Feeling proud is not the end; it’s the beginning.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I blurted out.

It’s taken me a while to make sense of what the voice in my head meant.

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I bumped into a friend on the trail the other day. It was the first time I’d seen her since the end of her run for Lieutenant Governor of California. Years of hard work and deep dedication, constant campaigning, and continually moving on to the next thing no matter what she encountered, including the unexpected death of her mother a few months before the polls opened. It was an extraordinarily valiant effort. I cannot applaud her enough for her passion and devotion to working towards an office she is more than qualified to uphold.

We stood on the dirt, amongst the trees. Perhaps a typical catch-up from the outside, but this was different. “What’s new? How’ve you been?” She told me about life and learning post-campaign. I told her about the 50K. Totally different races with, ironically, some similar takeaways.

What we shared has stuck with me. Not only what, but how. In a world where everything seems to be speeding up, it felt rare. Two people, actually stopping, listening, not glancing at their phones, not half-formulating their next sentence while the other one talks. Just trail, nature, slowing down and real connection.

Presence.

This is something I hope to bring into my life more often.

It’s taken me weeks to publish this post. I think I finally know why.

The Race that wasn’t about the Race

On America’s 250th birthday, with three close friends who share the same vice, we ran a 50 K. Gorgeous sections of rolling terrain, steep cliffs with loose, jagged rocks, and sweeping views of the Tetons on a treasured Wyoming ski slope. We conquered 1,500 more feet of elevation gain than advertised, plus an additional mile and then some. Despite the pain, self-doubt, and relentless suffering on a body I wasn’t sure would hold up, I finished with a smile. Shockingly, I won my division - the “old lady” division, I like to call it - though it was never my goal.

To be clear, winning was the least reassuring takeaway.

My goal was to lead with my heart.

After The Messy Middle, experiencing what I did in the midst of training, I made a conscious decision:

I’ve never written a race report. I’ve always found them dreadfully boring. Here goes my first attempt. I found the win equivalent to a boobie prize. The victory has been the growth I’ve gained from the whole experience. Hindsight is 20/20 - if you let it.

A Weak Muscle

Here is a question for you:

When’s the last time you actually stopped and felt proud of yourself?

Not posted about it in your highlight reel. Not mentioned it in passing but actually felt it in your body and let it sit for a second before moving on to the next thing? I couldn’t answer that question, and I believe our culture is partly to blame. We’re better at the next race, next deal, or next milestone than at the pause in between.

But even knowing that, when my husband and friends stood at that finish line and said, “I’m proud of you! After everything you’ve been through, you should feel proud of yourself.”

I genuinely didn’t know how. I didn’t know where in my body that feeling was supposed to live. It’s exactly how I experienced gratitude years ago. I could make an intellectual list of things I was grateful for, but I couldn’t feel it, not really, until I practiced it long enough. Pride, it turns out, is a similar weak muscle. Nobody modeled it for me. I’m guessing nobody modeled it for a lot of us.

Being the forever student that I am, I did some research. I asked around. I found other people who’ve achieved big things in their lives and asked them, "Do you ever feel proud of yourself?” I got some interesting answers, and mostly the same response. I’d give nearly all of them a failing grade at letting themselves feel it. The one person who actually could let herself just so happens to be a therapist. Go figure.

So, I looked to the research. Turns out what we’re taught to call Pride, and what psychologists call Authentic Pride, are two different things. The version I grew up around was boastful pride. Hubristic. Propped up by comparison: better-than, worse-than / winner vs. loser.

Authentic pride doesn’t need anyone below it to feel real. It’s quiet, rooted in one’s own effort and growth, not in where you rank.

No wonder I couldn’t feel it. Much of the esteem I developed was built on how well I fell in line with expectations placed on me, which eventually became my own. Satisfaction was rare. My brain was too busy auditing what I could have done better.

What’s Next?

Old me would have been thinking about the next race before I showered off this one. Not an exaggeration. I did it after multiple triathlons and Ironmans. Crossed the finish line to a chorus of, “What’s next?” Sometimes I think that question is really about filling a void: the “enough” void. I don’t think I’m alone, either. I’ve witnessed accomplished people do the same, chasing the next starting line before they’ve reached the current one.

This time, I didn’t answer with a race. I responded with:

What My Friend Jacquie Said

A few days after the race, I was texting with my dear college friend, and she said something that hit me in a way that has changed me.

“I tell my kids I’m proud of them, but what actually matters is that they are proud of themselves.”

This has resonated in my head a hundred times since.

I never got that as a kid, and I’m guessing a lot of us didn’t. I learned that the win was the validation. That someone else’s approval was the finish line.

Nobody taught me the finish line is internal.

Right before one of the steep, rocky sections at mile 12ish, I took out my phone to grab a photo of what I was about to haul myself up. (see below)

I was greeted with a stream of texts cheering me on. After a brief adrenaline rush from reading the wall of texts from Mark: “I’m so proud of you, I’m so proud of you, I’m so proud of you,” in came subtle confusion. Such lovely words - the ones I always craved hearing. Hmmmm. Ironically, I couldn’t take them in.

Being proud of myself, it turns out, feels foreign. Uncomfortable. The reflective, almost cozy voice of self-doubt is familiar.

“Holy shit! I have to climb up this? This is going to suck! Why did I sign up for this? What am I doing out here?!”

I made it to the top. Unbeknownst to us, there was another!

At mile 21, my entire left side from my hip down seized. I could barely extend my leg or absorb the impact from each uncoordinated stride. Things got dark. While my internal complainer screamed relentlessly, I was faced with a choice. I decided to double down on my goal and deliberately practice leading with my heart, putting my ultimate goal to the test. (More on deliberate practice later).

Feeling the surge of discomfort with each step, I spoke the names of those who’ve played an integral role in getting me to this point, recalling how they helped me and the impact they had on my recovery. This was a long list. Eventually, I got to myself and my body, thanking it for what it has done and what it was doing. It was a weird paradox. The physical pain didn’t diminish whatsoever, but the mental and emotional anguish did.

As the miles went on, with only a few to go, there was an internal whisper.

What?!

So I went with it. Over and over, I repeated it out loud, noticing sensations, determined to feel it, even a glimmer.

Unfinished Business

Here’s the part I wasn’t expecting: training for and following through with this race cracked open unfinished business, not only from an accident decades prior, but from childhood. The physical damage was obvious, but the damage to my psyche was not.

Herein lies the gift.

I worked through a level of insecurity and self-doubt I can’t fully describe. The stories that circled my mind were automatic. They felt true. Real.

As I sat with the aftermath post-race, I became angry. Cursing myself for wasting so much of my time being afraid. Sure, I can blame it on the trauma. Whatever. As I allowed more space, I saw my brain was just doing its job - to keep me safe.

I was faced with a choice once again: lead with my heart and accept what is, or avoid reality.

I deliberately chose to meet myself with compassion. To extend compassion - even just for a moment - to the terrified human who has been doing her best to survive, heal, and move on from shit I cannot forget. Loving what showed up.

Tears ensued.

Letting It In

What my husband, close friends, and sisters expressed to me did matter - a lot. They touched me deeply. I also recognized that I was able to let it in to the degree in which I felt pride in myself. The quiet kind. The one rooted in my own effort and willingness to evolve. The dedication and commitment I made to myself - that no one saw - that I deliberately chose when things got hard because, as my girlfriend Tyler said,

“Who you are in the dark is who you are in the light.”

What I have discovered is:

Back to the Trail

Which brings me back to my friend on the trail.

What made it memorable wasn’t the résumé exchange; it was that we both slowed down enough actually to see each other. In a world rushing toward the next post, the next race, the next campaign, the next thing to prove…

Slowing down and choosing who you let stand in front of you, including yourself, is its own kind of finish line.

So I’ll leave you with the same question I couldn’t answer: when was the last time you stopped and let yourself feel proud?

The authentic one, the one that lives in your body. If you can’t remember, that’s okay. I couldn’t either.

That’s what I meant at the start, the thing I couldn’t make sense of at first: Feeling proud is not the end; it’s the beginning.

The beginning of trusting myself; believing in myself. Knowing I don’t need accolades to be enough.

I simply need to decide who I choose to be when things get brutal.

Now I know.

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A sincere thank you to my extraordinary friends: Tyler, Peter, and Kate. The best part was sharing this adventure with you. True. Joy. I look forward to our next!

To my husband, Mark: Your steadfast support of this endeavor, understanding how much it meant to me and loving me through the entire process, I am, and will always be, grateful. Thank you for your precious hugs and for showing up for me. Your love has no bounds. I love you.

To my sisters: Your support - especially - has been nurturing. Our deep bonds don’t need words. Yours, however, have brought me profound healing at a level only we can understand.

To my family and friends who cheered me on and sent me wonderful, meaningful messages: I felt your love and care. I so appreciate you rooting me on! You helped me get through some dark stretches and take in the celebration at the end.

To Dr. Edythe: Without your knowledge and care, this idea would never have been a reality. Your innovative fascia work is stellar and helped heal me from concussions/TBIs and unwind old injuries that have held me back for years. I owe much of my improved health over the past 10 months to your expertise. I'm excited to evolve as an athlete, as I age, through your work.

To Laura & Derek: Without your initial devotion and countless hours of MAT to me 18 years ago, there is no way I’d be where I am today. Your impact remains timeless.

To Dr. Kevin Louie and the superb team of physicians, nurses, therapists, and acupuncturist, Kyle Hartman, who pieced me back together: endless thank yous for getting my body and mind back to some sort of human functioning that I could take forward.

So many people played an impactful role on this journey. I hold them in my heart.

That’s truly one of the best gifts I could have asked for.

Until next time,

💌,

Monique

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There’s a section of every real growth process that we, at times, desperately want to skip. The in-between, the uncomfortable stretch - the struggle, the stepping forward into the unknown, while not being sure if we’re gonna arrive or become who we’ve set out to become. This is that post. And if I’m going to be of genuine service to anyone reading this, I have to be honest about where I actually am right now, not where I’d like to be, and not the version of the story I’ll tell once I’ve lived the outcome. Not just the smiles at the finish line.

The messy middle. I’m in it.

When I signed up for the Grand Targhee 50K in Wyoming, which starts at an elevation of 8,000 feet, although apprehensive, I felt good, even excited. A bit scared in an energizing way. I love the idea of challenging myself in a way I never thought possible. My goal simple: enjoy it, celebrate that I can do this, and finish.

What I didn’t anticipate was what the training would stir up.

It’s been decades since I’ve trained this much. As the miles got longer and the weeks went on, something surprising started to creep in. Old thought patterns. Old voices. The ones that aren’t very friendly, the ones that have derailed me before and driven me nuts. It’s almost as if I forgot every piece of work I’ve done since my accident: the Onsite intensive in Nashville in 2018 after my mom died, the Hoffman Process in 2022, plus years of deep personal growth work. I know I’ve changed. And yet there I was, training for my first ultra trail running event, suddenly ambushed by the nagging sensation: “I am not enough.”

It took me a while to get present with this voice - to understand what was happening.

The Achiever

For me, The Achiever - I’ve known it as long as I can remember. Mostly tied to my worth. If I won, I was “loved,” got attention in my family home, especially by my mom. If not, might as well be invisible. That’s the story I told myself, anyway.

The first few long runs felt great. Then I heard from several people that I was losing too much weight, getting too thin. I overcorrected, eating everything in sight, and felt terrible in my body. It negatively impacted several runs. Ten miles into one of them, coming down a steep, rocky, dry-pebbly single-track trail - fear and nervousness with each step - I supermaned. Fell forward face-first. My fault, as I was wearing the wrong shoes, dry gravel, and no traction. I slid downhill and caught myself with my right hand and elbow. I sure as hell didn’t want to hit my head.

Tyler, my dear friend and incredible athlete who nudged me to sign up, also doing the race, kindly circled back, got me, and guided me to where I could clean my wounds. Attempting to listen to my body for the next 5 miles, fighting sheer embarrassment - I noticed a harsh, critical voice, which led to an increasing amount of self-doubt.

Trail running is a whole different sport compared to running on the road. The uneven hilly terrain with rocks, roots, divots, stumps, and even rattlesnakes presents an entirely new challenge. I have to constantly pay attention - no zoning out - which is one of the reasons I love running so much. For my mind. The number of times I’ve rolled my ankle since starting to train for this 50k has been insanely frustrating, causing me to run with apprehension and less confidence in my footing. I’m still picking the last remnants of rock out of my hand. As a good student does, I’m trying everything to figure out and correct what’s going on.

And the self-doubt.

The self-doubt generates obsessive, relentless thoughts and undesirable images.

With almost every step, especially on technical trails and downhill, I felt fear - my body would tense up. I tried to breathe and override it with some positive self-talk. Maybe some gratitude - remembering where I’ve been - and now, here I was - out on these gorgeous trails. So lucky!

It was hit or miss. Tension eased and didn’t.

When I got quiet and started to turn toward the sensation, I discovered an old, familiar voice disguised as motivation:

Two sentences that, for much of my life, meant exactly the same thing.

And honestly, my brain has built a pretty convincing case.

In 2005, I qualified for the Hawaii Ironman World Championships. Three weeks before the race, I was on a group ride, and after an interval, we sat up. Someone didn’t call out a block of wood on the shoulder of the road. I hit it, flipped off my bike, and broke two vertebrae in my neck, plus separated my shoulder. No Hawaii for me.

Then, in 2009, the big one vs. the van - more than just a broken neck. I cheered on my friends as I lay in a hospital bed - fighting - trying to make sense of my reality.

Both accidents happened 3 weeks before the race. Guess where I am now…three weeks before the race. It didn’t really hit me until I checked in with the nagging buzz of anxiety that I started to wonder: What is going on?!

After getting quiet, I heard it loud and clear:

I do believe there’s a part of my brain genuinely trying to protect me.

How it works:

There’s an uncomfortable sensation in my body, then self-doubt tries to deal with the feelings by telling me all the reasons I should quit now and not attempt to do this race. This leads to procrastination and more doubt. That’s trauma. I know people roll their eyes at that word - I’ve rolled mine too - but there’s a real neurobiological truth to how it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t care about all the modalities of healing I’ve done.

Two voices were running simultaneously.

One saying, “Don’t try, something bad will happen.” And a second, meaner, vindictive one, swooping in to fight it by shaming me into trying harder, performing better - as if cruelty toward oneself is a sustainable strategy. It isn’t. I know this. I’ve coached people through this exact pattern. Apparently, I needed a reminder that I’m not exempt from my own suggestions.

And underneath all of it, if I’m being truly honest, there’s grief.

Going deeper, I realized it wasn’t just one Hawaii Ironman I was not able to compete in; it was two. I was at the top of my game both years with the goal to podium. Obviously, I never made it to the starting line to see what the results could be for something I worked so hard to earn. Hence, the disappointment and grief over missed opportunities.

I fought diligently to heal and make good from unfortunate circumstances while unintentionally absorbing a story along the way:

It’s easy for someone sitting outside of me to look and think I have zero to worry, be sad, or complain about; yet, this is my process. It’s coming up so I can work with it, grow, rewrite the story, and create a new ending. I know intimately what I have endured.

The Truth

Both things can be true and exist simultaneously. Grief doesn’t leave just because life looks good from the outside. I’ve heard joy can’t fully come in until all emotions are welcomed, including the uncomfortable ones, the “ugly” ones, the ones, like shame, we’re embarrassed to admit are still there.

I can tell myself how lucky I am all day long, but it doesn’t ease the grief. What actually eases it is turning toward it. Giving it space. Wondering about it instead of being combative…and God willing, feel it.

It sounds easy in theory, yet as soon as I feel the sadness, in comes the voice:

My goal has evolved:

Not only to keep an open mind, but an open heart to what is going on inside of me. To give myself some grace. To offer compassion to the parts of me that need attention, and to meet the voices with love… especially while running.

My hope is that someone reading this might nod and relate, see a part of themselves and dare to wonder, question the voices, or look under the self-doubt; grieve, even. And still keep going.

My suffering has been caused by avoiding them or beating them down - as soon as I gave them space and turned towards - I felt the tension in my body soften.

I had no idea what training for this 50k would stir up in me, but there ya go!

I think it’s a valiant reason to do hard things in the first place - or else, why do them?

More soon.

Thank you for reading along.

Cheers to the messy middle!

Monique

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It doesn’t make sense. There is no reason why I should be attempting to run a 50k. I have never been interested in it. Ever.

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Let me back up.

The second day is always the worst.

Aching, I sat in a daze replaying the scenario in my head. Feeling my hand slip off the railing. The backwards tumble. Over and over, as if by sheer force of will, I could reach back through time and undo it.

If I had just worn a shorter dress, my heel wouldn’t have gotten caught. How could I fall down a flight of stairs twice in one night?

Oh, did I mention I fell forward down four steps first? Brushed it off. I’m fine. Then an hour plus later, after a typhoon rolled through the wedding I was attending in Mexico, the concrete floors became a skating rink, my heel caught the back of my dress, and I flipped backwards down a full flight.

Apparently, once wasn’t enough.

Was it the seed my neurologist planted 3 weeks prior? After an MRI, I was diagnosed with a small portion of my cerebellum poking down through the bottom of my skull into my brainstem. A Chiari Malformation.

“You should be fine, unless you start losing your balance or you start falling.”

Lovely.

It was a freak accident. You’re okay. Foggy, slow, headache, even breathing hurt, but okay.

Not able to do much of anything, I scrolled through my phone looking for a distraction. Maybe a podcast.

Rich Roll (I’m a big fan) popped up in my feed. His podcast with Rebecca Rusch: “The Invisible Injury: Champion Cyclist Rebecca Rusch on Healing from a Traumatic Brain Injury,” appeared like a sign from who knows where.

If you’re a cyclist and have been around a while, you know Rebecca. Her accolades run deep. Seven-time World Champion. Red Bull athlete for 22 years. Has her own mountain bike race in Idaho. I first heard of her in the early 2000’s when she was doing adventure races, like the Eco Challenge, against a few Navy SEAL friends of mine. Aka: The Queen of Pain. If she were on Rich Roll, she had a story to tell.

As she described her bike accident, the concussion symptoms she suffered for years, my hair stood on end. Going to doctors, trying to get an MRI baseline, and having her brain show up “normal.” Symptoms dismissed. Menopause. Estrogen. Hormones. The invisible injury can lead to depression, anxiety - a slippery slope. Things got really dark for Rebecca - as they had for me.

I felt every word, because after the big one in 2009, I lived it. For years. And here I was again. I would do anything to avoid it.

Hope is a powerful drug…so I went digging.

I got on her Instagram, checking out every post - perhaps I could find some magic. That’s what led me to Dr. Edythe Heus, who played a huge role in Rebecca’s recovery. Maybe she was my answer?

I researched her immediately and wrote to both Dr. Edythe and Rebecca.

Soon after, I met with Dr. E - as she is lovingly known - online. She assessed me and gave me exercises, most of which I couldn’t do because broken ribs are, shockingly, no joke. I knew I needed to get to LA. It was just a matter of when.

Almost five months and a lot of rib healing later, I made the trek for a 2 half-day intensive.

Life. Changing.

Pilates, for years, was a daily part of my recovery. Fully trained to teach it. I have a Master’s Degree in Nursing. Taught anatomy as a TA. Strength and conditioning coach for over two decades. I am, at my core, a science geek who’s always been obsessed with movement, the human body, and training it to perform better. I’ve seen and learned a lot.

This was different. I felt like someone saw me and could actually help me. One of two people on my 16-year path. This was pivotal.

So what does she actually work with?

Fascia.

Maybe you’ve seen that thin, white, filmy layer when you pull a chicken breast off the bone? I was first told that’s what it was.

Yes and No.

I’ve dissected cadavers in the anatomy lab. If you’re grossed out by anatomy, you can skip to the next paragraph, but I clearly recall picking up the organs in the gut as one single connected unit.

Fascia, literally, is everywhere and holds everything together.

With all the knowledge I had, I’m not sure I truly understood what fascia’s role is until I experienced Dr. Edythe’s work firsthand.

Here’s what I know now:

• It is the largest sensory organ in the human body.

  • When it’s healthy and supple, your tissues glide, force transfers efficiently, and you have spring. When it’s stiff, dehydrated, or traumatized, it restricts everything. Range of motion. Power. Recovery.

    It becomes a primary source of chronic pain.

• It is your body’s built-in GPS for balance and coordination, called proprioception, and it’s a primary shock absorber.

  • A healthy fascial matrix gets oxygen and nutrients to damaged tissue faster.

That chronic tightness that never fully releases, or the tendonitis you have in your shoulder…fascia is involved.

Since my accident in 2009, there’s been a part of me that never stopped bracing for impact. Like my body and brain decided the world was dangerous and needed to stay ready. Contracted. Protected. On guard.

The tissue was locked up. Was it safe to let go? Could it let go?

Question Accepted Norms

It’s commonly believed to be true that with age, we tighten and lose range of motion. I have smart, active friends who have quietly accepted that stiffness is inevitable.

“That’s just what happens.”

Does it have to?

I’m testing it out…

I signed up for a 50k.

Yup…there is no version of the woman from last June; broken, foggy, scared, hurting - who signs up for a 50k!

I’ve never been interested, nor believed it was possible, for me, to run that far. The half-marathon two years ago felt like a huge victory. Box checked.

However, by working with Dr. Edythe and implementing her exercises, I feel intrinsically motivated to check it out. Maybe it is possible? At this age? Appreciate how the body can heal, reorganize, and respond?

As fate would have it, I stumbled upon Rebecca’s story, and it led to a way through.

Maybe mine will do the same for someone else.

Next: More on fascia, the way through, how my body is holding up training for this wild event, which I am still trying to wrap my head around.

Also, please check out the links below for more resources on facial health, Dr. Edythe Heus, Rebecca Rusch, and her concussion guide.

If you’ve been affected by a concussion or TBI, Rebecca’s 4-part series, called Brain Storm, is an excellent resource and story.

Never. Give. Up.

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Links & Resources

• Dr. Edythe Heus & Rev6

• Rebecca Rusch

• Rich Roll Podcast — The Invisible Injury

• Rebecca’s Instagram — Rev6 post

• Rebecca Rush Brain Storm

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I am here to serve. It’s that simple.

I’m not gonna lie. This is hard as shit to write about.

“No one wants to hear about your trauma, Monique.”

I’m definitely not here to unload it…but I am here to share the living, breathing experiment I choose to put myself through.

Perhaps it will inspire, spark curiosity, and motivate you to embrace your full humanity; shift your body and mind in ways that transform what’s possible for you. For us.

And maybe it will even help shape your life towards a positive destiny, especially as we age and life’s inevitable curveballs come our way.

I’ve endured the full spectrum of being human. From the depths of anguish, relentless pain, and deep despair - to glimmers of joy, awe, wonder, and now a vitality in my body and mind that I never knew was available…especially to someone like me.

At 39, while riding my bike, I survived a van’s impact that shattered my spine, shoulder, ribs, knee, leg, arm, ankle, lungs, and brain. That shattered my entire identity.

The doctors and some people particularly close to me had plenty to say about my future: “You’ll never run again. This is going to be a hard recovery. Wait until you’re 50.” All negative and suggesting not being able to move my body the way that makes me happy, brings me joy.

Instilling fear when I was at my most vulnerable state.

I refused to accept it. I never stopped looking for ways to heal, to feel better, move better, live better.

Then last May, I fell backwards down a flight of steps. A decent concussion on top of 2 previous ones, including the traumatic brain injury (TBI) from 2009. More broken ribs. By August, I was close to my all-time worst since the accident 16 years prior. Inflammation. Weight gain. Migraines. I was pushing myself through the pain, trying to run - because that’s what I do.

My brain was foggy and very slow at processing. I was moody. Short-wicked. Desperate.

I looked “normal.” I felt like shit.

And for the first time, I was genuinely terrified that this was the beginning of the end some had been predicting.

In June, I found someone I believed who could help me, but I could not get in to see her until October - nor could I move much, including breathe, without terrible pain. So I suffered in darkness: hoping, waiting, counting the days.

When I finally got to work with her and implement her exercises, everything changed.

How I feel, how I think, how I process, how I move.

My mind is blown. And I’m 56.

I’ll tell you exactly who she is and how her wisdom has significantly changed my life in the next post. For now, I want to tell you why it matters, and why I think it could matter for you.

This is for

• Movers. Anyone who values being able to move their body, do activities they love, and maybe explore a few new ones.

• The current, injured or aging athlete. The ones who haven’t given up on themselves, even when they’ve had every reason to.

• Former athletes. The ones who catch themselves thinking, “I used to be able to do that!”

Here’s where we’re going

1. Fascia → the connective tissue system that few talk about, that’s becoming more mainstream. We start here because everything else builds on it.

2. Flow → the state where performance, joy, and presence converge. I’ve been obsessed with flow states for years. What it is, how to get into it, and why it is so valuable.

3. Freedom → in the body and in the mind. They are inextricably connected. You cannot have one without the other.

4. Flourishing → the ultimate goal. Not just pursuing happiness. Actually living well at any age, through anything.

Perhaps you’ll get a little something from my journey. Recognize a part of yourself in my story. Relate, somehow. And in that, you gain a bit of vitality that supports and nourishes your life.

How does that sound?

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Next: Who helped me - and what fascia actually is.

By the way, I am still recovering. Thankfully.