Of course, I was excited to spend the week with my sorority sisters learning, serving, and reconnecting. But I also knew I needed something else… Space.

• Space to think.

• Space to be alone with myself.

• Space to ask questions I hadn’t had time to ask at home.

I thought I’d come back with clarity about my future. Instead, I came home with a question.

One afternoon, I found myself standing in my hotel room with a tiny bottle of my favorite Bath & Body Works room spray. I couldn’t bring a candle, so before I unpacked anything else, I sprayed the room.

I was staying alone for the entire week. No one else was ever going to walk into that room. No husband, no daughters, and no friends. The room smelled good for one reason… because I was going to be in it.

I don’t know why that moment stayed with me. Maybe because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d intentionally done something simply because it would make my experience a little more pleasurable. Not enjoyable. Pleasurable.

There is something different about that word.

Later that day, one of my sorority sisters came over and she started talking about pleasure. Not just the erotic kind… the other kind. The quiet kind.

The kind that lives in favorite scents, slow mornings, beautiful notebooks, ordering what actually sounds good instead of what everyone else wants, taking the longer route because it’s prettier, buying the flowers, lighting the candle, making your own life feel beautiful even when no one else is around to notice.

Somewhere in that conversation, she said that she asks herself a specific question before she makes any decision. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

Does this please me?

Not before buying something. Not before booking a trip. Before making any decision: Does this please me?

The more I sat with that question, the more I realized it wasn’t that I’d been denying myself pleasure. It was that I’d never considered pleasure as a way of making decisions. I don’t think I’ve been making decisions based on what I wanted. I think I’ve been making decisions based on what made me a good woman.

• A good wife.

• A good mother.

• A good business partner.

• A good daughter.

• A good friend.

• A good girl.

Somewhere along the way, I started measuring my life by how well I cared for everyone around me. And to be clear, I love that about myself. I don’t want to become less thoughtful, less generous, or less present. Those instincts have helped me build a life I genuinely love. But I think I’ve mistaken that scorecard for my compass.

That’s what surprised me most about being away. Without anyone else depending on me, I noticed how naturally I kept reaching for little things that made my own experience better.

• The room spray.

• Keeping my space organized.

• Taking my time in the morning.

• Choosing the restaurant I was actually craving.

None of those decisions were remarkable. But together they revealed something I hadn’t noticed before. I actually know how to care for myself. I’ve just spent so much of my life directing that instinct outward that it never occurred to me to use it as a way of caring for me, too.

The funny thing is, I think I’ve been moving in this direction for months. I’ve been organizing my life differently, protecting my peace more intentionally, and paying attention to what energizes me instead of just what needs me. I just didn’t have language for what I was becoming. And that conversation gave me the language.

Pleasure-first.

Not because pleasure is the goal. But because pleasure might be the compass.

For most of my life, I’ve assumed the healthiest decision was the one that required the most of me. I’m beginning to wonder if the healthiest decision is often the one that allows me to remain connected to myself.

• What if pleasure isn’t the opposite of responsibility?

• What if it’s what keeps responsibility from costing us ourselves?

I’m sure there will be days when asking, “Does this please me?” feels selfish. Old beliefs don’t disappear overnight. But I also know that for years, I’ve treated pleasure like something to earn after everything else was done.

• After everyone else was okay.

• After every box was checked.

• After every need was met.

But what if I’ve had it backwards? What if pleasure isn’t a reward? What if it’s a compass that keeps pointing me back to the woman I’m becoming. And maybe that’s the practice. Not chasing pleasure. But refusing to build a life that requires me to disappear from it.

I am really good at narrating what I’m building. Ask me what I’m excited about, and I’ll tell you. Ask me what I’m working toward, and I’ll light up. Ask me what I’m learning, and I probably won’t stop talking. But I’ve realized I haven’t spent much time writing, let alone thinking, about everything I’ve left behind.

I always thought that was one of my strengths. I’m a professional perspective shifter. When something falls apart, I instinctively start looking for what it might be making room for. When one door closes, I start looking for the next one. When life changes, I don’t spend much time asking, “Why me?” Instead, I ask, “Okay… now what?” And for most of my life, I’ve been proud of that. I still am.

But lately I’ve started wondering if there’s a difference between finding a better perspective and avoiding grief altogether.

I don’t think I realized how uncomfortable I am with sadness. Not temporary sadness or the kind that comes from watching a movie or hearing difficult news. I mean the kind of sadness that asks you to stay. The sadness that asks you to acknowledge that something ended, to admit that a dream changed, or even to mourn something even when you’re deeply grateful for what came next.

I don’t like that feeling, like at all. I don’t like sitting in it. I don’t like complaining. I don’t like feeling defeated. I don’t like telling myself a story where doors have closed instead of opened. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that staying sad meant I wasn’t trusting God enough.

So instead, I do what I’ve always done. I find the blessing. I move forward. I tell myself the story of what this is making room for. And most of the time, that story is true. But lately, I’ve been wondering if I sometimes tell it so quickly that grief never gets a chance to speak.

To be honest, there has been no major pivot in my adult life that I willingly made.

That’s a strange sentence to write because, on the outside, my life probably looks like a series of brave decisions: moving away for school, leaving law, building a business, and becoming a writer. But none of those things started because I woke up one morning and decided I wanted something completely different. They started because life changed first. I just became really good at finding the opportunity before I acknowledged the loss, and leaving corporate law is probably the clearest example.

If you’ve been following us for a while, you’ve probably seen the viral video of me sending my resignation letter in 2023.

People still tell me how inspiring that moment was. They tell me how they watched a woman courageously leap towards entrepreneurship. And they weren’t wrong, but it just wasn’t the whole story.

For years prior, I had imagined a completely different life. I studied for the LSAT, applied to law school, focused on entertainment law, earned the internships I wanted, graduated, built a career I was proud of, helped launch my company’s first media and entertainment law practice, and even received a general counsel offer recommendation from a major entertainment company. None of that happened by accident. I wasn’t just dabbling. I wasn’t lucky. I spent years becoming that woman.

But soon after, I experienced things in the workplace that made me see racial biases I couldn’t unsee. When I first raised concerns, it was downplayed. I was told to be more understanding, and to give grace. Grace that I wasn’t afforded, but was expected to give. I found myself constantly trying to prove not just my competence, but my credibility. Instead of allowing the pressure to make me feel small, I pushed back and although changes were made, the damage was already done. By 2022, I realized I didn’t just have to ask whether I could succeed in this field. I had to ask what succeeding would cost me.

Then, something happened that I could never have planned. Our side business started growing faster than either me or my husband expected. At the time, it felt like an answered prayer. And maybe it was. It gave me a way out, room to breathe, and a chance to build something I never thought I’d build. Opportunities to leave started to appear, and for the first time, I had somewhere else to go.

People who watched that resignation video saw freedom. But when I watch it back now, I see something else. I see relief. I see a woman who finally had an exit. I see someone finally choosing herself because staying had become too expensive. And here’s what I’ve never really admitted: I was so relieved to escape that I never stopped to grieve what I was escaping from.

Not the workplace. The dream. I think that’s what made it so hard to recognize as grief in the first place. Because this life is better. It just wasn’t the life I spent years preparing for. And those two things can be true at the same time.

And that’s what I’ve been noticing about myself lately. I’ve spent so much of my life becoming someone who could find meaning in almost anything. It’s one of the things I’m most grateful for about myself. I don’t stay bitter for very long. I don’t stay stuck for very long. I really do believe God has a way of redeeming things I never thought could be redeemed.

But redemption isn’t the opposite of grief. Maybe it’s what comes after it. And I’m starting to wonder how many versions of myself I’ve never properly said goodbye to because I was so busy celebrating the woman I was becoming.

• The young lawyer who thought she’d spend her career negotiating entertainment deals.

• The woman who believed hard work would always be enough.

• The version of me who still thought every dream would unfold exactly the way I planned.

None of those women failed. They simply carried me to a life I could have never imagined. And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized the resignation wasn’t the only thing I never grieved.

I never grieved the years I spent becoming that lawyer. I never grieved the future I thought I was building. I never grieved how excited I used to be about that version of my life.

Instead, I skipped straight to gratitude. I skipped straight to relief. I skipped straight to the blessing.

I don’t actually want to become someone who can’t find the blessing. I love that about myself. I hope I never lose it. But maybe there’s room for something else too.

Maybe I can stop treating grief like it’s evidence that my faith is weak. Maybe I can stop assuming that honoring what I lost somehow takes away from what I’ve gained. Maybe I can thank God for where He brought me while still grieving the dream I thought I was living.

I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet. But I think it’s time I find out.

After a few seasons of chasing goals, raising girls, building a business, writing consistently, speaking more, and trying to become the woman I’ve spent years imagining, I wanted the summer to feel different, slower, and less performative. I wanted to stop immediately turning every experience into productivity and simply notice my life while I was living it. I thought slowing down would bring peace. Instead, it brought questions.

For the last few weeks, I’ve caught myself telling people I think I’m burned out. Honestly, it felt like the obvious explanation. Life is full. The girls are home for the summer. The business is demanding. My writing is growing in ways I’ve prayed for. Speaking opportunities have started coming because of the very work I said I wanted to take seriously. By every measurable standard, this should feel like one of the most fulfilling seasons of my life.

And in many ways… it is.

And this is exactly why the feeling has been so confusing for me. Because when I picture burnout, I picture wanting to walk away. I picture resentment. I picture exhaustion so deep that the thing you once loved starts to feel like another obligation. But, that isn’t what this feels like.

• I still love writing.

• I still love my marriage.

• I still love being a mom.

• I still love building this business.

• I still want the life I’m living.

So why do I feel so emotionally tired?

That question has followed me around ever since. And at first, I kept trying to answer it.

Now I’m wondering if I’ve been asking the wrong question altogether. Maybe the question isn’t, “Am I burned out?” Maybe it’s, “When was the last time I actually belonged to myself?” And the funny thing is… I don’t even know how to answer that. Not because I can’t remember. But, because I’m not sure I’ve ever asked it before.

That realization messed with me. Because if you know me, you know I spend an embarrassing amount of time trying to understand myself.

• I journal.

• I go to therapy.

• I write.

• I reflect.

• I can usually tell you exactly why I reacted the way I did.

• I can trace a pattern back to childhood before most people have finished describing the problem.

Understanding myself has almost become a hobby. For years, I thought self-awareness was the destination. If I understood why I reacted the way I did, if I knew where my patterns came from, if I could name the wounds, and if I could trace the attachment, then I was doing the work. And I was.

But somewhere over the last few weeks, I realized I’d confused understanding myself with centering myself. I could explain myself beautifully. I just didn’t know how to organize my life around the woman I understood so well.

Maybe this is what happens when a high-functioning woman mistakes competence for wholeness. You become incredibly good at carrying a life. You become dependable. Resourceful. Emotionally intelligent. Responsible. The person everyone trusts. The one who figures it out. The one who keeps things moving.

You become so good at functioning that no one, not even you, thinks to ask whether you’re still living from the center of yourself. Because competence can look a lot like peace from the outside. They’re just not the same thing.

For a while, I thought what I needed was more self-care, or more alone time. Maybe a massage, a weekend away, or even an uninterrupted morning with my journal. And don’t get me wrong, I love (and do) all of those things. But the more I’ve paid attention, the more I’ve realized they don’t actually solve the feeling I’m trying to describe.

I’ve had entire afternoons to myself where my body was alone, but my mind was still completely occupied because I was thinking about tuition, the girls’ schedules, the business, payroll, a brand deadline, a conversation I needed to have, what we were having for dinner, and whether everyone else was okay.

I had the time, but I didn’t belong to it. And I think that’s the distinction I’ve been trying to find. Understanding yourself isn’t the same as centering yourself. Taking care of yourself isn’t the same as belonging to yourself. Taking care of yourself asks, “Have you taken care of yourself today?” Belonging to yourself asks, “Does your life still feel like it belongs to you?” And those aren’t the same questions.

I know how to pour into myself. I’m just not sure I know what it feels like to belong to myself. And even writing that sentence feels strange. Because what does that even mean?

I don’t think belonging to yourself means abandoning your responsibilities. It doesn’t mean putting yourself first all the time. It doesn’t mean loving your family less. I actually think it’s much quieter than that. I think it means beginning with yourself instead of ending with yourself.

For me, belonging to myself would look like waking up and asking, “What do I want to build today?” before asking, “What does everyone else need from me?” It would mean writing before responding to emails, creating before solving problems, or moving my body before managing everyone else’s day. Not because my goals are more important than the people I love. But because they matter too.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped building my life around my own center. Instead, I started fitting myself into whatever space was left after everyone else’s needs had been met. The crazy part is… Nobody asked me to do that.

• My husband didn’t.

• My daughters didn’t.

• My friends didn’t.

• The business didn’t.

I did. Not because I’m a martyr, but because I’m good at carrying things. And if I’m really honest, I’m so good at carrying things that I rarely stop to ask whether I should still be carrying all of them. That’s the trap of becoming highly capable. The better you get at holding everything together, the less likely anyone is to notice you’re holding too much, including you.

A few weeks ago, I said something to my husband, Kier, that surprised even me. I told him, “I know I’m a good mom. I know I’m doing a good job. But I still need reassurance sometimes.” I paused before I said the next part because I wasn’t even sure I believed it until it came out of my mouth.

I continued, “I think I’ve been afraid to admit that because somewhere along the way I started believing that needing reassurance made me look incapable.” (I actually said a punk a** b****, but you get what I’m saying…)

As soon as I said it, I felt exposed. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was. But for so long, I thought confidence meant not needing anything from anyone else. I thought capable women were supposed to carry things well, quietly, and graciously. Without asking to be reminded that someone noticed how heavy it all was.

I expected Kier to respond the way I probably would’ve responded. I expected him to say “I know,” or “I understand.” Instead, he smiled. Not a surprised smile, but almost like a relieved one. And then he said one word.

“Finally.”

I laughed and asked him what he meant, and he said, “I’ve been waiting for you to admit that.”

That conversation has stayed with me ever since. He didn’t tell me something I didn’t already know. He showed me something I couldn’t see. The people who love me weren’t waiting for me to become less capable. They were waiting for me to stop pretending I didn’t need anything.

That realization has been harder to sit with than I expected. Because I don’t actually struggle with vulnerability. At least not the kind people usually mean. I’ll write an essay like this. I’ll tell you what scares me. I’ll tell you where I’m growing. I’ll tell you what I’m questioning.

What I struggle with is something much quieter. I struggle to let someone carry me after I’ve told them the truth. Those are different things, and maybe that’s why I’ve spent so much of my life feeling like people liked the idea of me more than they actually knew me. The idea of me is capable. The idea of me always has the words. The idea of me can handle it. But people can’t know the parts of me I keep proving they don’t need to worry about.

Maybe that’s the hidden cost of competence. The more capable you become, the easier it is for people to relate to what you do instead of who you are. And if I’m honest, I don’t know that I’ve always made that easy to challenge. I’ve become so comfortable being understood through what I produce that I haven’t always invited people into what I actually need.

Maybe being known requires letting someone witness the places where I’m no longer performing competence. And maybe that’s been the invitation all along. Not to become less strong, less ambitious, or love my life any less. But to stop confusing competence with wholeness.

The last article I wrote was about learning to trust the evidence of growth. This one feels different. It’s about learning to trust that I don’t have to earn the right to belong to my own life. Or to the people who love me.

And maybe that’s why calling this burnout never felt quite right. Burnout makes me think I need to escape my life. That isn’t what I want. I love my life. I just want to experience it as someone who still belongs to herself while she’s living it. And maybe that’s where belonging begins.

Not when you finally have the answer. But when you’re finally willing to ask yourself a different question.

I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced what I’m describing. It’s not because I’ve had a bad life. I think I live a really good one. But I’ve just spent most of it becoming who someone needed me to be.

• A daughter.

• A student.

• A lawyer.

• A wife.

• A mother.

• A COO.

• A friend.

• A writer.

All roles I love, and all roles I chose. But somewhere underneath all of them, I never stopped to ask what it felt like to belong to the woman carrying them. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to answer that question. Instead I’m giving myself permission to live inside it.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my adult life measuring time by school years instead of calendar years. It could also be because my birthday falls in the summer. Or maybe it’s because after months of rushing from one thing to the next, June is usually when I finally slow down long enough to notice what’s actually happened.

It’s the season where I typically reflect and where I take inventory. It’s a time where I realize the things I was too busy to see while I was living them. And this year, the person teaching me the most isn’t me. It’s my daughter.

If you’re not familiar with the all-star cheer world, my oldest daughter spent this past season on a prep team. It’s not quite elite, which is the ESPN-level that you see on TV, but it’s the level right below it. And typically, the skill is the same as elite, but the commitment isn’t as heavy. But she loved it, and she was excelling. And somewhere during the last few months of the season, something really started to click for her.

Not just athletically, but personally. She became more confident, more vocal, more willing to take risks, and more willing to try things before she was certain she could do them. And as her confidence grew, so did her goals. And by April, she had started talking about wanting to be on an Elite team.

Now, if you’re a cheer parent, you know there’s a difference between learning a skill and mastering a skill. Learning it means you can do it, but mastering it means you can do it consistently, confidently, and under pressure. And that’s where things got interesting.

While she was quietly mastering almost every Level 1 skill she needed, she became completely fixated on one Level 2 skill… her back handspring. It was the one thing she couldn’t do consistently yet, but it was the thing she wanted most. To her, her back handspring represented what was “next.” And honestly, I understood it immediately. Because I do the exact same thing.

What made me pause was realizing how much pressure she was putting on herself. Last summer, at the beginning of her first cheer season, we had a tumbling lesson with a coach who was tough. He wasn’t inappropriate or unkind, but he was demanding in a way she wasn’t used to. Midway through the session, she cried, and shut down. And afterwards, she told me she never wanted to tumble again. Ever.

Fast forward almost a year, and a few days before team placements were released, we found ourselves back in a session with that same coach. I was nervous, and so was she, but she got through it. It wasn’t perfect, and there were some tears. There were also some moments where she doubted herself, and it looked like she wanted to quit. But by the end of class, she successfully did 11 back handsprings with no spot. I counted. But she messed up on the 12th, and could not get her confidence back up to try again.

Towards the end of practice, she looked at me completely defeated and said:

“I lost my back handspring.”

I remember staring at her because she had literally just done it. Not once. Not twice. Eleven times. And suddenly I wasn’t looking at my daughter anymore. I was looking at myself, because how many times have I done the exact same thing?

• How many times have I convinced myself I wasn’t ready while actively doing the thing?

• How many times have I focused so intensely on the next level that I completely overlooked everything that was already working?

• How many times have I treated progress like it didn’t count because it wasn’t the outcome I wanted?

And if I’m being honest, that realization hit me harder than I expected. Because when team placements came out and she didn’t make an elite team, I was nervous to tell her. Not because I thought she couldn’t handle disappointment. But because I knew how hard she had worked. I knew how much she wanted it. I knew how deeply she had tied the outcome to the effort.

And if I’m being really honest, I think part of me was afraid because I understood her disappointment a little too well.

• I know what it feels like to work incredibly hard and still not get the thing you wanted.

• I know what it feels like to look around and wonder if everyone else can see your growth except you.

• I know what it feels like to build something, nurture it, pour yourself into it, and still feel consumed by the gap between where you are and where you hoped you’d be.

I’ve done it with my career, with my writing, with business, with opportunities, and almost every dream I’ve ever cared about. And lately, if I’m being honest, I’ve been doing it again.

The funny thing is that this has probably been one of the most creatively fulfilling seasons of my life. I’ve written more consistently than I have in years. I’ve built a body of work that I’m genuinely proud of. I’ve had opportunities come directly from my writing. I’ve had conversations I wouldn’t have been having a year ago.

By any reasonable measure, growth is happening. And yet, sometimes I still find myself staring at the one thing that hasn’t happened yet.

• The one metric.

• The one opportunity.

• The one next level.

Just like my daughter staring at a back handspring while standing on top of a mountain of progress.

Watching her made me realize something I wasn’t seeing in myself. Some of us become so focused on proving ourselves that we stop noticing we’re already growing. We become so attached to the next version of ourselves that we miss what this version is trying to teach us. We become so consumed with outcomes that we stop looking at evidence. And evidence matters.

• The evidence was there when she walked back into that gym.

• The evidence was there when she faced a coach she had once been afraid of.

• The evidence was there when she attempted skills she couldn’t do six months ago.

• The evidence was there when she kept showing up.

Whether she made the elite team or not, the evidence was there. And maybe that’s what I needed to remember too. Not every season of growth arrives as a result. She just couldn’t see it because she was busy looking for proof. And if I’m being honest, neither could I.

Growth rarely arrives looking the way we expect. Sometimes it looks like achieving the goal. Sometimes it looks like getting the opportunity. But sometimes it looks like becoming the kind of person who keeps showing up before the outcome arrives.

So maybe that’s why June always feels so important to me. Not because it’s the end of something, but because it’s usually the first time all year that I slow down enough to see what was happening all along. The school year ends. The pace changes. The girls are home more. Life gets a little quieter. And in that quiet, I can usually hear myself again. I can see what grew, what mattered, and what I almost missed.

So my writing may come a little slower this summer. Not because I have less to say, but because I want to make room to notice. To spend time with my girls, to pay attention, and to let life happen before I immediately turn it into a lesson.

Because somewhere between watching my daughter fight for a back handspring and listening to my own fears about what’s next, I realized something:

Neither of us need more proof. We need more trust.

• Trust in the work.

• Trust in the progress.

• Trust in the evidence.

• Trust that growth is happening even when the result hasn’t arrived yet.

And maybe that’s what I’ll be practicing this summer. Not proving, but trusting.

I think that’s why sometimes my writing might feel a little all over the place. But if I’m being honest, it’s probably the most accurate reflection of what’s actually going on in my head at the time.

But this week, I wasn’t in my journal. I was listening to myself.

A few months ago, I recorded an episode of the “Afterbirth” podcast with Stephany Faublas. I remember leaving that conversation feeling really proud of myself. Not in a loud or performative way, but in a quiet, grounded way. Like I had said things that felt true. Things that felt honest.

And then life kept going. I got busy. I got overwhelmed. I stepped back from YouTube. I wasn’t writing consistently yet. I just didn’t feel like I had the capacity to hold everything at once, so I let some things go. And somewhere in that, I think I lost touch with that version of myself a little bit.

Not completely. But enough.

So when I went back and listened to that episode recently, it caught me off guard.

Because I sounded… clear.

Certain, even.

Aware in a way that I don’t think I realized I already was. And I kept having this thought while I was listening:

Wait… when did I learn this?

And the truth is, I didn’t. I already knew it. I just hadn’t fully caught up to it yet.

There was a moment in the conversation where I said something about motherhood that stayed with me. I said that you can’t disappear inside motherhood and still expect your children to learn wholeness from you.

And I remember hearing that back and thinking… I said that like I fully understood it.

But if I’m being honest, I don’t think I was fully living it yet. I was still figuring out what it meant to exist as a whole person while being everything my children needed. I was still navigating where I ended and motherhood began. I was still learning how to not measure myself solely by how much I was giving.

But the awareness was already there. And hearing it back made me realize that sometimes we speak from a place we haven’t fully stepped into yet. Not because we’re pretending, but because something in us already understands it before we know how to live it.

That realization showed up again when I listened to myself talk about my mom.

For a long time, I took a lot of her decisions personally. The way she stepped away at times. The way she navigated her own life, especially during her divorce. As a child, it felt like distance. It felt like something I had to make sense of without having all the information.

And I carried that with me for a long time. But somewhere along the way, that shifted. Not because she changed everything. Not because there was this big, perfect moment of accountability that looked exactly how I thought it should. But because I started to see her differently.

I started to see her as a woman. A woman who was navigating her own life in real time. A woman who didn’t always have the language or the tools to show up the way I might have needed back then. A woman who was figuring it out just like I am now.

And that empathy changed everything for us. It didn’t erase what I felt. It didn’t rewrite my experience. But it allowed me to move forward without holding onto the same expectations.

Because the truth is, her version of accountability wasn’t what I thought it should be. But it was good enough. And I think that’s something we don’t talk about enough. Especially now, when we’re having more conversations about healing, boundaries, and holding our parents accountable. All of that matters. It does. But I also think there’s another layer to it.

• What does accountability look like when it’s imperfect?

• What does it look like when it doesn’t come in the exact form you expected, but it’s still an effort? Still an acknowledgment. Still a step toward you?

• And what does it mean to decide… this is enough for me to move forward?

That doesn’t mean everyone has to make that same decision. But for me, it mattered. It allowed me to have a relationship with my mom that feels honest and whole, without waiting for something that may never come in the way I once imagined it would.

And listening to myself talk about that months ago, before I had really sat with it the way I have now, made me pause.

Because again… I said it like I already knew. And I did. I just hadn’t fully lived it yet.

I think that’s what this season has been for me. Not becoming someone completely new, but slowly catching up to the version of myself that already exists. The version that understands things before I know how to apply them. The version that speaks truth before I feel fully grounded in it.

And maybe that’s what growth actually looks like. Not always a dramatic shift or a clear before-and-after. But these quiet moments where you hear yourself differently. Where something you said before lands in a deeper way. Where you realize you’ve been carrying the answer a little longer than you thought.

Maybe that’s what growth actually is. Not becoming someone completely different, but finally catching up to the version of yourself that already knew.

And I think I’m finally starting to trust her…

Not in a nostalgic way. Not in a “I miss her” way either. More like… recognizing her. Seeing her clearly. And realizing how much of her still exists in me, just expressed differently now.

Because if you met me in my early twenties, you would’ve met a very specific version of me. I was focused, ambitious, and pretty structured. I had a plan, and I was executing it.

I wasn’t particularly interested in being emotionally available. I wasn’t trying to be soft or understanding. I definitely wasn’t trying to build my life around relationships. If anything, I saw them as distractions. I had already experienced what it felt like to let someone pull me off course, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.

So I moved accordingly. I was sharp, opinionated, and confident. And to be honest, I thought I knew a lot more than I actually did. But I also know now that that version of me wasn’t wrong. She was just operating with the information she had at the time.

Lately, I’ve had a few conversations that made me pause. All from friends from different seasons of my life, reflecting back versions of me I hadn’t thought about in a while.

One of my closest friends from college told me how proud she was of my writing. Not just because of what I’m doing now, but because it reminded her of who I was back then. Before everything became about career paths and expectations. Back when writing wasn’t something I was trying to build into anything. It was just something I did.

Another friend said something similar in a different way. She told me the version of me that I am now reminded her of me I was when we first met. She said that she’d missed her. Not in a literal sense. We still talk, and we’re still connected. But she meant the version of me that was more open. More expressive. More present in myself.

And it made me sit with something I hadn’t fully articulated before.

I’m not becoming someone new.

I’m returning to someone I was… just with more life lived in between.

And I think that realization changed the way I understand growth entirely. We talk about growth like it’s always about becoming something better, something higher, or something more evolved. But sometimes, maybe growth is just softening.

• Letting go of the version of you that felt like you had to be guarded all the time.

• Letting yourself feel things you used to avoid.

• Letting yourself be open in ways that once felt unsafe or unnecessary.

And that kind of change doesn’t always make sense to everyone.

Because people don’t just know you. They know a version of you. The version they met, the version they got comfortable with, or the version that made sense to them at the time. So when you start moving differently, showing up differently, or choosing differently, it can feel unfamiliar to them. Sometimes even uncomfortable. Not because you’re doing anything wrong. But because you’re no longer aligning with the version of you they’ve held onto.

And I think I’m seeing that play out in real time. There are relationships in my life that feel a little different right now. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that needs to be named or forced. Just… a shift.

And I can recognize that part of it is me. I’m more open than I used to be.
More forgiving. More willing to hold space for things I used to shut down immediately.

And at the same time, I’m also clearer. Clearer about what I need. Clearer about how I want to feel in my relationships. Clearer about what alignment actually looks like for me now. And sometimes those two things happening at the same time changes the dynamic.

But here’s what I keep coming back to: I like who I am right now.

Not because I think I’ve figured everything out. But because I know I’m moving in a way that feels more honest. More grounded. More… me.

And I think we need to give ourselves more permission to do that.

• To change.

• To evolve.

• To outgrow old patterns without feeling like we owe an explanation for it.

• To become more emotionally available without feeling like we’ve lost our edge.

• To soften without thinking we’ve become weak.

Because the truth is, the person you were five, ten, or even fifteen years ago was never meant to be the final version of you.

And yes, there will be people who struggle to understand that. People who preferred the old version of you. People who felt more comfortable with who you were before. But your responsibility isn’t to stay the same so that other people can stay comfortable. Your responsibility is to keep becoming someone you can live with.

Someone you recognize and someone who feels aligned with the life you’re actually living now.

I’m not who I was in my twenties. And I don’t need to be because the woman I am now didn’t happen by accident. She came from experience, from reflection, and from choosing to grow, even when it would’ve been easier to stay the same. And I’m finally at a place where I can say that feels right.

So if you’ve been feeling yourself shift lately, or if you’ve been moving differently, thinking differently, or showing up differently… You don’t need to question it. You don’t need to explain it. And you definitely don’t need to shrink it to make it easier for other people to understand.

You’re allowed to change.

Not in a dramatic “everything is falling apart” kind of way. More like every area of my life is demanding something from me at the exact same time. Motherhood. Business. Growth. Responsibility. Decisions. Pressure. Expansion. Visibility. Faith. Exhaustion.

It feels like every version of me is being called forward at once. And there have been so many moments recently where I’ve thought, “God is really testing me right now.” But then, almost immediately after that thought came another one:

…But I’m going to win though.

And I sat with that for a second because I wondered if that was even the “right” way to think about it. Was that ego? Was that me trying to take control instead of surrendering? Was I centering myself too much in something that was supposed to be about faith?

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that isn’t actually how it feels at all. It feels like confidence. Not confidence in myself alone, but confidence in what I’ve already survived. Confidence in what I’ve already learned. Confidence in the fact that I didn’t get here empty-handed.

Because maybe God isn’t “testing” me in the way I originally thought. Maybe He’s revealing to me what I already have.

I think sometimes we talk about hard seasons like they exist only to break us down or humble us. And sometimes they do humble us. But I also think some seasons exist to show you what’s already been built into you. To show you what the last decade of lessons, heartbreak, pivots, failures, prayers, disappointments, and experiences actually produced.

And for me, I think I needed to see it. I think I needed proof. Not because God needed to prove anything to me, but because I needed to understand that I’m capable of carrying more than I thought I could.

That’s something I’m learning about myself in real time. I understand things more deeply when I experience them. I need to see the lesson working inside my actual life before it fully clicks for me. I need the lived experience. I need the moment where I can look back and say:

Oh…. That’s why I went through that. That’s what prepared me for this.

And honestly, I think God knows that about me.

I think God speaks to all of us differently. I think He meets us through the language our hearts already understand. For some people, faith looks peaceful and unwavering. For others, it looks like wrestling. Questioning. Pushing. Processing. Learning through experience instead of certainty.

That doesn’t make the relationship less real. If anything, I think it makes it more personal. And maybe that’s why this season feels different now. Not lighter, but clearer.

Because once I stopped viewing every hard moment as evidence that I was unprepared, I started noticing how much of my life had actually been preparing me all along. Even in business…. Actually, especially in business. And nowhere has that been clearer than in entrepreneurship.

I think I misunderstood what entrepreneurship would require from me. I thought freedom would feel lighter. But in many ways, it’s required even more discipline, structure, leadership, and emotional capacity than the life I thought I was leaving behind.

Entrepreneurship is not the opposite of structure.

And I know I’m not the only one. I think some of us romanticized entrepreneurship as freedom from corporate life. Freedom from pressure, systems, and responsibility. But the deeper I get into this season of business and expansion, the more I realize how much my earlier experiences equipped me for this version of my life.

• The organization.

• The discipline.

• The ability to think strategically.

• The ability to manage people, opportunities, deadlines, negotiations, communication, and growth.

None of that disappeared because the environment became more creative or digital or public-facing. If anything, the stakes got higher. There are more moving pieces now. More people connected to the outcome. More leadership required. More trust required. More discernment required.

And I think that’s part of why this season feels so heavy sometimes. Because I’m not just building dreams anymore. I’m building infrastructure. I’m building sustainability. I’m building a life that other people exist inside of too. And that requires a different version of me.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the reason I keep hearing “you can handle this” in my spirit is because I actually can. Not perfectly, not gracefully every day, and not without fear or overwhelm. But fully.

And maybe faith sometimes looks like understanding that the tools didn’t arrive the moment the challenge showed up. Maybe they were being developed quietly for years. Through every job, every disappointment, every delay, every relationship, every risk, and every version of you that thought she was failing when she was actually being prepared.

So no, I don’t think God is abandoning me in this season. And honestly, I don’t even think He’s testing me. I think He’s allowing me to see what’s already been planted in me. And maybe that’s why, even in the middle of all this pressure, I still believe I’m going to be okay.

Not because life feels easy right now.

But because I finally understand that being equipped and feeling comfortable are not the same thing.

When I was in college at Emory University, I took a class centered around identity. It was about how we see ourselves versus how the world sees us. And one of our assignments was to define that for ourselves. I remember being really clear. Not confused. Not unsure. Not trying to figure it out as I went.

I saw myself as a modern woman. Not in the way people typically define it, but in a way that felt honest to me. I believed I could have it all… just not all at the same time. I believed I could build, achieve, grow, and still choose to be deeply present in my life when I wanted to be.

And I knew exactly what that looked like for me. I wanted to be an involved mother. I wanted to be home while my kids were young. I wanted to be present in their everyday lives. But I also knew I was ambitious. I also had big academic and career goals. Those two things didn’t feel contradictory to me. They never had.

For this project, we had to visually represent how we saw ourselves versus how the world might see us. And I remember being so proud of what I put together. On one side, I described the woman I knew myself to be: driven, thoughtful, intentional, and building a life on my own terms. And on the other side, I put the image people might assume: a 1950s housewife vacuuming.

To me, it was funny. Not because I believed that was limiting, but because I understood how easily people simplify women and how quickly we get placed into boxes that don’t reflect the full picture. I thought it would open up a real conversation about what a “modern woman” actually looks like. How our upbringing, our values, and our lived experiences shape what we want. I was excited to talk about it.

But when I shared it in class, the response caught me completely off guard. My professor, who was someone I respected, challenged me in a way that didn’t feel like curiosity. It felt like disappointment. Like I was choosing too small of a life or like I should want more. And I remember sitting there, trying to understand why something that felt so clear to me felt so wrong to her.

At the time, I internalized it. Not enough to change what I wanted, but enough to question it. Enough to wonder if maybe I wasn’t thinking big enough. If maybe I was limiting myself without realizing it. And I carried that quietly for a while.

And what was interesting was that moments like that don’t always stay in the past. They show up again and again in small ways, subtle comments, assumptions, and questions that feel a little too loaded to be innocent. Even now, especially when I’m discussing business or digital strategy, someone will ask me, “I know that’s what your husband does, but what do you do? You’re a housewife, right?”

And it always catches me off guard. Not because there’s anything wrong with that role. But because of how quickly people default to it when they can’t immediately see or define your work. And I don’t get those comments too often, but enough for me to catch the disconnect. And when I do, I’m always left thinking the same thing:

I must make this look easy.

Because there’s no version of my life where I’m not working. It just doesn’t always look the way people expect it to.

The older I get, the more I realize that the tension isn’t actually between ambition and presence. It’s between definition and choice. We say we want women to have options. We say we believe in freedom. We say we’ve moved past the idea that there’s only one way to live. But the moment a woman chooses something that doesn’t align with what we personally value, we start to question it. We start to measure it. We start to wonder if she’s settling.

And I think that’s what my professor was responding to. Not me. But what my choice represented to her. Because to her, ambition looked like constant upward movement. It looked like building, achieving, expanding without pause. And to me, ambition looked like intention. It looked like being honest about what I wanted, even if it didn’t match the expectations around me.

What I didn’t fully understand back then, but I do now, is that feminism, at its core, is about choice. Not just the choices we agree with. Not just the ones that feel impressive. Not just the ones that look good from the outside. But all of them. Even the ones that don’t make sense to us, and even the ones that look different from our own.

I was raised by a mother who was deeply career-driven. She built, she worked, and she created. So much of who I am comes from watching her move through the world with that level of focus and independence.

She’s the reason why I’m an entrepreneur. She’s the reason I understand business the way I do. She’s the reason I know how to build something from nothing. But she wasn’t the kind of mother who was at everything. She wasn’t deeply immersed in the day-to-day in the way I knew I wanted to be. And I don’t say that to judge her at all. She’s an incredible mother, and watching her showed me one version of womanhood. Seeing her gave me the space to decide what mine would look like.

Now, I live somewhere in the middle. And I’ve realize that the “middle” isn’t confusing. It’s design. There are seasons where I’m deeply focused on work. There are seasons where my kids take up more space. There are moments where everything overlaps. And none of it cancels the other out.

I am not less ambitious because I’m present. And I am not less present because I have ambition. Both things can exist. Just maybe not always at the same time. And I think that’s the part I’d like to see us all give more grace about.

We’re so used to defining women by extremes that we struggle to understand what it looks like to live in between. To be both. To shift. To evolve. To choose differently at different stages of life.

Looking back now, I don’t think my professor was trying to limit me. I think she was reacting to what she had been taught ambition was supposed to look like. Just like we all do in different ways.

But if I could go back to that classroom now, I wouldn’t change my answer. I would just stand in it more fully. Because I know something now that I didn’t fully trust back then:

Wanting a life that reflects you is enough, and choosing that life, even when it doesn’t make sense to other people is its own kind of ambition.

So maybe that’s what having it all really means. Not doing everything at once. But having the freedom to decide what matters most, and when.

If you’ve been following along, you know this series has been about living in the middle. Not rushing clarity. Not forcing identity. Just learning how to see yourself clearly and trusting what you find. And this feels like a part of that. Because sometimes growth doesn’t look like becoming someone new. Sometimes it looks like realizing you already knew who you were. And finally giving yourself permission to live like it.

It wasn’t just because it was dramatic or entertaining, because it was. But it was mostly because it felt familiar… too familiar, actually. And I didn’t even realize how much it was going to hit me until I started watching Sydney more closely.

• The way she shows up.

• The way she listens.

• The way she tries to make sense of things that don’t fully make sense.

I realized that I’ve been her before.

When I watch Mikey, I don’t see a terrible person. And I think that’s what makes it so complicated. He’s not cold. He’s not completely dismissive. You can tell he cares. You can tell he doesn’t want to hurt her. And that’s where it gets confusing. Because good intentions feel like something you should hold onto.

But good intentions are not the same thing as good actions. And I think that’s something a lot of us had to learn the hard way.

There was a time in my life, in my late teens into my early twenties, where I was in a long-term relationship that looked good on the surface. We had history, love, and the kind of connection that made you feel like you were close to something real. And I stayed for a really long time. Not because everything was right. But because I saw the good in him.

The reality of that relationship was a cycle.

• Infidelity.

• Lies (or half-truths that felt like lies once you put the pieces together).

• Me finding out.

• Then these big, undeniable gestures of love.

And these gestures were sometimes huge. There were grand apologies, lavish gifts, and public declarations. To me, that effort made it very clear that he loved me and was sorry.

And that was the confusing part. Because I never doubted that he loved me. But I constantly questioned whether love, by itself, was enough to sustain what we were trying to build.

Things would be good for a while after. Really good. And then, slowly, we’d find ourselves right back in the same place. Over and over again. And I stayed longer than I should have. Because even though I saw the issues, I focused on the growth. It was there, in my eyes. I saw the potential and I saw what we could be if everything finally clicked.

And I think that’s where a lot of women get stuck. Because there’s a version of love that looks like believing in someone before they’ve fully shown you who they are.

• We call it being patient.

• We call it being understanding.

• We call it being a “lover girl.”

But sometimes it’s just hope.

Toward the end of that relationship, something in me shifted. I started holding him accountable in a way I hadn’t before. I wasn’t just accepting the apologies. I was asking for consistency. I was asking for change. I was asking for alignment between what he said and what he did.

And the more I did that, the more resistance I got. The more I was made to feel like I was asking for too much. Like my expectations were the problem.

And that was the moment everything became clear. Not all at once. But enough.

Because accountability will always reveal what someone is actually capable of giving you. Not what they say or what they intend. But it’s what they can sustain. And I know that now because I’ve experienced the difference.

My marriage isn’t perfect, but the foundation is completely different. I’m not waiting for things to click. I’m not hoping that effort turns into consistency. The accountability is already there. And more importantly, it shows up in action.

I’m not the test to see if it can work. I’m in something that already does, and that’s what allows it to grow. And if I’m being honest, that shift came with a realization I wish I had earlier:

You weren’t asking for too much. You just hadn’t experienced it done right yet.

We eventually ended things for good in that relationship. And by that point, I was already emotionally detaching. I had started to see things for what they were. I had started to recognize that I deserved more than a cycle I had to keep surviving.

So when I found out just a few months after we ended things that he was celebrating a one-year anniversary with someone else, an entire relationship that had overlapped with ours, I wasn’t heartbroken. I actually felt grounded.

It confirmed something I had already started to feel:

My reality in that relationship wasn’t the full picture.

And even though I wasn’t completely ready to walk away when I did, I was still right to trust what I felt.

And that’s why watching Sydney feels so familiar. Because I don’t see a woman who lacks judgment. I see a woman who believes in people. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But what I wish more women understood, and what I had to learn myself, is this:

Seeing the good in someone doesn’t mean you have to stay with them.

You can acknowledge their effort. You can understand their background. You can even love them. And still recognize that they are not showing up in the way you need.

One thing that stood out to me about Mikey is that he can name his flaws. He’ll say he’s immature. He’ll admit he didn’t handle something the right way. And on the surface, that feels like accountability. But accountability isn’t just naming the issue. It’s changing the behavior. And awareness without action doesn’t create safety.

And then there’s the part that really stayed with me. The way Sydney was made to feel like the villain for choosing herself.

• Like she should’ve known better.

• Like she should’ve left sooner.

• Like she should’ve tolerated less… or more… or differently.

And that narrative is so familiar. Because when you’re the one who sees the good in someone, you get blamed for staying too long. And when you finally leave, you get blamed for not giving them enough time to become who they said they would be.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn in relationships is this:

You are allowed to change your mind.

• Even if you love them.

• Even if they’re trying.

• Even if they didn’t mean to hurt you.

• Even if leaving makes you feel guilty.

Because guilt will have you staying in situations that your intuition has already outgrown.

And I don’t want that for my girls, and especially not my daughters.

I don’t want them to confuse potential with partnership. I don’t want them to feel like they have to justify their standards. I don’t want them to believe that someone’s effort, without real change, is something they have to accept. And I definitely don’t want them to feel like choosing themselves makes them selfish.

If anything, I want them to understand this:

• You can be kind.

• You can be empathetic.

• You can see the good in someone.

• And still decide that they are not for you.

Because love is not just about how much you can hold. It’s about what you’re willing to accept. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is leave.

This wasn’t what I planned on writing this week. But when I heard about Dr. Cerina Fairfax, something in me wouldn’t settle. At first, I thought I was just sad. The kind of sadness you feel when something tragic happens. Something senseless. Something that feels too close, even when it’s not your story. But that night, I couldn’t sleep.

I was tossing and turning in bed, my mind wouldn’t quiet down, and I couldn’t understand why it was sitting with me the way that it was. It wasn’t until the next morning, standing in the shower, that it hit me. I wasn’t just sad. I was triggered. And once I realized that, my mind didn’t stay with the headline. It started moving.

The first place it went was 2013. I was living in Miami, and I recently got accepted to attend law school in DC later that fall. I also was newly single after ending a 6-year long relationship, and the wounds were still fresh. So my friends and I went out to a club to celebrate. I was just enjoying myself, and a man grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him.

I pulled away and said, “No, I’m good.” Simple, but direct. And that’s when it shifted.

He wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me in tight and looked at me like I had just disrespected him.

“Who the f*ck do you think you’re talking to?”

And just like that, everything changed.

What should have been a normal moment became something else entirely. I remember how fast it escalated. I remember how quickly “no” turned into confrontation, and how I had to shift from being present… to being aware.

That moment wasn’t a one-off. Because not long after that, I had another experience in South Beach. This time with someone who carried a different kind of power. Someone well-known. Well-respected. The kind of person people don’t question easily. And I remember how disorienting that felt.

Because when someone has that kind of visibility, there’s an unspoken pressure to second-guess yourself.

To minimize what you’re experiencing.

To convince yourself that maybe it wasn’t what it felt like.

For a long time, I didn’t say anything. Part of that was fear, and another part was understanding how these situations tend to play out. Who gets believed and who doesn’t? What is the cost to speak? And if I’m being honest, part of it was knowing how protected he was by the way people saw him.

For years, I avoided even saying his name out loud. It felt easier to carry it quietly than to risk being dismissed, misunderstood, or turned into a story I couldn’t control. But over time, I’ve seen more stories surface. More women speaking up. And while that doesn’t make it easier, it does something else. It reminds you that you weren’t imagining it. That what you felt was real. And it makes it harder to stay silent. Because now I’m realizing silence doesn’t actually protect you. It just isolates you.

And then there was law school.

I had briefly dated someone, and early on, something about it didn’t feel right. It escalated quickly. There was jealousy, tension, and a moment where he raised his voice at me over something that wasn’t even real. And I remember thinking, this doesn’t feel right. So I ended it. I said I was uncomfortable. I created distance. I did everything you’re supposed to do when something doesn’t feel safe. And I thought that would be enough, but it wasn’t.

What I thought was an amicable ending turned into something else. He started calling me with stories that didn’t make sense. One day, he told me his best friend had passed away. And I remember showing up for him in that moment, trying to be supportive. Only to find out later that it wasn’t true. He made it up to stay connected to me. And when I realized that, I told him to leave me alone clearly and directly, but he didn’t.

It escalated into stalking, harassment, and repeated contact I didn’t want and didn’t consent to. It escalated too the point where I had to take it to court. And I remember sitting there thinking the system would protect me. I thought that being clear, being firm, doing everything “right” would matter. Instead, I remember the judge saying something that made it feel like I was being blamed. Like somehow his behavior was a response to something I didn’t do correctly. And I sat there, as a law student, in a system I was being trained to believe in… and felt completely unprotected. Completely misunderstood, yet somehow responsible.

Luckily, we appealed, and it was corrected. But it only happened because I pushed back. I had the tools, support, and the access to advocate for myself. But that moment still stayed with me.

And what stayed with me just as much as the system failing me was the way people around me responded. I heard the jokes, the doubt, and the comments. The insinuations that because he was a black man, that he was automatically targeted or was the true victim. And I remember exactly who made them. I remember the people who didn’t speak up. The people who reduced it. The people, especially my classmates, who I thought would understand, but didn’t.

And I don’t say that from a place of anger. But I do say it honestly. Because part of what made that experience so difficult wasn’t just what happened to me. It was how isolating it felt afterward. How quickly something serious became something people could laugh about. And I had to learn, in real time, how to stand in something that people around me weren’t taking seriously.

I remember calling it out. And at the time, I didn’t feel strong or empowered. But looking back now, I’m proud that I did. Because I know not everyone feels like they can. I remember having a conversation with my mom, and she told me she didn’t think she would’ve been able to speak up the way I did. And that stayed with me too, because it made me realize that sometimes the strength you show in a moment doesn’t feel like strength at all. It just feels like survival.

And when I really sat with all of this, my mind went back even further. To the first time something like this touched my life.

I was about nine or ten, visiting family in Florida. I met my mom’s cousin’s son, and we connected immediately. Same age, same energy, and the kind of connection that feels easy and instant. I remember being excited that I finally had someone there, my age, who felt like a friend.

And then two weeks later, he was murdered.

His father killed him and himself after a domestic violence situation between his parents. And nobody talked to me about it. Nobody explained it. Nobody checked in. It was just… something that happened, and then everyone moved on.

But I remember how it felt back then. Even if I didn’t have the words for it at the time.

So when I heard about Dr. Fairfax’s murder… It didn’t just feel like a tragic story. It felt like a pattern. Not the same outcome, but the same thread.

And yes, I’ve seen the conversations about mental health, and about what leads someone to do something like that. And while those conversations do matter, they cannot come first. Because the reality is, another black woman lost her life at the hands of an abuser. Full stop.

And too often, we move to explanation before we fully sit in what was taken.

What I’m sitting with now is something quieter, but just as real. The understanding that even in a life that feels safe now… even in a marriage where I feel loved, supported, and protected, there are things my body remembers. Moments that didn’t just pass.

Some things don’t just live in your memory. They stay in your body.

And they stayed. They shaped how I move. How I respond. How I read situations before they fully unfold. And that doesn’t go away just because your life changes.

And even in a healthy relationship, that can be hard to explain. Because if you haven’t lived it, you don’t always instinctively understand it. Not because you don’t care. But because it’s not your lived experience.

So I’m not writing this with a clean takeaway. I’m writing this because it’s been sitting with me. Because I’m still working through it. But I do know this: When we have the strength to speak, we should.

Not because we have to. But because hearing these stories matter. Because it helps other women name what they’ve felt. Because it reminds you that you’re not alone. And if my story does that for even one person, then it was worth telling.

I didn’t like what it represented. It felt like another way to reduce women in relationships. Another way to center a man’s needs while quietly asking women to make themselves smaller. To be softer. Easier. Less complicated. And if I’m being for real, it was triggering AF.

I’ve been in quite a few serious relationships where my feelings weren’t fully considered. Where my presence felt more like something to be managed than something to be valued. Where the expectation was that I should show up in a way that made things easier without that same energy being returned to me. So when I heard “be his peace,” I didn’t hear love. I heard sacrifice. I heard silence. I heard a woman being asked to shrink. And I rejected that completely.

But I also didn’t fully understand it. At least, not yet. Because what I’m realizing now is that context matters. The relationship matters. And who you’re being asked to show up for matters.

My perspective on that phrase didn’t change from hearing a better argument. It changed from living something different, and from being in a relationship where I feel safe, where I’m considered, and where my emotions aren’t treated like an inconvenience. And because of that, I started to see something I hadn’t seen before.

I started to see my husband more clearly. Not just as my husband, but as a Black man moving through the world in a way I will never have to. And I don’t know if we talk enough about that. At least, not in a way that’s honest or in a way that holds both truths at the same time.

Because as a Black woman, I know what it feels like to carry a lot.

• To be overlooked.

• To be underestimated.

• To be expected to hold everything together without breaking.

So I won’t pretend like those experiences don’t matter, because they do. But that doesn’t mean my husband’s experience doesn’t matter either. And being close enough to him to really see it changed something in me.

I see the way the world interacts with him. My husband, Kier, is a 6’1, dark-skinned half Nigerian, half American Black man born and raised in Soufeast DC, with an thick ass DC accent to match. Before people know his voice, before they know his work, and before they know who he actually is, I see the assumptions and the tension. I see the way people respond to him before they’ve even had a conversation with him. And even beyond that, I see what it takes for him to show up in the way that he does. I see what it looks like to be overly intentional about making sure he’s seen as thoughtful, open, and emotionally available in a world that doesn’t always make space for that in men. Especially Black men.

There’s a kind of emotional contradiction there. Where you’re expected to be strong, but not always given the room to be soft. Expected to lead, but not always supported when things feel heavy. Expected to handle things without always having a place to put what you’re carrying. And to be honest, I didn’t fully understand the weight of that until I saw it up close, and really until I heard it in his voice.

There was a moment recently when he was out of town for a speaking engagement. He had just gotten back to his hotel, and we were on the phone talking about how everything went. And then his tone shifted. He got quiet, and super alert. And he said, “Babe… I think these guys are trying to rob me.” And I could hear it. The fear, but also the readiness. I heard the way his mind immediately went into protection mode. He was thinking and talking through what he would do, how he would respond, and what needed to happen next.

My heart dropped in that moment because that wasn’t a one-off feeling for him. That was familiarity. That was something his body already knew how to do. And it made me realize something I hadn’t fully sat with before.

• How often does he have to move through the world like that?

• How often does his guard have to be up?

• How much does that harden you over time?

And in that moment, “be his peace” sounded different to me. It didn’t sound like shrinking. It didn’t sound like silence. It sounded like being a place where he doesn’t have to brace himself. A place where he doesn’t have to anticipate anything. A place where his nervous system can finally come down.

And that shifted everything because I realized that I’m not being asked to make myself smaller. I’m being invited to be a safe place. The same way he is for me.

Because I’ve experienced that with him. If you follow us online, you’ve seen it. And it’s the same way behind closed doors. It’s the way he holds me when I’m overwhelmed, the way he listens, and the way he makes space for me to feel without making me feel like I’m too much.

So it’s not one-sided. It’s reciprocal. It’s built. Because safety feels better when it’s mutual. And I think that’s the part that gets lost in the conversation. When you hear “be his peace” outside of the context of a healthy, safe relationship, it can feel like a demand. But inside of the right relationship, it feels like a choice. And it’s a natural one.

When someone creates that kind of safety for you, you want to give it back. Not because you have to, but because it feels right. And I think that’s what I’m learning. That being his peace isn’t about reducing myself. It’s not about holding things in or pretending I don’t have needs. It’s about understanding what he carries and choosing to be a place where he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

And that doesn’t take anything away from me. If anything, it reflects the kind of relationship we’ve built. One where we both have a safe place to land.

And if I’m being honest, like keeping it a buck, I don’t know that I’ve mastered this. I didn’t grow up seeing this kind of support. I didn’t have a clear example of what it looks like to love a man in this way without losing yourself in the process. So I’m figuring it out as I go.

There are moments where I get it right, and there are moments where I don’t because I’m human. But I’m here with it, I’m present in it, I’m paying attention to it, and I’m trying to show up in a way that reflects what I now understand. So I can say this with certainty, my marriage is better because of it.

If you’ve been reading along, you know I’ve been writing from this in-between space for a while now. Not becoming someone new, but understanding the version of me that’s already here. If any part of this felt familiar, there’s more where this came from.

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

• After the Glow-Up: What Happens When You Stop Being a Project: You built the life. Now you have to live in it.

• Stop Acting Like You’re Somebody’s Mentee: You don’t need another credential. You need to believe the mirror.

• Maybe This Is What It Feels Like to Be Loved Right: And why this version of me didn’t come from trying harder.

• I Almost Became Smaller Trying to Be a Better Mom: What I misunderstood about my mom, what I almost lost in myself, and what I want my daughters to see instead.

• Don’t Be Afraid to Pop Your Sh*t: On shrinking, being misunderstood, and knowing when to say more.

  Thanks for reading Simmer Down with Noémie! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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“So… what do you actually do?”

I paused for a second because depending on the day, I answer that question very differently. When I’m just getting to know people, I tend to keep it light, simple, and easy to digest. So, naturally, that’s what I started to do. But as I was talking, she kept asking questions, and I could see she was trying to piece it all together.

Clearly not getting a straight answer, she replied, “Wait, so are you a writer? I’m just trying to understand.”

And I laughed because she had no idea. She didn’t know I was a lawyer. She didn’t know I used to teach. She didn’t know I lived in Switzerland. She didn’t know I worked in the recording industry. She had idea that about the level of experience I’ve had or the rooms I’ve been in, and I realized in that moment that I had given her just enough to stay comfortable. It wasn’t enough to be really understood.

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So I stopped and I said, “Okay… can I pop my sh*t a little bit?”, and she immediately said yes. So I did. I told her everything. I wasn’t trying to impress her, and or to perform in a certain way. I was definitely proud, but I also just wanted to be honest. Here’s what I’ve done. Here’s where I’ve been. Here’s how I got here.

Her reaction was genuine pride at first, then clear annoyance that I hadn’t “popped my sh*t” sooner. This ended up turning into an entire conversation about how maybe I don’t do that enough. How, as black women especially, we really don’t do it enough.

I’ve been thinking about that conversation ever since, because it’s true, even for me. If I’m being real, there’s always this moment in me. It always happens so quick. It’s a split second in the middle of a conversation with someone new where I decide how much of myself I’m going to share: How much am I going to say? How much am I going to downplay?

And I always tell myself the same thing in my head:

• You don’t need to do all that.

• You don’t need to explain yourself.

• You don’t need to prove anything.

And for the most part, that’s true. I’m not in a place in my life where I need validation the way I used to. I’m not chasing the same things. I’m more settled in myself. I’m clear on who I am, and less attached to being understood by everyone. But there’s another truth that sits right next to that:

I don’t always like being misunderstood.

And I think what made this hit me even more is how connected it feels to where I’ve already been. Because I just came out of a season where I realized I was shrinking in a completely different way: as a mom.

I had made myself smaller by centering everyone else. And I was losing parts of myself in the process. So I started working on how to actively pull myself out of that. But I had to recognize that I was doing it first in order to start moving differently.

When I was reflecting back on that original conversation, I found it so interesting to see how that same pattern shows up here too. Not in how I live, but in how I let myself be seen. It’s as if I’d done all this work to stop shrinking in my life, but I was still catching myself shrinking in how I explain it. And that doesn’t feel aligned with who I know I am anymore.

There’s a difference between not needing validation and not wanting to be reduced, or between being grounded and constantly making yourself smaller so other people can feel comfortable. And I think especially in our community, there’s a tension around that. We’re proud, accomplished, and have done things that took real work. But we soften it, joke about it, or say things like, “Let me pop my sh*t real quick,” like we need permission to acknowledge ourselves.

And I’ve been in too many rooms with too many accomplished people who still do that. These are people who have done incredible things and still feel the need to make it light before they say it. I understand where that comes from. We don’t want to come off as arrogant. We don’t want to feel like we’re separating ourselves from the community. We don’t want to be perceived as thinking we’re better than anyone else.

But I also think we’ve overcorrected. Sometimes it feels like we’ve overdone it to the point where we minimize ourselves in spaces that actually require clarity or we downplay things that deserve to be acknowledged.

I’ve been realizing that I do that more than I thought I did. Not because I don’t know who I am, but because I’ve convinced myself that it doesn’t matter whether other people do. I’ve been stuck in this tension where a part of me genuinely doesn’t care, but another part of me still wants to be seen accurately. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

I don’t think the desire to say more automatically means you’re looking for validation. Sometimes it just means you’re telling the truth. Sometimes it just means you’re correcting the narrative. Sometimes it just means you’re no longer interested in being misunderstood for the sake of being humble.

I’m definitely entering this season where I don’t need to prove anything. But in the same breath, I also refuse to shrink. I’m finding the space where I can be grounded in who I am and still acknowledge what I’ve done without softening it, joking about it, or asking for permission.

So yes, sometimes I do want to pop my sh*t, and I think there’s so much beauty in the duality of that perspective. Because it’s not about doing more. It’s about deciding when I don’t need to say less.

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This essay felt a little different. Unlike the rest of those in this series, this one is less about figuring something out and more about noticing it in real time. If you’ve been reading along, you know I’ve been writing from this in-between space for a while now. Not becoming someone new, but understanding the version of me that’s already here. If any part of this felt familiar, there’s more where this came from.

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

• After the Glow-Up: What Happens When You Stop Being a Project: You built the life. Now you have to live in it.

• Stop Acting Like You’re Somebody’s Mentee: You don’t need another credential. You need to believe the mirror.

• Maybe This Is What It Feels Like to Be Loved Right: And why this version of me didn’t come from trying harder.

• I Almost Became Smaller Trying to Be a Better Mom: What I misunderstood about my mom, what I almost lost in myself, and what I want my daughters to see instead.

  Thanks for reading Simmer Down with Noémie! This post is public so feel free to share it.

  Share

If she had a meeting, I was there. If she started a business, I was helping. If she had something to do, I was involved. And I remember being so annoyed by it. I didn’t want to sit in meetings. I didn’t want to hear about work. I just wanted to do the fun “kid” things.

At the time, it felt like everything was always about what she had going on. And if I’m being honest, I think a part of me decided early on that I didn’t want to be that kind of mom.

I didn’t always see my mom the way I see her now. And in my 20s, I don’t think I realized how similar we actually were. I was still working through a version of resentment that I think a lot of us have experienced with our parents. Trying to understand them as people while still holding on to how things felt growing up.

We weren’t disconnected, but we weren’t as aligned as we are now. I don’t think I fully appreciated her then in the way I do now. And it wasn’t until I started seeing myself more clearly that I was able to see her differently too.

I didn’t realize how much that belief stayed with me until I had kids of my own. When I became a mother, I didn’t just step into the role, I overcorrected. I didn’t want my kids to feel what I thought I felt growing up. So, subconsciously, I made everything about them, and I made myself smaller without even realizing it.

The scariest part about all this is that it didn’t feel wrong at the time. It actually felt like I was doing it “right.” It felt like I was being a good mom, and it felt like I was choosing them. Then somewhere in that process, I started losing parts of myself. Not all at once, but it was just enough to notice. I vividly remember having this quiet moment where I had to ask myself something I didn’t expect:

Is this actually what I want them to learn from me?

Then I started to realize something that didn’t sit well with me:

If all they ever saw was me pouring into them, what would they believe was available to them?

Would they think their lives were supposed to revolve around everyone else? Would they think becoming a mother meant becoming less of themselves? Would they think they had to shrink in order to show up?

That didn’t feel right to me, at all. And it made me start looking at my mom differently.

My mom didn’t shrink. She never did. As a Haitian immigrant living right outside of NYC in the 80s, she didn’t have examples of the life she wanted, but she built it anyway. She tried things, started over, changed directions, then figured it out in real time again and again. I used to think that was chaotic, and it was at times. But now I see it as freedom. She was just moving in a way the world hadn’t caught up to yet.

I didn’t understand it then. But I grew up believing I could do anything because of it. I’ve never really struggled with imposter syndrome as a kid and I’ve never felt like I had to stay in one lane. I literally would say I wanted to be a pediatrician, a model, and a singer, and I believed I could do all of them at the time. I even remember specifically telling one of my uncles, that I’ll be walking down the runway with a microphone on the way to the ER to help my patients.

Over the years, I’ve changed careers, shifted paths, and tried new things without hesitation. It wasn’t because I’m fearless. It’s because I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do. And now I know where that came from. Realizing that didn’t just shift my perspective. It shifted my mom and I’s relationship. It wasn’t just about understanding her intention. It was about her willingness to learn me, too. She made an intention to hear me differently and to meet me where I was. It took effort on both of our parts. And I think that’s what changed everything.

My mother didn’t just raise me. She modeled possibility for me, and that realization changed everything for me as a mom. I stopped asking:

How do I make sure my kids never feel what I felt?

And started asking:

What did I actually gain from it?

And the answer wasn’t resentment. It was range. It was confidence. And it was the ability to move without waiting for permission. So, I started finding my way back to myself.

It wasn’t in the same way my mom did it. It was in a way that felt true to me. I joined Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated in my late 30s, I stepped into communities like District Motherhued, and I said yes to new spaces, new opportunities, and new versions of myself. I didn’t need to prove anything. I just realized something more important:

My daughters aren’t just listening to me. They’re studying me.

And I saw that clearly one day when Emery was talking to her dad. I overheard her say, “Daddy, you only have one job. Mommy has like six.”

And then she started listing them.

• Cheer team manager.

• School volunteer.

• AKA.

• District Motherhued.

• … and everything else she sees me doing.

And I just sat there in awe because in that moment, it all clicked. She’s not watching me to keep score. She’s watching me to understand what’s possible. She’s learning what she’s allowed to become, and that shifted something in me. It made we wonder whether how I decide to show up in my life is shaping how they’ll show up in theirs.

I think the limits I accept quietly become the limits they inherit loudly. So I make a conscious effort not to hide my life from them, but I don’t overwhelm them with it either. I let them see me try, show up, fail, and then fix it. I make sure they still see me exist outside of just being their mom. I don’t necessarily need them to be busy, but I want them to believe they can be if they want to be. And maybe that’s the kind of motherhood I’m growing into:

Not one where I disappear for the sake of doing everything “right,” but one where I stay fully myself so they never question if they’re allowed to do the same.

There was a time when I judged my mom for not making motherhood her entire life. I didn’t understand it then. But I do now. And not just because I see what I gained from it, but because I understand how much intention it actually takes to hold both. To show up for your family and still show up for yourself. To pour into your children without pouring yourself out completely. And I think that’s the part I want us all to sit in a bit longer.

Because this isn’t about choosing yourself at the expense of your kids. And it’s not about losing yourself in your kids either. It’s about learning how to live in the tension of both. And that doesn’t always look clean. It doesn’t always feel balanced. But when it’s done with intention, when there’s effort on both sides, and when there’s a willingness to grow and understand each other, it can still lead to something whole.

I didn’t always get it. I didn’t always agree with it. But I grew into it.

And now I see it for what it was.

My mom wasn’t taking anything away from me. She was showing me what I could become.

And I’m still learning how to do that, too.

If you’ve been following my Substack for the past few months, you know I’ve been writing from this space in the middle. Not necessarily becoming someone new, but learning how to understand, validate, and fully see the woman I already am.

A lot of this has been me looking back. Connecting who I was to who I am now. Making sense of the stories, the decisions, and the moments that shaped me into this version of myself. Each essay has been a different part of that process: identity, courage, healing, and the relationships that shaped me, and the ones I’ve had to learn how to see differently over time.

If you’ve been finding yourself in any of this, I’ve written through other parts of it too. I’ll link them below if you want to follow the thread:

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

• After the Glow-Up: What Happens When You Stop Being a Project: You built the life. Now you have to live in it.

• Stop Acting Like You’re Somebody’s Mentee: You don’t need another credential. You need to believe the mirror.

• Maybe This Is What It Feels Like to Be Loved Right: And why this version of me didn’t come from trying harder.

That video wasn’t planned. I really just had a rough day and asked him if he had a moment. I was extremely overwhelmed and really just needed a hug. He pulled me into his arms the way he always does and let me settle there until my body caught up with my mind.

The internet saw that moment and called it beautiful. But what surprised me was the response. Thousands of comments about intimacy, nervous systems, and what it looks like when a woman feels safe enough to soften. People recognized something in that hug immediately. And reading those comments made me realize something I don’t think we say out loud enough:

It’s easy to show someone love when they’ve already made space for you to feel safe.

And I want to say this plainly, because I think it matters. You can try your hardest in the wrong relationship and still never feel this way. This isn’t what happens when you finally get it right. It’s what happens when you’re met in the right way.

But the truth is that it wasn’t always this easy for me to melt into someone’s arms like that. There was a time in my life when vulnerability felt dangerous. When love felt like something that could shift without warning. I’d been hurt before in ways that made me protective of myself, even when I didn’t want to be. So when Kier and I first started building a life together, I wasn’t the woman people see in that video.

I was careful and measured. I was still learning how much of myself it was safe to share. And to his credit, he never rushed that process. He didn’t treat my caution like a problem to solve or a wall to break down. He understood something that took me years to fully appreciate:

Safety can’t be demanded. It has to be created.

So he did the quiet work of showing up consistently. He listened when I spoke. He stayed calm when I was overwhelmed. He made space for my emotions without making them feel like an inconvenience. He never held my past against me or made me feel like I had to prove that I trusted him. He just kept meeting me where I was until my body slowly learned that it was okay to relax there.

And that’s something people don’t always talk about when they talk about love.

Safety is built slowly. It’s built in the ordinary moments when someone chooses patience instead of pressure. When they listen instead of reacting. When they hold you long enough for your nervous system to catch up to your heart. That’s why that hug means so much to me. Not because it looked beautiful on camera. But because it represents something that took time to grow between us.

We had to learn how to lean into each other without hesitation, and how to be held without feeling like you need to brace yourself. And I think that’s part of why I’ve been able to show up the way I have in this series.

• The reflection.

• The honesty.

• The willingness to talk openly about who I’m becoming.

All of that is possible because the life I’m living now feels safe enough to explore out loud.

There’s something powerful about being loved by someone who makes room for your nervous system. Someone who doesn’t need you to be impressive or composed all the time. Someone who can just hold you until your body remembers it’s okay to breathe again.

That kind of love changes you. It softens the parts of you that were once constantly bracing for impact. And when love feels like that, generosity starts to come naturally.

Which brings me to something else I’ve been quietly doing lately. Because when someone creates that kind of safety for you, something shifts in the way you love them back.

Around the same time that video started circulating, I was planning Kier’s 40th birthday. From the outside, it probably looked like I was just organizing a trip. But what I was really doing was imagining how to make him feel loved. When I love someone deeply, my mind starts building little worlds for them. Not in a dramatic way. More like a quiet instinct that turns on in the background of my day.

• What would make him smile?

• What would surprise him?

• What would make him feel seen?

So I started imagining the day like a story. I knew Sedona, Arizona was a monumental city for him. It’s where he decided to write his first book. Three years later, the book is done, and will be published in August!! He’s been wanting to go back to Sedona, so I thought this would be the perfect way to make this a full circle moment.

So I planned the trip around that concept. I thought about the moment he woke up on his birthday, the Uber ride to the airport, the second the plane lifted into the air, the pit stops to grab coffee and apple pie (his favorite), and the moment we drove from Phoenix into Sedona and the desert opened up around us.

So I wrote little cards he could open throughout the day. Small envelopes revealing the trip piece by piece instead of all at once.

A poem here. A hint there. And another surprise waiting at the next moment.

Not because those details matter in some grand way. But because attention is one of the ways I know how to love someone. And while the internet was responding to that hug, what they were actually seeing was just one small window into the atmosphere we’ve built together.

The hug might be the moment people saw. But love, at least the kind I believe in, is usually built long before that moment ever arrives. It’s in the attention, the patience, and the quiet ways two people keep choosing each other over time.

And lately, I’ve been realizing that this kind of safety might be one of the most intimate things two people can create together. Not loud or performative. Just two people continuing to show up for each other in ways the world may never fully see.

And maybe that’s why that hug felt so real to people watching. Because what they were seeing wasn’t just a moment.

It was the feeling of a relationship where someone finally feels safe enough to rest

And if you’ve felt that before, even once, you know exactly what I mean.

Each essay traces a different part of that process: identity, courage, healing, and the relationships that make it possible. I’ll link the others below if you want to follow the thread.

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

• After the Glow-Up: What Happens When You Stop Being a Project: You built the life. Now you have to live in it.

• Stop Acting Like You’re Somebody’s Mentee: You don’t need another credential. You need to believe the mirror.

She was everything I wanted to be when I met her. An accomplished entertainment lawyer, grounded but fly, and unbothered, but graceful in the way that only comes from having already survived the thing you’re afraid of. I studied her from a respectful distance the way young women study the women they hope to become. I was careful not to need too much. Careful to show up prepared. Careful to earn whatever she gave me.

What I didn’t understand then, and what took me longer than I’d like to admit to accept, is that she wasn’t waiting for me to earn it.

She already saw it.

She saw it before I did. Not the capable version of me. Capable was never the thing that moved her. She saw the boss. She saw what I was building toward before I had the language for it. And she loved me for what she saw, not for what I had already proven.

I know this not just because of what she’s said to me directly. But because of the way she speaks about me in rooms I’m not in. Because of the way she looks at me, not with pride exactly, but more like recognition. Like she’s watching something she called a long time ago finally come into full view.

For years I received that and deflected it. I would graciously say, “Thank you,” and move on. I just filed it under nice things people say. I didn’t know then how to just believe it.

And this is why I pour into women the way I do. Probably to an annoying degree if I’m being honest. But I check in when I don’t have to. I make introductions that don’t benefit me. I say the thing out loud in the room. “She’s brilliant,” “She’s ready,” and “She belongs here.” Because someone did that for me before I believed it myself.

Black women have been told for so long that there isn’t enough room, enough opportunity, enough shine to go around. That the woman ahead of you is a threat and the woman behind you is competition. That scarcity is the natural condition of our ambition.

I don’t believe that. I have never believed that. And I have the receipts in the form of every woman who has poured into me, spoken for me, and made room for me to prove it isn’t true. Pouring into each other isn’t just generosity. For us, it’s resistance. It’s the direct refusal of a lie we were never meant to question.

So when the women I had admired from a distance, the ones whose careers I once used as blueprints, started speaking to me differently, I didn’t know what to do with it. The tone had shifted. It wasn’t condescending, mean, or unflattering. It felt “equal”.

One of them even stopped me mid-sentence once. Not unkindly. Just firmly.

She said, “Girl, stop acting like you’re somebody’s mentee.”

I laughed. Deflected. Said, “No, you’re right, sis,” like I typically do. But I thought about it for days afterwards. Partly because the truth was suddenly clear and uncomfortable AF.

I was still shrinking in rooms I had already earned. Still positioning myself as the student when I had long since become the standard. Still looking up at women I was already standing beside.

It wasn’t humility. It was habit. And habits are harder to break than ceilings.

That’s the thing about being an overachiever that nobody warns you about. The standard doesn’t come from outside. It comes from you. And you are the only one who keeps moving it.

The world wasn’t telling me I wasn’t enough. I was.

And it didn’t stop there. Women I had been a fan of online. Literally people I had followed for years, learned from quietly, and never imagined knowing personally started pouring into me the way I had poured into them from a distance. Not as an audience member, but as a colleague. As someone they respected and wanted in their corner.

And then something shifted in the other direction too. Women started coming to me.

For advice. For perspective. For the kind of conversation I used to have to seek out. They were sitting across from me the way I used to sit across from the women I admired. Looking at me the way I used to look at them.

I had become, without fully registering it, the very thing I had been searching for.

Here is what I had to figure out the hard way… And I do mean figure out because nobody handed this to me and I did not arrive here gracefully:

Harmony doesn’t require 100% in every category.

I know that sounds simple. But it’s not simple when you are an overachiever who has spent her entire life treating 100% as the floor, not the ceiling. When you’ve built your identity around being the person who does it all, does it well, and does it without letting anyone see the cost, this disconnect gets really weird the more successful you become.

So I did what overachievers do. I ran the numbers. I started doing the math on what 100% everywhere was actually taking from me. The tightness in my body at the end of a day where I had performed at full capacity in every direction. The low-grade resentment of never being fully anywhere because I was distributing myself so carefully across everything. The exhaustion of a woman who was succeeding by every external measure and still somehow running a deficit.

So I had to talk myself into something that felt, at first, like failure: 70% is passing. (Shit even 60% might be in some states…)

Present enough in my marriage. Available enough for my kids. Focused enough in my work. Honest enough with myself. Not perfect in any of it. Not 100% in any direction. Just 70%, sustained, intentional, and real.

Now that I’m here, it doesn’t feel like settling. It isn’t about giving up. And it isn’t the thing my younger self would have accepted without a fight.

But here is what I know now that I didn’t know then: 70% sustained is what harmony actually feels like. It’s what lets you stay in your life instead of just managing it. It’s what makes room for a good day to feel like enough instead of evidence that you’re slipping.

The overachiever in me still flinches a little when I say it out loud. But I’m saying it anyway.

The mirror was never missing.

• I wasn’t invisible.

• I wasn’t unfinished.

• I wasn’t waiting to be discovered.

• I was already standing in the rooms I once prayed to enter.

My mentor saw it first. The women I admired started naming it next. And then, the women coming to me for guidance confirmed it from the other direction.

Every reflection was telling the same story:

I had already cleared the standard. I was the only one still moving it.

So I stopped.

And for the first time in a long time, I let it count.

Is there someone in your life who saw you before you saw yourself? And have you let yourself believe what they’ve been saying?

xo Noémie

This reflection belongs to a collection I’ve been writing about living in the middle: between building and inhabiting and between striving and settling into what’s already here. Each essay holds a different mirror. I’ll link the others below if you want to read them together:

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

• After the Glow-Up: What Happens When You Stop Being a Project: You built the life. Now you have to live in it.

I don’t even remember what it was now. It was probably some email or task that felt urgent ten minutes before I picked up my phone. But as always, the algorithm did what the algorithm does, and suddenly I was four videos deep into someone’s career glow-up series. She was 27, maybe 28, breaking down her five-year plan, her morning routine, and the exact mindset shift that changed everything. She was mapping out the version of herself that she was building with this beautiful, focused precision.

And baby, I was locked in.

Not in a detached, “That’s cute” kind of way. It was in a genuine, talk your shit, sis kind of way. Because the girlies are good, intentional, and moving with the kind of clarity that only comes when you’ve just figured something out and the figuring is still fresh.

I always feel proud watching these young women. Real pride, the kind you feel for someone you truly see and are genuinely rooting for.

But underneath that was something deeper. It wasn’t loud, but it was present. And it was something I needed a minute to name.

I know that feeling. I lived in that feeling. But I am no longer in it.

Here’s what the glow-up era is really about when you strip it all down:

You are a project. And the work is about building yourself into something.

Maybe you’re learning how to be your best self, live your best life, and make the most out of the opportunities in front of you. And there is nothing wrong with that. I was that project. I was intentional, ambitious, and strategic. I was constructing a version of myself that could hold the life I wanted. I had the plan, and even better, the discipline. I had clarity about where I was headed and what I was willing to do to get there. In my mid to late twenties, that model worked beautifully. I was sharp and focused, and I built real things with that.

That version of me is why I’m steady now, and I don’t say that lightly. But here’s what nobody tells you about the glow-up:

At some point, you have to stop being a project and start being a person.

You know that model that built you? The one that ran on optimization and accumulation and always becoming something more? It doesn’t automatically update itself when your life does.

Well, at least mine didn’t.

I became a mother, and the self-construction model said: absorb it. Figure it out. Keep moving. Don’t let it slow you down. First-generation Haitian-American women don’t slow down. Okay, done.

Then I became a wife, and the model told me to perform partnership well. Work on the communication. Speak up, but be supportive. Manage the household, but don’t lose yourself. Complete everything else efficiently and without complaint. Okay. Done.

And then I became a business owner, and the model said: build. Add. Optimize. There is always a next level if you’re disciplined enough to reach it. Okay fine. Done.

So for a long time, I kept running that model because it never failed me before. It was the architecture of everything I’d achieved because the idea of setting it down felt dangerously close to giving up. But what I’ve slowly had to reckon with is this: a model built for self-construction doesn’t know what to do with a life that’s already built.

It just keeps trying to build. Keeps treating everything like a problem to optimize. It keeps generating a low-grade anxiety that something is unfinished, that something needs more work, and that someone (usually me) is not yet enough.

When I actually stop and look at my life, the story that this model tells me just doesn’t hold anymore. My daughters are past the baby phase. I’m not learning myself from scratch anymore. I’ve lived inside my own rhythms long enough to know what steadies me and what doesn’t. I know how to make big decisions and stand by them. I know who I am in a room full of strangers and I know who I am alone at 11pm when nobody’s watching.

I’m a girl’s girl. I’m ambitious. I’m educated. I love hard, show up fully, and I have really good boundaries. And if you know me, you know those things coexist in a way that took me years to figure out. I don’t need another routine. I don’t need another reset. I don’t need tips on how to lock in.

I’m already in. I just had a model running in the background telling me I wasn’t.

I’ve been thinking about what it actually looks like to retire the project version of yourself. And to be clear, I’m not abandoning ambition. That’s not what I’m describing here. But I’m feeling the shift from building yourself to inhabiting yourself in real time. It’s like I’m going from self-construction to something quieter and more demanding at the same time.

Because here’s the reality I wasn’t prepared for: inhabiting your life is harder than building it.

Building gives you a target. A vision board. A five-year plan. A clear metric for whether you’re moving forward. Inhabiting asks something different. It asks you to be present in what’s already here. To stop scanning for what’s missing and actually feel what fits. To let the ease of a good day register as enough instead of evidence that you must be slipping.

My first instinct, still, when something feels unsettled, is to tighten things, add structure, and assume I need to sharpen my edges. The old model still run sometimes. But it’s even more clear now that it just doesn’t fit the territory anymore.

What this season is asking of me instead is to take inventory, not add to it. I’ve had to sit with quieter questions, like:

• What actually gives me peace now, not what should, but what does?

• What makes me feel proud in a way that doesn’t need to be announced?

• Who sees me clearly without me having to perform or explain?

I already have answers. I already have the people. I already have the life that a younger version of me was working toward without knowing its name.

The younger Noémie thought arrival would feel louder. More official. She thought she’d know she made it because everything would finally feel complete. But that’s not how it happened.

It arrived quietly. In the steadiness of my days. In the work that feels aligned instead of performative. In the house I designed around the intention of peace, and the fact that I can actually feel it when I’m inside it.

The life I kept thinking I needed to lock in to is already here. The project is done. The person gets to live now.

I watch those creators I love often. We know them. The focused, leveling-up girlies in their late twenties. I was her, and if I could go back, this is what’s I’d say to her:

1. Keep going. What you’re building is real. Your clarity right now is a gift, so use it. The model is working. Stay in it.

2. Someday, and it’ll be sooner than you think, the model will stop fitting. Not because you failed. Because you succeeded. Because the life you built will need something from you that the blueprint never accounted for.

3. When that happens, don’t panic. Don’t assume the discomfort means you’ve stalled. Don’t immediately reach for a new routine or a harder challenge or a better version of the project. Just notice that you’ve crossed over.

4. The work will be different. Softer in some ways. More honest in others. Less about becoming something and more about being someone.

5. And that’s not the end of the glow-up. That’s what comes after. And I’m starting to think it might be the best part.

This reflection sits inside a larger series I’ve been writing about what it means to live in the middle: between construction and inhabiting, between clarity and change. Each essay traces a different part of that evolution. I’ll link the others below if you want to follow the thread.

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

• Maybe It Wasn’t Luck After All: On preparation, pivots, and the opportunities that made sense later.

Have you ever felt the tension between the model that built you and the life you’re actually living now? I’d love to hear where you are with it.

xo Noémie

But being on this platform and talking with younger women more often, I find myself sharing more and more pieces of my background. And hearing it back through their questions, their reactions, and their curiosity has been… surprising.

It’s not because the story is dramatic. It’s really just the first time I’m hearing the through-line. I’m realizing that what felt like detours were actually preparation. That what felt uncertain was often alignment in disguise. That the path didn’t make sense while I was walking it, but it makes undeniable sense looking back.

So this is me, taking a moment to connect the dots out loud.

I’ve been thinking about a conversation I had recently with one of my younger girlfriends. She asked me, half-joking and half-serious, if life gets harder after 25.

I knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking about bills or responsibilities. She was asking if the clarity she feels right now, and whether that certainty about who she is and where she’s going will survive adulthood.

So.. I told her my truth: Life doesn’t get easier. It gets clearer about what deserves your worry and what doesn’t.

At almost 37 years old, I carry more responsibility than I ever imagined. But I spend less energy trying to control outcomes and more energy deciding what’s actually worth my attention. What I’ve learned isn’t how to avoid pivots. It’s how to survive them.

In 2007, I left Hillside, New Jersey and went to Emory University in Atlanta with a clear intention: I wanted to work in the entertainment industry and eventually build a life in Miami. I didn’t know exactly how I would get there, but I was certain about the destination.

While I was in college, I worked at Tree Sound Studios. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it put me in rooms with artists and creatives, and it showed me that the world I imagined for myself actually existed. For a moment, it felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Then life did what it does. Plans shifted. Interests evolved. And after struggling trying to get into business school, I pivoted my studies toward sociology and education, trying to follow what felt more human and meaningful. At the time, it felt like I was stepping away from my original vision. In hindsight, I was expanding it.

When I graduated in 2011, I moved to the Wynwood neighborhood in Miami, not because I had cracked the code to the entertainment industry, but because I had been accepted into Teach For America and placed in nearby Little Haiti. It wasn’t the path I had originally imagined, but it got me exactly where I had always wanted to be.

But from standing in a classroom in Little Haiti, I learned more about resilience, community, and responsibility than any plan could have taught me. It was my first real lesson in this truth: sometimes the destination arrives disguised as a detour.

During my free summers from teaching, I interned with the American Black Film Festival (ABFF) in South Beach. That experience reconnected me to the industry I once thought I left behind, and showed me what it looked like when Black creativity was centered, celebrated, and protected. It allowed me to see the ecosystem: the filmmakers, the storytellers, the executives, the audiences, all working together to bring narratives to life.

ABFF reminded me that storytelling wasn’t just entertainment. It was preservation. It was advocacy. It was ownership. It also brought me closer to an industry I had once dreamed of joining. But that proximity came with lessons I wasn’t prepared for.

Early in my career, I had an unsettling experience with a very popular and widely admired actor. What began as a professional interaction quickly became something else. He was intimidating, coercive, and deeply inappropriate. When I resisted, he threatened to blacklist me from the industry.

I was young, ambitious, and terrified. At the time, I questioned my instincts. I wondered if I had overreacted. I wondered if protecting myself would cost me everything I had worked toward.

That experience almost broke me. And for a while, I stepped back from the dream I had been carrying. I didn’t stop loving the work, but I needed to feel safe in my own ambition again.

Years later, I would learn that my experience was not isolated. He had a pattern. It was one that involved countless young women trying to find their footing in an industry that too often exploits their vulnerability. That knowledge didn’t erase what happened, but it helped me release the shame I had mistakenly carried.

What I understand now is that survival is not weakness. It is wisdom.

After teaching, I went to law school in Washington, DC, planning to work in educational policy. It felt like the logical next step. It was a way to address the systemic issues I had witnessed in the classroom and to build a career where my voice could not be easily dismissed.

But when I started applying for policy internships, the doors didn’t open the way I expected. For the first time in a long time, my plan didn’t have a clear next step. And I was still carrying fear. Not fear of the work, but fear of the industry I once believed was closed to me. But I did what life had always taught to do in the face of adversity: I looked for alignment instead of perfection.

In the spring of my 1L year, I finessed an interview at Radio One (now Urban One) after cold emailing the most recent graduate on their team, hoping they would sympathize with my position as a new law student with entertainment and media aspirations. What I didn’t know was that before I even walked into the room, they had already reached out to their own contacts at ABFF after noticing it on my resume. The relationships I had built quietly, without knowing their future value, had spoken for me before I had the chance to speak for myself.

My offer letter was emailed before I made it home from the interview. The job was mine.

In that moment, I realized something profound: even when fear forced me to step back, my work had continued to speak on my behalf.

I worked at Radio One throughout all three years of law school and and even accepted a full-time legal position after graduation. What began as a pivot became a foundation. It allowed me to merge law, media, and advocacy in ways I hadn’t known how to articulate before.

In the middle of my time there, I had the opportunity to spend a summer in Geneva, Switzerland working with the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO). Most companies don’t allow you to step away from a summer internship like that and return, but Radio One supported the decision. They made room for my growth, trusting that the perspective I gained would strengthen the work I was already doing.

That trust stayed with me, and Geneva changed how I saw everything.

It was the first time I witnessed, on a global scale, how creativity, ownership, and protection intersect. I sat in rooms where ideas were treated as assets, where stories were recognized as intellectual property, and where the law existed not to stifle creativity, but to safeguard it.

When I returned, I understood something more clearly than I ever had before: nothing I had done was wasted. Every room I had entered with integrity had left a door open behind me.

From there, I moved into a new company and helped start their first Media and Entertainment Law practice group all before the age of 30. It was an opportunity to apply everything I had been gathering. I thought about my time in studios, my work with ABFF, my legal training, my understanding of creative ownership, and used those experiences to translate it into something tangible.

I built a knowledge bank of contracts, deal structures, and protections for creatives navigating an industry that often moved faster than the law. At the time, it felt like such meticulous work. It was detailed and technical, but necessary. I didn’t know then how much that knowledge would shape my life later.

A few years later, when the opportunity arose to build our own platform online, I recognized what was required: structure, protection, scalability. I understood how to protect creative work while building something sustainable.

So when DBA, one of the largest creator management agencies in the industry, entered the picture and wanted to sign Kier, I knew how important it was to negotiate myself and our family into the contract too. I didn’t have a long-term plan to become a content creator yet, but I had learned, from pivot after pivot, to stay ready.

That decision wasn’t about ambition. It was about preparedness.

By then, I understood something I hadn’t known as a 25 year-old. Preparation isn’t about knowing what’s next. It’s about positioning yourself so that when opportunity arrives, in whatever form, you are ready to meet it.

That moment connected everything.

• The classrooms.

• The studios.

• The courtrooms.

• The contracts.

None of it had been random. All of it had been preparation.

In 2023, I left my job to run our company as COO and an occasional legal consultant, which is where I am now. Fifteen years ago, I couldn’t have imagined this version of my life. There was many moment in Atlanta, Miami, Geneva, or Washington, D.C. where I thought, This is where it’s all leading. But I was wrong every time.

At each step, I believed I was choosing a path. Looking back, I can see I was building a foundation.

• The classrooms taught me patience and responsibility.

• The studios taught me proximity to possibility.

• ABFF taught me the power of storytelling and ownership.

• Law school taught me protection and structure.

• My practice taught me how to translate knowledge into systems.

• My pivots taught me how to recognize opportunity when it arrived.

None of it was wasted. None of it was random. And none of it made sense until I stood far enough away to see the pattern.

My AP European History teacher used to say, “Luck is when preparation meets opportunity.” I didn’t understand it then because it sounded like something adults said to make uncertainty feel manageable.

But it makes sense to me now.

So when my friend asked if life gets harder after 25, I realized she wasn’t asking about difficulty. She was asking if she would lose her certainty. I didn’t tell her that life gets easier, because it doesn’t. Instead, I told her this:

You don’t lose yourself. You learn what deserves your energy. You learn how to pivot without abandoning who you are. And one day, you’ll look back and realize the detours were preparation.

Life doesn’t get easier. You just get steadier inside it. And one day, you’ll look back and see that what felt like uncertainty was actually you becoming someone capable of carrying a life you couldn’t have imagined yet.

This piece sits inside a larger conversation I’ve been having with myself and now, with you, about what it means to live through change instead of rushing past it. I’m continuing to trace the through-line, one piece at a time:

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

• Why Imposter Syndrome Keeps Finding Me: And why I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

But lately, I’ve been relating to it differently.

I think imposter syndrome keeps finding me not because I’m unsure of myself, but because my life keeps expanding in ways that matter to me. It shows up when the rooms get bigger. When the work gets more visible. When the stakes feel higher. And instead of reading it as fear, I’m starting to read it as awareness.

That shift has changed how I move.

So far in this series, I’ve been writing from what I call the “middle,” or the space where the old ways of moving no longer fit, but the next ones haven’t fully formed yet. I’ve written about slowing down, letting answers take their time, recalibrating the ways I measure success, and learning how to listen instead of rush.

But what I didn’t expect was that the more aware I became, the more uncomfortable things would feel again. Not because I was regressing. But because awareness comes with responsibility.

Imposter syndrome, for me, doesn’t sound like “I don’t belong here.” It sounds more like: “Okay… now what?”

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend I had recently partnered with for a couples event. As were reflecting on the experience, I shared how meaningful it was, how grateful I felt to be invited into that space, and how much I believed in the work we were doing.

And then, almost without meaning to, I admitted that I had been nervous. Not about the content or about my ability, but about how I would be perceived.

Because lately, more people are watching. More people are forming opinions. More people are deciding who they think I am. And even though I know I’ve earned my seat in those rooms, I could feel that familiar tightening in my chest. It’s the quiet question of whether I would show up in the right way, say the right things, and represent the work well enough.

And she looked at me and said, “Same.” Not in a dismissive way or in a way that minimized it. It was in a way that made the moment feel shared instead of isolating. And that’s when I realized: this feeling isn’t a flaw. It’s the weight of caring.

It’s what happens when you understand that your presence matters. Not just for you, but for the people who are listening, watching, and trusting you with their attention.

That awareness doesn’t make me shrink. It makes me more careful. More thoughtful. Slower to assume. And more intentional about how I show up and what I contribute.

But, I also know this isn’t everyone’s experience.

I’ve seen imposter syndrome stop people cold. I’ve seen it turn into self-doubt, paralysis, or a quiet reason to opt out of opportunities they’ve earned. And I don’t think we should ever put ourselves in positions where we suffer in silence or question ourselves into invisibility.

But this is how I think I’ve shifted my perspective to deal with this in a way that works for me, rather than against me. It asks me questions instead of making accusations. It brings to power back to me so I can validate myself, instead of seeking it elsewhere.

• Did I prepare for this? - Yes, I did.

• Am I showing up with integrity? - Yes, I am.

• Am I using the space I’ve been given well? - Yes, I am.

Those questions don’t undermine my confidence. They anchor it.

As my visibility has grown, I’ve also become more aware of how differently people respond to access. Some move through rooms collecting attention. Others treat opportunity like entitlement. Honestly, I can completely understand that pull too. It’s not malicious, but it’s, in a way, the temptation to perform instead of steward, and to move fast instead of move well.

But that’s where imposter syndrome does something unexpected for me.

It keeps me human. It reminds me that influence isn’t just about being seen. It’s about being accountable to what you do once people are paying attention. It slows me down enough to ask whether my presence adds clarity or just noise. Whether my voice is grounded in something real, or just reacting to momentum.

And maybe that’s why this season still feels uncomfortable, even after so much reflection.

Because awareness isn’t a finish line. It’s a responsibility.

Being recalibrated doesn’t mean everything suddenly feels easy. It means you can’t unsee what you see anymore. You notice where your choices land. You feel the weight of your words. You understand that being in certain rooms comes with an obligation to be thoughtful, and not just impressive.

The discomfort isn’t because I don’t belong.

It’s because I do, and I’m aware of what that belonging makes possible.

I don’t want to rush past that feeling. I don’t want to numb it or label it as insecurity just to feel more comfortable. I want to stay present with it long enough to let it shape how I lead, how I create, and how I relate to the people around me.

This isn’t imposter syndrome as a flaw to fix. It’s imposter syndrome as a signal to slow down and stay honest. And right now, that feels like the kind of discomfort worth listening to.

You may be finding yourself here. You’re more aware, more visible, more responsible. And you’re wondering why it still feels tender.

I don’t think you’re broken. You might just be standing at the edge of a version of yourself that requires a different kind of confidence.

We’re not learning to carry less. We’re learning to carry more with care and less performance.

I’m staying with that tension instead of rushing to resolve it. And, as always, I’ll keep linking the reflections as they take shape.

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

• When the Old Metrics Stop Working: How my idea of success changed when momentum stopped being the point.

There were clear signals. Momentum. Productivity. Output. A sense of forward motion that could be measured and pointed to. Progress meant more. More visibility. More accomplishment. More boxes checked. If I was busy, building, and moving, I felt successful. If I slowed down, I assumed something was wrong.

Those metrics worked for me for a long time.

They made sense in seasons where growth was about expansion. Where my life had fewer moving parts and fewer people depending on me. Where success could be quantified and improvement could be tracked without much friction.

But somewhere along the way, those markers stopped telling the truth.

I didn’t notice it all at once. It wasn’t dramatic. It showed up in small moments. Days where I was productive but still felt off. Weeks where things looked good on paper, but I felt disconnected from the work. Wins that didn’t land the way I expected them to.

I kept trying to measure my life with tools that no longer fit.

Momentum used to feel like proof that I was aligned. Now it just feels loud. Productivity used to give me confidence. Now it sometimes feels like avoidance. Achievement used to signal growth. Now it often feels neutral, even when it’s real.

That realization was more unsettling than I expected.

Because when old metrics stop working, there’s usually a moment of quiet panic. Not because everything is wrong, but because you don’t know how to tell if anything is right. If you can’t measure success the way you used to, it’s easy to wonder whether you’re drifting without realizing it.

I’ve had to sit with that uncertainty instead of rushing to replace the scoreboard.

What’s been the hardest thing to process isn’t that I don’t know what success looks like yet. It’s that I can’t use the old measures while I’m figuring it out.

This season isn’t asking me to abandon ambition. It’s asking me to question what I’ve been using as proof. To notice how things feel, not just how they perform. To ask different questions, even when the answers aren’t immediate.

• Not “Is this moving fast enough?” But “Is this sustainable?”

• Not “Is this impressive?” But “Is this honest?”

• Not “Does this look like success?” But “Does this actually support my life?”

Those questions don’t generate momentum, they don’t offer validation, and they don’t translate easily into metrics. But they do feel more trustworthy in a season where my life is full in ways that can’t be optimized.

I don’t think the old measures were wrong. They just belonged to a different chapter. And holding onto them now has made it harder to recognize what’s actually changing.

This isn’t a season of clear benchmarks. It’s a season of recalibration. Of learning how to move without a familiar measuring stick. Of resisting the urge to define progress too quickly just to feel oriented again.

I don’t have a new set of metrics yet. I’m still paying attention. Still noticing. Still adjusting.

But I do know this: judging myself by standards that no longer apply was keeping me from seeing the work that’s actually happening.

And for now, learning how to live without the old scoreboard feels like part of the work itself.

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If you’re finding yourself here, noticing that the ways you used to measure your life don’t quite land anymore, I’m glad you’re here. I’m staying with this recalibration instead of rushing to define it, and I’ll continue linking the reflections as they take shape:

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.

• Not Lost, Just Listening: When the plan no longer fits, but you do.

I used to push myself really bad, too. And maybe, to some people, I still do. But now I can see how much of that ambition was built on rigidity. And on an expectation of a life that looked idealistic, but didn’t leave much room for interruption, grief, or the simple changes that happen when you start sharing your life with someone. I lived inside of that vision for a really long time, believing that if I stayed disciplined enough, everything would eventually line up the way I hoped it would.

But slowing down disrupted that belief.

And once I stopped rushing myself, something else surfaced. It wasn’t panic or confusion. Honestly, it was a quiet discomfort that stayed with me when I didn’t immediately move on to the next plan or decision. It was the kind of feeling that shows up when you slow down long enough to actually hear yourself think.

And what I realized was this:

I don’t feel lost. I feel aware in a way that’s just changing how I look at everything.

Over the last few months, life has been putting its weight on me in ways I didn’t anticipate. We experienced a traumatic loss in our family. Two people I love deeply are facing serious, life-altering diagnoses. Older family members are slowing down. My daughters are getting older in ways that feel both beautiful and sobering. Mortality has stopped being abstract. It’s closer now. Louder, too.

And none of this has happened in isolation. It’s unfolding alongside a life that looks nothing like the one I envisioned for myself.

I used to have a very clear picture of how things were supposed to go. It wasn’t necessarily rigid, but it was overly- and well-structured, and extremely thought through. And I made big decisions based on that vision. I left my corporate career and stepped fully into something more uncertain. I believed in that choice. And I still do.

But the plan I built around it no longer worked, and that realization has been one of the most destabilizing feelings I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t because I regretted the decision, but because I had to sit with the discomfort of not knowing what replaces the plan when it falls apart. I’ve found myself flipping through old journal entries, rereading the words I wrote when I quit, and rewatching old vlog episodes that remind me how sure I felt at the time. How aligned my decisions were. How clear my next steps seemed.

Yet there was a part of me that still wondered, “Should I go back?” Not because I really wanted to, but because the certainty of the past felt more comfortable than the uncertainty of what was next. That tension has been hard to sit with.

I don’t think I’m questioning my instincts as much as I’m grieving the loss of the roadmap. I made choices for a version of life that assumed a certain kind of stability and order. But life has gently, and relentlessly, made it clear that it doesn’t operate on our timelines.

What’s been surprising is how much this has changed how I look at everything. My work, my relationships, my sense of self. My entire life feels unfamiliar in a way that isn’t bad, but is undeniably real.

There are moments where I look around and think, How did I get here? Not with regret, but with awe… and fear… and curiosity. And I’m trying to stay with that instead of rushing to fix it.

Leaning into uncertainty really doesn’t come naturally to me. I like plans. I like structure. I like knowing where I’m going. Sitting in the unknown goes against every instinct I have, especially when so much of life feels so tender. But this season isn’t asking me to decide anything quickly. It’s just asking me to listen.

It’s asking me to acknowledge that the life I’m living now carries responsibilities and realities I couldn’t have fully planned for. That caring for parents, raising children, holding grief, and building something meaningful don’t happen in neat phases. They overlap, they interrupt, and they demand flexibility.

What I’m learning now is that uncertainty doesn’t mean I made the wrong choices. It means the choices are still unfolding. And maybe that’s the real work of this middle space. Not to rush towards a new plan, but to learn how to live honestly without one. To trust that steadiness doesn’t always come from knowing what’s next, but from staying present with what is.

I don’t know exactly what all of this means yet. But I do know that pretending that my current life still fits in the old plan would cost me more than admitting it doesn’t.

And for now, that honesty feels like more than enough. What looks heavy on paper has felt unexpectedly light in my body, and it feels good here.

If you’re finding yourself here, sitting with uncertainty instead of rushing past it, I welcome you to stay and ride this ride with me. I’ll continue linking the other reflections as they take shape:

• Learning to Live in the Middle: When the old version of you no longer fits, but the new one is still unfamiliar.

• Letting the Answer Take its Time: What changed when I stopped rushing clarity.