To be honest, I started wondering if something was wrong with me because I couldn't find the thoughts or words to keep pace with the firehose of transformation unfolding in my life.

It's been exciting.
It's been lonely.
It's been disorienting as hell.

Which has been especially difficult because I've always been so certain.

I’m usually the person with the answers, not the questions, so walking through unknown territory for over two years now feels, well, humbling.

Two years ago, we sold everything and moved abroad. Since then, I've been on a mad hunt to burn down every part of my life that no longer felt like it belonged.

Friendships. Beliefs. My assumptions about the world. Even my stable, 14-year business. It's all been under scrutiny.

I've been hit over the head more times than I can count with the realization that I'd been making decisions from versions of myself that no longer existed, or only existed because they were built for survival.

My one mission, you ask? Alignment. If something isn't aligned, I don't care how comfortable or successful it is. It has to go.

This has cost me...

...long-term friendships.

...revenue.

...followers.

...the comfort of familiar routines.

...and forced me to rebuild my health from the ground up.

And while I'm still standing in the ashes, I have this quiet conviction that clarity is drawing near, even when it feels impossibly distant at times. So until then, I trust.

I believe this is the entire point of these transition seasons:

To not have the answers, and to trust anyway.

To ask better questions instead of demanding immediate answers.

To dance in the rubble rather than rush to rebuild.

Society tells us we’re supposed to have it all figured out…especially by 37, gosh darn it!!

I shouldn’t be walking away from the beautiful house, the routine, the successful business. And yet, somehow, that’s exactly where I am.

Is this an early midlife crisis?

Or is it what happens when you can no longer ignore the quiet feelings that the life you’ve built is slowly suffocating you?

The answers will come.

The seed for the new life has been planted and Spring always arrives right on time.

Within two weeks, we had new friends inviting us to local gatherings, showing us where they collect spring water, helping with groceries, checking in on how we were settling.

We met them days after we arrived.

Back in California, I’d be lucky to see close friends once a month. Everyone’s just… busy. Overwhelmed. Drowning in productivity.

And it begs the question:

What is this life all about, anyway?

Will I sit with my grandkids one day, rubbing my wrinkled hands together and reminiscing about how productive I was?

Or will it be stories of kindness, shared meals, and the adventures we lived together?

Look—I get it. I was in it too (Related: From, A Recovering Workaholic). And I’m deeply grateful for the chapter we’re in now.

And I know not everyone in Southern California—or the U.S., etc.—lives the same way.

But when it feels like you need a subscription just to breathe—and that subscription is rent, a mortgage, groceries, car payments—you’re not really living.

You’re just working to afford existence.

The hamster wheel spins. You stay stuck.

And somehow, I believe, we need to change that. Individually and collectively. Somehow.

It’s a complex issue—and I won’t unpack all of it here.

But I will say this:

In a fair world, community, time, and balance wouldn’t be luxuries—balance with work, with life, with nature and others—they’d be the norm.

But the world isn’t fair and it’s wildly out of balance.

So we do what we can, in the ways we know how.

We help. We build. We model.

We set fire to the old way of being and forge the new way. Not just for ourselves, but so others might come along, find it a little easier, and see that a different life is possible.

We create pockets of balance where chaos used to live.

Even if it’s something as simple as swapping doomscrolling for painting.

Small shifts matter.

They add up and they shape who we become!

And with every step we take, we’re clearing the path for those coming behind us.

Whether anyone notices or gives credit doesn’t change the value of the work.

It matters.

Because progress doesn’t always scream and shout from the tops of mountains, but it is always worth it.

Related Posts:

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part One

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part Two

• The Uncomfortable But Tender Prison of “Becoming”

💌 🍒 Ways To Support My Work 💌 🍒:

• Purchase one of my books

• Check out one of my art courses

• Subscribe to my newsletter

• Share this post with someone you think would like it or needs to read it!

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(Related: What It Costs To Walk Away From a Life That Looks Right)

We struck out for nearly 9 weeks straight.

Research, emails, calling schools, touring schools and packing up every 3 to 4 days or so to go scout out a new school and town.

It was exhausting.

For one reason or another, none of the schools felt like the right fit. In most cases, the day was just too long—8:30 to 4:30 or even 5:00 seems to be the norm here.

While a long school day sounds dreamy in many ways—just imagine all the work and self-care I could squeeze in!—having Myles home more than he's away matters more to us. Thankfully, our flexible jobs make that possible, so we’ve been extra picky when it comes to selecting a school.

And before I get the comments, no, homeschooling isn’t an option. It’s tricky here in Portugal—and honestly, it’s just not for us. Not in this season, anyway.

After our scouting trip in the spring, it became clear that for our family of three to truly thrive during this transition, we need two things: fast immersion into a community, and enough breathing room to settle in.

Homeschooling would do the opposite. It would add stress, not ease it. So that was yet another plan that was scrapped along this journey.

But after 9 long weeks of searching and no luck, we finally found a school and area we love TWO DAYS before we were meant to fly back to California to await our Visas.

So we wrapped the trip on a high note (the week of my 36th birthday too!), packed our suitcases one last time, and flew our tired, slightly bruised egos back “home” to Southern California—to my parents’ house.

Then we waited. In limbo. In between lives.

Our visas were supposed to take 6–8 weeks… but it ended up being 13. Thankfully, we were able to crash at my parents’ place for the summer.

While we waited, I managed to batch record 52 weeks’ worth of content—yep, an entire year of short-form and long-form videos for my YouTube channel.

Honestly? A pretty productive summer—despite not knowing if (or when) our visas would come through in time for the school we’d just enrolled Myles in.

I remember the day we got our Visas in the mail vividly.

A big sigh of relief and a big gulp of “well…here goes nothing!” all at the same time.

With 3 weeks left until Myles was due to start his new school, we booked flights and an Airbnb immediately and started packing up again.

I’m so glad I took multiple days while we were staying at my parent’s to batch videos.

I wanted to get ahead so I could be as present as possible during this big transition abroad.

I knew this move to Portugal would change me in all the best ways, but I also knew it wouldn’t come without its fair share of challenges, obstacles, and growing pains.

When we originally set out for this move, I thought most of our challenges would come from the outer landscape:

Where would we live?
Will we find a place near a decent grocery store?
Where do I even buy deodorant now?
Will Myles like his school?

And while all of that has been challenging, what caught me off guard was the inner shift.

The quiet, constant work of letting go.

Letting go of routines. Of expectations. Of the version of me that felt so at home in predictability.

This move isn’t just changing where we live. It’s changing who I am.
And that’s been the harder part—and maybe the most important.

The refining fire.

We found a home within the first few days of arriving. Myles starts his new school this week.

And little by little, the Polaroid of our new life is starting to come into focus. Soft edges taking shape.

It’s not all clear yet. But it’s enough.

And more and more, I’m learning to trust the process—to let things unfold on their own timeline, to loosen my grip, to believe that ease and alignment can coexist with uncertainty.

We’re not “there” yet. But for the first time in a long time, it’s starting to feel like we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

Related Posts:

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part One

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part Two

• The Uncomfortable But Tender Prison of “Becoming”

💌 🍒 Ways To Support My Work 💌 🍒:

• Purchase one of my books

• Check out one of my art courses

• Subscribe to my newsletter

• Share this post with someone you think would like it or needs to read it!

A survival instinct I learned young: just don’t rock the boat. Smile. Be agreeable. Make yourself small enough to fit into other people’s expectations.

The nice girl.
The good Christian wife.
The one who doesn’t ask too many questions.

It worked—until it didn’t.
Because the price of peacekeeping was silence.
And the silence started to eat me alive.

This silence slowly started eroding my own voice, my opinions—
even the small ones, like what I wanted for dinner or which movie to watch.

When you stop speaking your truth in the little things, you forget how to speak it in the big things. And without that voice, creativity shrinks.

Ideas stay locked away.

You stop painting, writing, imagining, simply because you no longer believe your thoughts are worth sharing.

Not that I’m suggesting society or our upbringing is necessarily forcing this upon us, I do take responsibility in my own life and actions, BUT, slowly along the way in our lives, I do think we soften and hide parts of ourselves that may seem too outrageous or colorful and loud, because it doesn’t fit or we might be judged for it.

It wasn’t until the last few years that I truly embraced every bit of myself and allowed myself to be an artist in every aspect of my life. Putting my stamp of authenticity on everything I touched and doing my absolute best with what I have. And this recent journey of selling everything and moving abroad has proven to be another opportunity of major self reflection and realization where I’m learning even more about myself and my creativity.

Because truly, even to those who say they’re not creative, the problem isn’t that it’s not within you to be creative…it’s that you’ve lost that connection to that part of yourself.

You haven’t been reminded of that familiar feeling you had from your childhood that allowed you to play and express without fear of other people’s opinions.

The inner voice inside you has become muffled by the voices of criticism and judgment we’ve picked up along the way from other people in our lives or from experiences that forced us to dilute and play small.

Creativity Is Your Superpower: Here’s How to Switch It On

• Playfulness — the ability to experiment without fear of failure. Dance for 10 minutes, pick up a sketchbook hobby…something with minimal pressure for perfection and a whole lot of room for silliness.

• Curiosity — asking “why” again, like you did before you learned to hide your questions. Maybe start with a subject you’ve always wanted to learn more about! Keep asking why, digging, going to the library and researching the subject for an hour…the world is your oyster!!

• Creative problem-solving — seeing connections others miss. There are no dumb questions, getting curious about the world will allow you to peel back layers and see things differently and make connections!

• Confidence in your voice — trusting that what you have to say matters. This gets a LOT easier as we age, but keep that throat chakra OPEN. Practice this through reading monologues from plays/role play!

• Emotional literacy — recognizing, naming, and channeling your feelings. A journaling practice is great for this. Low stakes, no judgment, just write.

• Resilience — learning to start over, try again, and adapt. There are no mistakes or failures in life, only lessons and stepping stones!

• Flow — finding that timeless zone where the world falls away. For me flow comes easiest when I’m playing piano or painting.

• Self-trust — believing you can create, even without a perfect plan. Rewrite the stories in your head. Ignore the perfectionism and just create! This is why I love a sketchbook practice because there’s no pressure on the end result.

• Connection — bonding with others through shared passions. Join an art community, start a painting night or book club with friends!

• Imagination — expanding what you think is possible for yourself. Create a syllabus of reading material that gets you fully immersed in the story. For me, that genre is fantasy.

Creativity unlocks who you are, how you see the world (aka your unique perspective) and allows you to develop the skills of expression, storytelling, comprehension and so much more.

Related Posts:

• The Uncomfortable But Tender Prison of Becoming

• Peace By Design

• The Night I Had to Choose: My Marriage or Myself

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Suspension.

I gave up a life that, to most people, seemed like it was “working.”

The dream house, wonderful community, great school for my son—we had it all.

We sold the home we made our own, gave up most of our belongings and with boxes packed and passports ready to take us to a new life abroad, we left it all behind. After spending over two months this spring traveling through Portugal, searching for a new place to land, we’re now living in my parent’s house.

The home I grew up in acting as a chrysalis.

Now we wait—in transition—for our visas, for the page to turn and for the next chapter to begin.

The Shape That No Longer Fit

The first day I saw our old house, I remember sitting outside before going in and having the deep, inner knowing feeling that this was “our house.”

She needed a lot of work, but I’m an artist and love a good project, especially when it comes to making something your own. We got right into renovations, spent thousands on an unexpected mold issue (more on that another time) and ended up with a home that was photographed and published in magazines:

When we bought the home, I was keeping up with a pace of launching new courses every few weeks, writing my third book and constantly sloshing around between obligations and deadlines.

Our son Myles was 2-3 years old and my values and priorities in life had me checking all the markers of “making it” in life.

Good, steady business.

Dream house.

Great community.

But slowly my idea of the perfect life began to shed its skin and I found myself trapped in a life I could no longer sustain.

The rhythms, the values, the output required to keep up was a pace that, when we first purchased our house, I was excited about. I LOVE my work and had an unrealized, deeply programmed obsession with success that kept me digging in my heels and wiping sweat from my brow.

Late nights and big pushes through the next big thing or launch was the fuel my ego was gobbling up, getting me to every next destination or landmark of “success.”

I bulldozed through burnout, ignored health issues and the deeper longing to live a life that didn’t just look rich, but felt rich.

But then the voice of anxiety became too loud for me to ignore. A nagging reminder of something repressed that was bursting at the seems, ready to explode.

To sum it up, I can put up with a LOT, but that began to give way and it was finally time. Something had to give. I went inward.

Priorities began shifting. My peace became a bigger priority than my productivity and my healing journey absolutely exploded with unstoppable momentum.

Something shifted, big time, and who I was and what she once valued began dissolving. Fast.

Could I have stayed within the skin of my old self—longing and working for what the world rewarded—yes. We could’ve kept the house, the old life, but it would’ve cost who I was becoming and that was something I was no longer willing to abandon.

So we put our house on the market. Held our breath, took the plunge.

This Is the Stretching Period

Now, four months after moving out of that life, we wait—full time explorers of the unknown.

Riding the waves of logistical stress and the strange, small griefs of being untethered. Belonging, but not really—in the spiritual and physical waiting room of life. Walking away cost me my old life, but staying would’ve cost me the new one and while I don’t have a tangible, real life example of what that is yet, I have feelings.

New beginnings have this awkward, sticky start to them. First you melt and dissolve. Then you cocoon. Then you emerge—caked in the new gooey you. Cries dribble on the air and there’s nothing to cling to anymore but the faith of a few fresh, awkward wing beats.

Aching, longing, stretching.

Something Is Still Becoming

I don’t yet know when or where our new life will begin—whether my son will start school this fall in Portugal, or if we’ll have to reach for plans B, C, or D soon.

I don’t know what the external landscape of my life will look like next year or even next week, but the inner one I’ve embarked on is unfolding and gorgeous. A soul finding and breaking chains with every wave and new emotion. Releasing those patterns, habits and instincts that helped me survive a life I no longer belong to and can’t carry with me into what comes next.

This tender prison or holding place rips you apart when you allow it and it can feel incredibly uneasy or liberating. Sometimes both simultaneously. But the end result is powerful and potent—a deeper realization of and connection to self.

The synchronicities become laughable reminders.

The winding path becomes a pleasant stroll. No need to rush.

Eyes opened and taking in a fuller, richer life.

Related Posts:

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part One

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part Two

• The Uncomfortable But Tender Prison of “Becoming”

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• Purchase one of my books

• Check out one of my art courses

• Subscribe to my newsletter

• Share this post with someone you think would like it or needs to read it!

“You’re account is so boring now all you talk about is yourself.”

or “Where’s all the art tutorials? That’s what I came here for, I don’t want to hear about your life updates".

As if a girl can’t change interests and pivot slightly.

The joys of being online for the last 13 years, growing a YouTube channel with nearly 400k subscribers and an Instagram following of 223k include being pelted by the opinions and critiques of outsiders.

People who would never dare say those things to your face, and don’t even realize the entitlement they’re dishing out when they slide into the DMs.

I’m not talking about feedback or constructive criticism.

I’m also not talking about hate comments (which I’ve received my fair share of and will dive into this topic here soon).

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I’m talking about a symptom of consumer culture that’s poisoning our minds and human connection.

Here’s how it goes…they follow your account, and suddenly, they think you owe them consistency, free entertainment, moral alignment, mental and medical health disclaimers, behind-the-scenes context, speaking up and social justice-ing in the ways they prefer, and zero evolution or room for growth.

And if you don’t deliver?

They unfollow with a self-righteous exit monologue like it’s a Yelp review.

When we treat creators like vending machines for our preferences, we reduce real people into “personal brands” that must always perform, please, and post on demand.

It’s capitalism, just rebranded for the scroll.

The new shopping mall.

But instead of strolling past and scoffing at the smells coming out of Abercrombie and Fitch, you’re scrolling past people.

Trying them on, sizing them up, deciding who fits your aesthetic, your values, your mood, etc.

This mindset erodes empathy. It rewards outrage. It punishes nuance.

It teaches creators that their value lies only in output—and that rest, boundaries, or complexity are bad business.

And when you set up boundaries to your account (hey! Every business has the right to reserve and revoke service to anyone!) and say, block someone who won’t stop harassing…you get dragged in some Reddit thread rampage where the onlookers spew half truths and obsessively stalk and critique your need to protect your mental health as proof that you’re a bad person somehow.

And I’m not putting all the blame on these types of consumers necessarily, because, well, we all are on these platforms scrolling, consuming and feeding the beast somehow!

I’m merely pointing out observed behaviors I see crawling through these online spaces and commenting on the similarities between those who look on and judge, feeling the need to comment, and well, a spoiled brat.

But, I’m not your content slut. My life isn’t a product. And no one, not even the most followed person online, owes you content.

Related Posts:

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part One

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part Two

• I Think I’m Quitting Instagram (And Maybe You Are Too)

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Confirming no one else was around I let out a deep, hoarse yell. The healing kind.

My husband and I had just stormed off from each other after one of the biggest fights in our 10 years of marriage.

Up until this point, John and I would keep our big feelings locked tight. Little leaks here and there, of course, but for the most part, we moved in silence with our big feelings. Neither of us were really taught how to express, mostly how to avoid.

We’ve managed to unpack the inner workings of this patterned behavior since this day of the big fight five years ago, but the melting pot of marriage at 20 years old, before we had time to really discover who we were and what we believe, was really starting to bubble up and cause friction.

Staying hidden was no longer an option.

As a child I lurked around a lot. Wandering outside for hours alone in the ditch behind the house, you start getting creative with ways to hide from the scary neighbor next door and the confusion of plunging into a world of darkness and unknowns with no user manual. The only real instructions I had were to avoid curiosities and those natural impulses that could cause me to sin.

I really didn’t want to burn up in Hell or get left behind with nothing but terror and the clothes my loved ones left behind when they ascended to Heaven.

I made sure I was the good kid—the easy one—the one who stayed quiet and didn’t cause much of a fuss. Not because I was scared of my parent’s, they’re great people! I was like most kids, I didn’t want to cause disappointment and the fear of Hell was real in our household…a natural byproduct of the strict, religious belief system that was taught in the home.

Out of sight most of the time, I developed a keen eye for noticing patterns and behavior of neighbors walking by, overhearing discussions, putting pieces together about what might be going on behind closed doors.

I didn’t talk much. I was shy and incredibly perceptive. I attribute that to my years of hiding, watching and observing.

Unfortunately, I carried this survival-instinct-turned-behavior into my marriage.

Always waiting and watching for any micro movement or shift in tone that I could analyze and calculate how I should respond.

Should according to what? And who?

But that strategy started to crack and crumble beneath my feet when I started questioning…everything.

The big, scary word that sent a quake through my entire Christian family and no doubt had my name ending up on prayer chain emails all over churches in Southern California.

Pastors wife.

Worship leader.

Daughter of two leaders in the church.

John and I met when we were both in Bible school in the heart of downtown Chicago when we were 18. 2007: The Age of Innocence I call it.

The city was new and big and I knew no one, but that wasn’t intimidating to the girl who’d spent most of her childhood and life thus far hiding from the people closest to her, right under their noses.

Growing up in the nineties, all us millennials and Gen X kids were raised by the cul-de-sacs and guided home by the glow of dawn, so I was well versed in being alone.

In fact I was thrilled at the idea of starting from scratch, far away from anyone who knew me.

John and I started dating at 19, and four months after we sat my parents down and told them we wanted to get married.

Wild.

We really did love each other…but our purity and innocence was, unknowingly, stronger than anything else.

My parent’s reaaally liked John though—he’s one of those rare catches and was very “strong in his faith”. My parent’s loved that. Knew he’d be a great leader for their daughter who they always seemed to worry about.

We were married just after my 21st birthday and our wedding night was the first night either of us had had sex. Yep. No test drives here! We were serious Christians…or at least John was. I just simply hadn’t dedicated any time to what I really thought.

It was just all I knew.

I’ll spare you the awkward details of our first night together, but let’s just say we were fumbling around with this new form of intimacy in the same way we’d spend the first 10 years of our marriage—lots of awkwardness and unspoken needs and feelings.

So as I sat on the beach that night, the waves in me building and swelling, I felt completely toppled by all of this. We had just brought our beautiful son into the world and I was beginning to discover my true thoughts and feelings about Jesus, religion, spirituality and what I believed.

Not what I was taught to believe.

What I searched and cried out for in all those sleepless, broken nights of early postpartum.

I was still attending church, still a pastor’s wife—hiding inside the woman I’d unknowingly become and the walls of the mega church we attended.

Everything in me felt lost and I just wanted to scream out anytime I sat in church.

I knew I didn’t belong in this place, in these beliefs anymore, but I felt totally stuck.

Married to a good man, the man I love, but we were drifting apart, fast.

I brought up how I felt called to try psychedelics. It would help with the confusion and the depression slump I’d been in since becoming a mother…I felt really called to trying it out in an assisted, therapeutic type of way. Not in a party type of way.

This is what started the big fight.

John was afraid I’d change and it was definitely off limits for Christians to try this sort of thing. But I wasn’t a Christian anymore, just pretending to be on Sundays.

More sadness and disappointment led to anger and confusion.

But I knew my soul was calling me to try it out so I kept at the conversation.

It was clear there was no budging. Was this my life?

Pressing on, alone, questioning my beliefs and pursuing truth, authenticity felt like a death sentence to my marriage, but I knew I’d never be whole without it.

I didn’t want to be fragmented pieces held together behind hidden thoughts and feelings for my son anymore.

It was time.

I could either choose myself and lose my marriage to an amazing man and father…or choose my marriage and lose myself.

This night on the beach wasn’t just about me wanting to do psychedelics.

I was taking the first steps toward discovering who I really am. Setting out on the journey my soul had imprinted on my life since before I entered physical form.

I made up my mind that night that someway, somehow, I was going to do psychedelic therapy and no one had to know about it. I definitely couldn’t tell John about it! Yet.

This was the first act of pursuing what I knew and felt to be true and I was on a mission to get there, even if that meant alone. A representation of the steps I’d been taking up until this point, and that I was yet to take in living in truth.

Deep down I knew I was embarking down a road that would lead me further and further from the person who met her husband at Bible school and I wasn’t sure if John would be coming with me.

I was hoping he would. Praying he would. But I felt inside the weight of going up against the impossible.

John was really Christian at the time. He was one of the very dedicated ones.

Keyword: was.

Not to spoil the ending, but John and I are still together. We’ll be celebrating 15 years next month. Five years after the night I sat on the edge of what I thought would end my marriage and we are now more connected, deeper in love and aligned than ever. Ever before.

The past five years have been equal parts excruciating and miraculous.

And as grueling as the journey of self-discovery is—especially when it brings you further apart from the ones you love the most—I can say, with my voice stronger than ever before, it’s so much better than hiding.

I’ve replaced the fear I lived with of letting other people down and I’m now pulled forward by the lingering taste of what life feels like when it’s not lived in authenticity.

I’m free.

For the deeply curious, check out John’s Substack here. He’s now a writer.

The topic?

His journey of understanding truth and spirituality after leaving Christianity behind.

His book shares his miraculous deconstruction journey in detail.

💌 🍒 Ways To Support My Work 💌 🍒:

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My rest is sacred. It is no longer something I chase or “fit in” on the calendar. It is a byproduct of reclaiming my time.

After decades of…

• Chronic overcommitment

• Guilt when taking time off or resting

• Chasing or squeezing in time off

…I’m officially in my “returning to my own rhythm” era and I’m pursuing it with all out force.

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For the past few years, I’ve been steadily chipping away at this: outsourcing more, saying no more often, asking for help, and letting go. It’s been freeing.

Boundaries are no longer viewed as barriers. They’re my sacred containers of power. Proof that I trust myself to shape a life aligned with my truth.

Instead of trembling at the feet of my people-pleasing tendencies—outsourcing my time with frantic yeses and overcommitments—I act with intention, pause, and certainty now.

But lately, I’ve been going even deeper by allowing myself to sit around and do nothing.

And by “nothing,” I mean everything that matters to me.

Everything I truly want to be doing.

Doodling, drawing, journaling, stretching, going for a walk, reading that fiction novel…pouring into myself.

Not in-between calls and deadlines.

Not after I’ve checked off all the “should’s” on the to-do list.

…long stretches of nothing. God, it feels good to reclaim my time in that way.

What a gift it is to be bored!

But beyond the surface, what we often call “nothing” is actually full—brimming with presence, possibility, and quiet inner transformation...if you go after it. Stillness is not the absence of activity; it’s the space where everything essential bubbles up and begins to take shape.

But I’m not just talkin’ about passive rest. Think of it like the cocoon period for our little caterpillar friends. Transformation. Shedding. Growing.

The ache and the excitement all wrapped in one glorious pause.

When we master the art of rest (externally) while upgrading and transforming our inner landscape, that’s where the magic happens:

Presence.

This is where transmission, resonance, and transformation are born—not in how hard you hustle, but in the quiet. In the spaces where you begin to gently rewire the old programs that told you your value lies in what you produce or how impressive your bio sounds.

Here, you remember: your worth isn’t earned. It’s embodied.

When you realize your worth has nothing to do with output and everything to do with presence, stillness isn’t laziness—it’s essential.

It’s a daily practice. One walk won’t cure the urge to fill my time with noise. One journal entry won’t dissolve all the fears about money or success. But little by little, something shifts.

In big and small ways, every reclamation of our time is powerful:

1. Intentionality replaces urgency

2. Swapping guilt with permission in moments of rest (even if it’s only for a few minutes)

3. Freeing ourselves from overcommitment through boundaries

4. Creating calm instead of being tossed around by obligations

When we stop outsourcing every ounce of our life, rest isn’t just possible—it’s inevitable.

It becomes craved and it is on the edge of every big rest period that I find myself plunging into new breakthroughs and possibilities in my life and in my business.

Without intentional rest, I find myself backtracking—unraveling from a string of performative yeses and calendar commitments that never felt aligned to begin with. Doubling my work and my distance from where and who I want to be.

You and I are no better than the flower.

Everything in nature blooms after a season of rest.

The soil must lie fallow. The seed must sleep in darkness before it awakens.

In the same way, our souls need quiet seasons—not to produce, but to remember.

To come back home.

And when each of us actively chooses rest—whatever that looks like in this season of life—we begin to shift.

We cross-pollinate. We bloom. And together, we transform the landscape around us with color, softness, and strength.

Related Posts:

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part One

• From, a Recovering Workaholic Part Two

• I Think I’m Quitting Instagram (And Maybe You Are Too)

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• Check out one of my art courses

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I’m typing this at the kitchen table in my parents’ house—my childhood home, where the history is dripping, just like the sunlight.

We spent the last three months (March to June) scouting out different areas to live—our next adventure after selling our dream home in Southern California to pursue a life with more purpose and fewer belongings. We’re chasing a distant horizon that’s become, surprisingly, more of an inward journey—already transforming and unfolding us.

A life where maybe I don’t have to work as hard (Related: From A Recovering Workaholic Part One).

But here—between lives—there are still a lot of question marks.

Some days, the unknowns feel incredibly unsettling; other days, they feel like the ride of a lifetime. Honestly, it’s wild how much of our life is, and likely always will be, wrapped in uncertainty.

Will we make friends and find community?

How will we all adjust?

Will Myles (my son, he’s six) like his school?

Will my business sustain us through this season of transition?

What comes next?

All of these questions hover in the air like unspoken, incredibly tender possibilities.

And so, I expand my capacity for the unknown.

Training My Nervous System for the Unseen and Uncertain

Over the last few years, I've been diligently working on how I respond to stress. It’s a practice — just like art. The more we choose peace, the easier it becomes to respond this way over freaking out and worrying.

Peace is a skill that takes intention, time, and patience.

Friends and family often comment on how calm I seem—how unbothered, as if I was simply born this way. But my peace isn’t accidental; it’s built with deep intention and unwavering purpose.

My harmony with life and what it throws at me is by design.

As someone who’s spent most of my life navigating the dark tunnels of CPTSD, I’ve long coveted peace—chased it with everything I had. Desperately clawing for even a moment of relief.

Through learning how to protect my peace with boundaries, speaking my truth and daily practices like journaling and meditation, these years of built up practice have really paid off for times like this.

Peace doesn’t arrive when you reach X or when Z finally happens—it’s a state of being. It’s something you choose to embody, and that choice comes easier with practice.

It’s like learning to layer watercolor—you can’t rush it, you never quite know how it’ll turn out, and there are probably a lot of shitty first drafts scattered on the floor.

But with each stroke, you trust that something beautiful is unfolding, even when the whole picture isn’t yet visible.

We all deal with uncertainty and challenges in life.

But, what if the unknown isn’t something to avoid but to lean into? What if we can let go of the need to know every step, and instead, savor the process of unfolding?

Moment by moment?

Learning to Trust the Unfolding

Deepening my well of patience—and my ability to stay steady—is essential if I want to look back on my life with fullness, not regret.

In art, we’re taught to embrace the blank paper, the unfinished—to trust that each layer will eventually reveal the whole picture.

Perfectionism creeps in.

The inner voices from that high school art class try to shake your confidence.

But here’s the big secret: those voices don’t go away—you just get better at quieting them. With practice.

Maybe life is the same. Maybe the space between where we are and where we’re going is just as essential as the destination itself.

(Related: The Path Doesn’t Arrive Before You Do)

This journey teaches faith. It asks us to release control and trust the mystery to guide us.

If you’re in a season of transition or uncertainty, I invite you to join me in asking:

What if the unknown isn’t a void, but a canvas?

What if it’s an invitation to create something beautiful?

A new version of yourself.

A new perspective and way of seeing things.

A new home within.

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“I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.” -John Keats

The conversational nature of reality is this process I think we’re all a part of—inside of you is this far off horizon having conversations with the one standing and looking on.

The lost one. The you who has trouble putting the damn phone down. The one that’s some degree of stuck.

How do I get there?

…where ever there is.

Maybe it’s starting that business you’ve always dreamed of, a longing to be more free, or simply being kinder to yourself.

Whatever horizon is quietly tugging at you—calling you to live more deeply—its not there by accident or happenstance. It’s there to pull you out and up. To show you those edges. Our teachers.

And when you trust the unfolding process, you just might find that those rigged borders were never actually your limits. They were your launchpad and you were always meant to fly.

So, when you have the great discipline to do so, take the journey one step at a time. The path doesn’t arrive before you do and clarity comes when you just start. It may feel like stumbling around a dark tunnel for a while—I’m very familiar with the feeling (Related: The Uncomfortable But Tender Prison of *Becoming*)!

But eventually, the way appears. We find our footing. We ease up and trust the summoning.

During this process, we often long for the light at the end of the tunnel to appear. To show us some sort of shortcut or way through. It’s in our nature to desire having all the answers and to get a little queasy when there’s any bit of unknown.

But the whole point is the unknown. It’s the discovery that there is no light at the end of the tunnel—YOU are the light.

Putting your focus on right where you are and who you are helps to illuminate those parts within—your essence, your authenticity, your desires—and THIS lights the path.

When we dive in deeply into the present, that is where our true north appears and our well of creativity opens up. We become aware of the path forward towards that seemingly distant horizon because we’ve found that light inside and our authenticity emerges.

Becoming active creators of each moment in our lives, we open our channel to those synchronicities, life’s big ah-ha moments and clarity.

But it’s important to make this distinction: being a creator or creativity isn’t about forcing ideas. It’s about being open to them. And presence is the key to that.

Part of the great work of any creative (be it painters, writers, musicians) is this conversational balance between speaking and listening—taking part in the conversation with your paintbrush on canvas or pen on paper, and then in other moments, listening and this is directly applicable to our lives.

Pay tremendous attention to your life and watch how it shows up for you:

In the wins and loses, in strengths and weaknesses and every lesson we’re taught along the way. This feeling of immense gratitude for this gorgeous life and that overwhelming feeling we receive when we partake in life’s beauty—watching a stunning act of nature, truly playing like a child, or creating from a place flowing out of you.

THIS is what I hope for you.

True presence in your life so you can notice your own ability to create every experience you are having. Every response or reaction brings you one step closer (or further) to that distant horizon—because you’re deeply attuned, listening not just to the world around you, but to the quiet conversations unfolding within.

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Kidney Infection.

I sat in that waiting room for a couple of hours before the doctor was able to see me and administer the drugs necessary for dulling the pain and helping my body mend. At 27, I was four to five years into building my business and in the most physically and emotionally depleted state of my life.

Constant back pain, insomnia from the stress and toll my business was taking on my body and on top of it, I was self-medicating…with alcohol. Hiding, numbing and ignoring my body’s cries for attention.

My go to? A Negroni. Or five.

When the back pain was too fierce to handle, I’d get up and make a Negroni. Forget about taking breaks to stretch or go for a walk—a Negroni would do the job!

The drinking habit started when I was 18 and working at a bar in Downtown Chicago through my college years—whiskey in my red plastic cup while at work, then another pour when I’d come home after my shift at 3am.

I’m sure by now you can fill in the blanks. The concoction of stress, over-working and numbing with alcohol had me feeling like I was years older than I actually was with all of the pain, stiffness and lack of sleep.

The Postpartum Blues

At 29, I got pregnant—and the only habit I managed to kick was the alcohol one. I was also onto my second book deal, Everyday Watercolor Flowers, and embarking on a world tour for my first book.

Two weeks after having my son in February of 2019, I was two weeks postpartum after a pretty traumatic birth experience (I’ll spare you the details), lying on the couch and designing my first planner collection for Staples, just fresh off of my first ever online course launch.

What made me believe I had to do it all? Was it the fear of losing momentum, needing to prove myself, or something else?

Honestly, it was survival.

I had no backup plan, no plan b, no wealthy family member to lean on and ask for money.

We were paycheck to paycheck for years as I was trying to build my business. When the revenue would climb, it would get poured right back into growing the business. And on top of that, while I was getting book deals and revenue was increasing every year, living in southern California aint cheap.

After that huge job for Staples just weeks after giving birth, it finally hit me. Hard.

Years of pent up stress and exhaustion lead to my mental and physical health being on the fritz and I was beyond burnt out.

Desperate for a change, I hired my first Operations Manager to get my business in order and to take some of the load off of my plate.

Hiring the RIGHT People

Nearly six years ago now, Kelly walked into my life.

One day, I’ll share a full deep dive into my hiring journey—and how bringing the right people on board has transformed my business. With the right support, I’ve been able to streamline everything so I can focus solely on what I do best: staying in my zone of genius and doing the work I truly love.

For the last three to four years I’ve gone from working over 12 hours a day on average (for years) to less than five per day. Game changer. I no longer feel chained to my desk, working around the clock. Answering emails, chasing follow-ups, managing orders—all the tasks that used to drain my time and creativity—are now in the hands of my team. Not only are they fully capable of handling them, they actually do them far better than I ever could.

But hiring a great person for your business isn’t the automatic quick fix to getting yourself out of hustle mode.

It took a couple of years after hiring Kelly to start rearranging my beliefs around success and my own self worth. For my entire journey thus far as a business owner, my “success” was directly tied to and correlated with how much time and effort I put in to working. Aka the output.

Resting or taking time off always felt like a faroff luxury that was only for the extremely successful and wealthy. Any “vacation” we went on was through my work and you better believe I always had my laptop open at the pool. I never fully learned how to turn it off.

Now that I have more time and space in my life, I’m beginning to understand the power of the pause—and the value of building a business that honors slowness, not just speed. One that supports rest, reflection, and a more sustainable rhythm.

If you’re running on empty, let this be a sign: your worth is not tied to your output. Where can you ask for help? What would it look like to listen to your body today?

It started with late nights and lunch breaks while I still had my day job at a financial planning office. My calligraphy jobs were brought with me to work on in my car while I devoured cold leftovers. Then, after sitting in traffic on the commute home, I’d often find myself hunched over the kitchen table with Etsy orders and extremely low pay wedding projects.

…signage,

…wedding invitations,

….art pieces for someone’s nursery—

I was saying yes to anything and everything. I knew this side-hustle was my escape route from the soul-sucking corporate life. I gave it my all.

After about 4 months of juggling two jobs at once, I went part-time with the office job and was able to start focusing more hours on building my art business. Weeks after that, I quit the day job for good.

With no schooling in either art or business, the learning curve was steep—but thanks to Instagram, I was getting steady work.

2013 Instagram was very different from 2025 Instagram. Hit the follow button and lo and behold, you’d see the posts from that account in your feed whenever they posted.

What a time!

No influencers, no sponsored posts, no clutter.

Ahhh, I miss those times.

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My First Book Deal and 100 Hour Work Week

Growing on Instagram was easy and eventually I started posting more artwork from my latest obsession at the time: watercolor. After a couple years of posting and growing, I received an offer from Penguin Random House (yes, the!!!) for my first book deal: Everyday Watercolor. A how-to book that teaches the basics of watercolor through 30 paintings in 30 days.

(Image by Matthew Morgan)

A book deal? Are you kidding me?! There’s no way I would decline.

With a full-fledged wedding stationery business already humming along, I found myself working around the clock. Days were consumed by client work—meetings with high-end wedding planners and brides, calligraphy jobs stacked—literally every surface covered.

Adobe Illustrator was always open, usually with five to seven invitation designs in progress.

She was booked and BUSY and after a fulllllll day of working on wedding jobs, I’d dive right into my book. Painting each chapter, step-by-step, and chipping away at my manuscript.

Those years were grueling.

Most days I was putting in 10-15 hours of work, with some of those starting at 7-8am and going until 4am.

I was GIRL-BOSSING. Hard.

I fully bought into the hustle culture nonsense that was shoved down our throats during those years and thanks to that, I have a sturdy business to show for it.

But my health (both mentally and physically) took a serious toll.

With autoimmune diseases left unmanaged, sleep nearly nonexistent, and cortisol coursing through my system at all times, I was 27—and teetering on the edge of a full-blown breakdown.

But the deadlines kept calling.

…to be continued!

A new summer-body workout routine.

The gender reveal from your favorite influencer.

More fires.

A meme about blood sugar and anxiety.

A protest.

A product.

A sponsored post.

A face tuned and filtered until it glows like plastic.

Someone’s breakfast.

Someone’s breakdown.

A war.

A wedding.

A discount code.

Scroll. Tap. Swipe.

Numb.

I feel the collective self is dissolving into static. A gale of voices: performative, regurgitated jibber-jabber.

As an early adopter of Instagram, I transformed my kitchen-table painting hobby into a full-fledged business with the support of Instagram. Followers have turned into friends and I now know how to get the perfect, soft-boiled egg thanks to these social media apps.

But after 13 years of posting, sharing my art, and squeezing myself into every box the algorithm demands, I think I’m officially done done.

My attention is too precious.

My ability to enjoy a simple, spacious moment without reaching for my phone is quietly being taken from me.

The hunger to be liked or seen is drowning out the simple fact of my worth: no audience required.

Two hours of doom scrolling later and I’m left feeling more worthless and even more disconnected from my actual life—from the daily miracles of just existing.

Phone addiction.

We all struggle with it and with every scroll it becomes harder and harder to fight against those neural pathways that have been carved deep by repetition, reward, and the illusion of connection. The more we scroll, the more we surrender—not just our time, but our attention, our presence, our peace.

But we must fight back.

My phone doesn’t deserve the best of me. My son does.

The echo chamber of the Instagram feed doesn’t need to hear what I’m going through before my husband does. Or before I call a friend who actually knows the sound of my voice.

And not to mention, the shells of humans we are all becoming?!

Empty vessels, washed out by noise, noise, NOISE and trained to depart from the present through fake, performative nonsense feeds.

Life is too precious. It really is. And I refuse to spend one more goddamn minute of it measuring myself against someone else’s highlights and aesthetic home reels.

I’m craving depth.

I’m craving real connection—soul over scroll type stuff. I know a lot of us are feeling it because as these apps become more crowded, our self-erasure continues to bubble up and spill over into all areas of our actual lives.

We flatten ourselves to fit the grid. We edit our thoughts before we’ve even felt them. We share half-truths wrapped in aesthetics and overly poetic captions, hoping to strike the perfect balance between relatability and “I’ve got it all together, go buy my course!”.

And the worst part? It works — at least, for a while.

The dopamine hits. The likes roll in. But inside, we’re starving.

Because none of it replaces what we’re actually craving: a voice on the other end of the line. Eyes that don’t scroll past us leaving us feeling worthless. Conversations that wander, that don’t end with “save this post for later” or “comment below!”.

I miss the warmth of messy laughter. The sacredness of being “unproductive” with someone I love. I miss silence that isn’t filled with swipes, and presence that doesn’t need proof or performance.

You feel me?

For a while now, I’ve been convincing myself that I need these platforms — after all, over 30% of my business revenue comes directly from Instagram. I’m not an influencer, but I use the platform to promote my books and art courses. And yes, that’s a valid reason. But I want to live life on my terms. So I’m deleting the app from my phone and shifting to desktop-only use until I bring on someone to manage social media for me.

It’s time.
Real life is calling. No hashtags required.

Share if this resonates or comment below if you’re in a similar boat! Have any hacks or tricks to be off your phone more?? Drop them in the comments!

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Do they exclaim (in their minds, of course), ‘Holllyyyy shiiiiit!’ or ‘This is awesome!!!’?

Pure reckless grace.

This is where my thoughts wandered after a few quiet minutes tracking a hawk outside the window of our new, temporary home. I had left my phone upstairs for most of the day and instead of giving into those smooth neural pathways in my brain that have me picking up my phone every 15 seconds, I decided to practice boredom.

We had just sold our house — our dream house, we loved her so much — and the bigness or our decision to sell it all and move to the other side of the world was settling in. Slowly.

The haunting feeling, the pit in my stomach… “what have we done?”

Sometimes the intensity of it all would swallow me whole and I’d find myself invisible, under the covers, soaked in tears. I could no longer hide from the realities of making a decision like this: completely starting over at 36 years old.

And it wasn’t because the “old life” wasn’t working, we just simply had feelings that we had outgrown it all and it was time to move on. The old me had built a life that demanded a relentless pace. One driven by productivity, where my business consistently got the best versions of me, even before my family or myself.

This was no longer aligned with who I’d already started to become, so we sold it all, packed up and moved to start living with less stuff and more presence.

So then I found myself, the damage done and behind me, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean from the lush, plunging cliffside of Madeira, Portugal.

Stop number one on our three month adventure of finding our new home. Like having your first child, no one can prepare fully for something like this. And we did the research, dug deep, read the blogs and the Reddits, watched the videos…but you simply cannot turn over every stone and know what it’ll really be like.

The months leading up to this decision, I wanted to make sure we were going into this move with every ounce of knowing that we could. I wanted to think about it from every angle. Step-by-step my spreadsheet loving, numbers obsessed father’s voice was clapping back in my head:

“Well, have you thought of this?”

And…

“What about this?”

I was thorough and like any responsible, entrepreneurial, tough-spirited “oldest daughter,” would be, I was up at night in those months leading up to our big move, playing out any worst case scenario I could think of. Planning our demise so I could make sure there’d be no surprises and no “I wish we would have” moments. I was determined to not have any caught off guard moments along this journey and especially wanted to make sure to provide as much security as possible for my son through everything.

Yet even with all of that prep and research, once the dust of the decision had settled and we’d spent our first week living in the new chapter, I woke to the unsettling truth that my old life was gone and there was nothing I could do about it.

Except for cry.

And crying did help. A lot actually! And I wasn’t hiding it anymore. It wasn’t possible. I felt so bare and vulnerable those first two weeks. I had a breakdown during my first grocery store trip because it was all so new, so foreign and so overwhelming. When you’re coasting on fumes and the adrenaline rush of juggling your six-year olds questions and translating ingredient labels into English, you have breakdown in the middle of a grocery store crawling with people. All that to say, new lows were reached in so many ways and the humility of it all is honestly, refreshing.

The thing is, no amount of research or mental preparation could’ve ever prepared my body and my soul for what being in the cocoon would actually feel like. The uncomfortable, tender prison of *becoming*… the waiting room between the before and after of my new life.

Those first few weeks I was tempted to numb out with my old doom scrolling habit, but that couldn’t even temporarily satiate the nagging lump in my throat. It needed to be expressed. So I took up writing again (hey, Substack!). I started slowing down, observing and noticing again and what I learned initially was quite powerful:

I’m not on a journey to find a new home, I’m here to find home within me.

Finally.

Now I began to see the ashes of our former life for what it really was: the cradle for necessary transformation.

My rebirth.

I seem to be having a lot of those in my thirties. It’s intense but I love it.

Now that I’m on the other side of those initial big feelings, I’m the most alive I’ve ever been. I like to think of this chapter in my life like how I imagine caterpillars must feel. They’re just scrunching their tiny bodies along, then all of a sudden — or maybe gradually, I don’t know — they answer the call to change and find themselves wrapped tightly in a cocoon.

I wonder while they’re in there, dreaming of open meadows and all the leaves they’ll be munching once they’re freed, if they too wake startled by the skies and the fact that they now have wings.

Now, four months removed from selling our house and moving, I’m settling in and getting cozy with the unknown. Instead of waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, I started moving through the dark… and in doing so, discovered the light was always inside me.

With nothing to prove and only major steps and transformations to process, I recently started writing and posting my journey here on Substack. I’m not here to be poetic or perform, I’m here to express authentically and share my human experience as it unfolds to make sense of it all. If that sounds like some form of entertainment or value to you, please consider subscribing! Otherwise, thanks for making it all the way to the bottom of this post :).

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I hate it when I do that.

I was doing so good for such a long time…

When my mind wanders back—reluctantly, I might add—from its expedition of self-sabotage and judgment, it returns to a thought that’s been echoing lately:

What do I really want in my life?

It’s a question almost unbearable in our current state, yet I know I must sit with it. So I do. I wait in the hush. Several minutes of emptiness and blinking pass, the ruins of my own rebirth gathering dust, until finally—a thought arrives.

You could just write about it, I think. I continue watching the ceiling.

I reach for my phone. I put it down. A small victory, but I feel proud. Every break in unconsciousness is a win in my book! The neural pathways to dissociation are worn slick from repetition, and I’m doing my damnedest to redirect—to rewire—by not reaching for that rectangle so damn much.

How am I doing this?

Practicing wonder.

Wonder and curiosity are not the birthright of children alone. They are fires to stoke, a tea to steep, and they must be pursued like a hunter stalks its prey. The flaky crackle of pastel de nata, the high-pitched squeal of milk frothing, the unnoticed moments reclaimed—these are doors back to the now. Being present. And presence, when it finally arrives, reduces the sprawl of my problems to something translucent. In those rare instances, my mind, body, and soul hum in harmony, just for a beat.

We set out on this journey three months ago. Sold our dream house in Southern California to look for a home abroad. The initial stings of loneliness and “Did we just make the biggest mistake of our lives?” have softened. The mind is so skilled at drafting its own disaster scripts, isn’t it? But I’m learning to trust the process. I’m settling, feeling my way through the tunnels of new beginnings—wondering what’s next, even as I’m swallowed by the painted tiles and jacaranda confetti on the cobblestone.

I don’t know where this life will take us, but I sure am soaking it all up! Finding who I really am while holding so much uncertainty is quite a unique experience. Guiding my son through this wobbly chapter with an adventurous heart feels, oddly, like a gift I’m giving myself.

Without certainty, how much deeper might I go? Who am I once the scaffolding of survival and success is stripped away? Who am I when all that’s left is instinct and a string of question marks? This is a real pilgrimage—toward home, yes, but also toward self. A little souvenir to travel through life with and pull out and share with others—when I was 36 we sold everything, left the familiar behind and embarked on the craziest adventure of our lives.

For now, I’ll write about it. As it unfolds. When I don’t have the words to process the ups and downs of this, I’ll stare at the blinking cursor until I do. This spilling out will act as a scrapbook of my own inner landscape. It’ll be something to witness. Something that might bloom.

xo,

Jenna

Three months ago, my family and I sold everything we owned—including our dream home in Southern California—to pursue something radically different:
A life of less stuff, more soul.

For the past 13 years, I was building what many would call the American Dream.
At 23, I started a business from scratch.
By 30, I was a four-time best-selling author.
I launched multiple online courses.
Built a thriving YouTube channel.
Created a brand that reached millions.

But somewhere along the way, I realized: success wasn’t enough.
I was craving something quieter. Slower. Deeper.
Not just a new chapter—but a new book entirely.

Previously, my metrics for success were ruled by productivity, analytics and revenue projections and now I find myself shedding all of that and discovering who I really am.

So we hit reset.
Let go of the house.
Packed a few bags.
And followed a whisper that said: There’s more aliveness waiting for you on the other side of letting go.

Now, we’re wandering. Homeschooling. Living abroad.
Redefining what “home” means.
And unlearning the hustle that once defined me.

In this next season, I’m writing more. Feeling more. Living more.
I want to share that process with you—not as a guru, but as a human.

Here’s what I’ll be writing about:

• What it really means to let go of comfort and follow your soul

• Navigating identity shifts after a life of achievement

• The grief and beauty of walking away from the “dream”

• Creativity after burnout

• Raising a child while raising yourself

• Building a life around presence, not pressure

• Starting over—spiritually, emotionally, creatively

If you’re in a season of becoming, of shedding, of returning to your truest self—
This space is for you.
Let’s walk it together.

— Jenna

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