But what if, in truth, there is actually nothing wrong with me? What if every aspect of me that I worked so hard on hiding actually served its own purpose? What if I decided that people pleasing, overeating, overspending, too much this, not enough that were what I needed in the moment to be safe, to feel better, to belong?

For years I beat myself up thinking that if I could only figure out…fill in the blank…then everything would be ok. Not only would I be ok, but everyone around me would be ok. The world would be ok.

Last week, in my story, the client discussed cost versus investment. She went on to discover two aspects of herself, Sam and Paula. Sam came out of hiding and Paula was tired of being the one in charge all the time. What the client discovered is that neither aspect was bad or wrong, nor were they out to get her.

Sam took on the responsibility of keeping parts hidden away, while Paula’s job was to constantly be on watch, to scan the situation, analyze everyone’s energy, in order to come up with the perfect plan to keep the peace. There would be no rocking of the boat on her watch. They were experts at their craft.

This is where we shift from fiction to fact.

Sam and Paula are part of me. They are loyal to me. They have never let me down and are proud of the protection they provide me.

So why would I choose to change their role in my life? Why would I not want to take the back seat and let Paula take over and why bring Sam out into the light when he was doing so well keeping me safe by keeping things hidden that might send my mind and heart into a spiraling F5 type of tornado?

Call it a whim, call it transformation, call it healing. I have chosen to live my life differently than what was the “norm” for me. While Sam and Paula served me well, it has become time to reexamine their roles in my life. Letting them run the show has simply cost me too much in my life. I no longer have the capacity to hold the physical, mental, spiritual and emotional weight of deciding which parts of me are acceptable and which parts are better left hidden.

Understanding that these costs could become irreversible, it was time to renegotiate. I started with Paula who explained how exhausting it was trying to keep the waters calm, when waves of chaos surrounded us. Yet, she understood that her job was to keep me safe and as long as she needed to take charge, she would be there. First, I commended her resilience and diligence and then asked if she was ready for a different role. I asked her if she would continue to keep watch, and instead of commanding our lives, share data with me. This way I could navigate the waters, with Paula helping me see what I couldn’t.

Next up was Sam, I thanked him for his tenacity and cunningness in keeping me safe by keeping things away from me that he thought might harm me. He kept things hidden so well and because he was used to playing cat and mouse with what he thought might harm me, he did not mind the job. I asked him what it might feel like to be able to nap in the sun, chirp at a bird and sit in the grass. A bit adamant at first, he did like the idea of not having to be on patrol all of the time. I asked if his new role could be to trust me in knowing how to handle the hard things and if I need him to help, I promised to ask.

Paula and Sam, happy with their new roles, showed me something I had not seen before. Their gifts. Paula held resilience and diligence. Sam represented tenacity, cunning, and even playfulness.

It is interesting to me, almost funny actually that I tried so hard to ignore Paula and Sam and all of the other wonderful aspects of me that make me, well me. Hiding Paula and Sam kept me from realizing and celebrating my resilience, diligence, tenacity, cunning and playfulness. That is certainly no way to live.

What I have come to realize is that there is nothing wrong with me and nothing is broken. Instead of blaming and shaming parts of myself that I believed the world would not want, I became curious, looking differently at these parts instead of bullying them into submission. It turns out all they need is to be seen, held and loved.

So now I wonder if you might have your own version of Paula and Sam. Parts that you believed would never be accepted by the world. Parts that you believed were trash, not good enough, and too much. But what if you discovered that there is nothing wrong with you? That you deserve to be celebrated in all of your glory?

We lost Dolly Parton this week and she based the way she looked on a woman she had seen when she was younger that was considered trash by society. Dolly did not care. She knew herself so well that she found her own look, embraced her beauty, inside and out and gave the same back to the world, loving us all as her own.

Most of us, at one point or another, decided on what we would let the world see and what we would keep hidden. But what if you decide that there is nothing wrong with you and there is nothing to be fixed? What if you loved all parts of you, the parts you thought were too much or not enough. The parts you kept safely in the dark, compared to those you invited out into the light?

Consider this your invitation to find out.

Subscribe now

In that moment she realized that while she may have thought that investment was shinier on the outside, it still came at a cost. Her eyes moved upward, while gathering her thoughts. Sighing, she said, “that was not a very worthy investment then, was it?” Recognizing that twang of shame, the next question surprised her. “What if you decided today that the investment was worth it because it protected who you were and what you had at the time?” Looking confused, she asked the therapist “I do not know if I understand that.” “Let me try and explain,” the therapist took a beat, “you had mentioned doing shadow work before, yes?” She nodded. “Ok then, if you remember shadow work is making peace with all of the pieces of you, those that you think are good or bad, light or dark, right or wrong.” Still nodding, the therapist continued, “if you were to peek under that rug to and invite and aspect of you out, what might that be?” After a few deep breaths, she said “scaredy cat.” “Good,” explained the therapist “now let’s introduce the scaredy cat to the part of you who lived above the rug, who is that?” Again, after another few breaths, she stated “the people pleaser.” Again, she felt the heaviness while the therapist asked, “do you think they could have a conversation with each other?” “I guess so,” she stated, feeling a bit wary.

“Take your time,” the therapist suggested. Closing her eyes, she again began to ramble, “I see the people pleaser lifting up the rug out of curiosity, the light encouraging scaredy cat to come out. Scared cat is frayed and shaking and of course the people pleaser’s reaction is to encourage it to come to her so she could care for it.” The familiarity sting of tears formed and while she admitted she did not want to look at this, the therapist continued anyway and asked her how scaredy cat now feels that she is in the arms of someone who will care for her. “Safe,” her voice cracked “and seen.” She was then asked “can you see the gift then of your people pleaser? It knows how to care for others.” Frustration out of her breath now “Yea, I can see that, but I thought that people pleasing was a bad thing.”

What happened next felt like a light bulb moment for her. The therapist explained in a way she could easily notice “People pleasing is neither a good nor bad thing. It served you when you needed it to feel safe. If you gave her or him a name, what would it be?” She answered, “people pleasing Paula.” “Great,” the therapist responded, “what does Paula have to say to you?” Going along, wondering where this path was going to lead, she closed her eyes again, took a deep breath and exclaimed with a long sigh, “I am exhausted. I do not want to be the leader anymore. I am not getting what I used to get from it and honestly, I am ready to retire.” A smile began to return to her face and is asked “if you were to name the scaredy cat, what would its name be.” “Sam,” she said with a curious tone, almost a question. “And what does Sam have to say?” Closing her eyes again, she began “While under the rug felt safe, it was also very confining. I was not worried about who I was and now that I have been led into the light, I am a bit worried about what might be exposed or what I might see.”

Giving her a moment to integrate these two parts of her, the therapist affirmed her gently, “you have done some heavy and important work today. I want to remind you of human agency, or as others may call free will. Remind me again of what you learned in the shadow work that you have done.” She explained “it is when you meet aspects of yourself that you have hidden, that you cannot be with. You expose them and then invite them back into you, fully integrated. You imagine them getting exceedingly small as you put your hand over your heart and remind them that they are an important part of you and thank them. Sighing, she claimed “I get the logic and reasoning around that, but mentally and emotionally, there still feels as if there may be a disconnect there.” Again, the therapist thanked her for the share “if it was all connected, what might you feel right now?” Without a beat and quiet confidence, she said “peace.” The therapist asked gently, “And who is the owner of that peace?” From her heart and out of her mouth came “I am, I am the owner.”

After what felt like forever, a gentle suggestion by the therapist surfaced “I encourage you to take that knowing into the week and play with it and see where maybe you still offer ownership to something other than you. How does that sound?”

“Worth my while” …. feeling vulnerable, yet safe, she stood to leave.

Subscribe now

Recently, when working on the memoire of the story of my mom and I, I wondered if I should tell it as a fictional story or through account and remembering. I thought what would be the difference? Was my memory more of a fictional account as it was from my perspective at the time? What meaning making might I have given it back then as compared to today.

Speaking of stories, for today’s writing, I decided to give it a fictional twist. You are invited to play along. Without further ado, here we go:

As the car turned the corner approaching the therapist’s office, she wondered what they would discuss today. After months of going around the same mountain, her instinct told her that change was coming. The flutters in her stomach and heart reminded her of the nervousness she felt when considering the idea of change and what that might look like.

Sitting across from the therapist, tears welling from the stream of grief, regret, fear, and relief were released as if slowing turning on a faucet. Calmly and quietly, she is asked, “what would you like to discuss today?” Her voice cracked like a delicate egg, “I feel that I am ready to make the changes that I need to make but I am afraid of what might happen if I do.” In the room, the silence was as thick as the tule fog that covered her internal landscape. “I am ready to find myself.”

Sitting quietly, with intent, the therapist inquired about the possibility of playing a game. With a deep sigh of frustration, “Now I am being asked to play a game? Have I not had enough of games?” was running through her mind. Curiosity stopped her from standing up and walking out. Instead, closing her eyes slowly and opening them again, after a deep sigh “OK, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“First, let us settle in by taking a few breaths. You can close your eyes through this if you would like, but it is not necessary.” She felt calm coming over her as the breath slowed. She was then asked gently, “I want you to picture yourself on a treasure hunt and tell me where you were when you first lost yourself?”

The memories came in like a tsunami, and she wondered where she should start. The teasing about being adopted was the first memory. As an adult, she knew that she was unique and made for purpose, but as a child, belonging meant safety. She could not remember when this first occurred, but she did remember the teasing and the sting of it.

It seemed that most of her life growing up, she never did quite fit in. Taller than all of her classmates, not being able to do what the smaller girls did in dance class, starting her menstrual cycle when she was nine and even being mistaken for a teacher and adult in the seventh grade had her almost laughing now.

A smattering of memories started to fall from her lips. “I guess I felt lost a lot of the time due to not feeling like I fit in.” Therapist nods. “I became a chameleon, a bit of a shape shifter, to fit into any crowd that I might have been in. Although, I never did quite fit. Just like the time I had to be the “funny” clown in dance class, wearing a different costume than all the other girls and avoiding certain stunts as I did not have the capacity to perform them. Hmmm…stunts…perform…why would I want that?” Opening her eyes now, still glassy with sacred water, she hears the words “it sounds like you are starting to find yourself.” The therapist then asks her about the costs of performing.

Closing her eyes once again, the words came confidently, almost surprising her “the cost of performing and pretending cost me my voice. It cost me my mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical health. It seems that performing created a false sense of security and safety, to only have that rug pulled out from under me.” A small chuckle and deep breath again, “and that is why I am here to examine what was swept under that rug.”

With a gentle reminder, a warm suggestion by her therapist arrives. “I want you to remember all of the work that you have already done and the progress that you have made. Next week perhaps we can choose another journey to remember the pieces of you that you believed were abandoned yet were there all along.”

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, breathing another sigh of relief.

Subscribe now

There was the time when I was in CCD class (Catholic teaching) when we were told that if we ate meat on Friday, especially Good Friday our hands would bleed like Jesus, and we would all go to hell. It was the same teacher who referred to the choir director, aka my dad and the organist, aka my mom, Satan and his mistress and the children all of Satan’s children, aka me and my friends. I remember being so distraught when I accidentally ate Chef Boyardee Roller coasters with meatballs on Good Friday that I had to have my mom interrupted at work (she taught Catholic school) to get me off the cliff. Thankfully, my mom removed me from the class and to this day I wonder if anything was ever done about that teacher. More like a false prophet if you ask me.

Around this same timeframe, a tragedy so horrifying and scary happened in our neighborhood. Nearly an entire family lost their lives from a heinous act performed by a “friend” of the family. If I recall only one family member survived and witnessed the crime scene upon returning home. How I heard about this event I do not remember but I remember asking my mom if this same person could show up at our house and do the same thing. Her response was honest, “I will do all I can to protect you, but even I cannot stop a bullet”. As an adult now, I appreciate her honesty, but as a child I wanted to hear “nothing will get to you as long as I am with you”.

I am sure other events took place during this tender time in my life, yet those are the two that are most prevalent. Maybe this is why I spoke up one night after dinner exclaiming that I wanted to run away from home. It is not necessary to go into details about what occurred after.

Last week I wrote about home and what it felt like for me. This week I am wondering if I ever felt safe and comforted at a young age and perhaps that is why I wanted to run away from home. I was seeking comfort and protection that was unfamiliar to me at the time.

I thought I was clear in what I desired by sharing my fears and anxieties, but the responses I had received did not feel comforting or safe. I wonder now if that was when I decided to stop communicating and instead

Subscribe now

learn what would keep me safe. Conformity and silence? Maybe. Maybe it was safe to just go along with what was expected of me or what I thought people wanted from me. Maybe this would provide me the safety, belonging, and comfort I so desperately needed. Maybe play, exploration and discovery would become a natural part of my day, giving me the opportunity to become who I was meant to be.

I am sure I could write pages and pages of examples of where I stayed silent instead of speaking up. Of where I decided it was better to be “safe than sorry”. That is another book for another time. What is clear to me now is the pattern that was created was one of abandoning myself. The abandonment led me straight to people pleasing parkway, where I traveled for what feels like, well, forever. There have been those days when I wonder what would have happened if I decided to detour, to choose different. Maybe that is what I meant all those years ago when I exclaimed “I want to run away from home”. Looking back, I wonder if it was not actually that I wanted to run away from home, but that I was looking for a space to finally just be. No expectations, no performance, just me, as me.

It turns out that performing and trying to live up to the expectations of others comes with a pretty hefty cost. Way more than the benefits. Think of a scale, where cotton balls represent the benefits and bricks represent the cost. A strong breeze comes along, and those cotton balls go flying, yet the bricks remain and the weight of it feels much, too much. The feelings of being enough and doing enough are fleeting, while the abandonment of self remains.

People pleasing reminded me of attempting to fit all of the laundry in one load. Shoving and stuffing it all down and closing the lid. Yep, my life was definitely out of balance. The loudness of the load hitting its sides and the buzz of the alarm woke me up. It was as if I was being asked if I was ready to lighten the load and bring balance back to my life. I find it amusing. Being a libra, we are supposed to be all about balance, yet balance was the last thing that was happening in my life.

Maya Angelou once said “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better do better”. Perhaps people pleasing was the best I could do; however, I now know better, so I am choosing to do better.

Now, I notice when life feels out of balance. I slow down, take a few deep breaths and remember what home is for me. What does it look like and more importantly what does it feel like?

Returning to ourselves is not necessarily easy, but it is worth it. And the good news? Even if we get off track or lose our way, we are able to find our way back home. And we don’t even need to click our heels three times.

As I sat with that thought, the first memory that came to mind surprised me. It was not the house I grew up in or a favorite vacation. It was my boyfriend from high school in my Junior and Senior year.

I will never forget our first date. The feelings of excitement and wonder filled me from the bottom of my feet and out through the top of my head. I let the butterflies roam freely throughout my entire body and, when we got into his car, his eyes sparkled and his smile was almost blinding as he asked if I would like to listen to the new cassette he had just purchased. It was the eighties, after all.

I do not remember what we talked about over dinner, but I remember feeling completely at ease with him. After dinner, we took a walk, talked some more, and shared our first kiss. It was one of those magical moments that somehow stays with you forever. We dated for a few years before eventually ending the relationship because we wanted different things and, at the time, neither of us knew how to bend without breaking.

When I look back on that relationship, I remember the feelings far more than the specific events. I remember playing video games, eating snacks, laughing until my stomach hurt, and spending entire days doing absolutely nothing. Those ordinary days somehow became everything because I felt free to be myself. I was open to adventure, curious about life, and completely comfortable in my own skin. I felt safe with him. I suppose you could say I felt like I was home.

Two movie quotes have always stayed with me. Dorothy’s famous line from The Wizard of Oz, “There’s no place like home,” and a line from Sleepless in Seattle, “It was like coming home, only to no home I had ever known.” That is exactly how that season of my life felt. Not because everything was perfect, but because I felt safe, seen, heard, and loved.

When the relationship ended, I thought I was grieving the loss of another person. Today I wonder if I was grieving something much deeper. Perhaps it was not about missing the relationship at all. Perhaps it was about forgetting what it felt like to have home within myself.

The home where I was free to be me. Free to play. Free to be curious. Free to curl up with a favorite book. Free to laugh, to cry, and to be completely alive. Somewhere along the way, the doors became bolted shut, and no one was allowed to enter. Not even me.

As I sit here writing, tears quietly, yet quickly fill my eyes and another movie scene comes to mind. This time it is Forrest Gump. For years I remembered the scene where Forrest bulldozes Jenny’s childhood home as if he were tearing down a place filled with memories. Then I remembered what that house really represented. It was not a home at all. It was the place where Jenny had been abused, where fear had lived, and where she learned she was not safe. Earlier in the film, Jenny stands in front of that house throwing rocks at it until she collapses, unable to throw enough of them to erase what happened there. Forrest simply tells her, “Sometimes there just aren’t enough rocks.”

Initially, I had the same thought. Do I need to bulldoze the house that lives within me and start all over? Then again, maybe the home has never been the problem. Maybe what needs to come down are the walls I built around it to survive. The walls of perfectionism. The locked doors of self-protection. The windows boarded up by disappointment, grief, fear, and the quiet belief that I somehow had to become someone different in order to be worthy of love.

Subscribe now

What if home has been there all along, patiently waiting beneath everything I built around it to protect myself? When I close my eyes now, I no longer imagine starting over. Instead, I imagine opening the front door and finding every version of myself already inside. The perfectionist, the messy one, the angry one, the joyful one, the frightened one, the hopeful one, etc. Every part belongs. Every part has carried something important. Every part has helped me become who I am today.

Perhaps healing is not about becoming someone new. Perhaps it is about remembering who we were before fear taught us to forget.

Some of us spend years searching for home, only to discover it has been patiently waiting for us all along. Not in another person. Not in another place. Not in another version of ourselves. But quietly within us, beneath all the stories we learned to believe about who we had to become.

As Rafiki says in The Lion King, “It is time.”

I think he is right.

I wonder what comes to mind when you think of home. Not the address. Not the house. The feeling. Perhaps that memory has been patiently waiting to lead you home.

That lesson was learned almost twenty-four years ago when I gave birth to my child. Like many first-time mothers, I arrived at the hospital with a carefully crafted birth plan. I had spent hours thinking through every detail and proudly handed it to the nurse when I checked in. She smiled politely, set it on the counter, and gave me a look that I interpreted as, “That’s nice, dear.”

At the time, I was offended, maybe a little pissed off. That was my plan. It was perfectly outlined and exactly how I planned and wanted the birth to go. Looking back on the experience, I smile and giggle a bit.

Very little happened according to that binder full of plans, yet everything happened exactly as it needed to. I did not know it then, but life was beginning to teach me something that I would spend years resisting: our plans often give us the illusion of certainty, while life quietly invites us into something much better, possibility.

Last week I wrote about not knowing and how the absence of certainty can actually create room for something new. Is it not interesting how quickly our minds fill that space with fear instead? We imagine all the ways things could go wrong. What if I lose my job? What if I never lose the weight? What if they do not choose me? What if I make the wrong decision? We become remarkably creative when it comes to rehearsing disappointment, almost as though expecting the worst will somehow soften the blow if it happens.

Lately, I have been wondering what would happen if we became just as creative in imagining what could go right.

I have been participating in a daily practice called the Delulu Challenge. The premise is simple, although it can feel surprisingly uncomfortable. We are invited to choose one juicy, delicious dream that gives us goosebumps, butterflies, and a quiet knowing that life could be so much bigger than we have allowed ourselves to imagine. That becomes our first domino. If that one domino falls, everything else has room to fall into place. Every night we are encouraged to spend a few moments imagining that it has already happened, not because we are trying to trick ourselves or deny reality, but because we are becoming familiar with the feeling of living from fulfillment instead of lack.

One of my favorite parts of the challenge is that we do not simply hand our dreams over to “the universe.” Instead, we give our order to GUS. GUS stands for God, Universe, Source, and while everyone is free to interpret that however they choose, I cannot help but smile every time I hear it. There is something wonderfully childlike about imagining that I have placed an order with someone who is lovingly working behind the scenes.

Whenever something unexpected happens, the practice is simple: remind yourself, It is already handled. In other words, GUS has the order. My job is not to obsess over how it will happen or whether it will happen. My job is to take the next right step while trusting that I do not have to carry the entire weight of the outcome myself.

When I first began the practice, I assumed the goal was to get the thing I wanted. As the days have passed, I am now wondering if I had it backwards. The practice has very little to do with the thing itself. It has everything to do with the person I become while believing that life can still surprise me.

When someone asked what would happen if I never received the thing I had been imagining, I realized my answer surprised even me. The point is not the outcome. The point is the feeling. There is a sense of purpose, calmness, peace, joy, sorrow, grief, and sadness: everything life delivers as it chooses. When things do not feel good, I am able to rest in the confidence that everything is being handled. There is no need to control every outcome or force every solution. I simply take the next right step and trust the rest. Life flows a little more easily, and all is well.

David Hawkins writes in Letting Go that our emotions can either expand or limit our experience of life. I found myself thinking about that this morning when I locked myself out of my work laptop. My first reaction was irritation. Then I remembered one of the practices from the challenge. Whenever something unexpected happens, simply say, “It is already handled.” I took a breath, dialed the automated IT helper, followed the instructions, and took the steps needed to get my system unlocked. Wha-la! System Unlocked! Still sitting in gratitude for the simplicity of the solution, I wondered if any other areas of my life felt locked.

Subscribe now

I contemplated the idea that perhaps what we call “healing” is really the process of our systems becoming unlocked. What if our bodies, our hearts, and our minds have been doing exactly what they were designed to do all along? Protect us. Learning to anticipate disappointment, avoid rejection, and brace for loss, protective walls are built around the places that once felt too tender to leave exposed. There is nothing wrong with that. Those walls probably served us well for a season.

The difficulty comes when we forget they were built for protection, not permanent residence. What once kept us safe can slowly become the cage that keeps us from fully living. We stop dreaming because disappointment hurts. We stop trusting because certainty feels safer. We stop believing there could be another way because our nervous systems have become convinced that familiar is better than free.

Perhaps that is why this little delulu experiment has affected me more than I expected. It is not asking me to ignore reality or pretend life is perfect. It is inviting me to loosen my grip on fear just enough to remember that hope is still available. I am learning that trust is not passive. Trust still picks up the phone. Trust still takes the next right step. Trust simply refuses to believe that fear gets the final word.

Maybe it is not about being the best we can be, but to remember who we were before fear convinced us it was not safe to be free and what is not safe, becomes caged. Then something beautiful starts to happen. We begin to trust again and the lock starts to jiggle. Every moment we choose possibility over certainty creates another opening. Eventually, we discover that freedom was never about escaping our lives. It was about unlocking the parts of ourselves that had forgotten they were always meant to be free.

Maybe that is why I am enjoying this little experiment so much. Not because I expect every dream to unfold exactly as I imagine it, but because I am noticing something inside me beginning to soften. I am laughing more. Dreaming more. Holding my plans a little more loosely. Trusting a little more deeply. And for the first time in a long time, I am beginning to believe that life might surprise me again.

As I finish writing this, I find myself wondering about your first domino. Not the practical one. The one that feels just a little outrageous. The one that gives you goosebumps before your mind starts listing all the reasons it cannot happen. Perhaps that is the dream worth paying attention to.

After all, life has a funny way of surprising us when we stop insisting we already know how the story is supposed to end.

We do it all the time. We decide who we are, what we are meant to do, and what our lives should look like long before life has finished introducing us to ourselves. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that certainty was the goal. If we did not know the answer, we assumed we simply had not found it yet.

Lately, I have been wondering if we have misunderstood what it means to not know.

A few days ago, I came across something I had written more than ten years ago. It began with two questions: Who am I? Why am I here? My answer was simple: I don’t know.

Reading those words today, I expected to smile at the younger version of myself. Instead, I found myself grateful for her honesty. She was not pretending to have life figured out, even though she believed that one day she would. Like so many of us, she thought certainty was waiting somewhere down the road and that if she kept growing, searching, and doing all the right things, she would eventually arrive.

Looking back now, I realize life was not withholding the answers from me. It was inviting me to become the kind of person who could hold the questions differently.

The years that followed brought joy I never expected and heartache I never would have chosen. They also taught me that certainty is not nearly as dependable as I once believed. The life I imagined was not the life I lived, and while there were seasons I would never choose to repeat, they shaped me in ways certainty never could. They taught me compassion, resilience, and a quieter kind of faith that does not depend on having everything figured out.

One sentence from that old piece stayed with me. I had written that every experience was a blessing. I understand why I believed that then, but today I would offer a different perspective. I no longer believe suffering is the gift. I believe what grows within us as we move through it can be. Some experiences simply hurt, and some leave us carrying grief that becomes part of who we are. Yet there is something deeply sacred about allowing pain to expand our capacity for love, empathy, and grace instead of allowing it to close us off from the world.

As my understanding of life changed, so did my understanding of uncertainty. For years, I assumed the opposite of knowing was confusion. If the answer was not clear, I believed I needed to find one as quickly as possible.

Now I find myself asking a different question.

Subscribe now

What if the opposite of knowing is not confusion at all? What if it is possibility?

The more I sit with that idea, the more it changes the way I see my own life. The moment I become certain about how something has to unfold, I have unknowingly narrowed what is possible. I have decided what the future should look like before life has had the chance to surprise me. Not knowing, on the other hand, leaves the door open. It reminds me that there are opportunities I cannot yet see, people I have not met yet, and versions of myself that are still waiting to emerge.

That does not mean uncertainty suddenly becomes comfortable. I still have moments when I wish I knew what comes next. I still catch myself reaching for certainty because it feels safer. But I am learning that uncertainty does not automatically become overwhelm. It can become a place of openness instead. It invites curiosity rather than control and reminds me that I do not have to know the ending to fully participate in the story.

When I think about the woman who wrote those words more than a decade ago, I no longer see someone who was lost. I see someone who believed she needed answers before she could move forward. Today, I would gently tell her that life has a curious way of unfolding. Sometimes the questions themselves are doing the shaping. Sometimes the answer only becomes visible because we were willing to keep walking without it.

Perhaps that is the real gift of not knowing. It reminds me that my imagination is not the limit of what is possible. It leaves room for life to surprise us, for healing to arrive in unexpected ways, and for possibilities we never would have discovered had we insisted on knowing all along.

Maybe some of life’s most important questions are not asking us for answers.

They are simply asking us to live them.

Years ago, I accepted the responsibility of caring for my mother before and during her diagnosis of ALS. At the time, I was working full-time, raising my child as a single mother, navigating the aftermath of a divorce, and beginning a new relationship with the man who would later become my husband. Yes..it was a lot.

I remember writing letters to creditors because the bills kept coming. I remember touring nursing facilities, trying to figure out what was best for my mom while wondering how we would afford any of it. I remember moving expenses, medical appointments, difficult conversations, and the endless decisions that seemed to multiply overnight.

We even had to find a new home for our cat because the caregiver we hired was allergic to him. It may seem like a small thing, but in a season filled with loss, it became one more goodbye.

There was the loss of savings. The loss of sleep. The loss of my health. The loss of hope. The loss of motivation. And if I am being completely honest...sometimes there was even the loss of empathy. Not because I did not love my mom. But because I was exhausted.

My husband and I took turns caring for her every four hours. We lived on what I can only describe as a newborn’s schedule, except there was no expectation that this phase would end in a few months. It was relentless. And here is the truth I could not admit back then:

It was too much.

I loved my mother deeply. And it was still too much. Those two truths can exist at the same time. But I was terrified to say that out loud. I was afraid people would think I was not loving enough. That I was not strong enough. That I was not grateful enough. That somehow admitting I had reached my limit meant I had failed her.

Looking back now, I realize something that has taken me years to understand. So many of us confuse love with limitless capacity. We quietly believe that if we truly love someone, we should be able to carry anything. We should never grow weary. Never need help. Never long for rest. Never admit that we are overwhelmed.

But love has never required us to stop being human.

Recently, I found myself in a conversation with another friend who is walking her own caregiving journey. As she shared what she was experiencing, I noticed something happening inside me. Part of me wanted to protect her. Part of me wanted to explain.Part of me wanted to tell her what I had learned.

Then I realized that those impulses belonged to my story. Not hers. So instead of trying to fix anything, I asked a simple question:“How are you taking care of yourself?”She smiled and told me she was okay. Maybe she is. Maybe today she genuinely is. My job was not to decide whether her answer was right. My job was simply to remind her that someone was thinking about her, not just the person she was caring for. Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts we can give one another. Not another explanation. Not another solution. Just the quiet assurance that someone sees us.

I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand why painful things happen. These days, I’m less interested in finding the perfect explanation.I am more interested in becoming the kind of person who can sit beside someone in their pain without needing to solve it. Maybe that’s what love has been teaching me all along. Not that I have to carry everyone else’s burden. Not that I have to understand every reason. Just that I can remain present. And perhaps that’s enough.

Subscribe now

Because sometimes the holiest thing we can offer another person is not our strength. It is our presence.

For years, I believed fear was simply part of who I was. It influenced the decisions I made, the opportunities I declined, the words I swallowed, and the dreams I quietly placed back on the shelf.

What I didn’t realize then was that fear wasn’t protecting me.

It was shrinking me.

As I’ve continued this journey inward—through healing, through faith, through learning to listen to my body instead of only my thoughts—I have come to see fear differently. It still shows up. It probably always will. But it no longer gets to make my decisions.

The greatest cost of fear wasn’t stress or anxiety, although it certainly brought both.

The greatest cost was forgetting who I already was.

These days, when I think about faith, I don’t think about certainty. I think about trust.

Trust that I can take the next step even if I can’t see the whole path.

Trust that life is unfolding in ways my mind cannot always understand.

Trust that God has never once asked me to have all the answers before moving forward.

Trust that the quiet voice within me is wiser than the loud voice of fear.

Fear is loud because it wants certainty.

Faith is quiet because it doesn’t need it.

We live in a world that profits from our fear. Every headline, notification, and opinion invites us to believe that something is wrong, that we’re behind, that we should worry about what’s coming next.

Faith invites something entirely different.

It asks us to pause.

To breathe.

To return to ourselves.

So today, instead of asking whether fear or faith is easier, I wonder:

Which voice have you been rehearsing?

The one that tells you to stay small...

Or the one that gently reminds you that you’ve survived every hard season you’ve ever faced?

If you closed your eyes for just a moment and asked yourself,

“What would change if I trusted myself...and trusted God...just a little more today?”

what answer would rise to the surface?

You don’t have to leap.

You only have to take the next honest step.

Fear may still walk beside you.

But it doesn’t have to lead.

Fear may have helped you survive.

Faith will help you live.

And love...

Love will show you the difference.

May this week be one where you notice fear without obeying it, where you trust yourself enough to take the next gentle step, and where you discover, perhaps in the smallest of moments, that love has been leading you all along.

Subscribe now

There was a moment many years ago that I have never forgotten.

I was attending a three-day personal growth intensive when we were asked to participate in an uncomfortable exercise. We stood in our bathing suits across from one another and shared our judgments out loud.

The comments themselves didn’t bother me as much as I expected.

“Out of shape.”

“Pale.”

“Frizzy hair.”

I could have looked in the mirror and said most of those things to myself.

But then someone said two words that stopped me in my tracks.

“Stop lying.”

Not because they were accusing me of being dishonest with others.

Because they saw something I couldn’t yet see.

I was lying to myself.

For years, I thought lying was about telling people things that weren’t true. What I’ve come to understand is that some of the most damaging lies are the ones we tell ourselves in order to stay safe.

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“This relationship is working.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I can keep carrying this.”

Many of us learn early that honesty comes with consequences. We speak our truth and are criticized, rejected, misunderstood, or made wrong. So we adapt. We become who we think we need to be in order to belong.

The problem is that every time we abandon our truth, we abandon a little bit of ourselves.

I can see now how often fear was running the show in my life.

Fear of being alone.

Fear of disappointing people.

Fear of being judged.

Fear of being seen.

And so I stayed quiet when I wanted to speak. I stayed longer than I wanted to stay. I carried relationships, expectations, and identities that no longer fit because I thought letting go would somehow make me a bad person.

The cost was heavy.

Not because I was weak, but because carrying what isn’t ours to carry is exhausting.

Today, I see things differently.

I no longer believe healing comes from exposing our flaws and attacking ourselves. I think healing comes from being willing to tell the truth with compassion.

The truth is, we are human.

We are courageous and afraid.

Faithful and doubtful.

Strong and tender.

Certain and confused.

We are all of it.

The parts of ourselves we reject don’t disappear. They simply wait to be acknowledged.

What if the goal isn’t to become someone else?

What if the goal is to stop running from who we already are?

The moment we stop fighting ourselves, something begins to soften.

We create room for grace.

Room for honesty.

Room for God.

Room for love.

And maybe that’s what freedom really is.

Not becoming a different person.

But finally being willing to love the one who has been here all along.

The tears we don’t shed don’t disappear.

They simply find another place to live.

They settle into our bodies as tension, exhaustion, anxiety, irritability, or a heaviness we can’t quite explain. They become the lump in our throat when we want to speak our truth, the tightness in our chest when life feels overwhelming, or the smile we force when what we really need is space to feel.

For years, I thought tears were something to manage.

Something to understand.

Something to get through.

If I was crying, I wanted to know why. If I couldn’t explain it, I became frustrated with myself. Surely there had to be a reason. Surely I should be able to make sense of it.

What I have come to understand is that our feelings do not always need an explanation.

Sometimes they simply need our attention.

Years ago, I heard someone say, “Tears do not make you weak. Tears are a sign of strength.” At the time, I appreciated the words, but I don’t think I fully understood them.

Today, I do.

Tears are not evidence that something is wrong. More often, they are evidence that something honest is trying to emerge.

They are a release.

A softening.

A surrender.

A signal that we have reached the edge of what can be controlled, fixed, analyzed, or pushed through.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that emotions were dangerous. We learned to be productive instead of present. Strong instead of vulnerable. Composed instead of authentic.

We learned how to hold it all together.

The problem is that what we refuse to feel does not leave.

It waits.

The tears we don’t shed eventually ask for our attention.

Not because they want to hurt us, but because they want to heal us.

I have had seasons in my life where it felt like all I did was cry. Seasons of grief, uncertainty, change, and loss. Seasons where I was tired of feeling, tired of processing, tired of wondering when the lessons would finally be over.

Looking back now, I can see that those tears were never working against me.

They were making room.

Every tear carried something out that I was never meant to hold forever.

Without the tears, there would have been no healing.

Without the vulnerability, there would have been no growth.

Without the surrender, there would have been no room for something new to emerge.

These days, when tears come, I try not to ask, “How do I make this stop?”

Instead, I ask, “What is trying to be loved here?”

That question changes everything.

Because beneath most tears is not weakness.

There is love.

Love for what was lost.

Love for what mattered.

Love for the version of ourselves that is still learning how to trust.

Perhaps healing is not becoming less emotional.

Perhaps healing is becoming safe enough to feel what is true.

So if tears come this week, let them.

Not because they are comfortable.

Not because they are convenient.

But because they are human.

Because they remind us that our hearts are still open.

Because they remind us that we are alive.

And because sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is stop carrying what was never ours to carry alone.

The tears we don’t shed don’t disappear.

But the tears we allow can become a pathway home to ourselves.

And if there is anything I am learning these days, it is this:

We do not heal by avoiding what we feel.

We heal by meeting ourselves there with tenderness.

One tear.

One truth.

One soft space at a time.

For years, I spent far more energy than I realized trying to manage what other people thought of me.

I carefully chose my words. I softened my opinions. I tried to anticipate reactions before they happened. Sometimes I made myself smaller. Sometimes I worked harder. Sometimes I became who I thought others needed me to be.

The strange thing is that no matter how much effort I invested, I could never actually control what anyone thought.

People see us through the lens of their own experiences, beliefs, hopes, fears, and expectations. The more I tried to manage those perceptions, the more exhausted I became.

The truth is, carrying the weight of other people’s opinions came at a cost.

It cost me energy that could have been spent creating, dreaming, and living more fully.

It cost me opportunities because I hesitated, second-guessed myself, or waited for permission that was never mine to seek.

It cost me peace because I was constantly trying to anticipate how others might respond rather than listening to what felt true within me.

It cost me relationships because whenever we hide behind a mask, we prevent others from truly knowing us.

Most of all, it cost me time. Time spent trying to be acceptable, understandable, agreeable, or enough in the eyes of others. Time that could have been spent simply being who I already was.

It even cost me my own voice. Somewhere along the way, I became so focused on who others needed me to be that I lost touch with who I actually was. Not completely, but enough that I had to begin the sacred work of finding my way back.

Looking back, I realize that no one was asking me to carry that burden. I picked it up because I believed my worth was connected to how I was perceived. The freedom came when I began setting that weight down and trusting that I could survive being misunderstood.

What I have come to understand is that the real question is not, “What do they think of me?”

The real question is, “What do I think of me?”

Do I trust myself?

Do I honor my own values?

Am I living in a way that feels true to who I am?

That doesn’t mean we stop caring about other people. Kindness, compassion, and consideration matter. Our words and actions affect those around us, and healthy relationships require thoughtfulness.

But there is a difference between being considerate and abandoning ourselves.

Many of us learned to wear masks long before we knew we were wearing them. We learned which parts of ourselves were acceptable and which parts should stay hidden. We became experts at reading the room and adjusting accordingly.

Eventually, though, there comes a moment when we begin asking a deeper question:

Who am I underneath all of that?

I believe we arrive in this world whole. Curious. Tender. Open-hearted. Connected to wonder and love. Along the way we gather layers of expectations, roles, and protective strategies. Some serve us for a season. Some outlive their usefulness.

The journey back to ourselves is not about becoming someone new. It is about remembering who we have always been.

For me, that journey has also meant recognizing that authenticity is not simply about expressing myself. It is about living from a place of love rather than fear. It is about trusting the voice within me more than the noise around me. It is about becoming willing to disappoint expectations in order to remain faithful to who I am.

This week, I invite you to pay attention to your interactions with others.

Notice when you feel yourself performing.

Notice when you hold back your truth.

Notice when you shrink, explain, justify, or seek approval.

Then gently ask yourself:

“If I wasn’t trying to manage anyone else’s opinion right now, what would feel most true?”

You may be surprised by the answer.

Wishing you a week filled with authenticity, self-trust, and the freedom that comes from being fully yourself.

With tears of gratitude filling her eyes, Iris realizes the truth of it and says, “Yes… I need to be the leading lady in my own life.”

Later in the movie, she finds her own style of gumption, begins to shine brightly, and slowly creates a life she truly loves.

It made me stop and wonder…

Where have I not shown up for my own life?

Where have I played the role of “why me,” blaming other people, situations, or circumstances for where I found myself?

Where have I merely survived because survival once kept me safe?

But then there is the other side of the coin.

Where have I said “no,” even when it hurt clear through the smallest bone in my body, rattling every other one along the way?

Where did I finally have the courage to say “enough” and walk away from things that felt routine, familiar, and normal… but no longer aligned?

Where have I been willing to sit with my own darkness long enough to realize it was not there to destroy me, but to teach me, guide me, and eventually invite me back into the light where we learn to dance together?

As I reflected on how I have shown up in my life, both in the past and now in the present, a few words came to me:

Headliner
Main Attraction
Star Performer
Front Runner
Crown Jewel
Luminary
Torch Bearer
Bridge Builder

You see, we get to choose every single day how we are going to show up for ourselves and for others.

Being the lead in our own lives is not about control or performance. It is about knowing ourselves intimately, complete with our deep yeses and our sacred no’s.

It takes courage to live fully as ourselves.

And the beautiful thing is… we get to define what that looks like.

No matter the situation or circumstance, we can tend to our inner world in ways that encourage us, strengthen us, and keep us moving forward.

So now I find myself wondering…

If you were to choose one word to describe how you show up for yourself, what would it be?

I get being afraid to finally say:
no more.

No more overexplaining.
No more rescuing.
No more tolerating what quietly harms your soul.
No more abandoning yourself just to keep the peace.

Especially when the people you needed protection from were the same people you hoped would love you.

I get the fear that rises inside when you begin setting boundaries after years of survival through pleasing.

The fear that if you stop being who everyone expects…
you may end up alone.

I get the exhaustion too.

The kind that lives deeper than the body.

The exhaustion of carrying identities that once kept you safe:
the good woman,
the strong woman,
the easy woman,
the endlessly capable woman.

The woman who learned how to survive by becoming what everyone else needed.

I understand the pull toward familiar comforts too.

The places we return to looking for relief:
food,
shopping,
numbing,
overworking,
attention,
approval,
busyness,
relationships that hurt us,
patterns we promised ourselves we had already outgrown.

Not because we are weak.

But because the familiar often feels safer than the unknown —
even when the familiar is slowly hurting us.

And maybe that is one of the hardest truths to face:
sometimes we cling hardest to the very things that are exhausting us.

I also understand how frightening it can feel to believe that something bigger than you might actually love you without performance.

Without proving.
Without pretending.
Without perfection.

Especially if life taught you otherwise.

Especially if love once felt conditional.
Or inconsistent.
Or something you had to earn.

Sometimes it feels safer to look down than look up.
Safer to expect disappointment than risk hope again.

I understand that too.

Because choosing differently can feel terrifying at first.

If you leave behind the masks…
the coping…
the over-functioning…
the familiar pain…
who even are you without them?

It can feel like standing emotionally naked in front of the world.

But what if the unfamiliar is not punishment?

What if it is freedom?

What if peace is not found in becoming someone new…
but in finally becoming honest about what your soul can no longer carry?

The things that happened to you matter.
They shaped you.
Protected you.
Wounded you.
Taught you how to survive.

But survival patterns are not the full truth of who you are.

We can keep choosing what is familiar —
even when it costs us ourselves.

Or we can begin choosing differently.

Slowly.
Honestly.
Tenderly.

I do not have your answers.

But I believe there is a part of you underneath all the noise, exhaustion, fear, and performance that already knows what truth feels like.

And maybe learning to trust her again is where healing begins.

The kind where you immediately wonder if a bug bit you in the middle of the night or if a tiny hair simply got rubbed the wrong way by your pajama pants. I decided it was probably the pajama pants because at this stage of life, I prefer less drama whenever possible.

As I scratched the spot, a scene from Forrest Gump came rushing back to me.

Forrest is running through Vietnam while under attack when he suddenly gets shot in the buttocks. In the middle of the chaos, he yells:

“Something bit me!”

Even after being shot, Forrest interpreted it as something simple. A bite. Not catastrophe. Not a story. Not a performance.

And laying there that morning, I found myself wondering if so much of our exhaustion comes from how much energy we spend managing appearances, emotions, identities, and performances instead of simply telling the truth.

Maybe life becomes complicated the moment we stop being honest about what hurts.

At some point, many of us learned that performance was safer than truth.

So we became agreeable instead of honest.
Capable instead of supported.
Pleasant instead of real.

We learned how to smile while grieving.
How to say “I’m fine” while quietly unraveling.
How to keep the peace because conflict felt dangerous.
How to perform happiness because we feared disappointing others with our sadness.

And eventually, the performance itself becomes exhausting.

Not because we are weak…
but because pretending requires an enormous amount of energy.

I think that’s what so many women are carrying right now.

Not simply busy schedules or too many responsibilities.

But the exhaustion of maintaining versions of themselves that no longer feel true.

The good woman.
The easy woman.
The strong woman.
The endlessly capable woman.
The woman who keeps everyone comfortable while slowly disappearing herself.

Maybe that’s the real complication.

Not truth.
Not simplicity.
Not life itself.

The cover-up.

I remember hearing as a child that telling the truth was easier than telling a lie because once you lie, you have to create more lies to protect the original one. Even then, something inside me recognized the exhaustion in that.

Because lies require management.

Masks require maintenance.

Performance requires vigilance.

And eventually, the nervous system pays the price for carrying identities the soul can no longer sustain.

Under the old “fake it till you make it” philosophy, many people learned to override themselves entirely.

Pretend to be happy.

Pretend the marriage is fine.

Pretend the career still fits.

Pretend the faith still feels safe.

Pretend they are not lonely, angry, grieving, resentful, disconnected, or tired.

But truth has a way of surfacing eventually.

My mentor Debbie Ford used to say that suppressing emotions is like trying to hold a beach ball underwater. Eventually your arms give out and the ball comes flying back up — usually right into your face.

I’ve found that to be true.

What we refuse to acknowledge does not disappear.

It waits.

The truth waits in the body.

In resentment.
In exhaustion.
In numbness.
In grief.
In the quiet moments when we can no longer outrun ourselves.

And yet, there is something incredibly freeing about finally becoming honest.

Not performatively honest.
Not brutally honest.
Just… honest.

Forrest Gump moved through life with a kind of unguarded simplicity. He wasn’t trying to appear sophisticated. He wasn’t managing an image. He wasn’t curating himself for approval.

He simply was who he was.

There is something almost sacred about that now.

Especially in a world where so many women are exhausted from performing versions of themselves built around survival, goodness, likability, achievement, or fear.

Maybe peace is not found in becoming someone new.

Maybe peace begins the moment we stop disappearing behind masks and finally tell the truth — to others, yes, but especially to ourselves.

Maybe it was never meant to be as complicated as we made it.

1. Pavement always smells good after soaking rain.

2. Sleeping with a stuffed animal as an adult is entirely acceptable.

3. A good belly laugh with someone you love is something to be treasured.

4. Romance and chivalry are alive and well.

5. A brush of hair off the face, followed by a soft kiss is what dreams are made of

6. That first hug of a best friend after a long time apart is a healing balm.

7. If your only prayers are “help and thank you,” it is enough.

8. Being your own cheerleader comes with GREAT pom poms!

9. Let others experience what their souls are calling them to

10. Boundaries, like bookmarks, hold space.

11. Connecting with nature on a regular basis is good for the spirit.

12. There is no amount of kale, or squats that will help without the inner work.

13. Get up and move every hour…your knees and body will thank you.

14. It can be difficult finding 58 things I know for sure 😉

15. Change is good. Breakfast for dinner? Why not?

16. Space and grace go a long way.

17. Life does not come with a guarantee. No use trying to buy one.

18. Learning to love yourself could be your greatest adventure.

19. The sound of the ocean is almost a cure all.

20. Consistency and discipline are worth it. Just remember to have fun along the way

21. Every woman should have at least one tiara (I have 3)

22. If it costs you your peace, time, money or space, decide if it’s worth it.

23. Your energy is expensive. Not everyone can afford it. Thanks, Taylor!

24. Pleasing others as a way to feel good…doesn’t

25. Starting your day with 5 minutes of meditation does wonders for the psyche.

26. There is no such thing as an ugly cry. All tears are beautiful and sacred.

27. You do not need to agree with what you were taught or told.

28. Blaze your own trail.

29. Love your life in a way so that others wonder what you are up to

30. If you had a dime for every time you compared yourself to others, how rich would you be?

31. You determine your worth and value.

32. You are a priceless masterpiece!

33. Time is a construct; you get to choose how to best spend it.

34. There truly is a time and purpose for everything under heaven.

35. God is love. Period.

36. It is only too late to start if you believe it.

37. Speaking of believing…don’t stop.

38. Balance…. your body, your mind, your time. It will help you stay on kilter when the world gets crazy and knocks you off course.

39. Grief will last as long as it needs to. No need to rush through it.

40. Vulnerability is the new sexy.

41. We are all pieces of the Universal puzzle. It does not matter if you are a corner, edge, or middle piece, you are here to serve a purpose and make an impact.

42. A woman needs a physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional toolbox. This must be inspected on a regular basis. Anything that is rusted or outdated will be replaced.

43. Some of the best advice I ever received was “if you are having emotion, breathe into it.”

44. You will never regret using your power for good.

45. Know the difference between power and force.

46. Let the spirit move you.

47. Sometimes there are no words, or enough rocks.

48. When you give yourself time and space to do nothing, a lot can actually get done.

49. You cannot fill a bucket with stress, so why would you do that to your body, mind, and soul?

50. A few deep breaths can go a long way.

51. Another great piece of advice I was given a few years back by a nice English gentleman I worked with (said in a British accent) “When you first step outside in the morning, look up. The sky is different every morning and you’ll never see the same one again.”

52. Pain is inevitable, how long you choose to suffer is optional.

53. Pinocchio was not the only one with a shadow. Get to know yours.

54. When you walk into a candy store and they ask if you want a sample, the answer is “yes.”

55. Life is better with bubble wrap.

56. Before you scroll, go for a stroll.

57. Naps are a wonderful thing.

58. Our bodies are roughly sixty percent water, designed to go with the flow.

My name is Mary Schulman and this is my Substack. I will be writing from a female perspective as that is how I identify. Now that those particulars are out of the way, let’s get into it.

I am here to inspire and connect with those who are interested in becoming the BEST version of themselves, in any moment on any day. This could be you with your hair done, makeup on, best dressed suit, presenting an on-fire motivational speech, or you in your bunny slippers, hair up, tear stained face, reaching for those chocolate cookies hidden in the back of the pantry, and crawling back into bed. Yep, me too!

This is my journey about owning all parts of me and learning to be present and in the moment with the bristly and pokey, don’t feel so good parts. This is my journey with…(this is where I may lose some of you, but I sure hope you stick around), Jesus. There, I said it!

Remember the WWJD movement of the 1990’s? It may interest you to know that the phrase was first introduced in Charles M. Sheldon’s 1896 novel, “In His Steps”. I have a lot to stay about those steps, but we will get into that later.

Why Jesus? Why now? I have absolutely no clue but I am taking a leap of faith. For the last couple of years, I have felt drawn to re-introduce or maybe introduce for the first time, the love of Jesus with others. That is what Jesus represents for me. Love. Sounds fluffy, doesn’t it? Not so fast. Most of us have heard the phrase to love our neighbors as ourselves and before I step into that jumbled mess, let’s narrow it down to loving ourselves first. I am beginning to understand what it means to actually love myself, creating a life that is self-full as my dear friend Thomas would put it. I invite you to stick around and join me on my journey.