I know I have something to offer.

Perspective.
Clarity.
Truth.
Experience.
Wisdom.

I look at the generations that come after me and how fast everything is, how much fucking noise there is, how much they’re being asked to carry and what is expected of them in some perfect version of themselves. I don’t feel separate from that. I feel a real pull towards it.

More and more, I’ve gotten comfortable sharing my experiences.

Not in a preachy way.
Not in a let me tell you how to live way.

In a real way.
From my heart.

Listen, I’ve been through some shit.

I’ve built things.
I’ve lost things.
I’ve had to find my way back to myself more times than I can count.

I’ve lived enough to see patterns.
I’ve been through enough to know what actually matters.
And I’ve found my way back to myself enough times to speak on it.

And if any of that can make your path even a little clearer, more informed, why the fuck would I hold that back? I’m not sitting back watching any of this. I’m in it. Fully.

I want to be in it.

I want to be part of what’s being shaped right now. How we think, how we live, how we show up, what we pass on.

I don’t just want to live my life. I want to impact what happens next. That excites the fuck out of me.

I want to take everything I’ve lived. Every win, every hit, every loss, every hard-earned truth, every moment of unadulterated joy and use it. For good.

Because what I’ve learned, what I’ve built, what I’ve survived, how I’ve thrived becomes something I can offer in a way that actually helps someone else find their voice, their footing.

Now, I’m not here to help you figure out your life. But I am here to stand with you in it.

And I think we forget how much we actually have in us. Not in a hype way. Not in a you can do anything kind of way. Just in a real way.

The way you know when something’s off.
The way you feel it before you can explain it.
The way you’ve already made it through things you once thought would take you out.

That’s not nothing.

That’s not luck.

That’s you.

And it’s still there for the taking.

So whatever you’re in right now. Whatever feels unclear, or heavy, or not quite right, you’re not starting from zero. You’re walking into it with everything you’ve already lived.

That’s your power. And I’m here for it.

With love and respect always,

Teri~

We’re going there.

The body.

Get comfortable. Or don’t. Because once we start pulling on this thread, a lot of things come with it.

This isn’t about fitness. I’m not here to hand out a workout plan or count anyone’s steps or tell you how many reps you should be doing. This is bigger than that. This is about the relationship we have with the body we’re living in.

The one carrying EVERYTHING.

Our ideas. Our work. Our ambition. Our joy. Our grief. Our stress. Our love. Every fucking thing we care about is happening inside this structure.

And if we’re honest, most of us spend a lot of our lives living on the outside of it. We know that drill. All the latest styles, all the things to improve our skin. We’re up in our heads. Thinking. Planning. Overanalyzing.

Meanwhile the body is down here doing the heavy lifting. Breathing. Holding us upright. Pumping blood. Absorbing stress. Taking the hits. Carrying the whole operation forward whether we’re paying attention or not.

And a lot of the time we treat it like an afterthought. Something we’ll deal with later. Something we negotiate with. Something we squeeze in between meetings and responsibilities and the thousand other things pulling at us. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.

But here’s the unvarnished truth. If the body goes down, everything goes down. Our ideas don’t matter if we don’t have the energy to execute them. Our dreams don’t matter if we’re too exhausted or too broken down to chase them. Our power can’t live in our thoughts alone. It MUST live in the structure holding us up.

The bones. The muscle. The nervous system. The breath. This is infrastructure. And infrastructure matters. How we feed it. How we rest it. How we move it. How we challenge it. How we push it and how we listen when it says enough.

THIS BODY IS THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING.

And I don’t care if we’re in our 20s or our 60s. The math doesn’t change. Ignore the body long enough and life starts getting harder. Energy drops. Things start hurting. Resilience fades. Not because we’re aging, because we stopped giving our body the attention it deserves and is required to carry us through life.

But when we come back to the body, really come back to it, something powerful happens. Life opens back up. Our minds sharpen. We become more clear. Stress becomes easier to handle. Our energy starts to feel more explosive. We feel more capable. Strength becomes our epicenter.

I know this because I’ve lived it. I started surfing when I was 55. I did my first triathlon at 56. And now at 65, I feel stronger than I ever have. Not because I’m special. Not because time froze just for me. Because I’ve always kept a solid foundation in this body.

And trust me, our bodies change. Especially women. Our hormones start to shift. Our muscles changes. Our bones require more attention. Energy moves differently. Things just evolve. That’s life. Which is exactly why the foundation matters even more.

I mean listen. I consider myself a unicorn, but I can’t freeze time. My goal is to always tend to this body that I ask so much of every day. My strength is my power. And my power drives my life. The goal is to stay self-care the fuck out of this body from the inside out.

And the beautiful thing is the body responds so fast when we show up for it. She doesn’t demand perfection. She asks for consistency. Whatever it is, do it. Five minutes of stretching. A walk around the block. A big shake or dance party. Yes, a dance party. Become more familiar with your breath, and the importance of how it calms us. Grounds us. You can do this any time of the day. At your desk. Have meals that actually nourishes us. And get real sleep. These small things add up.

And when they add up, our foundation gets stronger. And when our foundation gets stronger, game over. Everything built on top of it gets stronger too. Our energy. Our clarity. Our ability to handle the chaos of this crazy life without collapsing.

Which is why the body deserves our respect. Not every now and then. Every. Single. Day. But not in some punishing, militant way. Not like a chore. Like a ritual. A moment where we stop and acknowledge this extraordinary body carrying us through this life.

And let’s be honest about something for a second. Most of us stand in front of the mirror and immediately start criticizing the body looking back at us. Too much here. Not enough there. This wrinkle. That cellulite. Whatever. We go straight to the thing we think is ‘wrong,’ instead of looking at ALL that is right.

So, stand there. Look at yourself. And say something nice.

No really. Say it.

Yes, you are strong. Yes, you are worthy. Yes, you’re fucking gorgeous. And YES, thank god you are you.

Look at the strength in your legs. Look at the life in your eyes. Look at the body that has carried you through every single chapter of your life. The heartbreak. The joy. The mistakes. The growth. The love. All of it.

This body has been there through every second of it.

So, maybe it’s time we start treating it like the miracle it actually is. Move it. Feed it. Rest it. Challenge it. Take care of it like it matters. Because it does. In fact, it is the most important thing we’ve got.

And that’s not motivational bullshit. That’s just the truth.

As always with love and true admiration,

Teri

So let’s get real for a second and walk straight into those chapters for some real talk.

I have no doubt a lot of us have moments like this. The relationship that crushed our hearts. The dream job that was out of reach. The opportunity we were sure was built exactly for us, that turned out to be so very wrong.

The times we look back and think how the fuck did that happen?

~ Or worse.

How did I not see it coming?

Those chapters have a way of sticking to us. Sometimes they leave bruises. Sometimes they leave questions. Sometimes they leave a quiet voice in the back of our minds that says, ‘You should have known better.’ And for a lot of us, that voice didn’t start with that moment, it started long before it.

Women know this territory especially well. A soul crushing heart break. The feeling of being burned. The feeling of trusting the wrong person. The feeling of realizing too late that someone else had more control over the situation than we did. The moments we walk away from something thinking we’ve somehow lost a piece of ourselves. Where we feel broken. Used. Discarded. Disrespected. Hurt. That’s real.

And those experiences don’t always resolve themselves quickly. Some take years to untangle. Some turn into patterns we have to fight so hard to break. Some carry the weight of real hurt, pain, sometimes even trauma. And while we’re inside those chapters, they can feel endless. Confusing. Heavy. Exhausting. Sad.

But here’s the part we often can’t see while we’re living through it. Those experiences don’t break us. They shape us. They sharpen our instincts. They strengthen our boundaries. They teach us who we are, and just as importantly, who we refuse to be anymore.

The good. The bad. The ugly. The gorgeous. The wins. The losses. The moments we fall flat on our faces. The moments we soar. All of it becomes part of the architecture of who we are. None of it is wasted.

And sometimes it takes stepping back, I mean really stepping back, to realize those chapters weren’t just happening to us, they were shaping the person we were becoming.

Because the truth is, no one gets through this crazy life without a few chapters that knock the wind out of us. The kind that make you question yourself for a while. The kind that shakes your confidence. The kind that take time to heal, and even longer to make peace with.

But those chapters are not the end of the story. Hardly. They’re part of our formation.

And if you’re standing in one of those moments right now, feeling bruised, burned, maybe even a little lost, hear me clearly...

NO ONE else gets to decide the trajectory of your life. Not the person who hurt you. Not the opportunity that didn’t work out. Not the chapter that knocked you on your face. Those things happened. But they don’t get to write the ending.

WE DO.

Every single time we stand back up. Every single time we decide the story keeps going.

So, if there are moments in your life that still sting. Moments you feel a pang in your heart. Moments you wish had gone differently. Moments that once made you question yourself. You’re not alone in that. Those chapters are not proof that you were weak. They are proof that you’re alive. That life that’s still unfolding in front of you. That story is still yours. Always was. Always will be.

And when I look at that little girl in the photo now, I don’t see someone who will get it wrong. I see someone who will stand right at the edge of the chapters that would come to shape her. The ones that would knock the shit out of her. The ones that would crush her sweet

heart. The ones that would test her more than she could have imagined. The ones that would show her just how much power she’d carry on the other side. The ones that would make her a force to be reckoned with.

With love and respect always,

Teri~

I heard those words in a song of inner child affirmations this morning in my workout, and they hit me in the chest. Not because they were sweet. Because they were strategic. Every single one of those statements is a neurological instruction, and something I have been an advocate for as long as I can remember.

Now, I’m not a neuroscientist. I’m not a psychologist. But I am deeply interested in how the brain works. Because if the brain is the control center, then understanding it feels like understanding the operating system of our lives.

Neuroplasticity, which I’ve been digging into more lately, especially after hearing Eileen Gu, Olympic gold medalist, talk about it in her press conference.It’s the idea that the brain is not fixed. It changes. It rewires itself based on repetition. Based on what we think over and over. What we say over and over. What we rehearse emotionally.

Neurons that fire together wire together.

Which means this. If you repeatedly think, “I’m behind. I’m not enough. I’m too old. I’m not ready,” your brain doesn’t argue with you. It builds around that. But if you repeatedly think, “I am brave. I am capable. I am loved. I am strong. I am supported,” your brain builds around that too. Same brain. Different construction plan.

This isn’t delusion. It’s wiring. Straight up.

And here’s where it gets provocative. Most of us are unconsciously rehearsing an identity we don’t even want. We are running mental scripts written by fear, comparison, childhood, culture, old bosses, bad breakups, social media noise, and then we’re shocked when our lives reflect those scripts.

Your brain is constantly asking, “Who are we?” And then it organizes your perception, your behavior, your productivity, your resilience around the answer. You do not see the world as it is. You see the world as your brain has been trained to interpret it. Your internal language becomes architecture.

So when I’ve said for years, “You are exactly who you think you are,” I wasn’t being poetic. I was being literal. Identity is repetition. Repetition becomes circuitry. Circuitry becomes behavior. and behavior becomes our reality.

Eileen Gu wasn’t talking about positive vibes. She was talking about training her mind the way she trained her body. Repetition. Deliberate thought. Intentional focus. That’s not woo woo. That’s discipline. That’s baller.

And here’s the part that is the coolest. If our brain is plastic. If it is capable of reshaping, then we aren’t trapped in the identity we inherited. We aren’t stuck with the version of ourself that survived our youth, twenties, powered through in our thirties, or over-functioned in our forties. We can choose who we are becoming. And then rehearse her. Over and over again.

Not with fantasy. With repetition.

“I am” is not a cute affirmation. It is a signal. It tells our nervous system who to organize around. It tells our attention what to look for. It tells our body how to stand in a room. Our brain is always listening. All day. All the time. We are building something whether we mean to or not.

So maybe the most radical thing we can do is see ourselves through the eyes of the ones who truly adore us.

I am. With love, Teri

It’s not chaos. It’s clarity moving faster than usual. It’s ideas stacking before I finish the first one. It’s a less tolerance for delay. It’s less patience for overthinking. It’s that quiet internal shift that says enough circling. Something wants to move. Not because I’m behind. Not because I’m lacking. Not because there’s something to prove. Because I’m ready. And if the Fire Horse gives that energy a name, fine, I’ll take it. This is not the year to cool down.

Just feel it in your body. I mean, really feel it. It’s pressure in the chest. It’s breath that wants to be deeper. It’s legs that want to hit the ground harder. It’s that low burn under your ribs that says, it’s time to move.

And if it takes an astrological headline to inspire you this year? Fine. Take it. Use it. Borrow the fire. You don’t have to believe in it. (in time you will ;) Let it kick you in the ass. Commit to yourself. It’s a big fucking deal. It’s a pact you make with you. It’s deciding that this is happening and cutting off any internal debate. You don’t keep asking if you should. Do it!

This isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about grabbing the part of you that already knows it’s time and letting her run. And it’s not because I think women need more discipline. I just think some of us are standing on packed dirt, feeling the ground vibrate, and pretending we don’t hear it. We’re used to measured. We’re used to thoughtful. We’re used to contained. That’s cool, but this year hits different.

I mean ask yourself, what is the one thing you have thought about for years and still haven’t done? Not the fantasy version. The real one. The business you half-built. The pivot, the chapter, the life change you keep outlining. The creative project you keep reorganizing instead of releasing. The move you keep researching but never commit to.

It’s not a lack of intelligence. It’s not a lack of ability. It’s a block. Maybe fear. Exposure. Money. Leaving something comfortable. Outgrowing someone. Being seen differently. Call it what it is. And then ask yourself something even more difficult.

How long are you willing to keep negotiating with it? This isn’t about blowing everything up. It’s about getting unblocked. This year has pace. You can feel it. So stop circling the thing. Pick a date. Pick a version. Pick a first move. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Or complete. Just undeniable. It has to be you.

Send the proposal before it feels bulletproof. Register the name. Put money down. Tell someone it’s happening. Cut the timeline in half.

You don’t need to sprint. But you do need to stop stalling. If something has lived in your head for a million repetitions, it’s not a phase. It’s unfinished business. And unfinished business doesn’t cool off. It waits.

And so here’s what I know. When something keeps coming back, the idea, the move, the shift, it’s not random. It’s part of you. You can ignore it. You can delay it. You can rationalize it. But it doesn’t disappear. And there’s something deeply satisfying about finally saying, fine. Let’s see what happens.

Let’s do this fucking thing. In fire. In the Year Of The Horse. Let’s do it.

Now move.

With respect and admiration always,

Teri~

Watching Bad Bunny take the stage wasn’t about understanding every word. It was about recognizing a frequency. The vibe. The universal joy. One that doesn’t ask for approval or try to make itself easier to consume. It was culture without permission. It was truth without outsidenoise. And instead of pushing people away, it pulled the world in.

What struck me wasn’t the spectacle. Although it was spectacular! It was the certainty. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio didn’t meet anyone halfway. He didn’t sand down the edges. He proudly introduced himself and where he came from. He trusted that if he stood firmly enough in his truth, the rest of us would rise to meet it.

That’s not arrogance. That’s belief. And belief, when it’s real, is magnetic.

It reminded me immediately of what we knew, and fiercely protected, when we were making Ugly Betty. We weren’t trying to make Betty Suarez easier to understand. We weren’t translating her optimism, her family, her culture, or her joy so it would land more gently. We made a different choice. We trusted her belief in herself. We trusted her optimism as strength, not naïveté. We trusted her joy as disruptive, not decorative. We trusted that if Betty walked into a room fully herself, the world would follow. And they did. Not because they understood every detail, but because they understood her heart. Her roots.

And that’s the through-line to my musings today. Betty didn’t ask to belong. Bad Bunny didn’t ask to be understood. They invited us in by refusing to contort.

That’s the distinction people miss. Inclusion isn’t about explaining yourself until you’re palatable. It’s about standing so clearly in who you are that others don’t feel shut out. They feel oriented. That kind of confidence doesn’t perform. It doesn’t persuade. It doesn’t wait. It holds its ground. It lives in it’s truth. With pride.

We’ve been sold this idea that to be global, to be loved, to be accepted, we have to dilute. Translate. Smooth out the parts that feel too specific, too rooted, too real. But that’s not what moves people. What moves people is authenticity with conviction. Joy without apology. Presence that doesn’t bend to make others comfortable. That kind of truth doesn’t exclude. It expands.

So,maybe that’s the real point. You don’t have to understand every word to recognize conviction. You don’t have to share a culture to feel when someone is rooted in it. And you don’t have to be invited in when someone opens the door by standing exactly where they belong. That stage didn’t explain itself. Betty didn’t adjust herself. Benito and Betty trusted something quieter than approval that being fully, unmistakably themselves was enough to carry the moment.

And it was.

That kind of confidence doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t manage perception. It doesn’t soften to be accepted. It stands. And that’s what we owe each other. To stand so fully in ourselves that our presence becomes permission. Not permission granted. Permission modeled. The kind that says this is possible. This is allowed. This is safe to step into. Not because someone made room, but because someone finally stood where they belonged.

Notice the moment you’re about to add context, soften the edge, or translate who you are so you’ll be understood. Don’t. Hold your ground. Say what’s true. Stay. That’s not arrogance. That’s self-trust in action. We see you Bad Bunny. And I thank you.

With love and admiration in our power,

Teri

I keep thinking about how femininity and power still feel split in our minds. Like if you’re too feminine you must not really be in your power. And if you’re powerful, you must not be that feminine.

Femininity has been aestheticized. Power has been masculinized.

But real feminine power is not softness. It’s containment. Not fragility. Not delicacy. Not performance. Containment is the ability to hold ourselves. Our energy. Our presence. Our truth. Our nervous system. Our attention.

It’s the capacity to stay in our body when things get uncomfortable. To stay in the room when the energy shifts. To stay with what’s true without editing ourselves for someone else’s approval.

This is not hustle power. It’s not dominance. It’s not volume. It’s not force. It’s internal architecture. The kind that doesn’t leak. The kind that doesn’t seek permission. The kind that doesn’t require a mood to authorize our existence. The kind that’s sacred.

Real feminine power is not ‘I feel confident.’ It’s ‘I can hold myself here.’

It’s not how you look. (I know, I can hear you saying bullshit but,) It’s how rooted you are. Not how you’re perceived. How much of yourself you can occupy. How much you can trust the entire fabric of who you are.

Containment is what allows you to be soft without collapsing, open without dissolving, intuitive without disappearing, present without performing. It’s what lets you feel deeply without losing your center. That’s the part that’s been missing from the conversation. We’ve been taught to associate femininity with expression. Emotion. Fluidity. Sensitivity. Vulnerability.

All of that is real. But without containment, it turns into leakage. Over-explaining. Over-giving. Over-performing. Over-feeling. Over-adapting. Not because women are weak. But because no one taught us that holding is a power skill. This is the actual practice.

Where do you feel least rooted right now?

What in your life feels like it needs more holding and less explaining?

Who are you when you’re alone with yourself?

What would change if you trusted yourself here?

Not louder. Not harder. Not sharper. More rooted. More internally stable. More confident. Feminine power occupies. And once you live from that place, you stop trying to prove anything. Not because you’re above it. But because you’re inside yourself. You trust it. You don’t need to feel ready. You need to be contained. Once you’re contained, nothing outside of you gets to decide who you are.

That’s sovereignty. That’s grown-ass feminine power.

With love and respect always,

Teri~

That’s not because the advice is wrong. It’s because we’ve mistaken consumption for change.

We live in a time where you can access more insight, perspective, healing language, and wisdom in a single scroll than people used to encounter in a decade.

When I was coming up in my industry, (and as ancient as this sounds it was only twenty five years ago) this kind of access didn’t exist. There was no feed of mentors, no daily stream of language for growth or power or healing. I learned by watching, by failing, by being in rooms I didn’t feel ready for, by paying attention, by getting it wrong, and by doing it over and over again.

Now we have the opposite. We have more access than ever. More language than ever. More perspective than ever. That’s not a problem.

But it has created a distortion. It's the space between reading some thing and practicing it. Between recognizing an idea and letting it slowly shape how we live. Between the moment something lands and sometimes the months and years it takes to create something or become someone new. Between what feels good now and what actually builds over time.

We’ve trained ourselves on instant relief and instant gratification. And then we’re surprised when slow, cumulative change feels uncomfortable, boring, or what did we do wrong.

Because access makes everything look simultaneous.It makes it seem like clarity, courage, confidence, healing, and change all arrive at once. Easy. Like a package deal.

But that’s not how it tends to show up. It tends to show up out of order.

We get the responsibility before we get the confidence. We get the visibility before we get the comfort. We get the consequence before we get the clarity. We don’t grow into things. We grow through them.

I learned this not in theory, but in rooms where decisions had weight and consequence. Rooms where something I say could cost millions of dollars. Rooms where my yes reshaped exponential of lives. Rooms where listening was also a decision. And when I was in those rooms, nobody cared what resonated with me. They cared what I could hold. If I could stay steady when it’s clear. That I could make a decision without consensus. and if I could stand in the aftermath of my own choice.

That’s where I learned the difference between insight and self-trust. Insight is seeing something clearly. Self-trust is being willing to choose from what you see. The world wide web trains us toward insight. Life trains us toward self-trust.

And self-trust is heavier. It has friction. It has cost. It has consequence. Which is why we so often stop at insight. Insight feels good. Self-trust feels risky. Insight is shareable. Self-trust is personal. It’s in practice. And it’s scary as fuck.

Insight is light. Self-trust has gravity. But it’s gravity that actually moves things.

This is why I’m less interested in what people agree with, and more interested in what they’re willing to stand for. Because nothing changes until someone is willing to say they will choose that, carry that, live that, trust themselves. Especially when no one is watching.

That’s a mindset. That’s a posture. And that posture is what turns information into movement. Into practice. Into change. Into power.

And thats the evolution. Not more insight. Not better advice. But a deeper relationship with ourselves. Because once we trust ourselves, we stop reaching outward for our next step. And when we stop reaching outward, we finally start standing where our power lives.

Nothing changes until we decide it does. Nothing transforms until we practice it. Nothing stabilizes until we repeat it. Over and over again. Nothing evolves unless we do.

And that movement does not come from the outside. It comes from us. It always has. ..and we know it.

With love and admiration always,

Teri~

*circa 2008