There’s a phrase I keep hearing everywhere:

“Nervous system reset.”

As if your nervous system is an iPhone you can reboot with a bath, a yoga class, a few essential oils, and three deep breaths and suddenly erase 20 years of lived experience.

I wish.

And that isn’t how this works.

Your nervous system is continually responding to the stimulus around you. It is constantly taking in information and deciding:

Am I safe?
Am I threatened?
What do I need to do next?

And when your nervous system has spent years responding to life from a place of hypervigilance, you don’t simply reset it.

You reprogram it.

And reprogramming means writing a new story.

The story is the programming.

For years, my nervous system learned that being hyperaware was useful.

Be ready.
Watch for the next thing.
Anticipate the problem.
Have a backup plan.
Keep everyone safe.
Hold it together.
Fix it.
Solve it.
Do more.

As an adoptive and special needs mom, I had a lot of reasons to become really good at this.

Twenty years of advocacy teaches you things.

You learn to read the room before anyone else notices something is wrong.
You learn to anticipate.
You learn to stay one step ahead.
You learn that relaxing can feel irresponsible.

And eventually, hypervigilance stops feeling like a response and starts feeling like your personality.

You don’t think, My nervous system is activated.

You think:

This is who I am.

I’m responsible.
I’m a worrier.
I’m an overthinker.
I’m the one who gets things done.
I’ve got it.

Until the environment changes.

And suddenly you realize your nervous system is still living in the old environment.

That’s where I am right now.

Isaiah is off to college.

For twenty years, I was the advocate.
The safety.
The primary caregiver.
The one holding so many pieces together.

And then last week, the thing I had been working toward happened.

He went.

And instead of my nervous system immediately saying,

“Fantastic. We did it. Time to relax.”

It started showing me everything I hadn’t noticed.

The fatigue.
The stories.
The restlessness.
The urge to fill the space.
The discomfort of quiet.
The parts of me that had become so accustomed to being on alert that calm felt unfamiliar.

Calm can feel unsafe when chaos was your normal.

This is why people often recreate the very environments they say they want to leave.

Not consciously.
Not because they want chaos.

Because the nervous system is always looking for what it recognizes.

Familiar does not always mean safe.

Sometimes familiar means:

Overthinking.
Overworking.
Overfunctioning.
Checking.
Fixing.
Controlling.
Anticipating.

And when things get quiet, your brain goes:

Something must be wrong.

So you create something to solve.

You pick up your phone.
You start another project.
You find something to worry about.
You replay the conversation.
You make a list.

You create movement because stillness feels unfamiliar.

I know this one personally.

And this is where the work gets really interesting.

Because you can’t simply tell a nervous system that has spent decades protecting you:

“You can relax now.”

You have to give it a new experience.
You have to teach it a new response.
You have to write a new story.

And then…

you get to practice living it.

That’s where we’re going next.

In Part Two, I’m going to show you what rewriting the story actually looks like in real life and the strategies I’m using right now to retrain my own nervous system.

Because this isn’t theory for me.

I’m living it.

One breath at a time.

🔥 write this one down: Your nervous system doesn’t care what you wish were true. It learns from what you repeatedly experience.

One breathe, one movement at a time

Stacey

The suspension bridge was 300 feet long and stretched 400 feet above the canopy.

As I stepped onto the bridge, something interesting happened.

My world became very small.

One step.

One breath.

One movement.

My focus was clear.

I wasn’t thinking about my inbox.

I wasn’t replaying yesterday.

I wasn’t trying to solve tomorrow.

I wasn’t worrying about everyone else.

I was exactly where I was.

Present.

And it struck me…

This is what so many of us are missing.

Not more information.

Not another productivity hack.

Not another thing to add to the list.

Presence.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that dividing our attention is the same thing as being effective.

It isn’t.

Every notification.

Every expectation.

Every distraction.

Every “what if.”

They all get a piece of us.

Until we realize we’ve been everywhere except where we are.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to sit at a table in Costa Rica with people asking different questions and choosing to experience life differently.

I didn’t go looking for a retreat.

I simply said yes to an invitation.

And inbetween the conversations, the quiet, and the pace of life, I was reminded:

The quality of your life is determined by the quality of your focus.

Not because productivity matters.

Because life matters.

The people you love matter.

The moments you never get back matter.

The story you tell yourself matters.

And all of it requires your attention.

Focus isn’t something you find.

It’s something you practice.

One step.

One breath.

One movement at a time.

Next April, I get to return to Costa Rica in a new role, not just as someone experiencing it, but as someone helping create that space for others.

A place to step away from the noise.

To slow down.

To reconnect.

To remember what it feels like to be fully present.

April 24–May 1, 2027

We have room for 15 people.

If this conversation has been stirring something in you, stay close.

I have a feeling this is only the beginning.

Stay Close,

Stacey

Instead, the Pacific Ocean exposed a story I’d been telling myself for decades.

If you’ve been here for any length of time, you know I love a plan.

Give me a goal, a timeline, a system, and enough information, and I’ll find a way to make it happen.

It’s one of the reasons I’ve been successful.

It’s also one of the reasons I’ve spent so much of my life exhausted.

Because I was an overthinker.

An overworker.

An overgiver.

An overfunctioner.

For years, I wore those titles like badges of honor.

What I didn’t realize was that many of the things I called strengths were actually survival skills.

I learned to stay busy.

To stay useful.

To stay prepared.

To stay needed.

Somewhere along the way, I confused being needed with being loved.

I confused exhaustion with accomplishment.

I confused my identity with my productivity.

Then I went to Costa Rica.

Like everything else in my life, I approached surfing like a military operation.

Learn the technique.

Study the conditions.

Master the timing.

Control the outcome.

The Pacific Ocean had absolutely no interest in cooperating.

Wave after wave humbled me.

I paddled too soon.

I paddled too late.

I swallowed salt water.

I climbed back on the board.

Fernando, my endlessly patient surf instructor smiled and said,

“Stacey, you can’t think about it. You have to feel it. Let the ocean move you.”

Then he laughed.

“This isn’t a military operation.”

He had no idea how deeply those words landed.

Because that was exactly what I was trying to do.

Analyze something that required presence.

Control something that required trust.

Think my way through something that needed to be felt.

The ocean wasn’t asking me to become stronger.

It was asking me to surrender.

Not to quit.

To surrender the illusion that I was ever in control.

And that’s when I remembered something I spend my days coaching other people:

Mindset is the story you tell yourself, and that story is made out of words.

Most of us are living inside stories we didn’t write.

Mine sounded like this:

If I stay prepared, I’ll stay safe.

If I work harder, I’ll be worthy.

If I carry more, I’ll be loved.

If I stay in control, no one can hurt me.

Those stories helped me survive.

Surviving and living are not the same thing.

Read that again.

This is where unlearning begins.

Unlearning doesn’t mean forgetting. It means undoing the effects of what you learned while trying to survive.

Maybe that’s what healing has been all along.

Not mastering life.

Not controlling the current.

Learning how to move with it without abandoning yourself in the process.

So let me leave you with the question the ocean asked me:

What are you trying to control right now?

Sit with it.

Frustration is rarely random.

It’s usually a signal that you’re trying to force your story onto a reality that refuses to cooperate.

What if the lesson isn’t control?

What if it’s trust?

Not trust in the outcome.

Trust in yourself within the outcome.

That changes everything.

I’ll be returning to Costa Rica in April 2027.

This time, I’ll be bringing eighteen people with me.

And yes…

I’ll surf again.

Not because I’ve mastered the ocean.

Because I’m learning to play in it and trust it. We are building a relationship.

One wave at a time.

If you’re wondering whether you’re an overthinker, overworker, overgiver, or overfunctioner…

Stay close.

Here is something to help you identify the stories you’ve been living by.

Because the moment you can name the story, you can begin to rewrite it.

If this conversation stirred something in you, you'll enjoy this episode of the podcast, where we go even deeper into the stories that shape our lives.

You Can’t Judge the Importance of Things by the Noise they Make

Until next time,
Keep working out your mindset.

– Stacey

Not the classes.
Not the binders.
Not the trauma certifications hanging on the wall.
Not the endless meetings where professionals used words like “attachment disorder” and “behavioral escalation” while a child sat three feet away silently asking,
“Am I safe here?”

The children taught me.

Because trauma in children doesn’t always look tragic.

Sometimes it looks controlling.
Manipulative.
Explosive.
Shut down.
Hyper-independent.
Perfect.
Too mature.
Too needy.
Too angry.
Too quiet.

I watched children get punished for survival responses.

And somewhere in the middle of parenting kids from hard places, something in me shifted forever.

They weren’t giving us a hard time.

They were having a hard time.

That distinction changes everything.

Because hurt is a human experience.

Injury is what happens when hurt gets ignored long enough.

And honestly?
Most adults are walking around with untreated emotional injuries pretending they’re personality traits.

Perfectionism.
People pleasing.
Caretaking.
Overachieving.
Overcommitting.
Control.
Emotional shutdown.
Never asking for help.
Always being “fine.”

We glamorize survival in this culture.

We hand out applause for self-abandonment.

And I know because I got really good at it.

Adoption didn’t just expose my children’s trauma.
It exposed mine.

You cannot bring children into your home who are fighting for safety without eventually confronting all the places you’ve been fighting for it too.

That’s the part nobody tells you.

I thought I was helping heal children.

Instead, God handed me a mirror.

Because these kids didn’t need perfection from me.

They needed presence.

Safety.
Repair.
Consistency.
Connection.

Not behavior management.

Relationship.

And the truth is, that terrified me more than any training ever prepared me for.

Because relationship requires vulnerability.
It requires staying present when every part of you wants to shut down, control, fix, flee, or perform.

There were moments I wanted formulas.

Just tell me what consequence works.
What script to say.
What protocol guarantees healing.

But people are not machines.
And healing is not behavior modification.

Healing happens when someone experiences safety in places they once expected abandonment.

That realization changed the way I parented.
Then it changed the way I coached.
Then it changed the way I saw everyone around me.

Now when I sit with people, I’m not nearly as interested in the behavior as I am the story underneath it.

Because adults do exactly what children do.

We just make it look more socially acceptable.

The executive who cannot rest.
The mom who carries everyone while disappearing herself.
The leader who performs strength while privately unraveling.
The person who calls emotional shutdown “logic.”
The achiever who cannot stop producing long enough to feel.

Survival gets rewarded for a while.

Until it starts costing you your marriage.
Your peace.
Your body.
Your relationships.
Your ability to actually feel alive.

And that’s when people finally realize:
surviving and living are not the same thing.

Adoption taught me that.

It taught me there’s a difference between hurt and injured.

The hurt was real.
Deeply real.

But injury does not have to become identity.

That’s the hope.

Not pretending pain never happened.
Not minimizing trauma.
Not bypassing grief.

But refusing to let survival mode become the only story your life knows how to tell.

The biggest transformations in our family were rarely loud.

They looked like a child finally relaxing into the couch.
A repaired moment after rupture.
A nervous system learning it no longer had to stay on guard.
A parent staying connected instead of reactive.
Tiny moments that nobody would have applauded online but changed everything inside our home.

Healing is quieter than chaos.

But it is infinitely more powerful.

The loudest thing in the room is not always the most important thing.

Often the holiest work happens softly.

That’s what we unpack in our latest podcast episode:
the slow work of repair, safety, and why transformation rarely looks impressive while it’s happening.

And it changes everything.

Listen here

— Stacey

“How did I end up here again?”

“I said I would never do this again.”

Again.

That word hits like a trap door.

Same relationship pattern.
Same financial pressure.
Same fear response.
Same emotional shutdown.
Same story… different costume.

And after enough “agains,” you start believing the safest move is no move at all.

As my ankle heals, I keep hearing something my coach told me:

“It’s going to hurt. That doesn’t mean it’s injured.”

That line doesn’t just apply to the body.

It exposes how we misread life.

Because most of us treat discomfort like damage.
We treat tension like a warning sign to retreat.
We treat emotional pain like proof we’re broken again.

The hard conversation hurts.
Trusting again hurts.
Training again hurts.
Trying again hurts.
Being vulnerable again hurts.

But hurt and injured are not the same thing.

Healing requires testing.

Today I decided to test the ankle and go for a run.

Not a comeback run.
Not a prove something run.

A careful one.

I knew myself well enough to set guardrails. So I intentionally wore a non-supportive sports bra because I wasn’t about to trade one pain stimulus for another just to prove I was tough.

That’s what healing actually looks like.

Not force.
Not intensity.

Precision.

So I moved a minute at a time.

Run.
Walk.
Check in.
Adjust.

And it was good.

Not perfect.
Not pain free.
But honest.

At some point, I have to load the ankle again. Not recklessly. Not pretending it’s fully healed. But deliberately. Because avoidance doesn’t create strength—only hesitation does.

And that’s where the tension lives.

The push and pull between protecting yourself and getting trapped by protection.

Because yes, sometimes pushing too hard creates a setback.
Sometimes you re-injure the relationship.
Sometimes you overload the body.
Sometimes emotions swing like a seesaw between fear and possibility until you freeze in the middle.

Paralysis has its own cost.

You can spend so long trying not to get hurt again that you never actually heal.

This is where mindset comes in.

Because growth is learning the difference between wisdom and avoidance.

And they are easy to confuse when your internal story is loud.

The story you tell yourself is not abstract.

It is made of words.

And those words don’t stay in your head.

They change your breathing.
They change your posture.
They change your emotions.
They change your nervous system.
They change your imagination.

“I always mess this up.”
“I can’t trust people.”
“I’m too much.”
“I’m not enough.”
“This always happens to me.”

Say those long enough and your body starts acting like they are instructions.

Shoulders tighten.
Breath shortens.
Posture collapses.
Vision narrows.
The future shrinks.

That’s why mindset work is never just positive thinking.

It’s language awareness.

It’s noticing the story that’s running your nervous system in real time.

Avoidance tells a story too:

“Never trust again.”
“Never risk again.”
“Never try again.”

And the body obeys.

It braces.
It locks.
It protects.

But wisdom sounds different.

“Pay attention.”
“Move slow.”
“Strengthen what was weak.”
“Learn the rhythm without becoming imprisoned by it.”

Feel the difference.

One creates contraction.
The other creates capacity.

One shuts life down.
The other teaches you how to stay open without being reckless.

That’s what I kept hearing while I ran today.

Every step was a conversation.

Not just with my ankle, with the story I was telling about it.

Because healing isn’t pretending nothing hurts.

Healing is learning you can feel sensation without turning it into catastrophe.

It’s learning that pain is information, not always injury.

That’s the real work.

Not eliminating pain.

Refusing to let old pain write permanent stories about who you are, what you can do, and what comes next.

So if you’re in your own “again” right now, don’t assume it means you’re back at the beginning.

You’re standing at the edge of a smarter attempt.

One more step.
One more minute.
One more honest check in with what’s accurate.

That’s how things change.

Not by avoiding the load.

But by learning how to carry it.

—Stacey

At a Ragnar.

If you’ve never heard of Ragnar, it’s a 24-hour relay race. A team of eight people takes turns running loops through forests, mountains, dirt trails, rocks, creek crossings, banks, inclines, declines. Basically every surface your ankles would politely ask you to avoid.

I had wanted to do this event for years.

And honestly? The beginning felt magical.

As the sun started setting, I ran through open prairie grass with this overwhelming feeling of freedom. My breathing felt easy. My body felt strong. For the first time in my life, I thought:

Oh my gosh. I’m actually a runner.

I was singing at the top of my lungs where nobody could hear me. One of the purest moments I’ve ever experienced.

Then darkness hit.

Not sunset dark.

Forest dark.

The kind where your headlamp becomes your entire world.

And suddenly everything changed.

My pace slowed immediately because I realized something: I was used to looking ahead.

When you run trails during the day, you scan the future. You look twenty feet ahead. You anticipate your next move.

But when you run in the dark on uneven ground, you can’t do that.

You can only see the next step.

And I had never practiced that.

I was so conditioned to looking ahead that I didn’t know how to trust the small circle of light right in front of me.

Still singing.
Still moving.
Still trying to outrun the dark.

Then one wrong step on a rock I couldn’t see, and I rolled my ankle.

Hard.

So there I was, alone in the woods, laying on the ground laughing and grimacing at the same time while texting my son Jonathan:

“Hey bud, I fell.”

His response:

“Mom, are you okay?”

“I think so. I could be bleeding. I’m not sure. I think it’s only a flesh wound.”

(If you’re a Monty Python fan, you understand.)

But here’s what I knew in that moment:

I knew I was hurt.

I just didn’t know I was injured.

And I think a lot of us live there.

Especially high capacity people.
Especially helpers.
Especially performers.
Especially parents.
Especially the people who are known for “handling a lot.”

We normalize pain because we’re still functioning.

We convince ourselves we’re okay because we’re still moving.

We call it stress.
Overwhelm.
A hard season.
A busy month.

Meanwhile our entire system is compensating just to keep us upright.

I got up and kept going because there were still three miles left.

And I’d love to tell you I walked the whole thing with wisdom and maturity.

I did not.

I tried to run the flat parts.

Because of course I did.

As I approached the finish line, Jonathan met me there and asked:

“Mom, can you run it in?”

And I remember saying:

“No. I can only walk it.”

That was the moment I knew it was worse than I wanted it to be.

Not because of the pain.

Because I could feel the rest of my body compensating.

My hips.
My stride.
My shoulders.
Everything was trying to carry what my ankle no longer could.

And if you’ve experienced burnout, emotional exhaustion, grief, chronic stress, trauma, disappointment, or survival mode, you know exactly what I mean.

Because eventually your mind compensates for your exhaustion.
Your nervous system compensates for your stress.
Your relationships compensate for your depletion.
Your body compensates for your pace.

Until one day, the compensation itself becomes the problem.

Back at the tent, I still believed I could run my six mile loop later that night.

Because I finish things.

That’s my identity.

I’m the person who pushes through.
The person who keeps going.
The person who doesn’t quit.

But when we took my shoe off and looked at my ankle, reality answered for me.

There was no way.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect:

Choosing not to finish had no sting.

None.

A previous version of me would have run it anyway.

Not because it was wise.
Not because it was healthy.
Because my identity depended on proving I could.

But this version of me?

This version understood something deeper:

Showing up mattered more than performing.

I had already won.

I came to test my limits alongside three of my children, three clients, and my my 22 year old CrossFit-adopted friend, Morgan who is a gift to this world.

And I did.

That was enough.

That realization changed more than a race for me.

It reframed every place in my life where I used achievement to prove worth.

It explained why certain losses hurt me so deeply.
Why failed outcomes once felt like personal failures.
Why letting go felt unbearable.

Because if your identity is “I finish things,” then anything unfinished feels like death.

But growth sometimes looks like knowing when continuing creates more damage.

That’s not quitting.

That’s wisdom.

And that’s where this series begins.

Over the next few weeks, I want to talk about:

• The difference between being hurt and being injured

• Overwhelm versus burnout

• Why high performers miss the warning signs

• What compensation looks like emotionally and physically

• And how you actually come back from all of it

Because I’m a recovering “over-achiever”.

And maybe you are too.

So let me ask you something:

Where in your life are you still trying to run on an injured ankle because you built your identity around being the person who never stops?

Because there’s a difference between resilience and self-abandonment.

And if you’ve been living in survival mode so long that exhaustion feels normal, this series is for you.

Start by downloading 16 Words where we break down how the stories you repeat shape your identity, your burnout, your relationships, and your ability to heal.

And if this Ragnar story hit home for you, go listen to this podcast episode where Justin shares his own Ragnar experience from two years ago—running through the night, pushing limits, and learning firsthand what happens when mindset, endurance, and exhaustion collide.

I’ll leave you with this

Not everything that hurts you is an injury.
But everything you ignore long enough eventually becomes one.

See you on the inside.

Stacey

Here’s the truth: I don’t turn over tables anymore.

I align.
I plan.
I move like a serial killer: patient, deliberate, playing the long game even when the cards look stacked against me. (And yes, I am aware how terrifying that sounds.)

I used to bulldoze. I used to challenge every room I walked into.
I was the black sheep. Loud. Bold. Too much.
I loved it, and yes it cost me energy, peace, relationships, and more than a few dinner parties. But honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way at the time. My ego was loud.

Now?

I show up differently.
Soft and strong.
Aligned with what matters.
Patient when the world moves slow. (Because “apparently” people need time to catch up.)
Clear in my direction.
Present for the people and moments that matter.

I wanted all that I have now, I’m content.
And I want more.
More presence.
More clarity.
More space.
More joy.
And I’m not apologizing for it. No really, I’m not. .

This is what I model.
This is what I teach my sons.

They are men now, watching.
Watching me show up with patience and presence.
Watching me lead from the front, in our family, in my work.
Watching what it looks like to want what you want, claim it, savor it, and still play the long game.

Desire is not ego.
Desire is not weakness.

Desire is knowing what you want.
Desire is taking your seat.
Desire is holding space for it, nurturing it, and celebrating it when it grows. (No tiny confetti cannons required, but optional.)

I want a marriage that’s alive, connected, and joyful.
I want a nervous system that’s steady so I can lead with clarity.
I want impact, influence, wealth all without apology.
I want to be fully present in the life I built.

And I want more.

Now, dangerous joy looks like this:

Showing up patient and aligned.
Playing the long game even when it “feels” impossible.
Creating space instead of chaos.
Leading with presence, clarity, and joy.
And occasionally smiling while everyone else is panicking.

For my family.
For my clients.
For everyone watching.

So I’ll ask you:

What do you want that you’ve been calling “too much”?
And what would change if you played the long game, aligned, and still claimed it?

For those of you who are curious how I got here, listen to this episode of “I Heard You When You said” where we talk about it all, learning patience, and everything in between. Then share it with a friend.

She matched intensity with intensity.
Believed power meant pushing harder, speaking louder, doing more.

People were afraid of me.
And honestly? I gave them reason to be.

I got what I wanted.
The wins. The rooms. The results.

And the collateral damage?
It took time to repair.

Friendships strained.
Trust fractured.
Conversations that needed mending.

That version of me got things done.
She was strong. Strategic. Relentless.

But she was reactive.

Here’s what I had to confront:
That version of me was built on a story.

And that story was made out of words.

Words that shaped my breath.
My posture.
My imagination.
My emotions.

If you believe everything is a fight, then it is.
If you believe you have to be in control or it all falls apart, then it’s true.

I stacked evidence to support those words.
What I looked for, I found more of.

That’s science.

The nervous system will scan for proof of the story you keep rehearsing.

When I changed my words.
I changed my story.
And I changed my life.

Simple.
Not easy.

This version of me?
She is grounded.

Regulation is both softness and
it’s power.

It’s feeling the surge, anger, urgency, fear and choosing my response anyway.
Breath before reaction.
Clarity over chaos.
Fire under direction.

It cost me something.

I lost the rush of adrenaline leadership.
I lost the edge that made people fear me.
I lost some relationships that only worked when I was reactive.

I gained something better.

Relationships that don’t require volatility.
Rooms led with presence instead of volume.
Power without collateral damage.
Joy that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.

People ask me,
“How do you do it? How are you so grounded?”

They want the hack.

It’s reps.

Reps when my own bully story gets loud.
Reps when a piece of me gets dramatic and catastrophrzes the ending.
Reps when my patience is confused for acceptance.
Reps when I want to burn it all down and I choose to stay.

Reps when the old identity tries to take the wheel.

Regulation is trained.
Breath is trained.
Staying instead of detonating is trained.

You don’t become grounded because you healed once.
You become grounded because you practice especially when every cell in your body wants to prove, control, or escape.

What you rehearse becomes who you are.
What you look for, you will find more of.

That’s science.

A grounded woman is a threat to chaos based systems
because she can’t be baited.
She can’t be rushed.
She doesn’t abandon herself to keep the peace.

That is dangerous joy.

And here’s the wild part
it’s “kinda like”magic. ✨

Except it’s not magic.
It’s reps.

If you’re ready to build power without the collateral damage…..
if you’re tired of leading from adrenaline…
if you’re done rehearsing the fight…

Come get your reps in with me.

What would change if grounded was your strategy? 🔥

In Dangerous Joy,

Stacey

P.S. If you want to hear what rewriting your story sounds like in real life, listen to the latest episode of I Heard You When You Said.

A client shares her journey from “Fat Mandy” to becoming the hero of her own story.

It’s honest. It’s powerful. And it might hit closer to home than you expect.

Strong.
Consistent.
The one who could carry it.

I woke up early.
Trained hard.
Built the business.
Held the emotional temperature of five kids and a husband in uniform.

It looked like leadership.

Underneath it was a contract:

If you stay tight enough, you’ll stay safe.
If you stay strong enough, you won’t fall apart.
If you control your body, you can control your life.

That’s how the war hides.

It calls itself standards.

The Gym Was My Courtroom

I didn’t go to the gym to play.

I went to prove.

Prove I was disciplined.
Prove I hadn’t “let myself go.”
Prove I could outwork stress I refused to name.

Every lift was evidence.
Every drop of sweat was repayment.

Hard week? Add intensity.
Feel behind? Add volume.
Feel heavy? Do it anyway.

And here’s the twist:

I was strong.

You can be powerful and still be punishing yourself.

Food Was a Negotiation

Food wasn’t nourishment. It was leverage.

If the scale stalled, tighten it up.
If I felt bloated, restrict something.
If life felt messy, clean up the diet.

Not extremes.
Just a constant edge.

Everything was data.
Nothing was trust.

And yes I coached women on stress, mindset, metabolism, hormones. I understand physiology.

But knowledge doesn’t override tone. The rules “didn’t” apply to me, so I thought.

You can understand the nervous system and still speak to yourself like a drill sergeant.

The Shift: From Proving → Playing

The shift didn’t come from burnout. I thought I could outrun and outplay burnout.

It came from one quiet question:

What if I’m not the enemy?

One day I chose lighter weights on purpose.

Not because I was weak.
Because I was listening.

Instead of “You should be better than this,” I tried curiosity.

What would feel strong today?
What would feel supportive?
What would feel steady?

Some days that meant lifting heavy.
Some days mobility.
Some days ending the day early.

The actions didn’t change much.

The posture did.

I stopped bracing against my body.
I started partnering with her.

Your Body Is Not the Problem

High-functioning women are exceptional at override.

We override hunger.
Fatigue.
Emotion.
Pain.

Then when symptoms show up weight gain, inflammation, exhaustion we call the body broken.

What if it isn’t?

What if it adapted to keep you alive in a season you refused to slow down?

You don’t heal what you’re still trying to conquer.

You can’t shame your nervous system into safety.
You can’t discipline inflammation into calm.
You can’t hustle your way into wholeness.

Dangerous joy looks like:

Lifting because it feels powerful.
Eating because it fuels you.
Resting because you trust yourself.

It’s dangerous because when you stop fighting your body, you lose your favorite enemy.

And if your body isn’t the problem…

Then the relationship has to change.

I still hear the old voice sometimes.

“Tighten it up.”
“Go harder.”
“Don’t get soft.”

Now I answer:

We’re on the same team.

Not less discipline.
Not less strength.

Less war.

So I’ll ask you:

When no one is watching how do you speak to your body?

Because that voice is shaping your healing more than your workout ever will.

In Dangerous Joy,

Stacey

p.s. You can listen to my fitness story here part one and part two on “I Heard You When You Said”

For most of my life, I believed discipline was the answer.

If I could stay consistent enough, controlled enough, responsible enough, then I would finally feel free. Safe. Settled.

So I learned how.

I learned routines.

I learned structure.

I learned how to keep promises to others and ignored the ones I made to myself.

I learned how to hold it all together.

And to be clear: that skill served me.

Discipline built a lot of good in my life. It carried me through seasons that required grit and steadiness. It kept things moving when they absolutely had to move. It helped me survive.

But somewhere along the way, I started confusing functioning with freedom.

The story I was living by sounded responsible. Even noble.

Stay in control and everything will be okay.

What I didn’t notice at first was the cost of that story.

About 16 years ago, we were sitting in a therapist’s office as a family, deep in our foster care and adoption story. Dangerous behaviors. Big emotions. Trauma fully on the table. Everyone outnumbered. Everyone exhausted.

He looked at me and said,

“Stacey, you need to learn how to play. Play heals.”

I didn’t want to hear it.

Play felt reckless.

Play required structure, control, and constant vigilance to keep everyone safe.

Play felt frivolous when survival was the job.

And yet here’s the part I couldn’t see back then I was living with a tight grip on everything. My time. My emotions. My body. My expectations. I stayed alert. Prepared. Highly braced, even in moments that were supposed to be light.

Danger, in my internal world, wasn’t loud or dramatic.

It was the quiet belief that if I let go, something might fall apart.

So I stayed disciplined.

And disconnected.

The shift didn’t happen because I read the right book or tried harder. It happened in ordinary moments over the years, laughing with friends, playing with my husband and my boys. Doing something completely unproductive and realizing… nothing bad happened.

No one needed me to manage the moment.

Nothing needed fixing.

Joy didn’t require my vigilance.

That’s when I saw it clearly:

The story I was living by was outdated.

I was still preparing for danger in a season that no longer required it.

As a coach, I see this pattern constantly especially in high-functioning women who have done everything “right.” They don’t lack discipline. They don’t lack motivation. They lack permission to loosen their grip.

The grip on their words.

The grip on their story.

The grip on the outcome.

That grip delays everything they say they want.

So I changed the words I live by.

Instead of preparing for what could go wrong, I started preparing for joy.

Not reckless joy.

Not avoidant joy.

Dangerous joy, the kind that threatens old survival patterns. The kind that loosens what fear has been holding hostage.

That doesn’t mean life is suddenly easy or pain-free. Discipline still has a place in my life. But it’s no longer the foundation.

Joy is.

And joy real joy requires trust. It asks us to believe that we don’t have to brace ourselves to belong in our own lives.

If you recognize yourself here, nothing is wrong with you.

You didn’t fail at discipline.

You outgrew the story that said control was the only way to stay safe.

So here’s the question I’ll leave you with the one I keep returning to myself:

Where are you still preparing for danger, when you could be preparing for joy instead?

That might be where your next season begins.

When discipline stops being the answer

If you’re ready to loosen the grip on the words that have been robbing you of joy, start here

with dangerous joy,

Stacey

P.S. If you haven’t listened to the latest episode of “I Heard You When You Said” ……joy loading here.

The Story That Saved You Is No Longer Meant to Lead You

There is a story you tell yourself that once kept you alive.

It helped you survive.

It helped you endure.

It helped you make it through seasons you did not get to choose.

And here is the part most people never say out loud:

You can honor that story without letting it drive the future.

Survival deserves respect.

It does not deserve the steering wheel forever.

Because what worked then can quietly cost you everything now.

The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

You already know this.

You know yourself well enough to recognize the patterns:

• Staying one step ahead of pain

• Being strategic instead of honest

• Pulling back the moment you fear you’re “too much”

• Bracing before impact, even when no blow has been thrown

Those behaviors were not flaws.

They were intelligence.

They were protection.

But protection has a price.

And right now, the price is limbo.

You’re not stuck because you’re incapable of change.

You’re stuck because the old story still feels safer than the unknown.

I was on the phone with a friend last night and asked the question that has been circling my own life lately:

Who do I become when I stop protecting myself from anticipated pain?

Not real pain.

Anticipated pain.

The pain I imagine.

The pain I prepare for.

The pain I keep alive by staying guarded, vigilant, and controlled.

What happens if I don’t stay in front of the problem?

What happens if I don’t manage the relationship?

What happens if I don’t pull back preemptively?

Those are stories.

Deep ones.

And if I let them, they will decide my future behavior the same way they’ve always decided my past.

We’ve all heard it:

“If you want something different, you have to do something different.”

What no one tells you is this:

Doing something different is dangerous.

Because it disrupts the identity that kept you safe.

Bringing joy to the table in the middle of friction is dangerous.

Being present when conflict once gave you a sense of control is dangerous.

Letting things feel good when your nervous system learned safety through tension is dangerous.

Conflict can feel familiar.

Familiar can feel safe.

Safe can feel like home even when it’s costing you everything.

So when peace arrives, your brain asks:

What does this mean about me?

Because you are a meaning making machine.

You will assign meaning whether you want to or not.

And if you don’t choose the meaning intentionally, the old story will choose it for you.

Dangerous joy is not pretending the past didn’t happen.

It’s not bypassing pain.

It’s not spiritualizing discomfort away.

Dangerous joy is letting the survival story retire with honor.

It’s building a new narrative, one where your life no longer costs more than you’re willing to pay.

One where joy is not earned through exhaustion.

One where presence is not a threat.

One where you don’t have to prove your worth by bracing for impact.

The old story did its job.

Week 2 Invitation

Now you get to decide:

Does it get to decide your future too?

Week two is not about forcing change.

It’s about noticing the story that shows up right before you pull back and choosing, gently and deliberately, not to let it lead.

That choice?

That’s dangerous.

And that’s where joy begins

In Dangerous Joy,

Stacey

P.S. If you haven’t listened to the latest podcast of “I Heard You When You Said” we talk more about how history doesn’t repeat itself it ryhmes. Listen Here.

They told you joy comes after obedience.

After sacrifice.
After endurance.
After you’ve proven you’re not irresponsible, indulgent, or asking for too much.

They dressed it up as maturity.
As discipline.
As faith.
As “doing the right thing.”

But let’s call it what it was.

Control.

Because people who delay joy are easier to manage.
People who postpone pleasure stay compliant.
People who believe joy must be earned will tolerate almost anything.

Here’s the truth they didn’t tell you:

Joy is not a reward.

Joy isn’t excitement.
It isn’t happiness.
It isn’t the absence of pain.

Joy is a regulated state of aliveness
when your body feels safe enough to experience pleasure, connection, and meaning
without needing permission.

And that’s exactly why joy is dangerous.

A regulated nervous system doesn’t hustle for worth.
A joyful body doesn’t stay braced.
A person who lets joy come first stops negotiating their dignity.

This is why joy was framed as something you get later.
After you comply.
After you prove yourself.
After you suffer quietly and call it growth.

Because if joy were allowed now
you might notice what doesn’t fit.
You might feel what you’ve been suppressing.
You might stop saying yes to things that require self-abandonment.

Let me say this plainly:

You don’t heal to earn joy.
You heal from joy.

Joy is not the finish line of healing.
It’s the stabilizer that makes healing possible.

And if joy feels unsafe in your body
if rest makes you anxious,
if pleasure triggers guilt,
if ease feels like you’re doing something wrong

That’s not a personal failure.

That’s conditioning.

Conditioning that taught you survival was virtuous
and joy was suspicious.

So this week, we start where you were told not to.

Not with fixing.
Not with striving.
Not with earning.

With Dangerous Joy

.

Joy that interrupts compliance.
Joy that tells the truth to your nervous system.
Joy that refuses to wait its turn.

Week 1 Invitation
Name the rules spoken or silent that taught you joy must be earned. Those are the guides stealing it.

That answer is the doorway.

In dangerous joy,
Stacey

Coaching people through this exact work. Teaching them how to loosen their grip, how to stay curious in the hard stuff, how to move without bracing. And yet I wasn’t doing it myself.

I was a hypocrite. I know it.

I hid behind body positivity like it was armor. “If I stay in front of the weight, in front of the trauma, I can protect myself.” I could think my way out. Plan my way out. Smile my way out. Help everyone else out. But me? I stayed tucked behind my own carefully curated narrative.

I thought if I just understood it all, figured it all out, I’d be safe. If I could stay “on top of it,” I could prevent the pain, the judgment, the discomfort, the shame. But all it really did was keep me away from myself.

Here’s the kicker: controlling outcomes doesn’t protect you. It isolates you. It keeps you in a loop where you know exactly what could happen, but you have no idea what can happen because you’re not actually in it.

And I was so good at pretending. Pretending I was okay. Pretending that being in front of the weight, in front of the story, in front of everyone else, made me powerful. But it was fear masquerading as strength.

I wasn’t moving forward. I was rehearsing forward motion while standing still.

I want you to know this because I see so many women doing the same thing. You’ve built these walls, these routines, these explanations that make you feel like you’re in control but you’re just dreaming about the woman you could be.

The one who steps fully into herself. The one who meets her own power. The one who feels everything, makes mistakes, and moves anyway.

Here’s the hard truth, you can’t stay in the dream forever. You can’t protect yourself by rehearsing courage instead of living it.

The work is uncomfortable.
It’s messy.
It will reveal everything you’ve been hiding from even from yourself.

But the reward? Being in your life instead of watching it from behind a shield.

I’m finally learning this for myself. Not as a coach. Not as an observer. But as me. And it’s terrifying. And freeing. And so worth it.

So here’s my question to you:
Are you still dreaming about her?
Or are you ready to meet her?

I’ve started showing up differently in my own work and I want to hold space for you to do the same. Reply to this email, DM me, or just sit with this question: are you ready to stop dreaming and start meeting her?

—She’s waiting, Stacey

I used to explain myself.
Constantly.

My intent.
My reasoning.
My heart.

Because I didn’t want to be misunderstood.

And for 20 years I was.

Here’s what I finally realized:
When you take risks other people won’t take,
they don’t question you.
They defend their own story by projecting it onto yours.

The Failed Adoption

We adopted children into our family.
And immediately, the whispers started:
“You already had three beautiful kids. Why would you ruin a perfect family?”

I explained.
I justified.
I gave context.

I thought if people understood why, they would see me.

But many weren’t asking to see me they wanted the story to make sense to them.
Not to honor the life we were creating.

Later, when our adoptive daughter’s behavior became unsafe,
we made the hardest decision of our lives:
We did not let her return home.
We pressed felony charges to protect our family.

Again, I explained.
And again, I learned:
Being understood does not equal being seen.

Advocacy That Made People Uncomfortable

Raising and advocating for special needs children isn’t easy.
Sometimes the strategies we used weren’t understood.
Sometimes systems weren’t built to support them.

So I explained.
I cited research.
I justified choices.

And I realized:
When people are uncomfortable with your conviction,
more explanation doesn’t bring them closer.
It gives them more material to argue with.

Health, Fitness, and GLP

Then came health and fitness.
Weight loss isn’t just discipline.
It’s nervous system regulation.
Emotional weight shows up as physical weight.

GLP conversations made people bristle:
“Is this cheating?”
“Is this lazy?”
“Is this right?”

I explained.
Again, thinking understanding would create trust.

Sometimes it did.
Often it didn’t.

Because understanding lives in the head.
Being seen lives in the heart.

The Moment It Clicked

Over-explaining wasn’t creating clarity.
It was self-protection in a socially acceptable outfit.

I thought if people understood me, they’d see me.
They wouldn’t.

Understanding = intellectual.
Being seen = emotional.
Head vs heart.

When you confuse the two, the story gets complicated.
You start performing instead of relating.
You start explaining instead of discerning.

What I Do Differently Now

Before I explain myself, I pause:

• Is this curiosity or judgment?

• Will sharing this bring us closer or just make me feel safer?

• Am I sharing to be seen or to be approved of?

• Is this even their business?

People who matter don’t interrogate they ask to understand.
Intent has a smell.
You can feel it.

Just because someone asks a question doesn’t mean they deserve an answer.
I no longer try to be understood by everyone.
I choose to be seen by the right people.
I let the rest misunderstand me.

Not out of bitterness.
Out of clarity.

You don’t owe everyone your story.
You owe yourself honesty about why you’re telling it.

I didn’t learn this concept from a book.
I learned it by getting it wrong repeatedly.

Where I Mistook Protection for Wisdom

There was a season of my life where I was very proud of how “intuitive” I was.

I could read a room instantly.
I could sense when something was about to go sideways.
I could feel when a relationship, a job, or a dynamic wasn’t safe.

And to be clear those sensations were real.
What I misunderstood was what they were coming from.

I told myself I was decisive.
What I was actually doing was preemptive exiting.

I would feel discomfort and call it a red flag.
I would feel uncertainty and call it “knowing.”
I would feel exposure and label it misalignment.

From the outside, it looked like strong boundaries.
On the inside, it was a nervous system that did not trust stillness.

The Moment It Clicked

The shift didn’t happen all at once.
It happened slowly and honestly, painfully.

I started noticing a pattern:
I wasn’t just avoiding bad situations.
I was also avoiding expansion.

Opportunities that required visibility.
Relationships that required staying.
Conversations that required me to be misunderstood before being known.

And the signal always felt the same: urgency.

A tight chest.
A quick story.
A very convincing internal narrative that said, “This isn’t right. Get out.”

That’s when it hit me.

Intuition doesn’t yell.
It doesn’t rush.
It doesn’t need me to decide right now.

What I was listening to wasn’t intuition.
It was pattern recognition built during a time when staying wasn’t safe.

That pattern saved me once.
But now, it was costing me growth.

How I Course Corrected

The course correction wasn’t about ignoring my instincts.
It was about slowing them down.

Instead of asking, “What’s wrong here?”
I started asking, “What am I protecting myself from feeling?”

Instead of reacting to the first signal,
I gave myself time to see if calm followed or more urgency.

Here’s what I learned to look for:

• If the feeling softened with space → intuition

• If the feeling escalated with stories → trauma

• If I could breathe and stay present → intuition

• If I needed certainty immediately → protection

This changed everything.

Not overnight.
But steadily.

Where It Still Shows Up (Because I’m Human)

I’ll be honest—this still shows up for me.

Especially when:

• I’m highly visible

• I’m deeply invested

• I care more than I want to admit

There are still moments when my body wants to pull back faster than my wisdom would choose.

The difference now?
I don’t confuse that reaction with truth.

I don’t shame it.
I don’t obey it blindly.
I listen, regulate, and then decide.

That’s the work.

The Distinction That Rebuilds Trust

Trauma says: “Move now or you’ll get hurt.”
Intuition says: “You’re safe enough to stay present.”

One contracts your world.
The other expands it.

If you’ve been telling yourself you don’t trust yourself, I want you to hear this clearly:

You probably trust yourself deeply.
You just learned to survive before you learned to discern.

Learning the difference between intuition and trauma isn’t about becoming less sensitive.

It’s about becoming more precise.

And that slowly, gently, powerfully is how real self-trust is rebuilt.

Halloween always hits different for me.

When my kids were little, we did what every family does; costumes, candy, trying to make memories.
We tried to look “normal.”
We smiled for pictures.
We showed up.

Behind the masks, our life was a different kind of scary.

When trauma lives in your home, normal becomes a façade, and the simple becomes complicated.
Every o…

Read more

Webster’s defines trauma as:
“a disordered psychic or behavioral state resulting from severe mental or emotional stress or physical injury.”

That’s heavy. That’s pressure. And for many, trauma becomes a badge. A way of saying, “Look what I survived. Look what I carry.”

I get it. When you’ve lived through the impossible, you crave solidarity. Survival is solitary. Healing often is too—because most people cannot, could not, or would not understand the depth of your story.

But story is exactly where it begins.

I’ve spent the last decade as a professional mindset coach, yoga teacher, storyteller, and spell-breaker. I’ve sat in courtrooms, foster homes, yoga studios, and coaching rooms. I’ve been the hero and the villain in my own life more times than I can count. And the theme that always rises to the surface? Story.

Yesterday, I sat in my first therapy session in years. I knew how it would go, and it went exactly like that: I told my story. The foster care work. The adoption. The advocacy. The therapeutic parenting. The five-year court battle. The yoga. The toll on the marriage. The company I’ve built on the other side.

The therapist listened, then said: “You are highly intelligent, highly aware, a professional in this industry… and you have trauma. How can I help?”

Here’s where the story shifts:

I’ve experienced traumatic events.
I don’t have trauma.

It’s not something I wear like a badge. It’s not my identity. It was a collection of experiences where I believed life or death was on the line.

And here’s what I know after all these years of teaching, coaching, and telling stories:
Mindset is the story we tell ourselves.
Stories are made of words.
Words impact our breath, posture, emotions, imagination.

Yes—the amygdala can still be rude. It hijacks the nervous system like a TV on Black Friday at Walmart. The past can still feel real.

And yet—what if trauma isn’t a disorder you “have,” but a story that’s stuck?

What if trauma is simply:

• a story that still hurts

• a story that hasn’t moved

• a story waiting for breath and language to set it free

Try this:
Instead of saying “I have trauma,” try: “I have a story that’s asking to move.”

Notice what happens in your body. Does your chest loosen? Do you breathe differently?

If you’re reading this and it seems too simple—welcome to the table. Your past stories have trained you to believe everything needs to be hard to work. If it were easy, you wouldn’t trust it anyway.

That’s the power of words.

➡️ Inside my Facebook group, Mindset and Mental Health for Busy Women, we’re experimenting with this exact practice—reframing trauma, pain, and stuck stories through language. Not to sugarcoat, not to deny, but to move what’s been holding you still.

Because sometimes the first step in healing isn’t more effort.
It’s different language.

To truth, movement, and words that set you free—Stacey

Fast forward a few years. The market shifted, the house was foreclosed on… and we bought it. That very house. Every single day I lived there, I couldn’t believe it was ours. I never stopped being in awe of it.

That experience taught me something about vision. What you focus on, you see more of.

Recently, Justin and I had Elizabeth Bruckner on our podcast. The Homesteader Mindset is her book and our conversation was pure gold. She reminded us that you don’t need acres of land to begin homesteading. You can start where you are — with a few raised beds, a shared flock of chickens, or even “custody” of someone else’s cow down the road.

And yet, my vision hasn’t shrunk. A year into Texas living, it’s only expanded. I see a white farmhouse on land. An office, podcast studio, whiskey bar, jiujitsu mats, and gym tucked out back. Fruit trees stretching out across the property. Ducks (because, yes, I’ve learned they’re better than chickens). Fluffy cows that come greet me at lunchtime.

That picture lives in my mind. I don’t own it yet, but I focus on it. And because I focus on it, I see more of it.

Like the house on the edge of our neighborhood — the one with two pear trees, their branches bowing heavy under the weight of fruit. Day after day, I thought about knocking on the door. Finally, my husband did. “Hey, my wife would love to pick your pear tree.”

The older couple lit up. The land had become more than they could maintain, and the pears had mostly gone to the birds or rotted on the ground. We gathered bags, laughed as Ted climbed branches for the best fruit, and promised to return this fall to trim the trees. I told them I’d bring caramelized pear jam and fresh sourdough as thanks.

They got helping hands. We got pears. Everyone got joy.

And here’s the point: vision isn’t just about someday. It’s about stepping into the arena now. Watching, learning, putting yourself close to the people who are living pieces of the life you want. Taking the small actions right in front of you — knocking on the door, trimming the trees, making the jam.

Because when your eyes are fixed on the bigger picture, even the smallest steps move you closer.

What you focus on, you see more of.

If this story stirs something in you, come close. Watch my story unfold, and write your own along the way.

I wrote my grandfather, a high school English teacher a letter. I expected praise. What I got? Red pen. Circles. Lines. Correction.

Even then, I made it mean something. That’s what we do. We are meaning-making machines. If you’re an “over”—overachiever, overcommitted, overworking, overthinking—you know exactly what I mean.

I had bangs hitting my forehead, hair down my back, two brand-new front teeth, and patent leather shoes. Second grade was my runway. That was the moment I decided: I’m doing this better than anyone else. Red circles? Never again.

A decade later I became a scrapbooker. Scalloped scissors. Glue sticks. Endless photos. I documented every story, every memory, every little moment. I got so good I turned it professional. Words made people feel. Photos made people feel. I was published and the freelance gigs followed.

I started a blog in the Blogspot Era. Three kids became six in two short years through foster care and adoption. I wrote to inspire. To help. To hold space. Being “others-focused” became my identity. Until it wasn’t.

For almost a decade, I buried myself. Motherhood, trauma, survival, advocacy, illusion. I was an “over” and I excelled at it. Admired. Celebrated. Barely breathing. Carrying it all alone because I thought I had to.

I stopped writing. Except for court documents and IEPs. Social media was the only outlet. I overlooked the most important person for almost 15 years: me. Until I didn’t.

And now? Here you are. Welcome to my words. They will make you feel. They will push curiosity and they will demand courage. My hope is simple: that reading them sparks awareness of your story, your words, your superpower—even as you read mine.

Thank you for being here.

—Stacey

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