But there is something about finally having enough space in your life to do the small things again.

My schedule has been shifting. Things have been falling into place. Life is requiring more of me. But somehow, in the middle of that, I am beginning to find little pockets of time where I can return to myself.

So yesterday morning, I took one of them.

I sat down. I picked a color. And for a couple of hours, I let someone else take care of me.

Well, I attempted to let someone else take care of me.

Because somewhere midway through my manicure, I looked down at my pointer finger and immediately noticed something.

It was crooked.

Now, I am not a nail technician. I would like to enter that into evidence early.

But apparently that did not stop me from becoming an unpaid quality-control inspector approximately seventeen minutes into the process.

I pointed it out.

The man doing my nails looked at me.

“Breathe.”

Okay. A little dramatic, sir, but fine.

We continued.

Then he moved into another stage of the process, and I noticed something else. But before I could fully launch into my next inspection report, he put his hand on my arm.

“Your only job right now is to relax,” he told me. “I’m doing it.”

Then he explained that because I did not know his process, of course some of it was going to look strange to me.

He knew what came next.

He knew when he would file, what he would reshape, what needed another layer, what looked wrong now but wouldn’t when he was finished.

Essentially:

Ma’am, I have a process. Please stop supervising me.

And something in me resisted.

Because immediately my brain said:

Yeah, but if I don’t tell you now and you finish the whole thing, then you’re going to have to go back and fix it.

Which is when I realized—

Oh.

This is not about my nails.

Of course it isn’t.

God forbid I simply get a manicure.

Apparently we’re doing shadow work at the nail salon.

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If I See It, I Am Responsible for It

There is a belief I have carried for a very long time:

If I see a problem coming, I should say something.

Because if I don’t?

Why didn’t you say something sooner?

That sentence lives somewhere in me.

So I learned to anticipate. To notice. To correct. To explain. To prevent the avoidable mistake before it becomes an actual mistake.

And those skills have served me incredibly well.

But somewhere along the way, noticing and responsibility became tangled together.

If I could see it, I felt responsible for preventing it.

And suddenly I could see how that belief moves through my relationships.

My partner will be halfway through a sentence, and I already know where I think this is going.

And if where I think he’s going is based on a misunderstanding?

Absolutely not.

We will be correcting this GPS route immediately.

Sir, you have missed your exit.

Recalculating.

Except sometimes he wasn’t going where I thought he was going at all.

I interrupted the process because I mistook my ability to anticipate an outcome for certainty about the outcome.

Sometimes I’m trying to correct a misunderstanding. Sometimes I’m trying to keep a conversation from unnecessarily becoming something bigger. Sometimes it’s simply:

We’re doing pretty well here. Perhaps we should just quit while we’re ahead.

Whatever the intention, the result can be the same.

I am responding to the end of a sentence that hasn’t actually been spoken yet.

And then there is my child—my beautiful little walking laboratory of experimentation.

I’ve actually gotten much better at letting him figure things out. Someone once told me that I play the long game in parenting, and I think that’s true.

But watching your child do something the hard way when you know an easier way?

That is advanced-level parenting.

Because apparently children are not interested in receiving the 37 years of accumulated wisdom we are graciously attempting to provide them before they put the thing together backward.

They would like to experience the consequences personally.

Rude.

And lately, as a new relationship and different perspectives have woven themselves into our lives, I’ve realized how much harder it can be to know when to guide, when to intervene, and when to simply let a process belong to the person experiencing it.

Which made me wonder:

Where did I learn this in the first place?

The answer came quickly.

“You Always Do Things the Hard Way.”

Growing up, my process was corrected consistently and constantly.

I was always told I did things ass-backwards.

I did things the hard way.

There was an easier way.

A better way.

A right way.

Sometimes someone would step in before I finished. Sometimes the critique came while I was still figuring it out.

And when that happens enough, I think you start absorbing rules you don’t even realize you’re learning.

Get it right the first time.

Anticipate the problem.

Explain yourself.

Don’t make unnecessary mistakes.

If you see something going wrong, intervene.

Because otherwise someone might eventually ask:

Why didn’t you say something?

And here’s the irony I hadn’t fully seen until I was sitting at that manicure table:

When our process isn’t trusted, sometimes we grow up having a difficult time trusting other people’s processes.

Not because we’re trying to control everything around us.

Sometimes because we’re trying to protect them from the criticism we learned to protect ourselves from.

Sometimes because watching someone struggle activates something within us.

Sometimes because we genuinely know another way.

And sometimes because unfinished things make us uncomfortable.

The Crooked Stage

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

My nail wasn’t finished.

It was crooked at that stage.

There were still steps left.

Filing.

Shaping.

Smoothing.

Finishing.

I was evaluating a finished product that did not yet exist.

And I wonder how often we do that to other people.

An unfinished thought looks like a misunderstanding.

An unfinished attempt looks like a mistake.

An unfinished lesson looks like failure.

An unfinished season looks like we’re lost.

So we rush in.

We correct. We redirect. We fix. We manage. We explain.

But what if the crooked stage is part of the process?

What if sometimes things look wrong simply because we are seeing them before they have become what they are becoming?

That doesn’t mean we never speak. It doesn’t mean we ignore intuition. It doesn’t mean parents stop parenting, partners stop communicating, or we hand our discernment over to whoever confidently tells us they “have a process.”

Please.

I’ve seen enough questionable processes to know better.

But perhaps there is a space between noticing and intervening that I haven’t spent enough time in.

A pause long enough to ask:

Is this actually mine to correct?

Has the person even finished?

Am I responding to what is happening—or what I believe is about to happen?

Could there be a step I don’t know about yet?

And perhaps the hardest one:

What happens if I let someone do this differently than I would?

Trust Doesn’t Require Certainty

When the nail technician told me to relax, my first response wasn’t peace.

It was resistance.

Then doubt.

And finally, something closer to:

Okay.

Not because I suddenly understood his process.

Not because I became certain he was right.

But because there was an obvious reality sitting in front of me:

I couldn’t do what he was doing from my side of the table.

And even if I could, I’m not entirely convinced I would have done it any better.

That feels important.

Because maybe trust isn’t always:

I know this is going to work out.

Sometimes trust is:

I don’t know how this is going to work, and I am willing to let the next step happen before deciding that it isn’t working.

There’s humility in that.

Especially for those of us who are very good at seeing patterns.

Seeing three moves ahead can be a gift.

But it can also convince us that move three has already happened.

It hasn’t.

The other person may surprise us.

Our children may find another solution.

Our partners may finish the sentence differently.

We may find another way.

And maybe this isn’t only about the processes of the people I love.

Maybe I do this with my own life, too.

I look at something halfway formed and decide it’s crooked.

A relationship.

A project.

A transition.

A season.

Myself.

I start evaluating the outcome while I’m still sitting in the middle of the process.

Maybe some things in life aren’t wrong.

Maybe they’re unfinished.

And perhaps my work isn’t learning to blindly trust the process.

I don’t think I’m there.

Also, one successful manicure seems like insufficient data for that level of enlightenment.

Maybe the practice is smaller.

Maybe it’s learning to wait.

To notice without immediately managing.

To listen until the sentence ends.

To let the child try.

To let someone I love take the long way sometimes.

To let myself take the long way, too.

And to remember that doing something differently does not automatically mean doing it wrong.

Sometimes there is wisdom in intervening.

Sometimes there is wisdom in guiding.

And sometimes your only job is to sit in the chair, unclench your hand, and let somebody else finish the damn nail.

Because the crooked stage might just be part of the becoming.

Maybe the Wayfinder isn’t always the person who knows which direction to go.

Maybe sometimes we’re the ones learning how to stay still long enough to see where the damn path is already going.

Trust the path.

The way remembers you.

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This morning was rough.

I left the house and went to the forest.

Not to escape.

Not to avoid what was happening.

I went because I needed to listen.

There are moments when I can sit inside my own thoughts for so long that I can no longer tell which ones are mine, which ones belong to the emotion of the moment, and which ones are simply trying to find a solution because uncertainty is uncomfortable.

The forest quiets that for me.

It does not ask me to explain myself.

It does not ask me to decide what happens next.

It does not need me to make anything better.

I can simply walk and pay attention.

So that is what I did.

And this morning, I found myself thinking about fire.

There are ecosystems throughout Florida that require fire to thrive.

For thousands of years, fire was simply part of the rhythm of the landscape. Lightning would strike and flames would move through the forest. Vegetation would burn. Openings would form. Nutrients would return to the soil. Plants adapted to fire would survive beneath the surface and eventually resprout.

Some species depend on those openings.

Without periodic fire, vegetation begins to accumulate. The landscape becomes denser. Plants that need sunlight and open ground can become crowded out. Habitats begin to change.

Eventually, even the longevity of the ecosystem can be affected by the absence of something that, from the outside, looks destructive.

Fire.

Then we developed the land.

We built roads, homes, businesses, and communities beside ecosystems that had spent thousands of years burning.

Naturally occurring fires became dangerous to the things we had built around them, so we began suppressing them.

But preventing the fire did not change what the ecosystem required.

The forest still needed to burn.

So we adapted.

Now, in many of these places, we use prescribed fire.

We intentionally introduce flame into the landscape.

Carefully.

Under specific conditions.

With people watching the wind, the humidity, the temperature, and the movement of the fire.

We burn because we understand what can happen when we do not.

There is something fascinating about that.

Sometimes maintaining the integrity of a system requires allowing part of it to burn.

I carried that thought home with me.

At the time, I did not know exactly why it mattered.

I just knew that it did.

Then the rest of the day happened.

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By the afternoon, I was dealing with three completely different situations involving three different men in three completely different parts of my life.

Parenting.

Work.

Love.

None of the circumstances were the same.

The relationships were not the same.

The problems were not the same.

But the feeling inside of me was.

In every situation, something became uncomfortable, and I immediately began trying to figure out what happened next.

How do we communicate this?

What is the solution?

What information are we missing?

What could I have done differently?

How can I say this in a way that will actually be heard?

How do we move forward?

What is the next step?

At first, I did not connect them.

One situation frustrated me.

Another required my attention.

Another hurt.

But somewhere in the middle of responding to all three, I saw it.

I was occupying the same position in every one of them.

I was responsible for staying grounded.

I was responsible for communicating.

I was responsible for finding the solution.

I was responsible for figuring out how we got from uncomfortable back to okay.

And suddenly, I was back in the forest.

Fire.

Maybe that was what I had gone there to hear.

Because I have spent years learning how to become grounded.

I have learned that I do not have to respond simply because I am activated.

I can leave.

I can walk.

I can listen.

I can wait until I understand what I am actually feeling before I communicate it.

I can consider another person’s perspective without immediately abandoning my own.

I can ask questions.

I can come back.

I can repair.

I can find another path when the first one does not work.

Those are things I value about who I have become.

They are not things I want to burn away.

But healthy ecosystems become overgrown too.

Sometimes something beneficial grows beyond the space it was meant to occupy.

And I am beginning to wonder whether that happened here.

My ability to communicate became responsibility for communication.

My ability to find solutions became responsibility for finding the solution.

My willingness to understand another person’s perspective became responsibility for making sure everyone felt understood.

My ability to remain grounded became responsibility for keeping the entire situation grounded.

Because I could carry it, I did.

Because I could find another way, I found one.

Because I knew how to reopen the conversation, I reopened it.

Because I could see what needed to happen next, I moved toward it.

And maybe I have been doing that for so long that I stopped noticing when other people stopped moving.

That is what today exposed.

Not that I should stop communicating.

Not that I should become unwilling to find solutions.

Not that I should burn relationships to the ground every time something becomes uncomfortable.

That is not how prescribed fire works either.

The purpose is not destruction.

The purpose is restoration.

Fire removes what has accumulated so densely that the ecosystem can no longer function as it was designed to function.

It creates openings.

It allows light to reach places it could not reach before.

It makes room.

And maybe there are parts of my own communication that need that kind of fire.

Not my voice.

Not my willingness to repair.

Not my capacity to understand.

The part that needs to burn is the belief that because I am capable of carrying the conversation, I am responsible for carrying it.

The belief that being grounded means I have to be the person who gets everyone back to ground.

The instinct to immediately fill the space when someone else stops participating.

The assumption that an unresolved problem is automatically mine to resolve.

Maybe those are the things that have become overgrown.

And perhaps I could not see them until the same pattern appeared in three different places at once.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

Three different men.

Three different relationships.

Three different circumstances.

The same position.

Maybe one fire would not have been enough for me to notice.

I would have explained it.

I would have found context.

I would have considered what the other person was experiencing.

I would have found the next step.

I probably would have solved it.

But when the same thing appeared three times in one day, I could no longer look only at the individual trees.

I had to look at the ecosystem.

And I am grateful I went to the forest this morning.

I do not regret leaving.

I did not leave because I was unwilling to face what was happening.

I left because I knew I could not hear clearly from inside of it.

I needed to go somewhere that could remind me that discomfort does not always mean something has gone wrong.

Sometimes disturbance is part of the system.

Sometimes things need to become uncomfortable enough for us to finally see what has been growing unnoticed.

Sometimes something has to burn before we can tell what was essential and what was simply taking up space.

And the strange thing about a recently burned forest is that you cannot immediately see what comes next.

For a while, it just looks burned.

Blackened ground.

Charred vegetation.

Open space where something used to be.

You have to wait.

Then eventually, green begins pushing through.

Roots that survived beneath the soil resprout.

Plants that were waiting for sunlight finally receive it.

Life returns differently because the conditions have changed.

There is wisdom in not rushing that part.

I do not need to know today what each of these situations means.

I do not need to immediately rebuild everything that became uncomfortable.

I do not need to run through the landscape planting things because I am afraid of the empty space.

Maybe I need to let the clearing be a clearing for a while.

To notice what comes back on its own.

To notice what does not.

To see who communicates when I am not carrying the entire conversation.

To see who searches for a solution when I do not immediately provide one.

To see who moves toward repair when I stop making myself responsible for creating the path.

To see what remains when I stop holding everything in place.

This morning, I went to the forest because I needed to listen.

I did not know that by the end of the day, the same lesson would mirror itself back to me through three completely different parts of my life.

Maybe that is why I needed the forest first.

Before the day showed me what was burning, I needed to remember what fire was for.

I am still standing somewhere in the middle of it.

I do not know yet what will remain, what will return, or what will grow differently because there is finally space for light to reach the ground.

Maybe I am not supposed to know yet.

Maybe, for now, it is enough to notice what the fire revealed and resist the urge to immediately fill the clearing.

The forest does not rush its regrowth.

Neither will I.

You are not walking this path alone.

The Wayfinder remembers you.

Not just any voice.

One I recognized from another chapter of my life.

He walked over, stood at the end of the table, and started talking about the work I’ve been doing in the community. He told me he’d been paying attention.

Then he smiled and said something that caught me off guard.

“You know,” he said, “I’m a talker. I’ve got a powerful voice. I know I speak a little differently, but I can clean it up. I can be eloquent. I want to learn how to use my voice to speak on things that matter.”

I looked at him and smiled.

“Then come with me.”

“Come to a county meeting.”

“You don’t have to know anything.”

“You don’t have to understand how government works.”

“Just come.”

As I drove home that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation.

Not because he wanted to get involved.

But because I started wondering how many people have quietly decided those rooms were never meant for them.

Before a community changes, someone has to believe they belong in the room where change begins.

Who told us that leadership belongs only to people with polished résumés?

Who decided wisdom wears a suit?

Because from where I’m standing, I’ve met leaders everywhere.

I’ve met them behind the bar.

In barber shops.

On construction sites.

In restaurant kitchens.

Behind the wheel of a truck.

Working double shifts.

Raising children on their own.

Running small businesses.

I’ve met people who can feel a room shift before anyone says a word.

People who know exactly which neighbor needs help without ever being asked.

People who have learned to negotiate conflict because life demanded it.

People who know how to stretch a paycheck, organize a block, calm a fight, and carry a family through impossible seasons.

Most of them have never called themselves leaders.

But I’ve watched them lead.

Leadership doesn’t begin when someone gives you a title. It begins the moment you decide your community is your responsibility.

Somewhere along the way, we started confusing credentials with wisdom.

We assumed that because someone knows how to navigate institutions, they automatically know how to care for communities.

I’m not convinced those are the same thing.

The people I grew up around learned a different kind of intelligence.

Not from textbooks.

From life.

From rebuilding after loss.

From figuring things out when there wasn’t a manual.

From surviving seasons that forced them to become resourceful, resilient, and deeply aware of the people around them.

That kind of wisdom rarely shows up on a résumé.

Maybe that’s exactly why it belongs at the decision-making table.

A few years ago, someone I love challenged me over a political decision I had made.

In my family, politics was rarely discussed. We all knew where everyone stood, and somehow we’d always find our way back around the dinner table, sharing stuffed shells and meatballs while talking about everything except who voted for whom.

But this conversation was different.

I listened.

I let them finish.

Then I said something that surprised even me.

“I understand why you feel so strongly about this, and I respect that.

But I need you to hear me.

The decisions being made today are shaping a future that I will live in.

My children will live in.

And maybe one day, my grandchildren will live in.

I’ll be here to experience the consequences of those decisions.

So I have a responsibility to participate.”

I’ve carried that conversation with me ever since.

Not because it changed my politics.

Because it changed how I think about stewardship.

Stewardship is choosing to care for a future you’ll never fully see.

It isn’t about winning arguments.

It isn’t about party lines.

It isn’t about wearing the right color shirt or putting the right sign in your front yard.

It’s about accepting responsibility for the future we’re helping create.

That’s why I’ve become so interested in local government.

Not because I love politics.

Honestly, I don’t.

I love community.

I love healthy forests.

Walkable neighborhoods.

Thriving local businesses.

Safe parks.

Clean water.

Places where children can grow up feeling connected to the place they call home.

And here’s what I’ve learned.

Those things aren’t decided somewhere far away by people we’ll never meet.

They’re shaped in city halls.

County commission chambers.

Planning meetings.

Workshops.

Ordinary rooms filled with ordinary people making decisions that quietly shape our everyday lives.

The rooms may look ordinary. The decisions made inside them are anything but.

Most of us never walk into those rooms.

Not because we don’t care.

But because we’ve convinced ourselves we don’t belong there.

Which brings me back to that conversation in the ale house.

Maybe we’ve overlooked an entire generation of civic leaders.

Not because they aren’t capable.

But because no one ever invited them.

The bartender.

The barber.

The mechanic.

The nurse.

The teacher.

The construction worker.

The single parent.

The server finishing a late-night shift.

The neighbor everyone calls when something breaks.

The friend everyone trusts when life falls apart.

The wisdom our communities need isn’t missing. It’s waiting for an invitation.

Maybe you’ve spent your entire life leading without ever using the word leader.

Maybe you’ve been solving real problems while believing civic leadership belonged to someone else.

I’d like to offer another possibility.

Maybe your community isn’t waiting for someone more qualified. Maybe it’s waiting for someone more willing.

Someone willing to show up.

To listen.

To ask thoughtful questions.

To care enough to stay in the conversation.

Maybe that’s you.

So before you decide you’re not a leader…

Pull up a chair.

With gratitude,

Nicole Marie

This is the first time I have chosen to publicly write about a City Council meeting. Not because I have all the answers, and certainly not because I expect everyone to agree with me, but because I believe there is a question we are not asking.

Last night’s meeting left many people frustrated, disappointed, and concerned. I understand why.

Professionalism matters.

Respect matters.

Accountability matters.

Everyone who participates in public service—whether elected officials, applicants, or residents—has a responsibility to treat one another with dignity and respect.

I do not agree with some of the conduct that occurred during the meeting or with how some things were said.

And…

If that becomes our only focus, I believe we miss the much larger lesson.

We Actually Want Many of the Same Things

I want what is best for Minneola.

I believe you do too.

I want people to feel heard.

I believe you do too.

I want residents to feel safe bringing forward ideas, concerns, and criticism.

I believe you want that too.

I care about public safety.

I care about conservation.

I care about thoughtful development.

I care about transparency.

When I step back from the emotions surrounding this meeting, I honestly believe that most people involved—regardless of where they stood—were trying to protect something they love.

That matters.

Because if we begin there, we stop seeing enemies and start seeing neighbors who simply have different ideas about how to move forward.

Every person in that room believed they were protecting something they loved. The challenge is not convincing people to care more—it is creating a system where that care can work together instead of against itself.

The Problem Is Bigger Than One Meeting

Every difficult meeting eventually becomes about personalities.

Who said what.

Who raised their voice.

Who should apologize.

Who should resign.

Those conversations may be necessary.

But they are not enough.

Because replacing people without improving the system often produces the same results with different faces.

New faces alone will not solve old problems.

A healthy civic system should be able to hold disagreement without allowing it to become division.

The Missing Ingredient Is Willingness

One sentence has continued to come back to me as I have reflected on last night.

There is no system that can succeed without a willingness to stay at the table and work together.

Policies matter.

Procedures matter.

Leadership matters.

Residents matter.

But none of those things matter if we lose our willingness to listen to one another.

Likewise, even people with the best intentions will struggle if the system does not create opportunities for meaningful collaboration before conflict reaches a breaking point.

Systems create the opportunity for collaboration. People have to choose it.

What If We Used Workshops Differently?

One thing I believe we underutilize as a city is the workshop process.

Workshops exist for a reason.

Not because they delay decisions.

Because they improve decisions.

A workshop creates space before positions become entrenched.

It allows residents, staff, elected officials, applicants, and stakeholders to ask questions before assumptions become facts.

It allows people to explore possibilities instead of defending positions.

To brainstorm alternatives instead of arguing over only two options.

When tensions are this high, perhaps the answer is not simply moving to the next meeting.

Perhaps it is slowing down long enough to have the conversation everyone is trying to have.

Imagine if every controversial issue included a workshop where everyone came prepared—not simply with opposition—but with ideas.

“What if we tried this?”

“What if we adjusted that?”

“What concern have we overlooked?”

“What common ground still exists?”

Some ideas would fail.

Some would improve.

Some would become solutions no one could have imagined at the beginning.

That is what collaboration looks like.

The Evidence Was Already There

Ironically, I think we saw evidence that common ground is possible.

The annexation was ultimately approved.

The zoning request was not.

Regardless of where anyone stands on those decisions, they demonstrated something important.

These issues are not always all-or-nothing.

There is room for independent thought.

There is room for compromise.

There is room for nuance.

For me, that was one of the most encouraging parts of the evening.

And… But… Therefore

(Advice shared with me from a wise man)

And…

We all care about this city.

We all want Minneola to thrive.

We all want to protect what makes this community special.

But…

Our current process sometimes allows people to become divided before they have truly had the opportunity to collaborate.

Too often we arrive at a public meeting after positions have already hardened.

By then, we are defending ideas instead of exploring them.

Therefore…

Perhaps we should ask different questions.

Instead of asking only,

“Who was wrong?”

Perhaps we should also ask,

“What process would have helped us get this right?”

Instead of asking,

“Who should be replaced?”

Perhaps we should ask,

“How do we build systems that make collaboration easier?”

Instead of asking,

“How do we win?”

Perhaps we should ask,

“How do we solve this together?”

This Is Not Us Versus Them

One thing that weighed heavily on me throughout the evening was listening to the conversations happening in the audience.

I heard frustration.

I heard anger.

I heard conversations about lawsuits.

I heard people speaking as though there were two different communities.

There are not.

There is only one.

This cannot become “us versus them,” because there is no “them.” There is only us.

Council members are our neighbors.

County residents are our neighbors.

Applicants are our neighbors.

Staff members are our neighbors.

We will continue seeing one another at the grocery store, school events, restaurants, churches, parks, and local businesses long after this issue has passed.

The question is not whether disagreement will happen.

It will.

The question is whether we build a community that knows how to move through disagreement without losing one another.

My Hope

I do not expect this article to change everyone’s mind.

That is not my goal.

My hope is much simpler than that.

I hope it widens the conversation.

I hope it encourages us to spend just as much time improving our processes as we do discussing personalities.

I hope it reminds us that accountability and collaboration are not opposites—they are partners.

Most of all, I hope it reminds us that democracy is not measured by how we behave when everyone agrees.

It is measured by how we choose to treat one another when we do not.

The measure of a healthy community is not whether disagreements happen. They always will. The measure of a healthy community is whether we have built systems—and a culture—that allow us to move through disagreement without losing one another.

If we truly want a stronger Minneola, then every one of us has a role to play—not only in holding one another accountable, but in helping build a civic culture where respect, curiosity, collaboration, and a willingness to stay at the table become the norm rather than the exception.

Because at the end of the day, before we are elected officials, applicants, county residents, or city residents…

We are neighbors.

And neighbors are strongest when they keep finding their way back to the same table.

With gratitude,

Nicole Marie

Yesterday, I somehow ended up with an entire community pool to myself.

Which, if you live in Florida in the middle of summer, feels statistically impossible.

I certainly was not complaining.

I settled into one of the lounge chairs and read a chapter of my book until I could feel the heat beginning to melt my skin off. Eventually, the water started calling my name.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

Water does not actually call people.

But if you have ever loved being near a body of water, you probably know exactly what I mean.

It was not really a thought.

More like an invitation.

Like something quietly whispering,

“Come here for a minute.”

So I did.

I climbed onto one of those half-moon floats that somehow manage to be both awkward and incredibly comfortable. Yelawolf drifted through the pool speakers while I drifted through the water, letting it decide where I would go.

For once, there was nothing to solve.

My next move could wait.

Becoming a better version of myself felt strangely unimportant.

No fixing.

No searching.

No becoming.

Just… here.

I do not know how long I floated before a question quietly wandered into my awareness.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I almost answered automatically.

Then I realized the question was not being asked to the woman floating in the pool.

It was being asked to the little girl inside me.

Immediately, I knew exactly which little girl.

She was probably twelve.

Her bedroom was painted in soft shades of blue feathered with white, as though someone had tried to turn the sky into four walls. There was a little nook where my desk sat. I spent hours there writing stories no one else would ever read, filling journals, and listening to music that somehow always understood me before people did.

My room was always immaculate.

My mom made sure of that.

Everything had its place.

That little corner became mine.

It was where I disappeared into books, imagined impossible futures, and quietly became the person I was long before I had words to describe her.

When she answered, she did not hesitate.

“A news anchor.”

“A journalist.”

“An astronaut.”

I laughed.

Not because the answers felt childish.

But because only a few days earlier I had walked out of a recording studio after finishing the voiceovers for the first television show I have ever hosted.

That very morning, I had finished another article.

News anchor.

Journalist.

Check.

Then I paused.

Astronaut…

Does Wayfinder count?

Because I spend an awful lot of time navigating by stars.

Only my constellations do not live in the night sky.

They live inside people.

Inside stories.

Inside grief.

Inside wonder.

I seem to spend my days wandering into places most people quietly avoid, only to come back carrying another piece of home.

Honestly…

I think it counts.

I floated there for a little while longer, smiling to myself.

Then another thought quietly drifted in.

Maybe she had already become exactly who she hoped she would be.

That one settled differently.

For the last seven years, I have described my journey in a lot of different ways.

Healing.

Deconditioning.

Remembering.

Floating there, I wondered if all of those words had simply been pointing toward something deeper.

Maybe, underneath all of it, I had simply been looking for a place to belong.

Not in someone else’s expectations.

Not inside an achievement.

Not even inside a title.

Inside my own life.

It is a strange thing to spend years building a life that reflects who you are…

Only to realize you still keep standing outside the front door, knocking.

As though someone else needs to let you in.

I looked around.

An empty pool.

A blue sky.

A half-moon float.

A little girl who wanted to tell stories.

A woman who somehow gets to.

Apparently…

The astronaut made it too.

I smiled.

Then settled a little deeper into the water.

And I could not help but wonder…

How many of us have already built a life worth belonging to…

and are still waiting for someone to invite us in?

Maybe belonging is not finding the right place.

Maybe belonging is finally allowing yourself to stay.

With love,

Nicole Marie

You’re not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

✨ If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment below and share what came alive for you while reading.

If you ever wonder where I went, don’t spend too much time looking behind you.

Go where the waves keep meeting the shore.

Take the long way.

Ride the skateboard.

Follow the trail until a mushroom catches your eye, a crow interrupts your thoughts, or a crooked tree makes you wonder how many stories it’s been keeping.

Turn over the rock.

Follow the rabbit.

Life’s always been more interesting than having all the answers.

And if you only see one footprint… don’t panic.

I’ve always been pretty efficient.

Listen for the bass that rattles your ribs.

Laugh a little louder than necessary.

Dance whenever the music tells you to.

Never underestimate The Brave Little Toaster.

I’ve been trying to tell people that for years.

Wave at the Wookiee.

Race one more lap in Mario.

Grow older without ever agreeing to grow dull.

Love your people while they’re beside you.

Make room at the table.

Invite someone in.

Wonder is better when it’s shared.

Notice the roots beneath your feet, quietly introducing strangers long before they realize they’re family.

Curiosity is simply remembering how to listen.

Time keeps moving.

So do the rivers.

So do the tides.

So do we.

Don’t waste too much of it trying to be somewhere else.

Be here.

Carry kindness.

Carry curiosity.

Carry one another.

And when the world feels too heavy, look a little closer.

Sometimes an entire universe is hiding beneath a patch of moss.

Sometimes the greatest adventures begin with a single question.

Sometimes the smallest things carry the biggest hearts.

If our paths cross again—and I’ve got a feeling they will—I hope you bring a good story.

I’ve got a few questions.

Until then…

Take the long way.

Keep wondering.

And if you only find one footprint…

You’ll know you’re headed in the right direction.

Not because nothing happened.

Branches lie scattered across the trail. Leaves cover the ground. Somewhere, a tree that stood for decades has finally given way.

And yet, beneath the surface, something remarkable is happening.

The roots are still connected.

The fungi continue carrying nutrients.

Insects begin clearing what has fallen.

The birds return.

Nothing in the forest wastes energy arguing over who should have held the branch or whether another tree should have bent differently in the wind.

Each simply returns to its purpose.

I’ve been thinking about that lately.

Not because of the forest.

Because of us.

I chose to plant my roots here in Minneola. My son is growing up here. EcoRoots Sanctuary is growing here. The relationships we are building, the families we are serving, and the future we are investing in all exist because we believe this community is worth tending.

That means I pay attention.

Not just to the decisions we make, but to the culture we’re creating.

These reflections were born from my experiences in my own community, but I don’t believe they belong only to Minneola. Every city. Every county. Every board. Every commission. Every nonprofit. Every organization entrusted with serving others is shaped not only by the decisions its leaders make, but by the culture they choose to cultivate.

Over the past several months, I have watched people who clearly care about their communities struggle to care for one another in the same way they care for their positions.

I’ve watched tension enter rooms before conversations even begin.

I’ve watched disagreement become something we brace for instead of something we can learn from.

And I keep coming back to the same question.

What are we choosing to cultivate?

Because leadership, at its core, is cultivation.

Not control.

Not winning.

Not proving a point.

Cultivation.

Every person who accepts the responsibility of public service arrives carrying different experiences, different convictions, different expertise, and different ideas. That diversity isn’t something to overcome.

It’s one of a community’s greatest strengths.

The goal was never unanimous agreement.

It was faithful stewardship.

Some of us are called to ask difficult questions.

Some are called to recognize opportunities others might miss.

Some naturally build bridges.

Some challenge assumptions.

Some protect our history.

Others imagine our future.

Every role matters.

But no role is more important than remembering what all of us came to serve.

A community.

Leadership isn’t a competition for influence.

It’s a commitment to responsibility.

It’s the quiet decision to leave a room healthier than you found it, even when you don’t get your way.

It’s listening long enough to understand before asking to be understood.

It’s recognizing that people may forget the details of a vote, but they’ll remember how it felt to watch their leaders treat one another.

Before the agenda begins…

Before the motions are made…

Before anyone approaches the podium…

We’re simply neighbors who have chosen to care about the same place.

I don’t write this because I believe I can fix anyone.

I can’t.

Nor do I believe one article can change the course of a community.

I write because writing is one of the ways I practice stewardship.

Words, like seeds, rarely change the landscape overnight.

But planted consistently in the right soil, they can change the culture of a place.

So if you feel called to public service—whether as an elected official, a council member, a commissioner, a planning and zoning board member, a volunteer, a city employee, a nonprofit leader, or simply as a neighbor who continues to show up—I hope you’ll pause before your next meeting begins.

Take one quiet breath.

Remember why you first said yes.

Not to the title.

Not to the recognition.

Not even to being right.

But to serving something that will outlive all of us.

The forest reminds me that no single tree creates an ecosystem.

No single root feeds the entire forest.

No single species sustains it.

It is the relationship between them that allows the whole forest to thrive.

Communities are no different.

So I’ll leave you with the same question I continue asking myself.

What are we choosing to cultivate?

With gratitude,

Nicole Marie

Honestly, I was just trying to decide whether patriotic nails were completely unlike me… or exactly like me.

Up until this year, I’d never been the holiday-nails kind of girl. Give me warm earth tones, soft greens, maybe a mushroom if I’m feeling adventurous. But somewhere between the red, the blue, and just enough sparkle to make me smile, I found myself saying,

“You know what… why not?”

I left the salon thinking they were cute.

That was it.

No profound realization.

Just cute nails.

Which, by the way, feels exactly like something life would do.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s that life has an incredible sense of humor.

It rarely hands me the lesson first.

It lets me wander into it.

Around the same time, my house looked… lived in.

Which is a very graceful way of saying I’d restarted the same load of laundry enough times that I was beginning to wonder whether the washing machine and I were simply in a committed relationship.

The dishes had quietly formed their own little mountain range.

Every room seemed to contain at least one unfinished project.

From the outside, it probably looked like I needed to get my life together.

The funny thing was…

I knew exactly where every unfinished thing was.

I saw every basket.

Every dish.

Every project waiting for me.

I also saw something else.

I saw a nervous system that simply could not.

An older version of me would have interpreted that as laziness.

Or lack of discipline.

Or another reason to push harder.

This version of me recognized something different.

Not avoidance.

Capacity.

So I didn’t force it.

Instead, I did something that would have made an earlier version of me wildly uncomfortable.

I listened.

I wrote.

I sat outside.

I let myself grieve Junior.

I continued honoring the parts of my heart that still quietly loved our person.

I had conversations that seemed to arrive exactly when I needed them.

Three women I deeply respect each found their way into this season, each carrying wisdom that looked completely different from the others. None of them tried to rescue me. None of them could do the work for me. But each, in her own way, reminded me that I wasn’t walking alone.

I spent time in nature.

I followed whatever still felt alive.

And then…

without announcing itself…

it happened.

I woke up one morning and simply…

began.

One load of laundry.

One sink of dishes.

One room.

No motivational speech.

No new planner.

No dramatic breakthrough.

Just…movement.

Almost at the same time, life began moving too.

Phone calls started coming in.

Conversations unfolded naturally.

Ideas became invitations.

Opportunities found me without me constantly reaching for them.

Not because I’d finally figured life out.

Because something inside me had become steady enough to participate again.

The morning after the Fourth of July, I slipped out to grab coffee while he was still asleep.

I’d already started breakfast.

Fed the dogs.

Taken care of the cat.

I wasn’t even sure if he drank coffee, but I brought one home anyway.

When they handed me our cups, I couldn’t help but laugh.

His said,

“You are a dream.”

Mine said,

“Happy 250th Birthday.”

Which, if I’m being honest, felt exactly like something life would do.

Apparently even my coffee had an opinion.

There I was…

Writing an essay about freedom.

Wearing red, white, and blue nails.

On the morning after Independence Day.

Holding a cup wishing me a happy 250th birthday.

Life isn’t always subtle.

Sometimes it practically winks.

Later that day I found myself looking down at my hands again.

Five red nails.

Five blue nails.

Then I looked at my feet.

Ten white toes.

I laughed.

Not because they looked patriotic anymore.

Because somehow…

I’d accidentally painted a philosophy.

At first I thought about politics.

About the conversations I’ve had over the last few years.

About being called Switzerland.

About sitting with people who see the world completely differently and realizing I genuinely enjoy asking questions more than choosing sides.

But the longer I sat with my nails, the less political they became.

The colors stopped representing everyone else.

They began representing me.

The white…

The place where I stand.

Not empty.

Open.

A blank canvas.

Infinite possibility.

The place beneath everything else.

The red…

My heart.

Desire.

Longing.

The part of me that continues choosing life, even after grief.

The blue…

My consciousness.

Curiosity.

Wonder.

Ideas.

The part of me that stays present long enough for meaning to emerge.

Then I noticed something I hadn’t intended.

The white wasn’t on my hands.

It was on my feet.

The place where I meet the earth.

The place that carries me before my hands ever reach into the world.

And suddenly I realized…

Freedom isn’t the absence of responsibility.

It isn’t proving I don’t need anyone.

It isn’t standing in the middle because I’m afraid to choose.

Freedom is something much quieter.

It’s what happens when my heart is allowed to long…

my mind is willing to stay with what’s alive…

and my body finally feels safe enough to begin.

I think that’s what changed.

Not the laundry.

Not the dishes.

Not the opportunities.

Me.

And maybe that’s why everything else seemed to begin moving too.

Not because life had suddenly decided to cooperate.

Because I had stopped fighting the pace my soul already knew.

I wasn’t waiting for permission anymore.

I wasn’t waiting for certainty.

I wasn’t waiting to become someone else before I began living.

I was simply becoming more fully myself.

And I couldn’t help but wonder…

What if freedom was never about standing alone?

What if freedom is becoming the fullest expression of who you were created to be…

…and trusting that, from that place, life knows how to meet you halfway?

With love,

Nicole Marie

Explore the Way

You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

Before that, all three dogs had wandered the backyard together while I sat on the patio, soaking in one of those slow afternoons that seemed to ask nothing of me except my presence. One of the bigger dogs had already claimed the cool shade beneath the patio and seemed perfectly content to stay there. The other settled beside me, stretching out in the warmth of the afternoon sun, quietly watching over the yard as though keeping an eye on everything around us was simply part of who she was. Meanwhile, Obi chased lizards from one end of the fence to the other with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you wonder if joy was ever meant to be more complicated than this.

Every now and then I’d catch myself smiling as I watched him. Not because he was doing anything extraordinary, but because he looked so completely at home in the world.

Eventually, we all came back inside. I put the two bigger dogs into their room for dinner, and for the first time since Obi had come to Florida, it was just the two of us.

I expected him to explore the house. After all, it was still relatively new to him. There were windows to look out of, fish darting back and forth in the aquarium that he loved to watch, and the unmistakable smell of his dinner waiting in the next room.

Instead…

he climbed onto the couch.

Right beside me.

Not because I had called him.

Not because he wanted anything from me.

He simply wanted to be where I was.

I smiled like a child being offered ice cream before dinner.

Not because it felt surprising.

Oddly enough…

because it felt familiar.

The very first time I met Obi, he had walked toward me the same way.

As if we had already met.

Like somewhere, in whatever mysterious way dogs seem to keep track of the world, he’d already heard about me.

Maybe he had.

After all…

we had both chosen to love the same person, even if we knew him in different seasons.

I’ve thought about that sentence more times than I can count over the last few days. Not because it sounds poetic, but because it is the only sentence that truly explains what I experienced.

He and I entered the same story from completely different chapters.

When I met our person, I was learning who I was after the end of my marriage. I was rediscovering what it felt like to choose a life that was truly my own.

When Obi met our person, he was a rescue dog learning that love could become safe again.

Neither of us arrived whole.

Neither of us arrived finished.

And somehow…

love met both of us exactly where we were.

The funny thing about love is that we often imagine it moving in straight lines. We think it begins with two people and ends when those two people part ways.

But sitting beside Obi, I realized love doesn’t seem particularly interested in our timelines.

It keeps moving.

It changes form.

It quietly finds new places to bloom.

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Continue Reading…

The deepest realization didn’t come from meeting Obi.

It came from the quiet conversation that unfolded between us without either of us saying a word.

Read more

The other day, I caught myself arguing with Mufasa.

Not out loud. Just quietly in my own head.

Now wait before you come at me, because I love Mufasa.

But you know the scene.

He’s standing beside Simba, overlooking the Pride Lands, and he says,

“Everything the light touches…”

Before that man could even finish his sentence, I heard myself think,

“No the fuck it isn’t.”

I actually laughed.

Not because I disagreed with the movie.

I was simply caught off guard by my own response.

Then another thought quietly followed.

Not all of it is mine.

And not even the parts entrusted to me were ever meant to be held by me alone.

That sentence stayed with me for days like a quiet visitor.

Why did that feel so true?

A few days later, I found myself looking up the definition of stewardship.

The dictionary defines it as the careful and responsible management of something entrusted to one’s care.

Then, of course, I looked up ownership.

The act or right of possessing something.

I remember sitting there thinking…

Maybe these two things are not the same at all.

And maybe part of the reason I’ve confused them is because I’ve spent far more of my life hearing the language of ownership than I ever have stewardship.

Ownership has a voice.

I know that voice too well.

“I’m gonna take care of what’s mine. Best believe that. You worry about yours. I got mine.”

Maybe you grew up hearing some version of that too.

Ownership knows exactly how it speaks.

Mine.

Yours.

Protect.

Keep.

Stewardship, on the other hand…

I realized I wasn’t actually sure I knew its voice.

I’ve heard people talk about being “good stewards.”

Scripture certainly does.

But I couldn’t remember many conversations about what stewardship actually sounds like in everyday life.

So I started listening.

When I looked at nature, nothing seemed particularly interested in ownership.

The forest does not own the oak tree.

The river does not own the valley it flows through.

Even the bees do not seem concerned that they don’t own every flower they visit.

They participate.

They tend.

They belong.

And somehow, everything flourishes anyway.

Maybe stewardship is simply what belonging looks like in action.

That made me think about my own life.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how often I confuse carrying something with caring about it.

If I love it, I should hold it.

If it matters to me, I should manage it.

If I notice what needs to be done, then maybe it’s mine—and mine alone—to do.

Except…

that has never actually been the life I’ve been trying to build.

One of the things I hear most often is,

“If you need help, just let me know.”

It’s such a kind offer.

And yet every time I hear it, something inside of me quietly asks,

If you belong to this too… why am I the one who has to ask?

I don’t actually long for help. I long for shared stewardship.

Help still feels like I’m carrying the whole thing while someone briefly lends me their hands.

What I long for is shared stewardship.

The kind where someone walks onto the land carrying their own shovel.

Not because I asked.

Not because I assigned it.

Because they noticed what needed tending.

Because they already belonged to it.

And maybe that’s what the voice of stewardship sounds like.

Not,

“That’s mine.”

Or even,

“What needs tending?”

Maybe it sounds more like,

“I noticed the pond water was getting murky, so I watered the garden with it and refilled it from the rain barrel.”

No announcement.

No request for recognition.

No expectation of praise.

Just quiet participation.

The more I sit with that, the more I keep coming back to the oak.

When the pine shoots straight toward the sky, the oak doesn’t rush to compete.

It roots deeper.

It becomes more fully an oak.

Its branches reach wider.

Its roots reach farther.

It faithfully participates in the forest without trying to become the entire ecosystem.

Maybe stewardship has never been about becoming everything that is needed.

Maybe it has always been about becoming fully what you were created to be.

And perhaps that is the part I am still learning.

Not everything the light touches belongs to me.

But maybe I belong to some of it.

Maybe the land we tend, the people we love, the communities we build, and the missions we carry aren’t asking us to possess them.

Maybe they’re simply inviting us to participate.

And I couldn’t help but wonder…

How much lighter would life feel if we stopped asking,

“What is mine?”

…and started asking,

“What do I belong to?”

Because maybe…

I tend to what I belong to.

With love,

Nicole Marie

You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

Messy, on the other hand, simply means untidy.

For most of my life, I treated those words as though they meant the same thing.

Lately, I am beginning to think they are worlds apart.

Someone looked at my room recently and laughed.

“So… you’re just living in chaos now?”

I smiled because, strangely enough, it did not feel chaotic.

It felt unfinished.

A few weeks ago, I took everything off my walls.

The inspirational quotes that had encouraged me for years.

The artwork.

The little reminders of who I had been.

One by one, they came down.

That part was surprisingly easy.

Standing in the middle of my room, looking at bare walls and baskets filled with things that no longer had a place, I remember thinking,

Okay… now what?

My old instinct would have been to finish the project in a single day.

Go shopping.

Buy new décor.

Hang everything back up.

Cross another project off the list.

Instead, I did something that felt incredibly unfamiliar.

I waited.

Not because I was avoiding the room.

Because I wanted the room to tell me what it needed before I decided for it.

Every day, I sat in it.

Sometimes I moved one piece of furniture.

Sometimes I saved a photograph on Pinterest.

Sometimes I realized that something I thought I wanted no longer felt like me.

Sometimes I simply noticed how the space made me feel.

The room was not asking me to hurry.

It was asking me to listen.

That has been surprisingly uncomfortable because listening takes longer than solving.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I realized I was doing the same thing with my life.

The vision feels clearer than ever.

The projects are taking shape.

Yet the bank account still tells an older story.

The external world still looks unfinished.

There are days when I wonder whether I am standing in the middle of a room that no longer reflects who I am while the room I am creating has not fully arrived.

Maybe becoming always feels a little like that.

We are so quick to mistake transition for failure simply because it does not look finished.

When you move into a new home, every possession you own eventually ends up in a box.

That is not chaos.

That is transition.

When you renovate a room, the furniture gets pushed into strange places, the walls become bare, and the floor fills with things that no longer know where they belong.

That is not chaos.

That is transition.

The mistake is expecting becoming to look finished while it is still becoming.

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A few days ago, I deleted social media from my phone.

Not forever.

Just long enough to hear myself think again.

It had become loud.

Not wrong.

Just loud.

The same way those old pictures on my wall had become loud.

Removing them did not instantly tell me what belonged next.

It simply created enough space for something quieter to speak.

Perhaps that has been the real work all along.

Not adding more.

Removing enough that I can finally hear what has been asking for my attention.

Yesterday, that answer was unexpectedly simple.

My bed.

Out of everything in the room, that was the thing asking to be cared for first.

Had I rushed to finish everything else, I might never have heard it.

I am beginning to think this is how discernment works.

It rarely shouts.

It whispers.

One thing at a time.

One corner at a time.

One question at a time.

What needs me today?

Not:

How do I finish this?

Simply:

What belongs here now?

There is another metaphor that keeps returning to me.

For years, my life felt like owning a boat.

Everything depended on me.

I loaded the trailer.

Backed it into the water.

Tied the lines.

Started the engine.

Steered the boat.

Every movement required my hands.

Lately, life feels different.

It feels as though I have already boarded the cruise ship.

My bags are unpacked.

I know where my room is.

The only thing I cannot do…

…is make the ship leave.

That may be the most uncomfortable part of becoming.

Not because nothing is happening.

Because so much is happening beneath the surface, and for once, not all of it depends on me.

Perhaps that is why this season feels so unfamiliar.

I am not learning how to build.

I know how to build.

I am learning how to listen.

How to make space.

How to let what no longer belongs fall away before deciding what comes next.

Maybe that is what transition has been trying to teach me all along.

Not every unfinished room is chaotic.

Not every empty wall needs to be filled immediately.

Not every quiet moment is waiting to be solved.

And I could not help but wonder…

How many of us have mistaken an unfinished life for a broken one, simply because we have forgotten what becoming looks like?

With love,

Nicole Marie

Explore the Way

You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

The dictionary defines worthy as having sufficient worth, value, or importance; deserving of something specified.

At first glance, that definition seems simple enough.

Yet the longer I sit with it, the more I wonder whether most of us spend our lives misunderstanding what worthiness actually means.

Not because someone sat us down and explicitly taught us that worthiness must be earned.

Most people never say that part out loud.

Instead, we absorb it through a thousand small interactions.

We learn that good grades are rewarded, that hard work is recognized, that promotions are earned, and that gold stars are given to those who perform well. Over time, a subtle equation begins to form beneath the surface:

If I do enough, perhaps I will be enough.

The equation follows us into adulthood.

We search for evidence of our worth in our careers, our bank accounts, our relationships, our accomplishments, our healing journeys, and even our spirituality. We convince ourselves that the right relationship will confirm our worth, that abundance, success, and being chosen will all confirm our worth.

Even when we begin doing our deepest inner work, the pattern often remains intact. The goal simply changes clothes.

Instead of trying to become successful enough, we try to become healed enough. Instead of trying to become productive enough, we try to become conscious enough. Instead of trying to become accepted by the world, we try to become accepted by ourselves.

Yet hidden beneath all of it is the same quiet assumption:

One day, if I do enough work, I will finally earn the right to belong here.

For a long time, I did not realize how deeply that belief lived within me.

I thought I had moved beyond it.

I had faced the shadows. I had rebuilt my life more than once. I had learned how to find meaning inside suffering and light inside darkness.

What I did not realize was that a part of me was still waiting for proof.

Proof that the vision I carried was real.

Proof that the future I could feel belonged to me.

Proof that I was allowed to become the woman I could already sense emerging beneath the surface.

Life has a way of revealing the beliefs we do not know we are carrying.

Not through theories.

Through experience.

For me, that experience arrived one night when I found myself sitting alone in a quiet house, caught somewhere between who I had been and who I was becoming.

The old version of my life no longer fit, and the new version had not fully arrived.

For the first time, I found myself standing at an edge I did not know how to explain.

It was not depression.

It was not giving up.

It was not a desire to leave.

It felt more like standing at the end of a chapter without being able to see the beginning of the next one.

I remember wondering if perhaps the story was simply finished.

Not because I wanted it to be.

Because I genuinely did not know.

I had never done this human thing before.

If this was how the story ended, then who was I to argue?

And yet something interesting happened.

I picked up a pen.

Looking back, that is the part that stays with me.

If a part of me truly believed the story was over, why was another part of me still writing?

Why was I still documenting ideas, dreams, visions, and possibilities?

Why was I still imagining things I hoped to build?

Why was I still writing about a future I supposedly believed did not exist?

At the time, I thought I was leaving instructions.

Years later, I see something different.

The pages were evidence.

Evidence that something inside of me was still alive.

Evidence that the vision had not disappeared.

Evidence that there was still a future trying to make itself known.

Evidence that I had never stopped believing, even when I thought I had.

And perhaps that was the beginning of a different understanding of worthiness.

Because the truth is, I was never really questioning whether I was worthy of love, success, abundance, or belonging.

I was questioning whether I could trust what I felt.

I was questioning whether I was allowed to carry a vision that did not fit neatly inside the world I had been taught to navigate.

I was questioning whether I needed permission to become who I already knew I was.

Somewhere along the way, I began to wonder if nature had a different definition of worthiness than we do.

After all, I have never seen an oak tree question whether it deserves to grow.

I have never seen a wildflower wait until it feels worthy enough to bloom.

I have never seen a river earn the right to flow toward the sea.

Nature does not seem particularly concerned with proving itself.

It simply becomes what it was created to become.

The acorn does not earn its place by becoming an oak.

The acorn belongs before it becomes.

Perhaps we do too.

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Perhaps worthiness was never something waiting for us at the end of the journey.

Perhaps it was the foundation beneath our feet the entire time.

Perhaps the vision was never asking me to prove I was worthy of carrying it.

Perhaps the vision itself was proof.

Proof that there was more, that the story was not finished, and that becoming was already underway.

And perhaps that is what I would tell the woman sitting alone in that quiet house if I could sit beside her now.

Not that everything would work out.

Not that every dream would arrive exactly as she imagined.

It would simply be this:

You do not need to earn your place here.

You never did.

After all, the acorn does not spend its lifetime proving it deserves to become an oak.

It simply grows.

With love,

Nicole Marie

Explore the Way

You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

For a long time, openness felt romantic to me. It felt like trust. Trusting God. Trusting life. Trusting that if I followed what felt alive, if I said yes to the things that sparked curiosity, if I stopped forcing outcomes and stayed aligned with myself, then what was meant for me would naturally find me.

And maybe that is still true.

But what nobody told me was that openness doesn’t just invite in what you want.

It also invites uncertainty.

A few days ago, I met someone who intrigued me.

Not because I was looking. Not because I had a plan. We simply crossed paths, and for the first time in a long time, I felt that spark of possibility. The kind that makes you smile when your phone lights up. The kind that makes you curious. The kind that reminds you that life can still surprise you.

Conversation flowed.

There was chemistry.

There was playfulness.

There was the possibility of getting to know another human.

And then, just as quickly, there was silence.

Not a dramatic ending. Not a rejection. Not even necessarily anything personal.

Just a gap.

A space where I didn’t know.

And what surprised me was not the silence itself.

It was what the silence revealed.

I felt disappointment.

I felt frustration.

I felt longing.

I felt the ache of having made space for something and not knowing if it was ever going to arrive.

At first, I kept trying to figure it out.

What happened?

Did I miss something?

Was there something I wasn’t seeing?

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that the real story was not about him at all.

The real story was about what was happening inside of me.

Because for years I have done so much work around choosing myself.

And I have.

I chose myself when I went for a walk.

I chose myself when I gave myself space to cry.

I chose myself when I called friends.

I chose myself when I fed the ducks, did the laundry, worked, laughed, and kept showing up for my life despite what was happening.

I didn’t stop living while waiting for an answer.

And yet, there was still this longing.

That realization hit me harder than I expected.

Somewhere along the way, I think I unconsciously picked up the idea that healing meant no longer feeling the ache for connection. That if I truly chose myself, disappointment would not hurt. That if I truly loved myself, loneliness would never visit me again. That if I truly trusted God, uncertainty would no longer bother me.

However, that is not what I found.

What I found was that I can choose myself completely and still desire partnership.

I can have a beautiful life and still want someone to share parts of it with.

I can be deeply rooted in myself and still feel disappointed when something I am excited about does not unfold the way I had hoped.

The longing did not mean I was abandoning myself.

The longing simply meant I was alive.

And once I stopped trying to make that longing mean something was wrong, I became curious about what it was actually pointing toward.

Because the more I sat with it, the more I realized I was not only longing for partnership.

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I was longing for participation.

For surprise.

For immersion.

For the feeling that life was still unfolding in ways I could not predict.

And that realization opened another door.

As I sat with all of this, I found myself thinking about someone I loved who is no longer here.

He loved music.

EDM shows.

Concerts.

Festivals.

I never really went with him.

At the time, I told myself that world was not for me.

But if I am being honest, I do not think it was the music I was rejecting.

It was everything that came with it.

The mushrooms.

The LSD.

The altered states.

The version of the experience that did not resonate with me.

And suddenly I found myself asking a different question:

What if I actually do want that experience?

Not his version.

Mine.

What if I want to lose myself in music for a few hours?

What if I want to dance?

What if I want to stand in a crowd and feel part of something?

What if I want to immerse myself in life instead of simply observing it?

The more I sat with that question, the more I realized it was not really about concerts.

It was about participation.

How many things have I convinced myself were not for me because the version I encountered was not aligned?

How many experiences have I written off because I did not like the packaging they arrived in?

How many desires have I quietly dismissed because they came wrapped in someone else’s way of living?

Maybe I do not want someone else’s relationship with music.

Maybe I want my own.

Maybe I do not want someone else’s version of adventure.

Maybe I want my own.

Maybe I do not want someone else’s relationship.

Maybe I want my own.

And maybe that is true of far more things than I realize.

Suddenly, the conversation was not about dating anymore.

It was about openness.

Because openness is not a strategy to get what you want.

It is not a spiritual loophole that protects you from disappointment.

It is not a guarantee that if you trust enough, life will unfold according to your preferences.

Openness is the willingness to stay present when you do not know.

It is the willingness to let life surprise you.

It is the willingness to feel excitement, disappointment, curiosity, chemistry, uncertainty, longing, and possibility without closing your heart the moment things become uncomfortable.

Maybe that is the real invitation.

Not to become someone different.

Not to stop wanting connection.

Not to stop hoping.

But to keep participating.

To keep saying yes to what feels alive.

To keep exploring.

To keep discovering which experiences, places, people, and possibilities genuinely resonate with who you are becoming.

And maybe the question is not whether life is giving us what we want.

Maybe the question is:

What parts of life have we convinced ourselves are not for us simply because we have only encountered them through someone else’s lens?

What if the thing itself is not wrong?

What if it is simply waiting for us to experience it in our own way?

I’d love to know:

What have you convinced yourself was not for you?

And was it really the thing itself you were rejecting?

Or was it simply the way you experienced it the first time?

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You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

Nature already solved the problem. The drought is simply revealing whether we were paying attention.

Part One: The Drought Is Revealing Something

About six years ago, I had a realization that changed everything for me.

We are not on this planet. We are of this planet.

The same Earth that grows oak trees, wildflowers, mushrooms, rivers, birds, and forests also grew us.

Somewhere along the way, many of us forgot that.

We began seeing ourselves as separate from nature instead of participants within it.

Nature became something we visited.

Something we vacationed in.

Something we escaped to when life became too overwhelming.

But once I began to understand that I was not separate from the Earth, I stopped looking exclusively to human-made systems for answers and started looking back to creation itself.

I began studying ecosystems.

Not just the plants and animals.

But the patterns.

The relationships.

The rhythms.

I saw that nothing in nature operates in perpetual growth.

There are seasons of abundance and seasons of scarcity.

Seasons of production and seasons of rest.

Seasons of birth and seasons of decay.

Nothing blooms all year.

Nothing harvests forever.

Nothing apologizes for winter.

Yet somehow we have built a society that expects humans to do exactly that.

Produce endlessly.

Consume endlessly.

Grow endlessly.

Push endlessly.

And now many of the systems we depend upon are beginning to show signs of strain.

Families exhausted.

Communities fragmented.

People disconnected not only from the land, but from themselves.

The pot has been filled beyond what it was designed to hold, and now things are beginning to boil over.

The question is not whether we are experiencing a shift.

The question is what the shift is trying to teach us.

Nature offers a clue.

When a forest becomes overcrowded, it does not continue expanding forever.

Eventually, a disturbance arrives.

A fire.

A storm.

A flood.

A period of drought.

Not as punishment.

As reorganization.

The disturbance creates space for something new.

And perhaps that is why I find myself paying close attention to what is happening here in Florida right now.

We are in a drought.

Lawns are browning.

Water restrictions are increasing.

People are worrying about shortages.

Communities are scrambling to figure out how to sustain landscapes that suddenly require more resources than are available.

And yet, as I travel through our natural areas, I notice something fascinating.

The ecosystems that belong here are not panicking.

The scrub is not panicking.

The sandhills are not panicking.

The native grasses are not panicking.

The turkey oaks, scrub oaks, rosemary, and wiregrass are not panicking.

Why?

Because they were designed for this.

Not because drought is easy.

But because drought is part of the conversation they have been having with this land for thousands of years.

Nature already solved the problem.

The drought is simply revealing whether we were paying attention.

For months, I have been advocating for a different approach to development and landscaping.

Not simply planting Florida natives.

But planting species that are native to the specific ecosystem beneath our feet.

There is a difference.

A plant can be native somewhere in Florida and still be poorly suited for the soil, water conditions, and ecological community where it is being planted.

Every landscape has a story.

Every piece of land held an ecosystem before agriculture.

Before roads.

Before subdivisions.

Before parking lots.

The soil remembers.

The water remembers.

The land remembers.

The question is whether we are willing to listen.

Instead, we often approach landscapes the same way we approach life.

We ask:

What do we want here?

Rather than:

What belongs here?

We flatten the land.

Import plants.

Install irrigation systems.

Create lush green lawns in ecosystems that were never meant to support them.

Then when the rain stops, we are surprised that everything begins to struggle.

But the native ecosystem is not surprised.

It has been preparing for this moment all along.

What fascinates me is how quickly we move into crisis response.

More restrictions.

More regulations.

More technology.

More attempts to force the outcome we want.

And while some of those solutions may be necessary in the short term, very few people are asking the deeper question:

Why are we trying so hard to sustain systems that were never designed for this place in the first place?

Because if a landscape requires constant irrigation to survive a normal Florida dry season, perhaps the problem is not the drought.

Perhaps the problem is that we ignored the wisdom of the land.

And perhaps that is exactly what the drought is revealing.

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Part Two: The Pattern Exists Everywhere

The longer I sit with this drought, the harder it becomes to ignore the parallels.

Because what I am witnessing in our landscapes is not unique to our landscapes.

The same pattern seems to be showing up everywhere.

When conditions are favorable, almost any system can appear successful.

A lawn can look healthy.

A business can appear thriving.

A relationship can seem stable.

A person can appear successful.

But it is only when pressure arrives that we discover whether something is resilient or merely dependent.

When conditions are favorable, almost any system can appear successful. It is only when pressure arrives that we discover whether something is resilient or merely dependent.

The drought is exposing the difference.

The difference between a landscape that belongs and one that is being artificially maintained.

The difference between adaptation and control.

The difference between partnership and domination.

The difference between resilience and dependency.

And the more I pay attention, the more one question continues to emerge:

What belongs here?

What belongs in this ecosystem?

What belongs in this season?

What belongs in this community?

What belongs in this relationship?

What belongs in this life?

Because the answer to that question changes everything.

Lately, I have found myself asking that question in my own life.

What belongs here?

For years, motherhood occupied most of the landscape of my life.

And rightly so.

My son is, and always will be, one of the greatest loves of my life.

But seasons change.

Children grow.

Ecosystems evolve.

And lately I have found myself looking around and realizing that there are things alive within me that have been waiting for space to emerge.

The writer.

The conservation advocate.

The community leader.

The teacher.

The visionary.

The friend.

The woman who desires partnership.

Not because motherhood is ending.

But because motherhood is no longer the only thing growing in the garden.

And the more I observe nature, the more I realize that healthy ecosystems do not cling to what was.

They adapt.

They make space.

They allow new growth to emerge.

Not everything that appears after a disturbance is a sign of loss.

Sometimes it is a sign of becoming.

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Part Three: Human Ecosystems

The Way of the Six was born from this observation.

Not from Human Design.

Not from coaching.

Not from personal development.

But from ecosystems.

From recognizing that nature is not merely scenery.

Nature is a living blueprint.

A teacher.

A mirror.

And what I have come to see is that human beings are ecosystems too.

We are physical beings.

Mental beings.

Emotional beings.

Spiritual beings.

Energetic beings.

Relational beings.

Just as a forest cannot thrive when one part of the ecosystem is neglected, neither can we.

Yet many of us have built lives that require constant inputs just to remain functional.

Constant productivity.

Constant stimulation.

Constant consumption.

Constant striving.

Like a lawn that must be watered every day, we attempt to sustain lifestyles that are fundamentally disconnected from our natural design.

Then pressure arrives.

A financial challenge.

A relationship ending.

A health crisis.

A season of uncertainty.

And suddenly everything begins to wither.

Not because we are weak.

But because we were never rooted in conditions that could sustain us.

What if many of the fractures we are witnessing are not signs of collapse?

What if they are signs of revelation?

What if the discomfort so many people feel is not because something is wrong with them, but because they are being asked to remember something they have forgotten?

To remember that they belong to something larger.

To remember that they are not machines designed for endless output.

To remember that they are living beings governed by rhythms as old as the Earth itself.

Nature is showing us something profound right now.

The things that belong are struggling less.

The things that are adapted require less intervention.

The things that evolved in relationship with their environment are demonstrating resilience.

The drought is not creating the problem.

It is revealing it.

Just as every disruption reveals what was already there.

A drought.

A storm.

A personal crisis.

A societal shift.

None of these create our weaknesses.

They illuminate where we have become dependent on conditions remaining perfect.

And perhaps that is the invitation before us.

Not to conquer nature.

Not to outsmart nature.

Not to control every outcome.

But to remember our place within it.

To ask better questions.

To design our communities with the wisdom of the land rather than in opposition to it.

To build lives rooted in reality rather than constant maintenance.

To become more like the ecosystems that have been teaching us all along.

Perhaps the invitation is not to ask how we can force life to work harder.

Perhaps the better question is:

What belongs here?

Because the pathway forward may not be found in creating something entirely new.

It may be found in remembering something very old.

The Earth has been showing us the way all along.

ARE WE FINALLY READY TO LISTEN?

There are moments on this path where I look around and wonder how I got here.

Not in the grand, inspirational way people talk about on stages.

I mean sitting on my porch with tears in my eyes, dishes in the sink, laundry piled high, wondering how one person can carry so much and still keep moving.

Sometimes I hear the voice that says I should be further along by now.

That I should have figured it out.

That I should have more money.

More support.

More certainty.

More proof.

And then I look around and I remember.

I remember the woman who walked through the divorce.

The woman who lost relationships she thought she would have forever.

The woman who learned how to mother while her own heart was breaking.

The woman who opened herself to love again.

The woman who walked away from things that were comfortable because something deeper was calling her forward.

The woman who kept going when nobody understood what she was building.

I remember her.

And suddenly the voice telling me I’m not doing enough gets a little quieter.

Because the truth is, I have spent years carrying dreams that nobody else could see.

Years planting seeds in soil that looked empty.

Years trusting something inside of me that didn’t come with guarantees.

And if I am honest, that is very lonely sometimes.

Not because I am alone.

But because there are parts of this journey that nobody can walk for me.

Nobody can sit with the grief.

Nobody can feel the uncertainty.

Nobody can make the choices.

Nobody can carry the responsibility of becoming who I came here to be.

That part belongs to me.

There are days when I want someone to tell me it’s all going to work out.

Days when I want someone to take the weight for just a little while.

Days when I wonder if everyone who told me I was crazy was right.

Days when the dream feels impossibly far away.

Days when I miss versions of my life that no longer exist.

Days when I miss people who no longer walk beside me.

And still, I stay.

I stay with myself.

I stay when I’m grieving.

I stay when I’m tired.

I stay when I’m lonely.

I stay when I’m scared.

I stay when I can’t see the next step.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned that abandoning myself hurts more than any uncertainty ever could.

For most of my life, I thought strength meant pushing through.

Keep moving.

Keep producing.

Keep proving.

Keep carrying.

Keep surviving.

I didn’t realize that every time I pushed past my own exhaustion, every time I ignored my own needs, every time I betrayed what I knew in my bones, I was practicing abandonment.

Not abandonment by someone else.

Abandonment of myself.

And one day I became too tired to keep leaving.

So I began learning a different way.

I learned how to stay.

I learned how to sit beside my own grief without rushing to fix it.

How to listen to my body when it asked for rest.

How to stop treating my worthiness like something that had to be earned.

How to remain present when every part of me wanted certainty.

Lately, I’ve noticed that many of my fears wear the mask of money.

Not enough money.

Not enough support.

Not enough certainty.

Not enough proof.

There are days when I look at my bank account and feel the tightening in my chest.

Days when I wonder if I should have chosen the safer path.

Days when I question whether all of this effort will ever become what I know it can be.

Whether the sanctuary will find its land.

Whether the community will grow.

Whether the work will reach the people it is meant to reach.

Whether all of these years of planting will eventually become harvest.

But when I sit with those fears long enough, I realize they are not really about money.

Money is simply where the uncertainty becomes visible.

Beneath it is a much older question.

Can I trust myself?

Can I trust what I know even when the evidence has not arrived yet?

Can I continue tending the garden when there is no fruit on the branches?

Can I remain devoted to what I am building before the world reflects it back to me?

Because there was a time when I believed worthiness would arrive when the bank account reached a certain number.

When the business succeeded.

When the relationship came.

When the dream became visible.

Now I am beginning to wonder if worthiness was never waiting at the finish line.

Maybe worthiness is what allows us to keep walking before we can see the destination.

Maybe abundance begins the moment we stop measuring our value by what has or has not arrived.

So I breathe.

I make breakfast.

I take the walk.

I sit under the trees.

I cry when I need to.

I rest when my body asks for it.

And then I keep going.

Not because I’m trying to prove anything.

Not because I’m chasing success.

Not because I need recognition.

But because there is a kind of love that can only be discovered when you stop leaving yourself behind.

Maybe that is what this whole journey has been teaching me.

That the dream was never asking me to sacrifice myself for it.

The dream was asking me to become someone who could finally stand beside herself.

Someone who could hold her own hand through uncertainty.

Someone who could trust what she knows in her bones even when the evidence has not yet arrived.

Someone who understands that growth does not always look like movement.

Sometimes it looks like staying.

Sometimes it looks like breathing.

Sometimes it looks like sitting in the middle of your own life and refusing to run away.

Like sitting on a porch on an ordinary afternoon, surrounded by unfinished chores and unanswered questions, and choosing to believe anyway.

Choosing to trust anyway.

Choosing to remain anyway.

So today, if all I do is stay with myself, then that is enough.

If all I do is breathe, then that is enough.

If all I do is trust the seeds I planted years ago, then that is enough.

Because I know what I have survived.

I know what I have been building.

I know the weight of what I am carrying.

And I know this:

I did not come this far just to abandon myself now.

The way remembers me.

And for the first time in my life, I do too.

You are not walking this path alone,

The way remembers you.

Sometimes the smallest moments reveal the biggest lessons.

Have you ever looked around your life and realized something wasn’t working anymore?

Maybe it was a relationship.

Maybe it was a routine.

Maybe it was a project, a system, a commitment, or a dream you had poured your heart into.

And instead of being honest about it, you found yourself doing what so many of us do.

You blamed yourself.

You blamed the other person.

Or you pushed harder.

You gave more.

Tried longer.

Adjusted more.

Convinced yourself that if you could just find the right angle, the right strategy, the right amount of effort, somehow you could make it work.

I think many of us have been taught that if something isn’t working, someone must be failing.

If a relationship struggles, somebody failed.

If a project stalls, somebody failed.

If a dream changes shape, somebody failed.

But what if that’s not true?

What if restructuring isn’t failure?

What if restructuring is actually stewardship?

Shame looks for blame. Stewardship looks for truth.

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This season hasn’t felt like transformation.

It has felt like editing.

Not changing the story.

Refining it.

Keeping what works.

Releasing what doesn’t.

Creating enough space to see clearly again.

Over the last several months, I have found myself asking the same question over and over again:

Does this still belong here?

Not because everything in my life needed to change.

Actually, the opposite.

The foundation stayed.

I’m still a mother.

I’m still building EcoRoots.

I’m still following the work I feel called to do.

I’m still me.

But somewhere along the way, things accumulated.

Responsibilities.

Expectations.

Relationships.

Ways of operating.

Projects.

Commitments.

And eventually I found myself looking honestly at what I had built and asking whether everything I was carrying was still aligned with where I was going.

When you’re building something meaningful, this is inevitable.

You don’t plant seeds today and expect fruit tomorrow.

There are seasons of planting.

Seasons of watering.

Seasons of waiting.

And eventually there are seasons of evaluation.

Not every seed sprouts.

Not every plant thrives where you placed it.

Not every system remains sustainable.

Not every relationship continues to grow.

That doesn’t mean the garden failed.

It means the gardener has to pay attention.

A good gardener doesn’t look at a struggling plant and think:

“I’m terrible at this.”

They ask:

“What is this showing me?”

For a long time, I thought restructuring meant something had gone wrong.

Now I think restructuring is what happens when we love something enough to tell ourselves the truth about it.

Stewardship isn’t about perfection. It’s about paying attention.

Recently, I was having a conversation with my neighbor about faith.

About God.

About trust.

About surrender.

At one point, I held up my hand and started laughing.

My nails were almost four weeks old.

Now, for context, getting my nails done is one of my favorite monthly rituals.

As a Taurus, I fully admit there is something deeply satisfying about sitting still long enough to be cared for.

It’s not really about the nails.

It’s about slowing down.

Receiving.

Allowing myself a moment of beauty in the middle of everyday life.

This particular set had lasted incredibly well.

Almost too well.

There was a visible gap between my cuticle and the acrylic.

Several nails had lifted enough that every time I ran my fingers through my hair, they would catch and nearly pull off.

They looked overdue.

Worn.

Like they should have fallen off already.

I held up my hand and laughed.

“Honestly? This is what my faith looks like right now.”

Because faith hasn’t felt like certainty lately.

It hasn’t felt like having all of the answers.

It hasn’t felt like watching every door magically open.

It has felt like continuing to trust when there is visible space between where I started and where I am now.

Evidence of growth.

Evidence of time.

Evidence that things are changing.

And somehow, despite all of it, the foundation is still holding.

That was the first lesson.

Faith.

A few days later, I finally went to get my nails done.

The color I wanted immediately caught my eye.

A deep plum.

Rich.

Elegant.

Exactly what I envisioned.

Exactly what I wanted.

And then I second-guessed myself.

Maybe it needed more contrast.

Maybe the accent nail was too subtle.

Maybe it needed sparkle.

Maybe it needed glitter.

So I overrode my first instinct.

I changed it.

The moment I walked out of the salon, I knew.

The glitter wasn’t bad.

The nails weren’t ugly.

But something felt off.

Every time I looked at them, I felt it.

Not because the design was wrong.

Because it wasn’t mine.

I had talked myself out of what I already knew.

And that’s where the second lesson began.

Intuition.

Because I couldn’t fix it immediately.

Life doesn’t work that way.

The ducks still needed care.

The dogs still needed attention.

The house still needed tending.

Responsibilities still existed.

I couldn’t drop everything and run back to the salon the moment I realized I had made a choice that wasn’t aligned.

So I had to sit with it.

I had to look at it.

I had to feel the discomfort.

And maybe that’s what happens when we override ourselves.

Not punishment.

Not catastrophe.

Just discomfort.

The quiet discomfort of knowing.

The quiet discomfort of recognizing that we abandoned our own wisdom.

And sitting with that discomfort long enough to understand what it is trying to teach us.

Sometimes the consequence of ignoring your intuition isn’t disaster. It’s simply the discomfort of knowing.

The next day, after tending to the things that mattered most, I went back.

Not because the entire set was wrong.

The shape was beautiful.

The foundation was beautiful.

The color was beautiful.

Only one piece wasn’t aligned.

The nail technician smiled as soon as I walked through the door.

Fixed it.

And refused to charge me.

I drove home laughing.

Because suddenly I realized the lesson had never been about the nails.

The nails had simply made the lesson visible.

Faith taught me that foundations can hold even when there is visible space between where you started and where you are now.

Intuition taught me that ignoring what I know does not make it disappear.

And grace taught me that course corrections do not always come with punishment.

Sometimes they simply require honesty.

Looking back, I realize the nails gave me two gifts.

The first was learning to trust what is holding.

The second was learning to trust what I know.

Neither lesson required perfection.

Neither lesson required shame.

Both required honesty.

And maybe that’s what restructuring is really about.

Not destruction.

Not failure.

Not starting over.

Just the sacred practice of looking at your life with clear eyes and asking:

Does this still belong here?

And if the answer is no,

trusting yourself enough to make the adjustment.

Not because you failed.

But because you’re finally paying attention.

⸻

If this reflection resonated with you, you may enjoy exploring The Way of the Six—a framework for reconnecting with yourself through the wisdom of Earth, Air, Water, Fire, Ether, and Shadow.

Explore the Way of the Six

You are not walking this path alone.

They way remembers you.

Can you feel me?

My skin against yours—
or maybe not even that.

Maybe just the idea of it.

Because right now, I am alone.

Standing beneath the water, letting it fall over my body like something that knows how to touch me without asking.

Steam gathers against the glass while warmth moves slowly downward across my skin, tracing the curve of my shoulders, the softness of my stomach, the backs of my legs.

And still…

my mind drifts to you.

⸻

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Some intimacy begins long before skin touches skin.

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Lately I keep seeing conversations online about women needing to “get out of their soft girl era,” as if softness is the reason so many people feel disconnected, stagnant, or unfulfilled.

And honestly?

I think we’re confusing softness with passivity.

I think we’re confusing feminine energy with the absence of ambition.

And I think we’ve confused production with creation.

The softening is not the absence of power. It is power without constant resistance.

The masculine provides the spark.

The feminine forms life with it.

A seed alone does not become a forest.

Sperm alone does not become a child.

An idea alone does not become reality.

It requires a womb.

It requires soil.

It requires nurturing, rhythm, receptivity, patience, intuition, and care.

And none of those things are forceful.

The feminine has never been incapable of creating. In fact, creation itself is one of the purest expressions of feminine energy.

Nature is feminine, and nature is constantly creating.

The Earth does not hustle to bloom in spring.

The ocean does not force the tides.

The womb does not strive to turn cells into life.

It listens.

It receives.

It responds.

And then it creates.

That’s what I think people are missing.

Being in your feminine energy does not mean becoming inactive. It does not mean abandoning ambition, leadership, vision, or purpose.

It means changing the source from which creation flows.

It means creating from alignment instead of survival.

Production asks: ‘How much can you output?’ Creation asks: ‘What are you bringing to life?’

For so many women, productivity became tied to worth. We learned how to perform, provide, overextend, and constantly produce — often at the expense of our nervous systems, our bodies, our joy, and our connection to ourselves.

But creation and production are not the same thing.

Production often extracts.

Creation nourishes.

Production disconnects us from ourselves.

Creation requires relationship.

To create from the feminine requires slowing down enough to hear yourself again.

To become tapped in, tuned in, turned on to your own body, your own rhythms, your own intuition.

It requires allowing rest to become part of the process instead of something you earn after burnout.

It requires listening to the land, to your body, to your life, instead of forcing yourself into constant performance.

The feminine was never meant to hustle for worth.

Softness does not make you less powerful.

In many ways, softness requires more strength than survival mode ever did.

Because survival hardens you automatically.

Softness asks you to stay open.

To stay connected.

To stay present long enough to actually feel your life instead of just managing it.

And that is not weakness.

That is courage.

I think many women are not becoming less ambitious.

They are becoming less willing to betray themselves in order to succeed.

I am still building. I just refuse to abandon myself in the process anymore.

That is not weakness.

That is wisdom.

I am still creating.

Still leading.

Still building.

But I no longer want to create from depletion.

I want to create the way nature does:

in rhythm,

in relationship,

in trust,

in cycles,

in embodiment,

and fully connected to life while doing it.

Because feminine energy was never meant to stop creation.

It was always meant to bring life to it.

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Maybe that is the real shift happening right now.

Not women abandoning creation —

but returning to it differently.

Softer.

Slower.

More embodied.

More alive.

And maybe that kind of creation is the most powerful kind there is.

You are not walking this path alone.

The Way remembers you.

Explore the Way

For the anyone learning how to reconnect with their rhythm, body, intuition, and way of being.

If this piece spoke to something inside of you, feel free to share it with another woman who is learning that softness and power were never opposites.

I have been sitting on the couch for like… an embarrassing amount of time lately.

Not crying.

Not in some dramatic depressive spiral.

Not rock bottom.

Just…

stuck.

Vegged out watching The Nanny while my brain quietly runs existential laps around the universe.

And the whole time there is this voice in the background going:

Why can’t you just get up?

Why is it so hard to do basic things?

Why do you feel so disconnected from life right now?

Which honestly sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud because objectively, my life is not falling apart.

I have a son I love.

Animals I love.

Work that matters to me.

Dreams that are very much alive.

So why did I feel like a bump on the couch staring at Fran Drescher while simultaneously contemplating consciousness, God, nervous systems, and the nature of existence?

And then it hit me.

I do not think I am lazy.

I truly believe I zoomed out too far.

I think some people experience awareness so expansively that they accidentally disconnect from ordinary embodiment for a little while.

Not because they are better than anyone.

Not because they are “ascending.”

Not because they are too spiritual for human life.

Actually, the opposite.

I think sometimes awareness becomes so vast that the nervous system temporarily loses intimacy with ordinary life.

Laundry starts feeling weirdly meaningless.

Cleaning feels impossible.

The body feels heavy.

The mind feels enormous.

And somewhere underneath it all is this strange, unspoken fear:

If I fully surrender to something greater…

do I disappear?

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I am writing this from inside my motherhood journey.

A journey I have wanted so desperately since I was a little girl.

And if I am being honest, it does not look the way I once imagined it would.

I never imagined I would spend this many years raising a little human mostly on my own.

I never imagined having conversations with my 10-year-old about the qualities he hopes my future partner carries.

I never imagined navigating grief beside him while trying to stay steady myself.

Together, we are living through things.

Loss.

Change.

Separation.

Becoming.

He is growing from the youngest of three boys in a full house into someone finding his own voice, his own perspective, his own way of seeing the world. And there are moments where motherhood feels unbearably vulnerable because it is like watching your heart walk around outside of your body.

Motherhood feels like watching your heart walk around outside of your body.

Last night, I am laying on the couch completely exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that sits deep in your body.

The kind where healing, stress, motherhood, emotions, and life all seem to collect in your bones at the same time.

The Nanny is playing in the background, and Nico is sitting at the dining room table nearby working on this massive Lego set he has been building for months now. Over 3,000 pieces. Patiently building it mostly by himself.

And there is something about that moment that feels so ordinary and so sacred at the same time.

Him sitting there building.

Me laying there recovering.

Both of us laughing at the TV together.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he starts talking about life.

About mindset.

About how the way you think shapes the kind of experience you have.

He says it in 10-year-old language, but it is deeply embodied. Something about how if your mind stays open and positive, it changes the experience you create.

And I just stop for a second and look at him in awe.

Because there he is…

this little human I am helping guide through life…

reflecting wisdom back to me while casually building Legos and watching sitcoms.

And it hits me all at once.

He is little.

Still little.

But not little in the same ways anymore.

And I think part of motherhood is constantly grieving and loving at the same time.

Grieving the versions of them that are changing…

while falling in love with who they are becoming.

There was a time where the safest place in the world for him was my arms.

He used to wake up in the mornings and run straight to me before I was even fully awake. He would crawl into bed beside me, snuggle against my chest, kiss my face, and just exist there with me.

And I love being that place for him.

I still am that place for him now.

But motherhood changes as they grow.

Now safety sometimes looks like him unloading his frustrations onto me after a hard day.

Now it looks like conversations in the car.

Silence.

Big emotions.

Pushback.

Boundary testing.

Trying to figure out who he is becoming.

And the other day in the car, he is yelling, frustrated, overwhelmed, trying to explain something to me, and I hit my limit.

I scream.

Not corrective.

Not intentional.

Not grounded.

Just overwhelmed.

And immediately, I feel terrible.

Because there are moments in motherhood where your own nervous system spills over before your awareness can catch it.

And those moments hurt.

Not because mothers are supposed to be perfect…

but because when you love someone that deeply, even the moments where you miss yourself ache inside your body afterward.

Motherhood keeps asking me to embody the things I say out loud.

Watching him move through life is cracking me open in ways nothing else ever could.

Because I can hear myself in him.

See myself in him.

See the places where he is becoming confident.

See the places where fear creeps in.

See the moments where he is trying to figure out who he is.

And somewhere along the way, I realize that if I want him to feel safe being authentic…

I have to become authentic too.

If I want him to trust himself…

I have to learn how to trust myself.

If I want him to regulate his emotions…

I have to stop abandoning my own.

Sometimes motherhood makes me feel like both the mother and the daughter at the same time.

There are moments I am nurturing him while realizing how deeply I still need that same tenderness too.

And there are moments where I understand my own mother differently now.

Not always through agreement…

but through humanity.

There are still moments where I ache for partnership in this journey too.

Moments where I wish someone else could witness the small things with me in real time.

The late-night conversations.

The growth spurts.

The heartbreaks.

The ordinary magic of raising him.

But even in that longing, motherhood keeps teaching me how to stay present with what is here now.

If this piece resonates with you and you would like to continue deeper into the journey, the rest of this writing is available below for paid subscribers.

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Thank you for being here with me.

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