First lesson in energy protection, I just didn’t have that language then. I just stood there watching a million people live inside their own worlds and thought: I want to understand that. I want to know what’s going on inside all of these people.

I still do.

I am a people watcher. In restaurants I have to sit facing the room. I want to see who’s coming in, the dynamic at the table across from me, whether the server pulls out a notepad or takes the whole order from memory. I know the industry well enough to read the mechanics. It’s who they are underneath that fascinates me.

Last weekend at a lake beach I spent half of it just... watching. I’m truly interested in people’s stories. What makes them tick, how they show up, and what they’re actually trying to say versus what’s coming out of their mouth.

That last part took longer to develop.

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What curiosity actually looks like at work

Early on in my career someone told me: assume positive intent. They were referring to resolving conflict at work and it’s stayed with me ever since. It keeps me curious instead of defensive, and curious is where I do my best work.

So when I meet someone new — a new hire, a new client, a leader, anyone — I walk in defaulting to trust. They’re good at their job and they want to do good work… or they have something to offer I haven’t seen yet. That’s the baseline, and I hold it until something shifts it.

It doesn’t always shift. Most of the time people are exactly who they present themselves to be and the relationship is straightforward and good. But sometimes you feel something. Usually a small thing. And if I’ve learned anything over twenty-five years it’s that the small things are worth paying attention to.

From watching to asking

People-watching started as pure fascination. I just wanted to understand what made people tick. But over time, watching became wondering, and wondering became asking — and somewhere in there I realized that genuinely wanting to know people, not just about them, might be the most underrated professional skill there is.

Small shifts in how I ask questions changed everything. “Tell me a bit about you” instead of “what do you do” opens a completely different conversation. One gets you a job title. The other gets you a person — what they’re passionate about, what they’re proud of, where they are in life, what they’re navigating. That’s where the real information lives.

Now I use that curiosity strategically. I’m not trying to get something out of people, I’m trying to understand how to work with them. How to support them and how to get the best out of a relationship that works for both of us. Turns out if you actually care about understanding someone, you might also be really great at sales. ;)

And the questions also tell me things people don’t intend to share. If someone gets defensive when their thinking is gently challenged, that’s information. If they stay completely rigid when there’s clearly something worth considering on the other side, I know where they stand. Not as a judgment, but as a data point. In leadership it tells me how to coach someone or how to work with a peer. In sales it tells me whether a deal will ever actually close, which is something I used to ignore when I got emotionally invested in an outcome. I don’t do that as much anymore. The early read saves everyone time.

The ones who make you question your own read

The hardest ones aren’t the people who are obviously difficult. Those are easy to spot.

The hardest ones are the ones who leave you confused and a little gaslit in trusting what you know to be true. Who you walk away from thinking — wait. What did they actually say? You replay the conversation and you can’t find the substance. You felt confident in the room and now you’re not sure why. There’s a term for what that person just laid out: word salad. It’s a communication style, and I’m being generous calling it that. It’s where the story starts somewhere and winds through enough tangents and confident-sounding language that by the time it ends you’ve forgotten where it began. The person delivering it feels great and you leave feeling like you missed something.

I used to think I had missed something, but I don’t think that anymore.

Clarity is a leadership responsibility. If I walk away from a conversation with a leader more confused than when I went in, that’s information. It took me longer than I’d like to admit to trust that read, but I trust it now.

The negotiation

A few years ago I was on a call for a larger deal, remotely, with someone who had been doing this a long time. Old school tactics. Pressure, dismissal, the kind of posturing that probably worked really well in a different era. He was on the verge of retirement and he came in hard, trying to get a young woman on the other side of the screen to back down on price.

I remember noticing what he was doing. Like, actually clocking it in real time. And thinking; oh. I can see this now. This is a move, not a position. I know what this is.

The value was there and I didn’t back down.

That was a moment. Not because I won the negotiation (though I did) but because I realized something had shifted in me somewhere along the way. I wasn’t being rattled by someone who expected me to be rattled. That used to happen, and once in awhile it still does, but mostly, it doesn’t really anymore.

The one I won’t forget

Early in my sales career I walked into a restaurant to make a pitch. The owner looked me up and down and said: I bet you’ve never had to work hard for anything a day in your life.

I thought… well, that was rude. I’ll show you.

In that moment I decided to shut my mouth. I worked hard and I ended up getting the sale. Because I decided in that moment that I was going to show him exactly what he’d misjudged. Not loudly. Not by arguing, not by making a comment against his rude one. Just by doing the work and letting it speak.

I think about that moment sometimes when I’m in a room where someone has underestimated me. It still happens and it probably always will. But somewhere between that restaurant and now I stopped taking it personally and started taking it as information.

I’ve written before about becoming the leader I never had, read it [here]. What I’d add now, is that so much of what made me the leader I am today was simply paying attention. For years, in rooms where I wasn’t always taken seriously, I was watching. Learning what real leadership looks and sounds like versus what it performs like. The ones who motivate and the ones who squash it. The difference between confidence and ego. Between someone who communicates clearly and someone who makes you feel like the confusion is your fault.

Curiosity did that. I didn’t set out to develop a skill. I was just always more interested in understanding people than impressing them.

Turns out that was the whole thing.

What’s one question you’ve started asking differently that changed the conversation? I read every comment.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

But the universe has a way of bubbling certain things up that you can’t ignore anymore. Sitting quietly in the back of your mind until avoiding them costs more than just doing them would.

That’s what this is about. Not crisis time. The specific dread of something ordinary that has to get done anyway — and the resistance you feel before you’ve even started.

The six AM alarm when your body wants nothing to do with the day. The phone call you’ve been putting off. The conversation you keep rehearsing in the shower and then not having… the fake version almost helps you process it… except the problem still exists and the real conversation keeps not happening. The room you have to walk into knowing it’s going to be uncomfortable the whole time you’re in it.

The kind where you just know something needs to change. But you don’t know yet what doing something about it is actually going to mean.

I’ve lived enough of these that I think a lot about what’s waiting on the other side.

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The small proof

Working out alone doesn’t work for me. I know this about myself. I need a class, a room, other bodies moving next to mine — that energy is what actually gets me there and keeps me going once I am. A vibration plate session or some weights on my own, sure. But the real thing? I need people.

Which means I’m at the mercy of a schedule, and some days the only option is six AM. Kids have activities, evening classes are gone. It’s early or it’s nothing.

So the decision gets made the night before. Not in the morning, because morning me will absolutely negotiate her way out of it. Night before me lays out the clothes and that means no decision to be made. Just get up and go.

And every single time I show up, it’s worth it. Every time. The hard part is never the workout. It’s the moment before you decide to go.

Lots of things change into your 40s. I can tell you that this body needs consistent movement to feel good… not as a nice-to-have, as a requirement. The stiffness, the recovery time, and the aches that show up uninvited are all quieter when I’m consistent. I feel stronger and more like myself.

Small proof. But proof.

The work proof

A few years ago I found myself in a work situation with a leader I didn’t quite know how to name. There was encouragement on the surface and something else underneath — the kind of thing that’s hard to prove but impossible to unfeel. I worked around it for a long time instead of addressing it.

Eventually I started writing everything down just to trust my own read on what was happening. Looking at the words on paper and making sense of them.

I also felt undervalued. So I built a case which meant months of research, benchmarking, everything I’d contributed documented in a presentation. I made the ask and the response didn’t match the effort. I remember thinking: I have been in this room before. The gaslighting, the inconsistency, the way you start doubting your own read on things. I was living that at home too in a different context.

So I had the conversation I’d been avoiding. Prepared obsessively, booked the meeting, walked in nervous in the way that does something to your voice whether you want it to or not.

Before I even started, the person across from me stopped me. Said this wasn’t the environment they wanted me to feel like I was in, and that I could come to them with anything.

That was it. I didn’t need to brace anymore.

Things were handled. And months later a completely different opportunity came from a direction I hadn't even been looking. Better scope, better compensation than I'd originally asked for. I didn't see that door coming.

The biggest proof

I’ve written about the hardest decision I’ve ever made. You can read it [here]. What I’ll say here is just this: a divorce like the one I went through doesn’t get chosen because you want it. You choose it because staying has finally cost more than leaving would.

I was terrified. Not of the logistics, but of who I was going to be on the other side. I had no idea. That part doesn’t get talked about enough. You’re not just leaving a marriage. You’re leaving a version of yourself too, and you don’t get to know yet what replaces her.

Turns out she’s pretty great.

She's the one who shows up for hard conversations without rehearsing them forty times first. Who built something she's actually proud of. Two kids, solo, and her life feels like hers. I didn't know that version of me existed until I had no choice but to find her.

The reward

There’s a book called The Molecule of More that reframed something for me. The whole premise is that dopamine isn’t the pleasure chemical, it’s the anticipation chemical. It’s not about having things but about moving toward them. Which means that specific dread you feel before something hard? Partly just your brain not being able to see what’s on the other side yet.

Sometimes you already know the payoff and you've done enough of these to trust it. And sometimes you have absolutely no idea. You just know something has to give and you go anyway because staying where you are has stopped being an option.

I think about the salary deck I spent three months on. Didn’t land the way I built it to. The divorce I didn’t want. The meeting I dreaded. None of it went the way I planned and all of it got me here.

The outcome isn’t always the point. Sometimes the conversation lands wrong and you still grow from having it. Sometimes the ask gets dismissed and the raise comes through a different door anyway. You find out what you’re made of not when things go well but when they don’t go the way you needed them to.

That becomes the new baseline. Quietly, without you noticing, until one day you realize you’d walk into that room without shaking.

The reward isn’t always the outcome you wanted, but it’s who you become for doing it anyway.

What’s something you didn’t want to do that ended up changing you? I read every comment.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Last weekend I had nothing planned. This weekend, also nothing. Sure, I had things to do, I always have things to do. But no set plan, no events to attend, no places to go.

More than a few years ago now this would have sent me into a mild panic.

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For the elder millennials in the room

There’s a specific kind of elder millennial that existed. The one with a drink in her hand, speaker dancing, never missing a Friday (or a dance floor opportunity). We wore business clothes to the bar in the mid 2000s (heels, blazers) and heaven forbid a jacket ruin the outfit. They had no place even in -30 degree winters, we just dealt with it.

Seems to be what millennials do though, doesn’t it? We came of age through 9/11, graduated into a recession, built careers through a global pandemic, watched the cost of living swallow the life we were promised. Yet, we just kept going. Found the path forward every single time. I don’t think we can even be surprised anymore, we’re just wired for it by now.

Deal with it and figure it out.

We were also the ones who didn’t know how to stop. Busy was the whole personality. There was no room for rest unless an illness or injury physically took you out. I was always at dance, always with friends, always bringing someone along on the family camping trip because stillness wasn’t something I knew how to be in yet.

Part of it is just getting older too. You reach a point where the bar doesn't call anymore. Where a Friday night in feels like winning instead of losing. Nobody warns you that's coming and nobody warns you how good it feels when it does.

On purpose

Last weekend I had a free night. Asked a couple of friends if anything was happening. Everyone was at the lake, that’s Saskatoon in summer. I didn’t look very hard for a backup plan. I just decided: nothing.

Stayed home. Moved some furniture around. Tackled a corner of the house that’s been bothering me for weeks. Took my kids to an actual mall for back to school shopping the next day, I want them to have the experience we got so excited about as kids. The new backpack, the first day outfit, the fresh notebooks. It’s a fun ritual.

And then I came home and sat in the quiet.

A past version of me would have called that a wasted weekend. The FOMO was real — but it died in the pandemic lockdown and I didn’t mourn it long. I gave myself the ability to choose where my energy goes. Not out of habit or anxiety. On purpose.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. The January 2020 divorce and then the world shut down two months later. Two little kids, nowhere to go, and a silence I kept trying to outrun. FaceTiming friends, online games, anything to fill it. But I was healing. And you can only outrun stillness for so long when you’re carrying that much.

That year something quietly changed and the silence stopped feeling like a problem I needed to solve.

What peace actually feels like

I know what peace feels like now. Peace, by myself.

A peaceful Sunday for me looks like no alarm. A coffee outside on my deck before anyone else is up. A barre class. Coming home and cooking a late brunch with my kids while the morning just... unfolds. Nobody rushing anywhere, nothing that needs to happen yet.

And because I know what that feels like, I know instantly when something doesn’t. There’s a visceral response in me now when something is off. A situation, an environment, a person. I don’t analyze it anymore. I just don’t go near it.

That’s what years of forced stillness gave me: a calibration I didn’t have before. Now rest is built into how I live. I plan vacations with a buffer day after I get home and have one day to land before real life resumes. Everybody needs that, most people don’t give it to themselves.

A friend of mine calls it enjoying your mortgage. What a concept: staying home and actually living in the space you pay for ;) Three years in this house, a new build, and last year I completed the backyard. This year the basement is underway. My daughter calls our gazebo the “outside house” and she’s not wrong. Movie nights out there. Water balloon fights, watching the kids on the trampoline, bike rides through the neighbourhood. A quiet charcuterie night with a couple of friends on a summer Friday. That’s the whole dream right there and I almost missed it chasing a different one.

The season before the season

Fall is coming. School starts, activities ramp up: basketball, dance, the whole machine. The calendar fills whether I plan it or not. So right now, before any of that, I’m doing nothing on purpose.

Spain trip is done. The camping weekend before school starts is coming, the lake house at September long is on the calendar. But these two weekends in between? They’re mine.

Here’s what I know now that I didn’t know seven years ago: sitting alone and feeling anxious about it is a signal, not a flaw. It’s pointing at something that wants your attention. The only way out is through. If you want to know yourself deeper, trust yourself more — you have to sit with yourself first. I know myself now in ways I couldn’t have comprehended back then. That knowing is the best gift the stillness gave me, better than any Friday night I ever went out for.

Not because I earned these quiet weekends, but because I finally learned how to just take them.

What does an empty weekend feel like for you now: relief, or something you still have to talk yourself into? Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

We are all doing a lot. The question isn’t who has more on their plate — it’s what you choose to put on it and how you decide to carry it.

I’m not doing it all, I’m doing what matters. But it took me a while to know the difference.

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From overwhelm to one person

There was a version of me not that long ago who felt the weight of everything all at once. The mental load of running a household, raising kids, building a career. It sat on my chest.

I am one person, I cannot do everything and I was never supposed to. So what actually needs my attention today? Not this week. Not this month. Today. “Control the controllables” isn’t just something I say — it’s how I triage my life. I’ve done enormous work on my mindset and self worth to get here. That work doesn’t end, but it compounds.

And then I came across this term. Self efficacy. It’s been coming up a lot for me lately. Coined by psychologist Albert Bandura — it’s your belief in your own capacity to figure things out and execute. Not general confidence, something more specific. The inner voice that says: I can do this, I will do this.

I have held everything together on days when I had nothing left to hold it with. Traveled solo a lot. Built a career remotely for fifteen years and raised two kids mostly on my own. Not because I had it figured out, but because I told myself I’d figure it out.

And then I did.

My actual self talk: I have walked through fire. I can do this. And the other one, less elegant but equally effective: Stupider people than me do this all the time.

Both work.

The other side of "I'll figure it out"

Asking for help when you need it.

Self efficacy isn’t going it alone. It’s knowing when you’ve got it and when you don’t, and being secure enough to pick up the phone. I ask for help from friends, from my support system, from the village I’ve built around me intentionally over many years. I’m not waiting to be rescued, I’m choosing when to bring someone in and there’s a big difference there.

What I've actually built

Not hacks. Just decisions I made once so I don’t have to keep making them.

Grocery orders (and deliveries), because I rarely walk the aisles anymore. I order, I pick it up, I move on. That’s an hour back every single week.

Moved two blocks from my kids’ school. The timing, the waiting, the back and forth of the school run used to cost more than people realize. Now it’s a seven minute walk for my kids. Best thing I’ve done for my daily rhythm.

At work I’ve made myself efficient enough to create something I used to think was a luxury. Space between the meetings to do the work that actually matters, actual thinking time. Still working on mastering it, but AI has been a big part of how I got there. Anything administrative that used to eat my time, I’ve streamlined or am working towards it.

I recently had two years of lower back pain. Massage therapy was working but I thought I’d have to go once a week for a year minimum to resolve it. Next step was physiotherapy and that meant more appointments, more scheduling, more mental load. So I went down a rabbit hole of how to solve lower back pain. I found vibration plates somewhere (bonus was it also helped with healthy lymphatic drainage). Ordered one and committed to ten minutes a day and by day three the pain I’d carried for two years was just gone. Not saying it works for everyone. Saying I trusted myself to find something that fit my actual life before I defaulted to the hardest option.

And the Skylight calendar on my kitchen counter. Four hundred dollars and worth every cent, because the number one mental load drain at home wasn’t the big stuff. It was my kids constantly asking what’s happening, what’s next, what are we doing this weekend. Now they look at the counter and I’ve stopped the question before it starts.

Anything that reduces the mental load. Anything. Time is my most valuable asset and I protect it like one.

People ask how I do it all. I don’t, really. I do what matters and I’ve gotten very clear on the difference.

First winter alone I shovelled my own driveway one night at 11pm and realized… oh. I can just do things. I don’t have to wait for someone who isn’t coming.

I can just figure it out.

And six years later that’s still the whole philosophy. It shows up at home, in my parenting, in how I move through my career.

The restaurant industry is full of figure-it-outers… people who problem solve in real time, under pressure, with whatever’s in front of them.

Startups have a big part of “figure it out as you go” mentality. I’ve heard “building the plane as we’re flying it” more times than I can count.

I’ve spent twenty-five years surrounded by that energy and turns out I was absorbing it the whole time. Be water. It doesn’t force its way through anything, it always finds the path forward.

My kids said something to me recently when they didn’t know how to fix something. And without missing a beat they said: we’ll figure it out.

That’s the whole thing right there.

What’s one thing you’ve done to reduce your mental load that you’d never go back on? Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

I am someone who makes decisions for a living.

I build teams, I set strategy, I move fast, and I trust my gut. In my professional life I have never been someone who sits on a problem longer than it needs. Identify, gather feedback, assess, and act. That’s just how I’m wired.

And yet the hardest decision of my life took me years.

Years of hoping and convincing myself things would get better after the next big thing — the new job, the new house, the baby, the next fresh start. Years of spinning in my own head, which I now know is exactly what gaslighting does to a confident person. It doesn't work on people who are weak, it works on people who are strong enough to keep finding explanations. Keep giving the benefit of the doubt. Keep believing that if they just communicated better, tried harder, kept the peace a little longer, that things would turn.

Here's what nobody tells you about the narcissistic cycle: it doesn't arrive all at once. It weaves itself in slowly, so slowly you don't feel it happening. It always starts with love bombing; which left me feeling chosen, seen, adored. And then whenever something big happened, a real blowout over something specific, that specific thing would never happen again. It would just be something else next time. So I adapted. Until one day I looked up and thought: what the eff happened? How did I get here? Who am I right now?

I grew up not really knowing anyone who had been through divorce. No close friends with divorced parents. One aunt on either side, and it happened when I was young and nobody talked about it. You just made it work. I had no map or template and no clear idea what the other side even looked like.

What I did know, somewhere underneath all of it, was this: if I stay here, I will never be happy again. The other choice was completely unknown, but at least my happiness stood a chance.

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What I thought I was getting

We met through close friends and were together for three years before we got married. Seven years of marriage and a decade of my life.

He seemed like everything. Well put together, large network, owned a house and a nice car in his late twenties. The kind of man who showed up for his friends and would do anything for them, always there, always generous.

Over time the mask slipped. Slowly enough that I kept second guessing what I was seeing. The lies became visible and once we had children, he became a completely different man.

I try sometimes to identify my very first red flag. And I keep landing on our honeymoon. We got into a small argument, I couldn’t tell you what it was about. I just remember he made me cry and the feeling in my stomach as we were on our way to a private lobster dinner on the beach. That’s the thing about red flags. You don’t always see them, you feel them. And I always talked myself out of what I felt.

What it actually looked like

There was a lot involved in this marriage — more than one post can hold, and more than this particular story is about. This post is about the decision making process. The how and the what it took to finally get there.

But to understand the decision, you need to know a little of what was inside it.

There was addiction involved. Which meant eggshells, always. Long silences. A lot of just doing, not talking. Surface cleaning and errand running that looked helpful from the outside, but he’d be gone an hour just to pick up milk. Football Sundays that turned into ten hours while I had a newborn at home without a single check in.

He would laugh when I cried. Never once tended to me when I was sick. My health during those years was awful, and that deserves its own post someday. Every attempt at a real conversation ended in a rant. I had zero emotional support.

One day he freaked out at me for rinsing a peanut butter jar to recycle it. Yelled at me for wasting water. I looked at him and said “why are you getting mad at me for trying to recycle?” Something shifted in his face and he never questioned my recycling again. That’s how it worked. Each specific thing, once called out, would stop. But it was never about the peanut butter jar.

At some point I remember thinking: if someone asked me who Stacey is right now, what would I say? I’m a mom. I have a job in tech. Just the roles. Nothing underneath.

And then at work, colleagues were praising me. Amazing friends and family who thought I was something special. All these people who saw me and loved what they saw.

And then I’d come home.

Why is the one person who is supposed to love me and support me the most the only person in my entire life who treats me this way?

One saving grace through all of it was the incredible support system I have. Friends and family who showed up for me and a full life I had built long before he entered the picture. I knew who I was outside of that house and that matters more than I can say. It's a lot harder to lose yourself completely when you have people around you who still see you.

The night everything shifted

It was September 2019 and my best friend was visiting from Toronto. He and I got into it — a heated argument in our home, while she witnessed everything.

She stepped in. Calm, reasonable, tried every angle. Did such a good job. And I stood at the top of the stairs watching her and thought: she’s doing it… trying everything I’ve tried. Every approach, every tone, every way in.

And it wasn’t working.

Not because she wasn’t saying the right things. Because it was never about the right things.

It’s not me. It’s him. It has always been him.

The next day she and I talked for a long time. I cried. And I made a decision. I went home and wrote him a letter. Then I sat on it for four months.

I made a conscious choice to get through the rest of the year. One more Christmas as a family. My mom noticed I seemed lighter and thought things were getting better. In reality I had completely checked out. Once I know, I know.

The letter didn’t say divorce. That was my plan, but I knew that word would make him dig in and make it about his image. So I wrote that we needed to separate for the environment we were raising our kids in. The only door I knew he might actually walk through.

I gave it to him in January. He read it. Sat silent. I asked if he had anything to say.

He said: “I’ll be damned if this looks like it was my fault.”

And in one sentence, years of back and forth on a decision was suddenly validated.

Everything that kept me and everything that freed me

There were two things that kept me longer than they should have.

People pleasing. He was the nice guy publicly — charming, well liked, showed up for everyone. Nobody saw what happened when the door closed. The thought of blowing the happy image up, or of people not understanding kept me.

And the kids. The staying together for the kids.

I am proud to be part of the first generation of women saying out loud: I left for my kids instead of staying for them. Kids don’t need two parents under one roof, they need to see what love and happiness actually looks like. What respect looks like. What a whole person looks like. I was slowly dying inside and they were watching. I didn’t want them to grow up thinking abuse was something you just accepted. I needed to make changes to show them by example.

And then as part of figuring out how I would do it, there was the question that finally cut through all of it. What does he do 100% of the time that I carry zero mental load for? Not things I ask him to do or remind him to do. Things he just handles. A true partnership thing.

I thought about it and landed on: wheeling out the recycling and garbage bins.

That was it. That was the whole list. And I thought “ok, I can handle that.”

When I locked the door

A week later he was gone. I locked the door behind him and stood there. What I felt was not grief. Not fear.

Relief. The largest sense of relief I have ever felt in my life. Knowing he would not come back through that door unless I let him.

A couple of weeks later the Dixie Chicks released a song called Gaslighter. I remember hearing it and having to look up the word. Six and a half years ago I learned what gaslighting meant and realized that’s what had been happening to me for years. I had been so confident, so self-assured, and this thing had woven its way in so quietly that I needed a pop song to hand me the vocabulary for what I had lived.

I made it a life mission after that to understand narcissism in its entirety. Not out of bitterness, but out of awareness so it could never happen to me again. We are in the middle of a generational reckoning with narcissism right now. And the more women who understand it, name it, talk about it, and refuse to normalize it — the faster that cycle ends.

The kids were two and five when we separated. The first year out is its own story, and I’ll tell it. But here’s what I know now, six and a half years later: every single day without him has been easier than any day with him.

If you are in the middle of your own list right now: weighing the pros and cons, the garbage bins, the moments you can’t explain to anyone because they only ever saw the public version of him — I see you. The decision doesn’t come all at once. It comes in a moment at the top of a staircase when someone you love is trying everything you’ve already tried, and you finally understand that it was never about trying harder.

You already know. You’ve known for a while.

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

I have goals, always have. But almost nothing in my life has gone the way I expected it to — and somewhere along the way I stopped being surprised by that. The career I built looks nothing like what I imagined at twenty-two. The life I’m living now is not the one I drew up. Some of the best things that have ever happened to me came directly out of the wreckage of something I had planned.

So I’ve loosened my grip over time and have less expectation and attachment to the specific shape of how things are supposed to go. More trust in the way things actually unfold, which is almost always more interesting than what I would have chosen anyway.

Leaving room is not the absence of intention, that’s what the intention is.

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The only thing I had planned

I’ve wanted to go to Barcelona for years. If you’d asked me why, I couldn’t have told you, I just felt called there. Said it numerous times over the years, but I needed a reason to make it happen. And then a dear soul sister friend chose to get married here.

Apart from wedding festivities, I landed with one thing on my list. Sagrada Família. That was it.

I’m not a religious person, but spaces like this do something to me. The devotion and patience. The belief that something is worth building even when you won’t live to see it finished. They completed it this year, after more than a hundred years of construction. I stood inside it and understood why people kept going.

And then I fell a little bit in love with Gaudí.

The next day I had free time and one plan was to walk past Gaudí’s Casa Batlló. Just see the outside, take a photo, keep moving. Instead I walked in, did an audio tour I never intended to do, and stayed for 2 hours. What got me wasn’t just how it looked, it was how it came to be. The owner gave Gaudí total creative freedom. The only things he asked him to consider were colour and light.

And from that, one person built something that has shaped an entire city. Something people are still standing inside, still studying, still moved by simply because he was given space to be fully himself and lean into what he was made to create. Barcelona is covered in his fingerprints.

I thought about that for the rest of the day. What we leave behind when we stop shrinking and just do the thing the way only we can do it.

What I know about myself

I took the train to the coast instead of calling a car. Every instinct said take the Uber — Stacey, you could get lost inside a cardboard box. I took the train anyway, watched every stop with focus, and spent the whole ride watching the ocean out the window. At some point a man boarded with a speaker and a microphone and just started singing. Not asking permission, he just felt like it.

One of my favourite moments of the trip happened on the way to somewhere else.

This is how I travel and it’s also just how I live. I don’t over-plan, I don’t need every hour filled, I leave room and things find me in that room — or they don’t, and I’m okay either way. My kids and I ended up on a small island in Mexico once with a rented golf cart and no destination. Just driving around seeing what was there. Ended up being their favourite part of the whole trip.

And food is a big part of my travel. Food is never just food when you’re celiac, but Barcelona didn’t ask me to worry about it. Twelve fully dedicated gluten free restaurants within walking distance of my hotel. On the first night we stumbled into a tapas bar with fifteen deaf staff members — we didn’t know until we sat down and the only reason we ended up there is because the first 2 places didn’t work out. Halfway through the meal my friend and I looked at each other. We noticed no staff talking, no music — just the sound of a restaurant. We had never experienced that before and we’ll both remember that meal — not just because I could eat everything on the table, but because it was just me and the bride, catching up the way only the two of us can, the night before everything got bigger and louder and beautiful.

I don’t think this is accidental anymore, it’s a practice. Not filling every weekend, not solving problems before they arrive, not white-knuckling outcomes. I’ve spent years learning to flow more than I push. What I keep finding, in my work, in my relationships, in a city I’d wanted to visit for years, is that the things I’ll actually remember never came from the plan. They came from the space around it.

What I came here for

I once read that the number one marker of a lasting relationship is adoration. Not compatibility on paper or shared logistics. Adoration — the real kind, the kind that’s still visible after seven years, still obvious to everyone in the room.

I watched two people get married in Blanes, on the Costa Brava coast, this week — in a venue so incredible it almost didn't feel real. The energy in that room was something I won’t forget. And the groom… he knew from the moment he first saw her. Seven years of building toward a day that was never really in question for him. And a woman who is adored not only by her new husband, but by everyone in her life. I’m so grateful to know her.

I travelled across the world for this. To watch two people I love choose each other in front of everyone who matters to them. To be reminded, in the most beautiful setting I have ever stood in, what it looks like when you don’t settle. When you hold out for the thing that is actually meant for you.

Worth every timezone.

Universe, show me more

Before I left I said it out loud, the way I do with the things that matter to me: Universe, show me how good it can get.

I’m big on this. Affirmations. Intention. Throwing something into the universe and then getting out of the way and letting it work. It sounds like a lot until it doesn’t. Until you’re standing in a place that felt like it had been waiting for you, in a room full of people who love loudly and show up fully and remind you what good energy actually feels like.

This trip showed me a lot. I leave here saying: thank you. Show me more.

That’s the whole practice, really. Ask. Stay open. Say thank you. Ask again.

The best things in my life were never on the itinerary. The career that looked nothing like the plan. The friendships that found me when I stopped looking. The trip I almost talked myself out of taking alone.

Flow more than you force. Leave room. Trust what’s coming. It’s usually better than what you planned.

What’s something that found you when you stopped forcing it?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies — and right now, from Barcelona,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

I’ve often thought about that choreography ever since.

Being a former dancer — performing was something I did on stage for years. It took some time to stop doing it everywhere else, in friendships especially. Showing up as the version of myself I thought people wanted. Editing in real time. It’s exhausting in a way you don’t recognize until you stop.

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The ones who let you change

I have a lot of platonic love in my life. Deep, longterm, and real. Not all of it is with women — one of my closest friends is a guy I’ve known since high school. We went to grad together, never dated, and now we catch up over lunch once a year. Some connections click and don’t need a category.

But when I look at every friendship that has lasted, they all share the same quality: no judgment. No expectation that I stay the same and a comfort that exists regardless of how much time has passed.

My best friend and I met in ballet class when we were five. She’s lived in Toronto for over 20 years. We formed together as kids, grew into young women, then life took us in completely different directions. I still get to see her often despite the distance and when we’re together it’s just easy. She’s known every version of me and loved them all. And vice versa.

A friend I met in 2004 and I moved out west together after university. Although it was only a year, we built a deep connection. Our kids have grown up together — Mexico family trips, sleepovers, holiday hangs, annual summers at the cabin. They’re not technically cousins but they might as well be. We always just pick up where we left off.

And then there’s the friend whose wedding I’m flying to Spain for. By the time this reaches you I’ll already be there. We met through work in 2018 — she was living in Toronto then, Vancouver now, and getting married this week. One night out and I just knew. I was excited meeting her the way you get excited when you recognize something. Eight years later I’m on a plane to Barcelona.

Your friendships are a health practice

There are a lot of reasons to pay attention to your friendships, and I don’t just mean emotionally.

Strong female friendships have been shown to be just as impactful on your overall health as regular exercise and quitting smoking. Not a nice-to-have or a luxury. An actual health practice. Friendships reduce cortisol and boost oxytocin. They contribute to longevity in ways that I wasn’t always aware of and now just makes complete sense.

Researchers have even called friendship networks a behavioural vaccine. I love that framing, because it’s accurate. The right people in your life protect you. They protect you from stress, from isolation, from the version of yourself that shrinks under pressure.

I have a big network. Different levels, different seasons of showing up for each other. Acquaintances, colleagues, people I’d call in a moment, people I see once a year and pick up right where we left off. All of it counts. But inside that network there’s a smaller group. The ones who actually know you. Who have seen you in your worst seasons and your best ones and didn’t flinch either way. Those are the ones doing the real work on your health and your heart. And the ones worth tending to most carefully.

The older I get, the more I understand that nurturing those relationships isn’t something I fit in when I have time. I have to make it something I build my life around.

Because when I think about the people who have shown up for me through divorce, through single motherhood, through every reinvention I’ve put myself through — I don’t just feel grateful. I feel healthier, steadier, and more myself.

That’s the science working exactly the way it’s supposed to.

The weaving

I’ve also outgrown friendships. And I used to feel complicated about that until I thought about that choreography.

People weave in and out. Sometimes back again, sometimes not. I can see it as far back as entering high school. A closeness that just didn’t carry forward into the next chapter. We’d grown in different directions. That’s not a failure, that’s the weaving.

And then there are the ones who come back. I met one of my closest friends on the first day of university. We were social friends for years, then life pulled us in different directions and we drifted. Years later we found each other again. We were both navigating something big. She handed me a book and shared her story. And without knowing it, helped me find the courage to change my own. She’s my spiritual friend now — sound baths, deep conversations, the kind of talks that actually matter.

What I’ve outgrown specifically is the competition and judgment that can exist between women sometimes. I don’t have room for it anymore, because I know what the alternative feels like.

The friendships that were for a season were real for their time. But the lifetime ones have a quality the others didn’t. They let you become whoever you’re becoming without making you defend it.

Recognizing it faster now

Here’s what changes as you get older and more yourself: you recognize it faster.

That excited feeling I had meeting my friend in 2018 — I know what that is now. I feel it with some of the moms I’ve met through my daughter’s dance and my son’s basketball. That ease. That lack of performance on both sides. That sense of: oh, there you are.

The wisdom that comes from longterm friendships is knowing what that actually feels like. So when it shows up in a new form, you don’t second guess it. You just stay open and you don’t attach yourself to any outcomes. New connections with the same quality are out there. You just have to stop performing long enough to let them find you.

The dancers keep weaving. New ones enter, some come back. The choreography never really ends. That’s life.

The best relationships in my life have required nothing but showing up as myself.

Stop performing. The right people will find you.

Who in your life lets you be fully yourself? And when did you stop performing for the people who didn’t?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW
Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

That territory was mine to build. No office to report to. No colleagues down the hall. Just me, my minivan, and a region full of restaurants and liquor accounts to develop. I was working with clients in person, but building relationships with colleagues across the region entirely through calls, emails, and check-ins — before most people had a word for it.

That was fifteen years ago. And it turns out, it was the best possible training ground for everything that came after.

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*Pictured in 2016 working in office, with remote team on the tv.

What I’ve been building all along

When people find out I work fully remotely for a US-based company from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, they usually assume it started with the pandemic. It didn’t.

What started in 2011 wasn’t just remote work. It was learning how to communicate, motivate, and build trust with people I couldn’t see every day. It continued in 2016 when I moved into tech. I was working with salespeople in Toronto, customers across the country, building culture across time zones. In 2023 I moved into a fully remote role — one hundred percent, US-based, no office, everything virtual. Conferences and events in the mix too.

Fifteen years of figuring out how to make things happen from outside the room.

The biggest misconception about people like me? Out of sight, out of mind. That if nobody can walk over to your desk, you must not be doing much. But the structures, the processes, the foundations I’ve put in place — those exist long after I’m there. Impact doesn’t require proximity. It requires intention.

What it actually takes

Making things happen from outside the room requires things that being in an office never demanded of me.

Communicating up more intentionally. When you’re not in the building, leadership doesn’t see what you’re doing unless you show them. That skill to proactively share your work, your wins, your challenges — is one of the most underrated. I’ll be honest: I’m actively practicing this right now in my current role. It’s not something you master once, you keep refining it.

Building relationships without proximity doing the work. In an office, relationships build by osmosis. You overhear, you read the room. You grab lunch without scheduling it. Remove that and every relationship has to be intentional. I keep rolling documents for every person I meet with regularly — a running list of what I need to cover, what came up, what’s next, questions I have. When that meeting happens, I’m prepared. That’s not just good remote practice. That’s respect for time, a scarce resource.

Showing up with authenticity. Through a screen, people can tell when you’re performing versus when you’re actually present. The relationships I’ve built remotely that have lasted years weren’t built on proximity. They were built on authenticity, consistency, honesty, and actually caring about the people on the other side of the screen.

Being disciplined with your own time. Nobody is watching. Nobody is checking. The work has to speak for itself — which means you have to be the kind of person whose work always does.

“Remove proximity and everything has to be deliberate. That’s not a limitation. That’s a higher standard.”

Which is actually the point — it’s not work life balance for me. It’s work life integration. I wrote about that here.

Building culture from outside the room

Some people will tell you culture can’t exist without an office. I disagree.

What builds culture isn’t proximity — it’s shared values, a clear operating system, and people who show up authentically. When a team knows what they stand for, how they make decisions, and what they’re building toward, that exists whether they’re in the same building or not.

I run kickoff meetings at the start of new projects and new quarters — something energizing that sets the tone and reminds everyone why we’re doing what we’re doing. I’ve built relationships remotely that have lasted years. I’ve kept them through intentional check-ins, rolling docs, and showing up consistently — even through a screen.

Culture is caught, not taught. And it spreads just as fast virtually as it does in person — if you’re intentional about it.

When I am in the room

Like anything, there are pros and cons. When I’m with people in person, I don’t waste a second of it.

I am extremely present when I’m with people. So present that I’ve gotten parking tickets because I wasn’t willing to cut it short. I don’t know when I’ll be in the same room as that person again — so I soak it in. We can do tactics remotely. What’s harder to replicate is the trust that builds over a dinner, a long conversation in a hotel lobby, or a walk between conference sessions. So when those moments exist, I treat them like what they are — rare and worth protecting.

My current role involves less travel than previous ones. What it’s made room for is something I didn’t expect — more space for life. Travel to two new places this year. Experiences I would have traded for another sales conference without thinking twice. The in-person hit I need now comes from the moments that matter most. That’s a trade-off I’ve consciously made.

The efficiency piece — and what’s coming

Making things happen from outside the room also means being ruthlessly efficient with the time you have.

Remote work creates pockets of time that are harder to access when you’re tied to an office. My daughter has dance for two hours — I’m at Starbucks getting something done. My son has basketball practice — I’m working from my car. On a good Saskatchewan summer day, I’m out in my gazebo with my laptop and the sun on my face. My laptop comes with me everywhere — not because I’m always working, but because when the moment is there, I can use it. Work woven into life rather than stacked against it. I wrote about work life integration here.

And AI is making those pockets even more productive. It’s helped me minimize the admin that used to eat into the hours I should be spending on what actually makes me effective. If you’ve been following along, you know I do not love living in spreadsheets. That’s one thing that’s changing. I’ll be writing a full piece on how I’m using AI in my work in August, because we’re all figuring it out together.

And that’s kind of the point. Fifteen years in and I’m still learning, still adapting, still finding better ways to make things happen from outside the room. The tools change. The principles don’t.

It started with a cold email and a two-year wait. A territory I had to build with no one watching. Turns out that was the best possible training ground for everything that came after.

Are you remote, hybrid, or in office — and what has it taught you about how you actually work best?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW
Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Not a dramatic Hollywood twister — we didn’t even know it was coming. I saw it out our front door, there was just a gust of wind, and then the house was demolished. I was standing in the kitchen with my kids, messy hair, completely unscathed. I looked around at what used to be our home and thought: it’s just stuff. We’re okay.

Then I walked over to a box of books that had somehow landed in the kitchen. I pulled out one ballet book and one basketball book and handed them to my kids.

I woke up with one clear thought: we’ll be alright on the other side of this.

May has a way of doing that — stacking everything at once and making you prove you can hold it. This dream was my brain's way of telling me I already knew the answer.

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A full plate is just how I’m built

People ask me all the time how I manage everything I do. The honest answer is that a full plate is just my baseline — and I’d probably be bored without it. A demanding career I run remotely. Two kids. A house. A social life I protect fiercely. A body I have to tend carefully. Work on the side that I care about deeply.

I try not to use the word busy. Everyone’s busy. I’d rather say: it’s not a priority at this time. That’s more honest, and it puts the choice back in my hands.

I’m saying this because if you’re someone who also carries a lot, you already know: the question was never how do I do less. It was always how do I move through a lot without losing myself in it.

That’s what I’ve been figuring out.

My brain needs a head start

I don’t do well with last minute, not when life is already full. I like planning in advance and leaving space. If I have one day between a packed stretch and something new comes up, I don’t go. That’s not rigidity. That’s knowing how I work.

So when I looked at my calendar last January and saw what April held — two dance competitions including one out of town, two conferences, and basketball playoffs all stacking on top of each other in a three week span — I felt a slight anxiety every single time I thought about it.

But here’s what I’ve learned: that anxiety is actually useful. It’s my brain asking for processing time. So I gave it some. I didn’t try to solve April in January. I just let myself know it was coming. I started mentally preparing. Not dreading, preparing. There’s a difference. I visualized it going smoothly. And that’s exactly what happened.

The first move is always pen to paper

When everything is pulling at once and there’s no room to pause, I don’t open my phone. I go pen to paper.

Getting everything out of my head and onto a physical list does something a digital calendar can’t. It makes the chaos concrete. Sometimes I never even look back at it. The act of writing it down is enough to get it out of my head and into some kind of order.

Then I sort. Not with a formal system but in my head, intuitively. I ask myself: what happens if I don’t do this? What’s the real impact if I take this all the way versus not? High impact, manageable effort — that goes first. Low impact, high effort — it might not go away, but it gets dropped in the moment without guilt.

I learned this the hard way early in my career when I was building a partnerships team. I went all in on one of my first big projects. I spent an enormous amount of time on it and promoted it relentlessly. Nothing stuck so I pushed harder. Still nothing. Eventually I pulled back, stripped it down to the most impactful parts, and went in with that instead. It did significantly better.

My brain always wants the whole picture. Sometimes the whole picture isn’t what’s needed. Sometimes it’s just the part that actually moves things forward.

Once the list is sorted, I let the people around me know where I’m at. I’ll tell family and close friends: I’m in a jam-packed period right now. Simple, honest, no drama. It protects them from reading into my energy, and it protects me from having to perform normalcy when I don’t have the bandwidth.

Compartmentalization is strategy, not avoidance

Once I’m in a busy stretch, I move through one day at a time. Not one week, not the whole month — one day.

It’s not pretending the other things don’t exist. It’s choosing to close a door so you can be fully present behind another one. I kept reminding myself through that April: this is all good stuff. Travelling for work. Dance competitions. Personal travel. Nothing to dread, everything to show up for.

I had a conference in the middle of it all and maintained full presence the entire time. That’s the standard, it doesn’t move just because the calendar is full.

Reminding myself to be where I am is the trick. When I came out the other side I thought: that wasn’t that bad. It never is. But you have to do the work before you get there.

The body knows before the brain does

I feel the rise of overwhelm in my chest before my brain registers it. Not the full spiral, but the beginning of it. A tightening. A signal.

Being a dancer growing up and managing autoimmune issues over the past decade has kept me in close conversation with my body. I can’t afford to ignore it. And I’ve learned that the earliest intervention is almost embarrassingly simple: drink water and breathe.

When your body is dehydrated it goes into fight or flight, which triggers the nervous system. So that’s always the first move. Water. Breath. Then journaling. Maybe Hertz frequency music or mindset affirmations when I have a big day ahead. My body knows what it needs and I’ve just learned to listen earlier.

Holding the standard means knowing what to protect

Saying no has to be a comfortable practice before you can hold any standard at all. You can’t show up fully everywhere if you never protect your energy along the way.

During one of those packed stretches, a friend invited me to a ladies night — girls I hadn’t seen in a while. But when it came down to it, I was exhausted and needed the sleep more than the night out. Old Stacey would have gone anyway and paid for it the next day. Instead I went to bed early. No guilt. Honouring what I needed at that time.

Because here’s what doesn’t move during a full stretch: my professional standards and how I show up for my kids. Work stays present, prepared, engaged. And my kids hear it directly: I’m overwhelmed right now, we’re in a really full period of time. So they don’t internalize my energy as something they caused.

The rest? I let it go. Untidy house. Unreplied texts. Errands that can wait. Knowing which balls are glass and which ones bounce is the whole game.

Right now, I’m preparing again

I’m heading to Spain in a couple of weeks for a friend’s wedding. In order to feel fully free when I get there, my time right now is focused on clearing the plate — brakes changed, mortgage renewed, finances organized, house in order, inbox cleared. Nothing worse than coming home to mess.

Anyone who knows me knows I despise adulting. But I despise the weight of unfinished things even more. So I do it now so I can be fully present then.

That’s the whole system. Preparation isn’t anxiety (even if it’s only mental). It’s the thing that makes freedom possible.

The tornado dream got it right. We were still standing. Messy hair, kids in hand, books on the floor.

We’ll be alright on the other side of this.

When life gets overwhelming, what’s your first move? I’d love to hear what works for you.

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW
Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Not the business filter or the leadership lens. Not the version of me that’s always got her professional hat on. Just me - with opinions, observations, and a lot of thoughts that had been living in journals, voice memos, and conversations with friends for years.

I didn’t know if anyone would read it. I had a handful of people when I posted the first one. I just knew I needed to start.

Three months later, something happened I didn’t expect.

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I thought I had a few things to write about

I was wrong, I just didn’t know how to recognize it.

I was at a restaurant industry show in Chicago. I asked someone about their journey from restaurant owner to tech, and they mentioned different buckets - how the work is still there, just in different compartments. I realized I have worked that way my whole life. That conversation sparked an entire post about how we all juggle so much, but it’s about knowing which bucket each thing lives in.

Then I was watering plants one morning, watching my kids check on growing plants. Three generations of gardeners flashed through my mind. That’s another post.

That’s when I realized what was actually happening.

Writing this newsletter hasn’t just given me a place to put my thoughts. It’s taught me how to notice. How to be in an ordinary moment and recognize the story inside it. How to savour what’s in front of me instead of rushing to what’s next.

I’m writing faster now, ideas are flowing. Less editing, more honest. I’m finding perspectives and opinions I didn’t even know I had - and writing them the same way I’d say them out loud.

That’s new.

What you’ve been telling me

I’m almost at 100 subscribers. When I started, I had 2.

Someone in Australia is reading this, so is someone in Ireland. People from the restaurant industry have shown up in ways I didn’t expect. And the messages coming in - from people I know and people I’ve never met - have meant more than I can say.

“Thank you. I needed that today. It’s been a week.”

“This is my favourite Thursday morning read.”

“Me too.”

That’s exactly why I’m doing this. Not to be an expert or to perform. But to write the things I’m actually thinking and have someone on the other side say: I feel that too. Never thought of it that way.

Three posts worth a second read

Every quarter I’m going to do this - highlight three posts that stayed with me, that I think are worth revisiting, or that sparked something I didn’t expect.

This quarter, these are mine:

“What if you stopped planning your life and started feeling it instead?” - This was the first one. It took a long time to think about, process, and write. I overthought it more than once. But it started everything - and the message I got from a friend right after - thank you, I needed that, it’s been a week - reminded me exactly why I was doing this.

“I never got the leader I wanted. So I became her.” - This one is still personal in a way that makes me a little nervous. But the response told me that a lot of people have felt unseen in leadership too - that they’ve had to become the thing they needed.

“I fell into the restaurant industry by accident. Still here 25 years later - on purpose.” - I didn’t expect this one to hit the way it did. The reach outs, the messages, the people from the industry who showed up - when you write from a real place, people feel it.

What’s coming - at least for now

Every Thursday morning. That’s the commitment I’ve made to myself.

The four pillars I write on - The Work, The Long Game, The Practice, The Motherhood - are my compass. They’ve made it easier to recognize what’s worth writing about and what’s just noise.

I have so much more to say. About the tools I've found that actually work - and the healing that made me go looking for them. About managing overwhelm before it manages you. About narcissism, divorce, and single motherhood - the real stuff. About what it actually takes to show up when everything is pulling at you at once.

If you’ve been here since post one - thank you. You showed up before there was much to show up for.

If you just found this - welcome. I’m really glad you’re here.

And if something I write ever makes you think me too - or makes you see something differently - tell me. Leave it in the comments, send me a message. If there’s something you’d like me to write about or share my perspective on, I’d love to hear that too. I’m grateful for every single one of you.

Three months in - what’s something you started this year that surprised you?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

It’s a fair question. I’ve built teams in tech with people from all over. I’ve worked with brilliant people everywhere. But every time someone asks, I realize they’re wondering something deeper than logistics or family ties.

They’re wondering: what does Saskatchewan actually offer?

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Winter doesn't stop here

Saskatchewan winters are about six to seven months long. The deep freeze - where your car needs to be plugged in or it won’t start and the world turns silent and white - that’s usually two to three months of the year. We live in extremes that most people will never experience.

But here’s the thing: life doesn’t stop. There are no snow days. The buses might not make it to school, but the teachers do. Businesses open. Errands still need to get done. Your door might be snowed in - so you grab the shovel, put on the parka, and get out there. Because if we waited for the weather to cooperate, we’d never get anything done.

That becomes part of your operating system. You prepare relentlessly - my closet holds clothes for every season, every type of weather. Boots for this, jackets for that, layers upon layers, and sundresses for the warm days. But the real preparation is mental. You problem-solve, adjust plans where necessary, and plan ahead. You know what it feels like to be knocked down by forces bigger than yourself and get back up anyway.

I learned this lesson one year when I was planning an event in Phoenix. It started raining - barely drizzling - and someone on the team said, “Nobody’s going to come. Once the rain hits, everyone stays home.” I looked at them like they’d spoken another language. Where I’m from, a drizzle isn’t weather. It’s barely an inconvenience. Life keeps going.

That’s the prairie difference.

The grit runs deep

I see this in the founders I work with here, and there’s a reason a local tech incubator is thriving in Saskatoon. They have a confidence rooted in something real. They’ve survived winters. They know failure is survivable. And they know how to be water - to find the path forward even when the direct route is blocked.

I come by this honestly. My dad took over a struggling business so he could provide for his family, and he made it happen. He turned it around, figured it out as he went, did whatever the moment required. He passed that work ethic down without ever sitting me down to teach it. It just became how I operate.

“They don’t ask ‘why not?’ They say ‘let’s figure it out’ and ask ‘what’s the next move?’”

That same instinct shows up everywhere here - not just in boardrooms. One winter, I slid my vehicle into a snowbank on a busy street during rush hour. Completely trapped. I called my parents and sat in my car, waiting.

Six different people stopped to help.

One woman who lived around the corner said she’d grab a shovel. In my head, I thought: She’s not coming back. But she did. Ten minutes later, she came back with a shovel, and everyone helped dig me out.

Not performative kindness. Not strategic generosity. Just people seeing someone in trouble and showing up. That’s the grit - it’s not just how prairie people build businesses. It’s how they move through the world.

The vastness and the lakes

Saskatchewan has over a hundred thousand lakes. When settlers moved to Canada, they settled near water - and with many lakes scattered throughout the province, that means tiny towns everywhere. Community isn’t a luxury here, it’s a necessity. It’s built into the geography.

There’s nothing to see here but sky. That’s our ceiling. Endless horizons and open roads. Big weather moving across a big, open canvas. People who’ve never been here will say there’s nothing to look at - and I get why they’d think that. But I am amazed by this sky nearly every day. I have more sunset, northern lights, and starry sky photos on my phone than I know what to do with.

Road trips are a prairie thing - a Canadian thing, really. Nobody blinks twice at a three-hour drive to the cabin. You load up the car, you go and the open road is just part of the deal.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the mountains too - I make time for those trips because there’s something that feeds you when you’re standing at the base of something that massive.

But there’s nothing quite like watching a storm roll in from the dock of the lake from miles away, that wall of weather moving toward you across open water, and making it inside the cabin just as it hits.

Fun fact - the navy trains people here because prairie people are used to seeing horizons with nothing in them, similar to being on the ocean. I think that changes how you think, it makes you less willing to be small.

Lake life is embedded in our summer culture and people spend months preparing cabins, getting boats ready, doing whatever it takes to make those three months happen. It’s another form of that prairie work ethic: you want something, you prepare for it and you make it happen.

Why I stay

Look - if you’re looking for a constant nightlife scene, this probably isn’t your place. I get it. I’ve lived that chapter. I’m way past it now, but I understand the appeal. There are things to do here - concerts come through, community events happen, you get a nice dinner out and a walk by the river. It’s just a different rhythm. Quieter and more intentional.

My family is here. My kids have grandparents they’re deeply connected to - the kind of relationship that matters more as they grow up. That alone would be enough.

But if I’m honest, it’s everything.

It’s the people, yes, but the people are a product of the place. Prairie people are shaped by short growing seasons and long winters. They tend their gardens with intention because the window is small and nothing is guaranteed. They get things done because waiting isn’t an option. There’s a quiet urgency here that doesn’t look like hustle - it looks like presence. Like showing up and doing the thing.

The prairies shaped me. The winters made me resilient. The short summers made me present. And the people - the ones who grab shovels and show up and just get shit done - made me believe that’s simply how it’s supposed to be.

I could leave. Right now, I choose not to.

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What did your place give you? What would you miss most if you left?

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With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW
Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

It’s a fair question. This post is my answer.

I’ve been single for over six years. Somewhere between the separation and now - in the healing, the rebuilding, the quiet work of becoming - I found her. The version of me I think I was always meant to be.

This isn’t a post about divorce being better or marriage being wrong. I have people I love deeply in beautiful partnerships and I celebrate that. This is just the story of what this chapter has looked like for me - and what I’ve learned about discernment, and what I’m actually looking for.

I have options - I say that because this isn’t the story of someone who can’t find love. It’s the story of someone who stopped settling for less than alignment - and means it. I’m not waiting. I’m living. And somewhere in the middle of all that becoming, the question shifted from when will someone choose me? to who do I choose? That’s a different question entirely.

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What I walked away from

I didn’t go into my marriage thinking it would fail. I married someone I believed was a good man. And then, over time, the mask came off. I know what it took to get out - the courage it required, the financial and time commitments, the clarity I had to fight for, the version of myself I had to choose over everything that felt familiar. And I know this: it changed everything about how I understand romantic partnership now.

What I’m looking for now, I’m looking for from a place of security - not scarcity. From wholeness - not fear of being alone. That’s the lesson. Not cynicism. Discernment. And for the record, I am not a man-hater. I have genuinely good men in my life, men I respect and I’m grateful for. I know good men exist. This is simply about knowing what I need, and refusing to accept less.

We are the first generation of single moms to say “I’m leaving for the kids” instead of “I’m staying for the kids.” That changes everything about what we’re willing to accept next.

The research phase

I had been a serial monogamist my whole adult life - three long-term relationships, each one serious, each one with the intention of forever. Dating apps didn’t just intimidate me, they simply didn’t exist when I was last single. I had always dated to marry. The research phase was the first time I dated to learn.

And honestly? It was exciting. I had a friend encourage me to get out there and signed up in late 2020. I went on a lot of first dates - more than I ever expected to enjoy. I said yes to everything and I showed up curious. I’m an extrovert, so I’d leave those nights buzzing, thinking that was great. And then slowly I started noticing: was it great? Or was I just the fun one? Would that date have been as good without me in it?

One date became my go-to example, Valentine’s Day 2021. A bachelor pad. A snack plate featuring dragon fruit, avocado, beef jerky, and pickled carrots. I felt the this is not it the moment I walked in - and stayed anyway. When he leaned in for a kiss I didn’t want, I turned my head, said I’m just not feeling it, and left. The boundary I held at the end of that night was real. The one I should have held at the front door took more time. (I found out some time later I’m allergic to carrots. The universe is anything but subtle.)

Dating as a single mom isn’t just dating. It’s managing your energy across a life already running at capacity. The mental load doesn’t pause because you put on an outfit. The stakes of getting it wrong are higher - every person you consider could eventually exist in orbit of your children’s lives. I know so many incredible women navigating this exact thing. You’re not too much. You’re not too particular. You’re just someone who knows what’s at stake.

Not just choosing who chooses you

Most of us were taught - consciously or not - to be passive in partnership. Accept who chooses you. Be grateful someone picked you. Make it work. The question of “what do I actually want, and does this person align with it - in values, in energy, in the desire to build and grow?” doesn’t always get asked early enough. And when it doesn’t, you can end up somewhere you never intended to be.

I know that firsthand. And coming out the other side of it, I came across something that reframed everything: the biggest predictor of a successful romantic partnership isn’t compatibility on paper - it’s mutual adoration. Do you genuinely adore this person for exactly who they are? And do they adore you back? Not who they could be. Not who they are on a good day. Who they actually are.

I want that. I want alignment in values, in energy, in the desire to keep building and growing. I want reciprocity - I’ve worked hard to show up for the people in my life, and I deserve that returned. I know I’m great. I want someone I think is great who also knows I’m great. When that energy shows up, I’ll feel my way forward. Discernment first. Always.

Where I am now

It starts with respect and trust. Does this person genuinely respect women - not just in theory, but in how they actually move through the world? Can I trust them? Do they do what they say they will? Some people love your energy right up until your independence unsettles them. They’re drawn to the confidence and depth, and then quietly unsettled by it. That’s not my problem to solve.

I make decisions all day. I lead teams. I raise two kids. I run a household. When I’m with someone, I need to be able to soften - to not be the one in charge for five minutes. That’s not a weakness. It’s a requirement.

The apps are long gone. My person is not on a dating app - I feel that. When someone does reach out, I ask questions before I give them my time. My friends know me well enough that if one of them mentions someone, they’ve already thought hard about it. I’ve been told more than once: “I have single friends, but none of them are good enough for Stacey.” I take that as a commentary on what I’ve built.

I’ve never introduced anyone to my kids. My daughter asked if I’d have a boyfriend. I told her: I haven’t found anyone cool enough yet. My son thinks whoever I date will immediately move in. We had a whole conversation about that. They know why our house is joyful and calm - and when someone comes into this life, it’ll be because they add to all of it.

I have a wall. I’m loyal and deeply loving when I’m all in - but you have to earn it. The right person won’t be frustrated by the wall. They’ll knock it down just by being exactly who they are.

They think they’re competing with other men, but they’re not. They’re competing with my peace. And my peace is very, very good.

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Are you dating from scarcity - or from wholeness? And if you truly believed your person was coming, what would you stop tolerating right now?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,
Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

I don’t think about my life that way. I never have - and I especially don’t now.

I am one person and I have one life. My kids are part of it. My work is part of it. My friends, my mornings, my home projects, my newsletter, my travel, my coaching work - all of it is part of the same life. Not competing parts. One whole thing. Compartmentalization for efficiency, whole life for the birds' eye view.

That’s not a productivity strategy. It’s a philosophy. And it took a divorce, a mindset shift, and moving two blocks from my kids’ school to fully live it.

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Where I came from

I know what the alternative looks like. I lived it.

When my marriage was breaking down - and it was an abusive situation I was managing quietly for a long time - I kept everything on the surface at work. Performing. Holding it together. Pouring myself into my career as a distraction from what was falling apart at home. People at work had no idea. When I finally told them I was separating, they were shocked.

That’s what performing looks like. Everything compartmentalized so perfectly that nothing bleeds - and the cost of that is paid entirely in your own body and nervous system.

I knew things were out of alignment long before I acted on it. The imbalance was everywhere - in my health, in my energy, in the way I moved through every day carrying something I couldn’t name out loud. When I finally left, something physically lifted. Not immediately. But it lifted.

I don’t want to live like that anymore. Real integration is the opposite of that performance. It’s being one person across all the rooms of your life.

The people I was performing for had no idea. The couple people close to me knew - and were relieved when I finally made the decision to leave. That told me everything.

What integration actually looks like

My week has a structure. Kids’ activities, work meetings, plans made in advance - those are hard planned. Everything else flows around them.

I work from a home office. My kids walk to school two blocks away. Our morning doesn’t involve me getting in a car - it involves a walk, a goodbye, and then I go upstairs and start my day. I sometimes forget rush hour traffic exists. On the rare occasion I need to go somewhere mid-morning I wonder what all these cars are doing out here. That’s the life I’ve designed - not by accident, but on purpose.

If I have an hour while my daughter is at dance, I decide in the moment what it needs to be. Sometimes work, sometimes a FaceTime, sometimes a Starbucks and a laptop. Or sometimes just sitting. Whatever adds value in that moment.

The key is space. I don’t book myself back to back. That’s not integration - that’s a different kind of performance. If I don’t have the capacity to be present with someone, I reschedule. Presence is the point. Going through the motions isn’t.

My kids are busy - don’t get that wrong. But I leave room for a spontaneous movie on a Tuesday or a bike ride by the river after school. Small unplanned moments need space to happen.

The spontaneity filter

Within the structure I leave room for things that aren’t planned. My filter is simple: am I excited about it?

If something comes up and I feel that spark - yes. If I feel dread or irritation or low-level resistance - no. That’s the whole framework, it took years to trust it.

This is also connected to authenticity and reciprocity - words that have shaped the last two years of my life significantly. I’ve learned to keep my distance from people who are actively performing. It took me a long time to get here and it is completely energy draining when I’m around it. Someone who people pleases to the point of making every conversation about themselves, attaching something personal to every comment, never showing you what’s actually real - I feel it immediately and I honour that signal now.

The right people don’t require a performance from you, and you don’t require one from them.

The people part

“Integration means my friendships aren’t separate from my life - I weave them into it.”

I have a large network of people I love. Some I see multiple times in a quarter, some I see once a year. When we’re together it’s always the same - warm, real, easy.

I don’t maintain a calendar of who I haven’t called. People just pop into my head and I reach out immediately. “Hey, you’ve been popping up for me lately, let’s get together.” That’s flow in action.

Different friends fill different parts of my life. One friend and I do spiritual things together - sound baths and the slower intentional experiences. Another is my concert person. I have restaurant friends. Friends who come over and we build charcuterie plates and put music on and just exist together. Friends who curate handmade gifts for each other. Every friendship has its own texture and rhythm. That’s not managing a network. That’s just paying attention to people.

What it feels like in my body

When integration is working I feel calm. Spacious. Present in whatever I’m doing without the weight of everything else pressing in.

When it isn’t, I feel it in my chest first. A low-level irritability. A tightness. That’s my signal - I’m doing too much, something needs to come out.

I protect rest now. There was a version of me who got anxious if nothing was planned - who equated stillness with falling behind. I had to unlearn that completely. Rest is part of the integration. Not the absence of life, part of it.

What my kids see

My kids know me as a whole person. More than maybe some families are comfortable with, but I love that part of our lives.

They see me work hard, they see me have a career I love. They see me go out with friends and come home lit up. They see me plan trips - just the three of us - where we explore somewhere new together, create memories that belong only to us. They see me close the laptop and be fully theirs.

When I’m overstimulated from work I tell them. I had a hard day - I just need some time. Not to make them carry it, but so they know it isn’t about them.

They’re interested in my work. I’ll mention something I’m working through and two days later one of them asks: how did that go? They see me problem solve, navigate, show up. From their point of view I’m just sitting at home - but they’re learning that sitting at home means leading teams, building things, talking to people all day long.

Recently my daughter asked something and my son answered for her without missing a beat. “That’s because mom’s successful.” He learned that from observing.

That’s the model working. Not perfect. Not always graceful. But real - and completely, entirely mine.

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What does work life integration look like for you - and what had to change before you got there?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Full time Director role leading two teams. Single mom of two kids with full schedules. A newsletter I’m building from scratch. Coaching work on the side. A basement in development. A house to run, a village to maintain, a network of friends I actually show up for, and a life to live.

People ask me how I manage it all. The honest answer is: I’ve been training for this my entire life - I just didn’t know that’s what I was doing.

I don’t have it all figured out. I still have hard days, dropped balls, and moments where the seams show. But I have a framework that helps me manage the volume without losing my mind - and that’s made all the difference.

The skill is compartmentalization. The framework is the glass balls. And the mindset is this: worry is a misuse of your imagination.

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It started in dance class

I was a competitive dancer for my entire childhood. That meant multiple choreographies in my body at once - different music, different styles, different characters. You didn’t just learn the steps. You learned to become something different for each piece, then switch completely when the music changed.

I also moved between worlds constantly. School friends. Dance friends. Family friends of my parents. People outside of dance knew me as a dancer. It was part of my identity - sometimes still is, really. And I learned early how to be fully present in each world without letting the others bleed in.

The stage taught me something that no classroom ever did: when you walk out there, everything else disappears. Whatever happened before the curtain goes up - a bad day, a fight, a moment of self doubt - stays in the wings. You can pick it back up when you come off. But while you’re on, you’re on.

The stage taught me that presence is a choice. You decide what gets to come with you and what stays in the wings.

Then came the restaurant floor

If dance gave me the concept, serving gave me the reps.

Your personal life had to stay at the door in serving too. Your boyfriend just broke up with you. You had a fight with your best friend. You’re exhausted and the last thing you want to do is smile. Doesn’t matter. The moment you walk onto that floor, you are on. The guest at table four doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know. They came for a great experience and that’s what you’re there to give them.

You leave it in the car. You leave it at home. You pick it back up when the shift ends - and not a moment before.

Every server knows the server-mare. You wake up at 3am in a cold sweat because you just remembered you forgot to bring table seven their side of ranch. You’re home. The shift ended hours ago. It doesn’t matter. The brain filed it under unfinished and it surfaced at the worst possible time.

That’s what happens when compartmentalization breaks down. The work follows you home.

At the steakhouse I worked at, service was everything. Four or five tables maximum was the standard. One summer day we opened the patio short two servers. I had nine tables.

Nine tables at a service-forward steakhouse is not a small thing. Every table needs something different. Every guest is in a different mood or celebrating a different occasion. The kitchen has its own rhythm and you’re the translator between it and the room. I was completely on the ball - until I wasn’t. A table ate their entire meal with appetizer mini forks because I forgot to bring silverware.

They thought it was fun. We laughed. I was mortified.

But here’s what that shift taught me: you can hold an extraordinary amount when you’re fully present in one context at a time. The breakdown happens when you try to hold all nine tables in your head simultaneously instead of giving your full attention to the one in front of you, then moving cleanly to the next.

On. Then off. Stage life, server life, leader life. The ability to go from fully on to fully present in a completely different context is a skill. One I’ve been building since I was six years old on a dance floor.

The never-ending pile

After my second child was born, something shifted in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I had to leave work with things undone every single day. Clock hit pickup time - done. Kids needed dinner, baths, bedtime. And then, if I was lucky, I’d get back to the pile after they were asleep. Sometimes up until midnight. Always anxious. Always aware of everything still sitting there waiting.

In startups - and in mom life - there is no done. The pile never empties. You will never walk away from your desk thinking: that’s everything, I’ve finished the job. There is always something that you didn’t get to.

I was letting that pile live in my nervous system constantly. And it was making me anxious in a way that wasn’t serving anyone - not my work, not my kids, not me.

That was the breaking point. About eight years ago. And it’s when I consciously changed my relationship with the pile.

The shift wasn’t about doing less, it was about prioritizing differently. About accepting that the pile is permanent and that my job isn’t to empty it - it’s to make sure I’m always working on the right things from it.

Control the controllables. Let the rest wait.

I still have days where the overwhelm creeps in. But I have tools now. The mindset reset. The reprioritization. The ability to look at the pile and ask: what actually matters today? What are the glass balls?

"The pile will always be there. The question is whether you're spending your energy on the right things from it."

The glass balls

Here’s the framework that changed everything: not all balls are equal.

Some balls are glass. If you drop them, they shatter. There’s no getting them back. These are the things that, if neglected, cause real irreversible damage - to relationships, to trust, to safety, to integrity.

My glass balls: showing up for my kids. My health. The deadlines that actually matter. My reputation and integrity - doing what I say I will. The safety and wellbeing of the people I’m responsible for. The relationships I’ve built over decades.

Everything else? Rubber. It bounces. The daily chore that didn’t get done. The email that sat in drafts overnight. The to-do list item that rolled to tomorrow. Even jobs can be replaced. Most things bounce.

The work of compartmentalization is knowing which is which - and having the discipline to protect the glass ones even when the rubber ones are louder.

Because the rubber ones are almost always louder. They’re the squeaky wheels. The urgent-feeling things that aren’t actually important. The pile that makes you feel behind even when you’re doing exactly what you should be.

Never let the glass balls drop. Everything else will bounce. The hard part is knowing which is which.

How it shows up now

My work life requires me to hold multiple contexts simultaneously - different teams, different stakeholders, different conversations all happening in the same day. A leadership meeting requires a completely different version of me than a one-on-one with a rep or an external partner call or a conversation with executive leadership. Each one needs full presence. Each one is its own context.

Cross-functional work is where this skill becomes a superpower. When you can walk into any room, read what that room needs, bring your full self to it, and then walk out and completely switch - that’s not common. Most people bleed between contexts. They bring the energy of the last meeting into the next one. They’re physically present but mentally still somewhere else.

I’m not perfect at this. I still have days where things bleed. Where I close a hard call and immediately have to show up for my kids and feel the seams showing. But I’m aware of it and awareness is most of the work.

At home, my kids know me as a whole person. More transparently than maybe some families. I’ve made peace with that - they see me work hard, they see me pivot, they see me close the laptop and be fully theirs. That’s the model I want to give them. Not a mom who is fractured between two worlds. A mom who can hold both and knows which one needs her right now.

Compartmentalization isn’t about keeping your life in separate boxes. It’s about being fully present in whichever box you’re in.

Control the controllables. Protect the glass balls. Give your full presence to whatever is in front of you right now.

I learned this on a stage, reinforced it on a restaurant floor, and refined it over eight years of building a career while raising two kids alone.

The training never really stops. But I’m grateful it started when it did.

What are your glass balls? And what have you learned to let bounce?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

I didn’t hesitate. It’s my energy and my network.

Not my strategy, my frameworks, or my years of experience - though I’ll take those too. The most valuable thing is the people I’ve collected over a lifetime of being genuinely interested in them - and the energy I bring when I show up. I always show up, I am about as reliable as they come.

People work with me because I’m me and I care about what I do. That’s not arrogance. It’s something I figured out slowly, over years of wondering why the sales part came so easily when it felt like it shouldn’t.

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Where it started

My dad has always talked to strangers. Grocery store lineups. Waiting rooms. Airport gates. My siblings and I grew up watching this - rolling our eyes sometimes, honestly. But absorbing it completely.

He’s an entrepreneur. His dad was an entrepreneur. The business gene runs strong in our family and apparently so does the curiosity gene.

I didn’t know that talking to people was a skill until much later. It was just what you did. You were interested in someone, you asked them things, you listened. That was just how you moved through the world.

I’ve never understood people who walk into a room and don’t want to know who’s in it.

I’ve always loved a good personality test. Myers-Briggs, Enneagram, DISC, Human Design, astrology - if there’s a framework that helps me understand what makes someone tick, I’m in. I want to know how you’re wired and what makes you, you.

One of my top results on the Clifton StrengthsFinder workplace assessment - is Individualization. About one in six people have this as a top strength. The description is: intrigued by the unique qualities of each person, impatient with generalizations, instinctively observing what makes each person different. I read it and thought: yes. Obviously. Isn’t that everyone? It is not everyone.

The non-salesy sales person

I have called myself a non-salesy salesperson my entire career. The stigma around salespeople bothers me. The pushy closer. The rep who has memorized a script and is waiting for you to stop talking so they can use the next line. That’s not selling, it’s performing.

Real selling is helping. A leader I once worked with labeled it simply: always be helping. And I remember thinking - wait, isn’t that what we’re always doing? It felt so obvious I didn’t understand why it needed to be said out loud as a strategy.

When I meet someone new professionally, I’m not thinking about what they can do for me. I’m learning about their world - what they’re building, what’s getting in the way, what they actually care about. I’m listening for the spark - that moment when someone gets animated about something they care about. That’s the marker. That’s where the real conversation starts.

I left Saskatoon after university because the only sales role available to me was a product I couldn’t get excited about - selling photocopiers. I needed to sell something I believed in, to people I was genuinely curious about. That has never changed.

I’ve never been able to sell something I don’t believe in. Every role I’ve taken has been a choice to make sure that stays true.

Staying open - inside the company too

But curiosity isn’t just something I bring to the people I meet. It’s how I’ve moved inside every company I’ve ever worked for too.

I have received promotion after promotion through my career - not by campaigning for titles, but by staying genuinely curious about the business, aligning myself with projects and teams that were moving toward growth, and showing up as someone easy to work with who brings real energy to what they’re building.

When I see an opportunity that aligns - a gap that needs filling, a team that needs building, a problem nobody has named yet - I say something. I raise my hand. I put together the case and I present it. That’s how most of the best chapters of my career happened.

And when something feels misaligned - when a direction doesn’t make sense, when the values stop matching - I say that too. Quietly, directly, and with the business in mind. Not every conversation lands. But silence has never served me.

Staying open means paying attention to what’s happening around you, being willing to step toward things before you’re asked, and trusting that the people who notice will remember.

What most people get wrong

Most people network for their current role - collecting contacts they might need right now, for this deal, at this company. And then they change jobs and start over.

I have never done that. Connections I’ve made across 25 years come back around in ways I never expected. A life coach I met at a local networking event became a thread I followed for decades - years later we ended up on the same street, both navigating divorce, both leading in different ways. A co-founder I was friends with long before I ever worked at the company became the door to an entire career trajectory. A restaurateur on a plane to Chicago felt like a conversation that was supposed to happen. Each one a thread I didn’t see coming. None of them planned.

The point is this: you never know which connection will open the next door. Network for your life, not for your job title.

The other thing people get wrong: they confuse networking events with sales opportunities. Happy hours and dinners are for connection. The business happens on the other side. Lead with curiosity. Lead with interest. Let the relationship be what it is first.

Anyone can open a door. You just have to stay open to who might be holding it.

What I actually ask

I took psychology as electives in university - not because I had to, but because I was genuinely fascinated by what makes people who they are. That curiosity has woven itself into everything. The way I build teams. The way I sell. The way I show up in a conversation with a stranger at an airport gate.

When I meet someone new I usually start with where they’re from and what they do. Simple. But really, I’m listening for comes next.

What gets you excited? What lights you up?

Hearing what lights someone up, lights me up. That’s not a technique, it’s just who I am.

The people who lean forward, who get animated, who can’t stop themselves from going deeper - those are my people. That spark tells me everything I need to know about who someone is and what they’re capable of.

And the ones who don’t have an answer? That’s information too. Either way, I’m paying attention.

What lights you up? That’s the only question that matters. Everything else is small talk.

I am not a networker. I am someone who loves people, is endlessly curious about what makes them who they are, and has spent a lifetime paying attention to the answer.

The career took care of itself.

What lights you up? I’m asking.

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Her ballet solo was the first routine of the entire event. First on stage. No one to follow. No warm up act. Just her, the music, a big stage, and a room full of strangers.

Afterwards she grabbed my arm and said: “I LOVED having the whole stage to myself. I’m going to do a solo every year until I’m seventeen.” Then she paused and added: “Before I went on my whole body was shaking. But I couldn’t run away. I just had to get out there and dance.”

I told her what she’d just described was nerves and adrenaline. That most people feel that before they perform. I commended her for being brave and having the courage to get out and dance, because most people won’t do that.

She looked at me like I’d said something deeply confusing. And then she said: “But why would someone not want to do it?”

She really could not understand why performing on stage wouldn’t be someone’s favourite thing. The idea that another person might dread it - might opt out entirely - was incomprehensible to her.

I stood there thinking: please hold onto that.

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Where confidence comes from

I have always had confidence. Not in a loud, look-at-me way - in a quiet, foundational way. A belief that I am capable. That I belong in the room. That my voice is worth using.

I got that from my mother. She worked hard to give it to me - intentionally, consistently, from a young age. It is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received and I don’t take it lightly.

But here’s what happened despite that foundation: I still learned to nod and smile. To keep the peace. To swallow what I really thought in rooms where saying it out loud felt risky. Or replaying conversations in my head to make sure I hadn’t been the reason why someone took what I said the wrong way. Their reaction was never about me.

My family is loving. Deeply loving, but not emotionally direct. Things got swept under the rug, conflict was avoided. Feelings were managed rather than expressed. And without anyone intending it, I absorbed the lesson that keeping things smooth mattered more than keeping things honest.

That’s where the people pleasing came from. Not from a lack of confidence - from a culture of accommodation. And it took me years to understand the difference.

Confidence and people pleasing can coexist. That’s the part nobody warns you about. You can believe in yourself and still shrink to fit the room.

The line I finally crossed

Women are taught - subtly, consistently, from childhood - to dim our light to protect others. To not take up too much space. To soften our edges so other people’s egos don’t bruise against them.

We lose our voices doing this. Slowly, often without noticing, until one day we look up and realize we’ve been performing a version of ourselves that was designed to make everyone else comfortable.

Leaving my marriage was the moment I finally crossed the ultimate people pleasing line.

I had spent years accommodating someone who wasn’t going to change. Adjusting. Shrinking. Trying to make something work that was never going to work. And when I finally stopped - when I gave him the letter and we split that week - something lifted that I hadn’t even known I was carrying.

I stopped caring about managing everyone else’s comfort. Not in a callous way - in a liberated one. Life is too short. Be yourself, show up fully. Say what you mean.

I became the opposite of what I grew up in. Direct and emotionally open. Unwilling to sweep things under a rug that was already overflowing.

And I have never once regretted it.

The girl who doesn’t know how to dim

My daughter was born this way, she didn’t have to unlearn anything.

She notices everything. We were sitting at a restaurant recently - one of those self serve places - and she watched a couple at another table. The woman was getting up over and over. Getting the drinks. Getting the food. Getting the condiments. Doing everything. The man just sat there.

My daughter turned to me and said: “Mom, I don’t like how he’s making her do everything. I’m not going to have someone like that when I grow up.”

Eight years old. No one taught her that. She just saw it and knew.

She recently stood up to a girl who kept telling her to sit down when she didn’t have to. Came home buzzing. “Mom, I stood up for myself today. I told her I’m not going to let you boss me around all the time!”

She sticks up for her friends when they need backup. She asks the tough questions. She walked past a paid dispenser for feminine products in a public bathroom recently and stopped. “Why do you gotta pay for that stuff?” I said it was a great question. She said: “What if it’s an emergency and you don’t have money?”

Exactly. That’s a future advocate right there.

She teaches me things every single day. Not because she’s trying to. Because she hasn’t yet learned to filter herself for other people’s comfort.

I am not going to be the one who teaches her to start.

Anyone who knows my daughter knows she was born with a loud personality and a loud voice. I want her to know that is not something to apologize for.

What I want her to know

I want her to know that it’s okay when people don’t like her because of who she is.

She also won’t like everyone - and that’s equally okay. We can respect that people are different without making them our people. It took me until my mid thirties to understand that I didn’t have to be friends with everyone. That not every relationship is meant to go deep. That discernment isn’t coldness - it’s wisdom.

She already has this at eight. She already knows who her people are and who aren’t. I watch her read rooms and make quiet decisions about where to put her energy. It’s extraordinary.

I want her to know that her confidence is not arrogance. Her directness is not aggression. Her taking up space is not too much.

It is exactly enough.

The flame

Brené Brown talks about teaching your children that there is a flame in their hand. The people who are truly your people will protect that flame - cup their hands around it, help it grow, celebrate when it gets brighter.

And then there are the ones who put it out. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes without even realizing it. Either way, the flame goes dark.

My job - as her mother, but also as a woman who spent years letting her own flame flicker - is to teach her to recognize the difference. To stay close to the ones who cup their hands. To create distance from the ones who blow.

My mother gave me a flame. The world tried to dim it in ways that were never dramatic - just quiet and consistent and almost unnoticeable until suddenly you realize you’ve been adjusting your brightness for years.

My daughter was born already burning.

I will spend the rest of my life making sure she stays that way.

Who protected your flame — and whose are you protecting now?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

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CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

There was one guy, an outdoor sporting goods retailer. I pitched him six times. Six proposals, each one tweaked to whatever he asked for. Good buying signals every time.

On the sixth visit he said: I’m just not interested.

I was furious. I realized exactly what he’d been doing: he liked having sales reps come in and pitch him to feel important. He was never going to buy.

I went back through my book of business and asked: who would never do that to me? Who tells you what they think and never wastes your time?

The answer was clear. Restaurant and hospitality people.

That was the moment I knew who my people were. What I didn’t realize then, and what I can only see now looking back, is that I had already been in their world for years.

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Where it actually started.

My camera roll tells the story before I do. Food photos. Menu shots. Restaurant storefronts. When I travel, restaurants are a main point of attraction - not an afterthought. In New York recently I tracked down a 100% gluten free restaurant in the West Village and planned my entire evening around it. That’s not a tourist move. That’s a person who genuinely loves this world.

But the love started long before I recognized it.

The first time I really felt it was at the steakhouse I worked at for eight years, off and on. A new location was opening in Saskatoon and they did something I’d never seen in a hiring process - they evaluated your personality to figure out where you’d fit best. Games. Scenarios in a hotel conference room. Hiring for who you were, not just what you could do.

I thought I was just in it for making money while I studied. I had no idea I was being introduced to a culture that would shape everything that came after.

I also want to say something I wish someone had said to me at the time: I never saw the restaurant industry as a career because it was never presented to me that way. The idea that there was an entire corporate world built around this industry - technology, operations, go-to-market - wasn’t even on my radar. Had I known, my vision for my path might have looked very different.

The dots only connect looking backwards. From the inside it looked like random job hopping. Looking back - one clean line the whole time.

Some of the best connections of my life came from that steakhouse. There’s an underlying knowing to people who’ve worked there - an instant understanding, a shared language. One of the women I’d call a soul sister - the friend whose wedding I’m flying to Barcelona for this summer - I met her years later at a tech company. The moment we realized we’d both come from that same steakhouse but in different cities, that was it. Instant. The industry creates a kind of person, and those people find each other.

The red string keeps going.

After university I moved to Calgary for the boom. Got a job as a merchandiser for the largest alcohol and beverage company in the world - in and out of retail stores and restaurant locations every day. I was living inside the hospitality world from a completely different angle and loving every minute of it.

When I moved back to Saskatoon, that was the company I wanted to work for. But there was a long-tenured rep already in the position and no opening. So I did what I’ve always done when I want something: I went around the obstacle.

I spoke to my network, found out the district manager for the Prairies was headquartered in Saskatchewan, tracked down his email, and sent him my resume with one simple message: if anything ever changes, I’m here.

They ended up adding a position to the province years later. I got the job.

That role taught me more about restaurants and hospitality than anything before it. I was activating promotions, negotiating with some of the most strong-willed personalities in the industry, learning how to get things done in environments that don’t have time for anything but results. I hit my targets. I earned a sales incentive trip to Chicago - the first time I fell in love with that city.

As that chapter was coming to a close, a friend sent me a screenshot of a customer success role at a local restaurant technology company. It was 2016. My first reaction was: I don’t know anything about tech.

My second reaction was: but I know a lot about managing client relationships, sales, and restaurants.

I took the role. And I never looked back.

What most people don’t understand.

One of my favourite things in life is sitting in a great restaurant. Good atmosphere. Good food. Good company. That specific feeling of being taken care of in a room designed to make you feel good - I will never take it for granted.

Because I know what goes into it.

Ninety-five percent of the people in that room have no idea. They don’t see the 6am prep. The staff meeting before service. The owner who hasn’t taken a salary in three months because margins are brutal and rent just went up. The chef who plated that dish for the four hundredth time this week and still cares that it looks right.

Many of the restaurateurs I’ve worked with got into it because they genuinely want to create an experience for people. That’s not a business strategy, that’s a calling. It comes with passion - sometimes ego too, if I’m being honest - but underneath all of it is a person who decided that making other people feel welcome and fed and celebrated was worth building their whole life around.

I find that extraordinary. I always have.

Two moments I’ll never forget

I was at a dinner in Las Vegas a few years ago. Private room, a table of about fifteen people - mostly senior executives and investors in the industry. I sat down next to a woman I’d admired from a distance for years - one of those people whose name you hear before you ever meet them.

She looked at me, then looked around the table, then looked back at me and said:

“This is why we keep doing what we’re doing.”

Two women in a room full of men. She saw me and she named it. She didn’t make it heavy - she made it matter-of-fact. Like of course we’re here, and of course we keep showing up, and of course it means something.

There was another dinner, different table, same world. A tech founder had brought his daughter - twelve years old - along as he traveled the conference circuit. When someone asked how a panel had gone that day, she said it went well, but there was one problem. No women on the panel. Her dad pointed out that the interviewer had been female. She looked at him and said: that’s not good enough.

She reminded me so much of my own daughter - that same fierce, unshakeable confidence. I found out she shared my daughter’s birthday. I looked at her across the table and said: thank you for being here. Without you, I’d be the only female at this table.

I found a friend in a twelve-year-old that night. That’s this industry too.

There’s always a way

Last fall at an industry event someone organized a relay race. Nothing to do with the conference. Ridiculous and joyful. Only possible when you’re surrounded by people who don’t take themselves too seriously even though they work incredibly hard.

I stood there and thought: I could never leave these people.

Not the industry. The people.

Here’s what 25 years around restaurant people taught me: be like water. Water doesn’t get blocked. It finds the edge, figures out the path, and keeps moving. Restaurant people live this every single day. Kitchen disaster at 6pm on a Saturday? Find the path. Supplier didn’t deliver? Find the path. Staff member didn’t show? Find the path.

I say this to my team constantly. Because the same grit that runs a restaurant floor runs a startup. The people who thrive when everything shifts are the ones who already know how to find the way forward. Restaurant people know this in their bones. It’s not a skill. It’s survival. And it becomes character.

Be water. Water will always find the path forward.

Tomorrow I fly to Chicago for the National Restaurant Association annual conference. The city I first fell in love with on a sales incentive trip - earned by hitting targets in this very industry.

I didn’t set out to build a career in and around restaurants. I was just a university student who wanted to pick up shifts working with people at a restaurant.

But somewhere between a hotel conference room in Saskatoon, a cold email for a role I wanted, a screenshot from a friend in 2016, and a relay race at an industry conference - I realized these people had shaped me more than almost anything else in my professional life.

Gritty. Present. Adaptable. Always finding the path forward.

I recognized myself in them before I fully recognized myself.

That’s not a coincidence. That’s a calling.

What industry or community shaped you in ways you didn’t expect? Who are your people?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Not goals or resolutions. Not a list of things I’m going to achieve or optimize. Just one word - something to orient around. Something to come back to when I feel scattered or when I've drifted from myself and need to find my way back.

I set it intuitively toward the end of each year during a period of reflection and then I let it live in my mind. I don't force it. I just watch it show up - in decisions, in conversations, in the moments where I have to choose who I'm going to be.

Here's what six years taught me: you choose the word based on what you need. And then you trust that naming it matters. That's it, that's the whole practice.

Each word tells part of the story of where I’ve been. Here they are.

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2021/2022: ABUNDANCE + GRATITUDE

I came out of my marriage financially depleted and starting over in more ways than one.

The family home was listed on March 13, 2020. If you remember what was happening in the world that day, you’ll understand why that’s almost funny in hindsight. Worst possible moment to list a house. We got lucky with the sale, but lucky doesn’t mean easy.

By June 2020 I was renting a house across the city - my sister in the basement suite, a playground across the street, help close by. Stable and happy, but starting over.

Abundance was the first word because I needed to call something in. Not just financially - energetically. I needed to shift from scarcity to possibility. From what I’d lost to what I could build. It was an intentional practice of believing more was available to me even when the evidence wasn’t fully there yet.

Gratitude followed because abundance without gratitude is just wanting. The divorce had taken a lot. But it had also given me something I never expected - freedom. Space to explore who I actually was outside of a relationship that had consumed so much of my energy for so long. The decision had been made and I wasn’t going to let it turn me bitter or angry. I was going to use it.

I had so much to be grateful for - my kids, my health, my family, my friends, my career. Focusing on what remained instead of what was gone changed the frequency I was operating on.

Those two words together were the foundation. Everything that came after was built on them.

2023: TIME

I had been in that rental house for nearly three years. It was on the other side of the city from my kids’ school, and I’d made the decision to keep them in the same school, the same activities, the same friendships. So I drove. Constantly.

I was waking up at 5:30am - not for myself, but because that was when the schedule required it. Twenty minutes for myself in the morning. Good friends reaching out to make plans and I genuinely had no room for them. I remember a moment of quiet panic thinking: something has to change. I just didn’t know what yet.

So I chose time. No plan. Just named what I needed and trusted that naming it would help me find it.

I didn't know how I was going to get more time. I just knew I needed to focus on it. So I did.

That year I made the decision to sell the condo I’d owned before the marriage. Combined with what came from closing on the divorce the year before - it wasn’t a lot, but it was mine - I had enough to buy my own place. Found a house two blocks from my kids’ school.

Just like that - mornings back. Time back. The word hadn’t come with a solution. It had kept my attention on the right thing until the solution arrived.

That morning routine I wrote about last week? The one that’s now non-negotiable? It started here. Slowly. Imperfectly. Two blocks from the school.

2024: ALIGNMENT

Once I had time back I started asking harder questions. Not just what do I need to get done, but does this actually feel right for me?

I’d spent years living inside a version of life built on other people’s narratives. What success was supposed to look like. What a family was supposed to look like. What I was supposed to want. Good intentions all around - but none of it examined through the lens of: is this actually mine?

That question had been cracked open the year before when I changed jobs. The amount of internal work it took to get there - recognizing the misalignment, trusting myself enough to act on it, sitting with the discomfort of leaving something familiar even when it no longer fit - made me realize how much I’d been living out of alignment without fully seeing it.

If it could happen in my career, where else was it happening?

Alignment was the year I started examining everything. Jobs. Friendships. Where I wanted to travel, what events I wanted to say yes to. How I wanted to spend my energy. Not from rejection, but from genuine curiosity. Does this feel right? Does this match who I actually am?

I didn’t overhaul my whole life. I just started making decisions differently. Slower. More deliberately. With my gut involved in a way it hadn’t been before.

Alignment isn’t a destination. It’s an ongoing practice of asking: does this still fit?

I still use that question constantly. When something feels off I don’t immediately problem solve. I ask if it’s aligned. Almost always, that’s the real answer.

2025: AUTHENTICITY

By 2025 I had finally arrived at myself - maybe for the first time. A friend said to me recently: Stacey, you seem to really know yourself. What she couldn't see were the years of quiet, uncomfortable, unglamorous internal work it took to get there.

I knew what I valued. What drained me. What lit me up. What I was done pretending to be okay with. Authenticity was the natural next step, because knowing yourself is one thing. Showing up fully as that person in every room is another.

I stopped adjusting myself for people. Stopped softening my edges for environments that weren’t for me. If a relationship couldn’t hold the real version of me, it wasn’t the right fit. I was done grieving that.

The world needs more authenticity. Look at what social media has done - years of performative perfectionism, comparing real lives to curated ones. People are exhausted by it and hungry for real. The only way to give that is to actually be it.

The whole purpose of life is to learn from other people’s stories. We only are who we are because of our own experiences. Share yours.

The clearest proof: I was looking for a new role last year. In my decision making process I had moments of uncertainty - will this be right for me? Then I walked into a company, met the people, felt the culture, and thought: I can completely be myself here. Because of that, I can build something really amazing here. More importantly, this is a place I can learn and grow.

Authenticity as a filter, not just a value.

This newsletter is authenticity made real. You cannot be fully authentic while keeping the harder parts of yourself quietly filed away. That’s why I’m here.

2026: RECIPROCITY

This word was suggested by a friend. Which is fitting - because reciprocity starts with the people around you and what flows between you.

I have given a lot over the years. To relationships that weren’t mutual. To jobs that took more than they gave. To a version of myself that kept showing up for people who weren’t showing up back. I’m done with that.

Reciprocity doesn’t mean keeping score. It means paying attention to what’s actually mutual and leaning into that. The friendships where the energy goes both ways. The work where what I build is valued. And especially - in female friendships - the women who power each other up because they genuinely want to see you win.

This newsletter is reciprocity in action. The people who are showing up for it - sharing it, reading it, reaching out - I feel that. I lean into them.

It applies romantically too. I’ve dated quite a bit since my divorce and because of it, I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. I’m not willing to settle for anything less than what I know is possible. I’m well connected and social enough that when the right person comes into my life, it’ll be because the alignment is there. Not because I was searching. I’m genuinely at peace with that. I love my life, I’m not looking for someone to complete it.

When the right person arrives, reciprocity will be the foundation. Someone who adds to what I’ve built. Someone who shows up the way I show up. Not perfectly, but mutually.

I’m not waiting to be chosen. I’m waiting for someone who recognizes what they’re being offered.

The Practice Itself

Toward the end of each year I reflect a lot. The word usually arrives from that reflection - sometimes immediately, sometimes after a few days of journaling. There’s something about the calendar wrapping up that creates the right window for me.

I put the word in the centre of my vision board - its own practice I’ll write about another time. And then I let it live in my mind for the full year. I don’t track it obsessively. I just notice when it shows up, and it always does.

Looking back at six years - abundance, gratitude, time, alignment, authenticity, reciprocity - what strikes me is how clearly they tell a story. Not one I planned. One that unfolded one word at a time.

You don’t need a five year plan. You just need the next word.

Do you have a word of the year? If you don’t - what would it be right now?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Einstein said everything is energy.

I believe that. Not just as a physics concept but as a lived one. Energy is the building block of everything - the universe, where we are, who we are, and the experiences we draw into our lives. What you put out, you attract. What you protect, you keep. What you give away carelessly, you eventually run out of.

I'm not writing this from a place of having it all solved. I'm writing it from a place of finally knowing what to pay attention to.

I didn’t always know this, but I do now.

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I didn’t know I was running on empty

For a long time I didn’t realize how depleted I was. My mental state felt okay - I was functioning, showing up, even excelling. But my body knew before I did. Autoimmune issues I now understand were my system waving a flag.

I was going through the motions but I wasn’t really present. Years ago my therapist told me to work on being present and I genuinely didn’t know what she meant. She said: taste your coffee. Look out the window. Actually be where you are.

My marriage ending in January 2020 and a global pandemic arriving two months later forced a stillness I wasn’t ready for. I am an extrovert - people are my energy source. Remove them and I get bored and flat. Yawning through Zoom calls all day, and then lit up on FaceTime with friends at night. The contrast was impossible to ignore.

When you can’t run toward people and noise and busyness you have to sit with yourself. And I started to realize - quietly, uncomfortably - that I’d been spending my energy on everything and everyone except the things that actually filled me back up. Old Stacey attracted jobs where she had to prove herself to exhaustion. People with ego. Relationships that took more than they gave. A chameleon fitting in everywhere and paying for it with energy she didn’t have.

I didn’t know I was running on empty. And I didn't yet know what would fill me back up.

Three years later my therapist asked what had changed. I said: I’m more present now. And in that moment I had a full flashback to when she’d first said that - when I didn’t even know what it meant.

Now I take in every sunset I witness, among every small moment of joy that makes life what it is. That took longer than I’d like to admit.

Understanding the difference between introverts and extroverts isn’t about being shy or outgoing. It’s about where you get your energy from. Once I understood mine, it made so much sense.

The clearest confirmation came when we returned to the office after COVID. A colleague looked up and said: Stacey, I’m so happy you’re back. Your energy is the best part about you. Not flattering - clarifying. My energy is something other people feel. Which means it’s something I need to take seriously.

What energy actually is

When I talk about energy I don’t just mean physical tiredness. I mean all of it at once - physical, emotional, mental, spiritual. It’s a vibration I feel in my body and I’ve learned to read each layer separately.

Sometimes it’s one. Sometimes it’s all four at once - and that’s when I know I need to act on it immediately, because that combination doesn’t last. Right now, writing this, sharing these stories - I’m completely lit up. That’s energy. That’s data.

The opposite is also data. I once had a job where I woke up every morning genuinely hoping I’d get strep throat so I wouldn’t have to go in. When you’re wishing for illness over your job, that’s not burnout. That’s your whole system telling you something is deeply wrong. I learned to listen.

What drains it

I know my drains specifically now. It feels good to know instead of questioning why I feel off.

Certain people

People who worry negatively, complain constantly, or get defensive fast. People whose ego overrides the conversation. I can feel the shift in my body within minutes. Sometimes these people are unavoidable - they're in your workplace, your family, your orbit. I don't cut everyone out, I just get strategic about proximity. Close enough to maintain the relationship, but far enough to protect the resource.

Certain work

I'm meant to work with people and I need space to create. Building something, moving it forward, always iterating to make it better - that's where I come alive. Deep in spreadsheets all day is the opposite of that. I once had a boss pay for an Excel course for me. I took it and fell asleep in class. I've learned to lean into what gives me energy rather than endlessly shoring up what drains it.

Certain environments

Fluorescent lights - yes, fluorescent light sensitivity is a real thing, I get vertigo sometimes. Rooms without windows feel disorienting to me. Clutter in a space affects my ability to think clearly - my environment is a direct reflection of my mental state. And I can feel the energy of a room before anyone speaks. Tension, negativity, something off - I pick it up immediately. I need natural light, open space, and nature regularly.

People pleasing is its own category entirely - and one I’ll write a whole post about soon. The short version: every yes that isn’t really a yes costs you something. Every time you shrink to fit a room it costs you something. I spent years doing both and the bill eventually came due.

What restores it

My morning routine is non-negotiable. Not because I’m rigid, but because I know how much better my day goes when I do it. Vibration plate. Essential oils. Gua sha. Journaling. Skincare. Pilates barre. Not all, but most mornings. The gua sha on the vibration plate is an instant wakeup on groggy mornings - try it before you judge it.

EFT tapping when anxiety shows up. Breathwork when I need to come down fast. Hertz frequency music while I wind down or need to focus.

Nature when everything feels heavy - and when I can't get outside, I bring it in. I'm a plant mom. Watering them in the morning is its own quiet presence practice. Slow, intentional, something living that needs you. Different from the humans who depend on me - but it counts too and adds to my environment.

My people. Not everyone affects your energy the same way - I learned that the hard way. When I have an instant connection with someone I know they're in my life for a reason. Every person of significance has been a vivid memory. When I'm with them I leave genuinely buzzing and it takes an hour or two to wind down because the energy is still moving. Learning to recognize the difference between people who fill you up and people who quietly drain you was one of the most important things I've ever done for myself.

Travel is another one. Not just the destination - the perspective shift that comes with it. Getting out of your everyday environment forces you to see things differently, slow down in a new way, and come back to your life with fresh eyes. I never come home the same person I left as.

Presence. Actually tasting the coffee. Actually seeing the sunset. Actually being where I am instead of three steps ahead of it. That one took the longest to learn and changed everything.

Sleep. Not enough people talk about how much sleep is an energy strategy when taken seriously rather than just a necessity.

The boundaries I’ve built

I say no to most environments where I can’t be fully myself. Not all of them - sometimes you show up anyway and it’s fine. But I’ve learned to pay attention to dread. When I feel it before an event - that low-level resistance, that already-tired feeling before I’ve even arrived - that’s information. It doesn’t always mean I don’t go, but it means I check in with myself about why.

What changed: I started paying attention to how I felt after. If I consistently left a situation feeling worse than when I arrived, that was data I started acting on.

My rule now: if my intuition isn’t lit up by something, I ask: is it necessary? If it is, I look for the silver lining. If it isn’t, I say no. Recently a friend double booked and asked if I wanted to attend a youth hockey steak night fundraiser with her instead of our plans. I straight up said no and we laughed about it. She’s one of my people - she gets it.

That’s the other part of this: the right people don’t need an elaborate excuse. Sometimes it’s simply “I can’t make it, I’m exhausted.” Sometimes it’s “not really my thing.” I don’t lie to get out of things. I’ve seen friends manufacture elaborate stories to avoid events and it always felt like more energy than just being honest. Directness is kindness. It respects everyone’s time - including yours.

The guilt used to be the hard part. It isn’t anymore. Because I’ve learned that every time I say yes to something that drains me, I’m saying no to something that fills me. That trade-off became very clear very fast.

How this makes me better at everything else

When my energy is protected I show up to my team fully present - my best thinking, real attention, genuine enthusiasm. A drained Stacey is a diminished version. Still functional, but not the one I want them to have.

At home it’s even more obvious. My kids are in what I’ve heard called the triple D era - no diapers, no driving, no dating. I’m acutely aware of how short this window is. My son recently asked for a later bedtime so he could have alone time from his sister’s energy. Twelve years old and already knows what he needs. That didn’t happen by accident.

I protect my energy so I have something left for the people who matter most. That’s not selfish. That’s the whole strategy.

You cannot pour from an empty cup. But more than that - you cannot show up as yourself when you’re running on empty. Protect the source.

Figure out what fills you. Figure out what drains you. Build your life accordingly.

What’s one thing you do to protect your energy that people in your life don’t fully understand - but that you know works?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.

Not just a good manager. Someone truly smart about the industry, about building teams, about what it actually takes to grow people. Someone who would give me real feedback - the kind that makes you better, not the kind that keeps things comfortable.

I didn’t find her consistently.

What I found instead was a rotating cast of leaders who taught me everything I needed to know - mostly by showing me exactly what I didn’t want to do.

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The pattern I kept running into

I am coachable. Genuinely, deeply coachable. I have a growth mindset that borders on relentless. I want feedback, I want to get better, I want to know what I’m missing.

What I kept running into was this: I’d start somewhere new, hungry to learn. Things would go well. I’d absorb everything quickly, move fast. And then at a certain point the coaching would slow down, the feedback would get vague, and I’d feel it - the leader had stopped seeing my growth as an asset and started seeing it as something else.

I’ve had this happen with female leaders and male leaders. Confident, capable, and ambitious women can be deeply intimidating to people who lead from ego instead of security. That’s not comfortable to say, but it’s true and I’ve lived it enough times to know it.

Micromanagement is a trust problem dressed up as a management style. I know this because I’ve been on the receiving end of it - and it taught me more about how I wanted to lead than almost anything else.

When someone micromanages you, they aren’t leading from a place of trust. And when trust isn’t the foundation, everything else eventually cracks.

I’ve handled it differently at different points in my career. Sometimes I addressed it directly. Other times I shrunk to fit - which I’m not proud of, but it’s honest. In one instance I asked for a meeting and said: I’d really like to build a stronger working relationship. I want to understand how you work so I know how to work best with you. The leader had already formed an opinion about me that wasn’t going to change. What felt like a simple trust building conversation was received as something else entirely.

That misalignment was friction, and I’ve learned to listen to friction. It almost always means something is off with my values, not just the situation.

Eventually it became clear it was time to move on. Not from one moment, but from an accumulation of them. When who you are and where you are no longer match, that’s your signal.

What I hire for

There’s a book I come back to again and again called The Ideal Team Player by Patrick Lencioni. The premise is simple: the best people aren’t just talented, they have three specific qualities working together at the same time. And when even one of them is missing, building a real team gets hard fast.

Hungry. Humble. Smart. Here’s what those three things actually mean to me when I’m building a team:

Hungry

Do they want it? Not just the title - the actual work, the growth, the craft. Are they self-motivated or do they need to be pushed? Hunger without ego is the rarest combination I know. And when you find it - you hold onto it.

Humble

Can they check their ego at the door? Can they say I was wrong, I need help, I don’t know yet? Will they support their teammates even when it doesn’t serve them directly? Do they get defensive? Humility is the foundation of every high trust team I’ve ever built. Without it, nothing else works.

Smart

Not IQ. EQ. Can they read a room, build a relationship, and understand what someone needs before they say it? Do they show discernment - knowing when to speak, when to listen, and when to push back? In sales especially, that’s not a nice to have. That’s everything.

High trust is the non-negotiable. It’s the only way to build something real in a high growth environment - especially when the team is new and everything is moving fast.

In practice it looks like: weekly team meetings, weekly one on ones, quarterly kickoffs and check-ins. Not because it’s on a checklist, but because showing up consistently is how you build the kind of relationship where people actually tell you what’s going on.

I’m transparent about what I know, honest about what I don’t, and clear about what I expect. I explain the why behind decisions, timelines, and new initiatives. People do their best work when they understand the bigger picture - not just what they’re doing, but why it matters.

High ownership and a growth mindset are non-negotiable too. I can accelerate someone’s career significantly, but only if they bring the hunger. That part I can’t install.

The part nobody tells you

Here’s what I didn’t expect: for a long time, I doubted myself.

I kept watching leaders around me - people who had the title, the authority, the room’s attention - and wondering what they knew that I didn’t. I was teaching myself everything. Reading, absorbing, figuring it out as I went. And somewhere in the back of my mind was this quiet voice asking: are you actually qualified for this? Or are you just getting away with it?

And then I started paying closer attention.

A lot of leaders are figuring it out too. The ones who project the most confidence are often the ones doing the most performing. The title doesn’t automatically come with the tools. A lot of people in leadership roles are, frankly, winging it.

The difference was - I had actually done the work. I had spent years learning the industry, learning the craft, learning what good leadership looked like from the inside out. Not because someone handed it to me, but because I taught myself.

Looking back, every difficult leader I worked under gave me something. I learned really great skills from learning how not to lead. That’s an education, not a consolation prize.

The doubt didn’t disappear overnight. But at some point I stopped asking if I was qualified and started asking what I was going to build. That shift - from imposter to architect - that’s when I actually became her.

The part that surprised me

At some point I realized I was leading my kids the same way I lead my teams. The growth mindset conversations, the curiosity, the individualized approach - same standards, different people, different needs. My son and my daughter learn completely differently. Same with every person on my team.

That’s the leader I always wanted. The one who saw what you were capable of and held space for you to grow into it.

I never found her, so I became her.

And somewhere along the way, I became her at home too.

If you’re burning out, people pleasing, losing yourself in a leadership role - set the boundaries. Stop trying to prove yourself. Know yourself well enough to know what lights you up. That’s the only version of you that can actually serve the people around you.

The leader you’ve always wanted? She might be you. You just need the space, the permission, and the courage to become her.

Who was the leader who shaped you most - and was it because of what they did right, or what they got wrong?

Leave it in the comments. I read every one.

With love from the Prairies,

Stacey

CONTROLLED FLOW

Career. Peace. Motherhood. On your terms.