Not the highlight reel of who they were. Not the mythologized version we polish when we are lonely. But the mundane choreography of it. The way their presence quietly dictated where the furniture went inside our days. Inside our bodies.

Where we reached without thinking. When we checked our phone. What time dinner happened. Who we became at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday.

There is a kind of intimacy in routine that rarely gets named. It is not dramatic. It does not announce itself. It just… settles in. Like muscle memory. Like the way you know how many steps it takes to cross a familiar room in the dark.

And when that person leaves, the room does not collapse. That is the disorienting part. The room stays standing. The couch is still there. The walls hold. But your body keeps moving as if the furniture hasn’t changed. You reach for a light switch that no longer exists.

I think that is where the ache lives.

We talk a lot about missing who someone was. Their laugh. Their mind. Their way of seeing the world. And sometimes that is true. But sometimes, if I am being honest, what I miss is how my life made sense around them. How their existence quietly answered questions I did not know I was asking.

Who do I text when something small happens.
Who do I tell first.
Who knows the shorthand of this version of me.

Losing that is not romantic. It is logistical. It is having to renegotiate the shape of your own days. It is realizing that your nervous system had made a home somewhere, and now it has to pack up without instructions.

What complicates it further is that when we make room for someone, we rarely make room for who they are frozen in time. We make room for who they might become.

This is the part I keep circling lately.

We do not just rearrange the furniture to fit them. We imagine how the room might look later. We pre-plan for growth. For change. For evolution. We let ourselves get excited about colors we have not seen yet.

And there is something both generous and dangerous about that.

Generous because loving someone often means believing in their becoming. Holding space for versions of them that do not exist yet. Dangerous because you are quietly consenting to a future you cannot control.

You are saying, I will stay even if the walls change color.

Except you do not actually know if you will like the color they choose.

We rarely say that part out loud.

We like the idea of being endlessly adaptable, endlessly open. We want to be the kind of people who grow together, not apart. But there is a private fear tucked underneath that hope. The fear that one day you will look around and realize the room still works, but it no longer feels like yours.

And then what.

When a relationship ends, or a version of someone disappears, I think part of the grief is realizing that the future you had already furnished will never be lived in. You had mentally placed the windows. You knew where the morning light would hit. You had imagined who you would be in that space.

Letting that go is not just losing them. It is losing a version of yourself that only existed in relation to them.

No one really prepares you for that.

We tell people heartbreak is about loss, but we do not talk enough about reorientation. About having to relearn your own internal layout. About asking questions that feel embarrassingly basic, like what do I do with this time now, or who am I without this rhythm.

There is also relief in it, sometimes. Even that feels complicated to admit.

Because sometimes the furniture was heavy. Sometimes you were holding up a wall that was not yours to support. Sometimes the room needed air.

Missing the routine does not always mean the routine was good for you. It just means it was familiar. And familiarity has a gravity of its own.

I am trying to get more honest with myself about what I am actually missing when I miss someone. Whether I miss their essence, or whether I miss the certainty they provided. Whether I miss connection, or whether I miss not having to choose.

There is no moral to that inquiry. No conclusion. Just information.

Because if you can name what you are grieving, you get a little more agency in how you rebuild. You get to decide which pieces of the old room you actually want to carry forward, and which ones you are ready to leave behind.

Maybe that is the quieter work of loving and losing. Not hardening. Not romanticizing. But becoming a more conscious architect of your own inner space.

Letting yourself want connection without outsourcing your sense of home.

Trusting that you can rearrange the furniture again.

And that this time, the room belongs to you first.

to the brave thing,

If you haven’t ordered a copy of my book, Braver, Not Fearless, buy it here!

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This year, I’m alone. And I won’t sit here and pretend I’m not feeling anything about it.

Lately, I’ve been broadening my definition of sadness. Sad, to me, feels sharp and fresh, like a papercut but bigger. Maybe like a cardboard cut if you’ve ever had one of those. Immediate. Demanding attention.

That’s not what this is.

What I feel is older. It aches like longing, but colder. Like the headache the wind chill gives you when your ears stay uncovered for too long. It’s grief. For things that aren’t happening yet. For the things that can’t happen right now. Sad feels like pain before understanding. This has awareness all around it. A hug it doesn’t want.

So much has changed in a year, which somehow feels like both the longest year of my life and the blink of an eye. We’re taught that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail. But I am now living proof that that isn’t the whole truth.

Especially this time of year, those few strange days between Christmas and New Year’s, when the collective “Get It Together” energy descends. The before-and-after mentality ramps up. The resolutions get drafted. The reinventions are outlined. As if we’re all standing in the before, frantically planning for an after we hope will finally make us feel different.

I remember talking with a bartender last January who was half-joking, half-complaining about how everyone’s Dry Januarys and health kicks were going to make it a slow month. I laughed and told him most of those resolutions don’t make it past a few weeks anyway. He looked relieved. I got a free drink out of it. Silly, maybe. But telling.

Here’s the part that matters.

I showed up to this year with no plan.

I talk about this at length in Braver, Not Fearless, but the short version is this: standing on the shoreline in Santa Cruz, California, I made two agreements with myself. I wouldn’t drink myself to death. And I wouldn’t throw myself into the ocean.

That’s bleak. And it’s honest.

Which brings me to the title of this piece. Not before and after. Before and honest.

Not the performance of progress. Not the strategy deck. Just the willingness to stop lying to ourselves long enough to hear what’s actually true. To ourselves first. Then, slowly, to the people who love us. And maybe even to the people who haven’t had the chance to love us yet because they haven’t seen the wizard behind the curtain.

I hesitated to share this next part. Which says a lot, considering how much I’ve already put into the world.

For most of my life, talking about my weight felt like a line I wasn’t allowed to cross. Like acknowledging it would somehow cheapen the persona I had built. The version of me who “didn’t care.” The version who performed confidence so convincingly that even I believed her sometimes.

But performing confidence is not the same as feeling it.

I knew what pride was supposed to look like. I just didn’t recognize it in myself. Like asking someone who’s colorblind to identify blue. They might be able to name it, describe it, even teach it. That doesn’t mean they can see it.

What I saw instead was a girl who was her own harshest critic every time she looked in the mirror. I remember writing in my journal once, If I can’t even get myself to lose this weight, why should anyone listen to anything I have to offer about getting what they want?

So why break my own “we don’t talk about that here” rule now?

First, because honesty is no longer optional for me. It’s not a resolution or an intention. It’s a vow. Honest is the best thing I’ve ever been.

Second, because between this exact moment last year and right now, I’ve lost over forty pounds.

There was no plan. No reinvention arc. No dramatic overhaul.

After I learned I could trust myself to keep my word, I made one simple promise: I would go on daily walks. And while I walked, I would try to get to know the girl underneath the performance without judgment.

I owed her that.

The weight wasn’t the first thing I lost.
It was the stories I kept telling myself about who I was allowed to be.

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Xx, to the brave thing,

P.S. If this piece resonates, my book Braver, Not Fearless goes deeper into the year that changed everything. It’s there if and when you’re ready. 🫶🏼💗

That’s where I’m writing you from. I think that’s maybe where I’ll always write from.

Not from the before.
Not from the after, because even though there is this romantic idea swirling around the interwebs that healing and living honestly — authentically, are some destination we arrive at, that’s just not the truth. Or fair to perpetuate, if I’m really honest.

I’m here in the middle, the part I used to run from and now choose to inhabit with my whole chest.

Somewhere between asking myself if I’m insane for wanting to stay in Bend through another winter of below-20 mornings and sitting in the exact seat I’m currently in when I wrote, “if I say I want a world where we get to be honest, then I can’t keep shrinking myself into silence when it’s hard,”
I realized this: I don’t want to wait until my life is tidy or impressive to invite people in. I want to build something real, right here in the honest, chaotic, beautiful middle of my becoming.

The Table grew out of that truth.

It’s a place for brave people learning to trust themselves again. For the curious ones who want to understand their own inner voice. For anyone navigating the quiet ache of wanting more — more clarity, more connection, more self-trust, more alignment — but feeling like they’re piecing their life together in real time.

For years now, I’ve been living inside my own reconstruction, trial by fire, trial by intuition, trial by “fuck it, I’m doing it anyway.”

Like the day I made an agreement with myself in Santa Cruz, California that I wouldn’t throw myself into the ocean, and I wouldn’t drink myself to death.

The day I handed back the life I bet my heart and future on in the form of a sweatshirt, closed the door of the van, and drove away from the guy I loved for the last time.

When I closed the book after reading the final pages of “Carry On, Warrior” by Glennon Doyle, clutching the worn paper like a precious artifact, staring out the plane window, feeling so very small, after leaving my family and everything I’d ever known behind.

With swollen eyes, bone-deep exhaustion, and a message on my heart that I knew would haunt me like a ghost for the rest of my life, when I finally opened up Google Docs and wrote the very first, most vulnerably honest lines of Braver, Not Fearless.

These small, disjointed moments somehow became the scaffolding of my life — the proof that self-trust isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a practice. A whisper. A decision you make in the middle of the mess.

Most of the time, bravery doesn’t look like a grand gesture.
It looks like getting out of bed when your mind is heavy.
It looks like telling the truth when it would be easier to pretend.
It looks like trying again. Showing up again. Listening again.
It looks like walking Wyatt at 9 AM even though your brain is screaming that you’re behind.
It looks like writing your book in parking lots and coffee shops and borrowed spaces because you refuse to wait for perfect conditions.

A quiet morning walk with Wyatt, when my mind was spinning, and still, the light refracted through the trees in such a way that made me pause and realize that I was actually living my own kind of Stars Hollow life. (iykyk)

Sitting this year at my 35th birthday celebration with friends who have known me for a little over 10 months and a friend who has known me for over 10 years realizing that this is the life I’ve built in real time. The love that’s shared.

The Table exists because I needed a place to put all of that.
A place where the messy middle wasn’t just allowed — it was honored.

This space is for the people who live with their hearts cracked open.
The people who are brave enough to still want things.
The people who want to build lives they recognize when they look in the mirror.

Here, we talk about:

• self-trust

• clarity

• communication

• rebuilding yourself

• choosing bravery even when you’re afraid

• the identity shifts that shake you awake

• the moments where everything changes quietly

• the truth underneath the noise

• the kind of transformation you feel more than you can explain

And we don’t do it from a mountaintop.
We do it from a table — one big enough for every version of who you’ve been and who you’re becoming.

All the best stories of my life have been told over food at a table.
Stories about heartbreak, hope, identity, loss, joy, reinvention, possibility.
Stories about the ache of wanting to be understood and the relief of finally being seen.

I imagine this Substack like that, a long wooden table, mismatched chairs, warm light, laughter layered over vulnerability. The good kind of quiet. The kind where people breathe deeper. The kind where your story finally feels like it belongs somewhere.

And if you’re here, I want you to know something:
You are not late.
You are not behind.
You are not supposed to have it all figured out.
You’re supposed to begin — right here, in the moment you’re in.

If you’re in a season of rebuilding, hi, welcome my dear.
If you’re learning how to trust yourself again, you’re in the best company, welcome.
If you’re tired of performing and ready to live a life that feels like you, cheers to that, I’m so glad you’re here.
If you’re standing in the middle of your life wondering where the hell to go next, this space has got your back.

Pull up your chair.
We begin exactly where you are.

Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s honest.
And honesty is tender.
Honesty has teeth.
Honesty costs something.

There was a night, a little over a year ago, when I felt the pieces of this perfectly curated facade I called my life start to crumble around the edges.
I sat in the van and said out loud,
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

On the sliding door step, where most of my existential benediction takes place, half-dressed in the clothes from the day, and half in the pajamas I hoped would keep me warmer. Staring at the night sky with the faint smell of decaying leaves moving through the trees, it was like the night air, biting my cheeks, was asking to finally reach the crevasses of my lungs that hadn’t been touched by oxygen in months.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment.
No slammed doors, no screaming into the sky, no movie-scene breakdown.
Just the quiet kind, the kind that creeps in when the day has been too long and your hope feels like it’s on its last thread.

My boyfriend at the time barely stayed long enough to finish chewing his food after our first Thanksgiving dinner with his family, before he got on the road to go hunting with the boys. He said he would leave in the morning, and yet I refused to cry as I watched the taillights disappear into the night.

The kind of moment where you sit with your back against the cabinet, cold seeping through your pants on the floor, legs pulled to your chest, and you feel stupid for crying because technically nothing is wrong — and yet everything feels wrong.

That night, I kept replaying every moment I’d ever quit on myself:

• the opportunities I walked away from because I felt unworthy

• the relationships I stayed in because I felt small

• the dreams I shelved because I thought I wasn’t ready

• the version of myself who kept waiting for permission that never came

Like the time I sent that email to cancel the event I had poured my heart into when the venue backed out, and instead of digging in harder, I was convinced it was because no one involved really believed in me.

And I thought,
“What if I’m doing it again? What if out of all the lives I could live, I’m choosing the one where I stay in the suffering?”

My eyes burn just thinking about this as I sit here, because part of me still believes that thought might be true.

And yet, I didn’t tell anyone.
Not a friend.
Not my mom.
Not Instagram.
Not even the journal that has seen all the other versions of me.

I just sat there, staring at the condensation on the windows, thinking,
“Maybe I’m not meant for the thing I keep reaching for.”

This life where I get to stand on stages and host rooms of people, all collectively believing that hope and connection aren’t just nouns, they are verbs, and they want to be a part of it. Together.

A life where my little girl never shrinks because she watches her mama tell the truth to strangers who become friends and create a safer world for both of them.

And then mid-ache—
this part is embarrassing—

**The rest of this story is for paid subscribers — the ones who want to sit a little closer to the truth with me.
If you want to keep reading, you can join The Table for $5/month or $44/year.
The Braver, Not Fearless discount (20% off) is available for a limited time.**

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I wrote a book.
And writing a book is nothing like what I thought it would be.

I thought it would feel like clarity. Like stepping into the next level of my life. But mostly, it felt like sitting in the fire of everything I used to hide behind — my work ethic, my confidence, my ability to make it look like I had it together when I didn’t.

Some days, I wrote in parking lots between long stretches of driving. Some days, I cried on the floor of my van wondering if I’d said too much or not enough. But every word demanded honesty—not the curated kind, the kind that burns off your ego and leaves you with what’s true.

One of my favorite lines from the book still catches me off guard:

“I used to think bravery was something you built once and carried forever. Turns out, it’s something you rebuild every time you refuse to abandon yourself.”

That line didn’t come from inspiration. It came from exhaustion—from learning that bravery isn’t about being fearless, it’s about being honest when fear shows up.

Writing Braver, Not Fearless cracked me open. It asked me to stop performing strength and start living it quietly—through boundaries, grace, and a willingness to stay in the room with myself when it got uncomfortable.

Another piece that still lives in my bones:

“The world doesn’t need more people pretending to be fearless.
It needs people who can stay—stay in the conversation, stay in their body, stay with themselves when the truth gets loud.”

That’s what the book became about. Not self-improvement—self-return. Not mastering confidence — remembering you already have it.

Every chapter is a conversation between who I was and who I’m becoming. And now that it’s out in the world, I can finally feel the through-line between everything I’ve ever made — this Substack, the She’s Hungry podcast, The Table community, and this book. They’re all built from the same heartbeat:
we’re all just trying to find our way back to ourselves.

So if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been—I’ve been here, learning to live the words I wrote.
And now, I’m ready to start sharing them with you again.

Pull up a chair. There’s a lot to talk about.

to the brave thing,

Cait

Also, PREORDER THE EBOOK VERSION OF BRAVER, NOT FEARLESS HERE:::

PREORDER HERE

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!! XOXOXOX

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Because the truth is, I am too much. At least if we are going to take back the idea that there is a metric to living human. Like what’s enough? Anyway, I’ve always been a lot. Too loud, too intense, too curious, too emotional, too dramatic, too high, too low (as my dad often says). I’ve been told that my whole life, and for a long time I believed that meant something was broken in me. Something to manage. Something to shrink. Something to reel in. Like I was a leaky faucet everyone was too polite to fix.

Here’s the thing no one tells you: when you start actually looking at yourself—really seeing where your sharp edges come from—you start noticing the parts that grew out of pain. The armor. The quick tongue. The endless word vomit that once kept you safe. And then the shame creeps in. You start thinking, God, I should sand this down. I should be softer, smaller, quieter. I should be a better listener (as if talking a lot and being a good listener are mutually exclusive). I should heal this part out of existence.

But I’ve realized something: every time I try to cut away my “too much,” I cut away pieces of my joy too. I don’t laugh as loud. I don’t light up in conversation. I don’t chase the things that make me come alive. And I’m so tired of believing the lie that I can only be lovable if I’m edited. Palatable. The high-road, evolved human.

Because if I’m always curating my emotions, always managing the moment, always trying to be the perfect version of myself—then I’m not actually living. I’m just playing a part in some performance I never auditioned for. And practicing control isn’t the same as practicing love.

I hate that I feel like not a single person, including myself, really knows me. It’s all masks, managing the moment.

In fact, let’s get reallll honest here. I used to have a formula I developed in college because I didn’t have girl-friends, and I was never the classic, tiny dress, perfect make-up, and high heels girl that all the hot guys flocked to. So I perfected the “cool girl” performance since I was never going to be the “effortlessly beautiful girl.” So I was the easy guy’s girl. The one who shrugs it off, who makes it fun, who keeps just enough distance that they have to chase. Then, when I felt the hook land, I’d drop a carefully chosen piece of my story, the kind that shows resilience but never mess. Just enough vulnerability to make me interesting, but not so much that they’d see how deep the ocean really runs in me.

And it always worked. They’d lean in. They’d want to be the one to hold me, to fix me, to finally unlock me. But they weren’t falling for me. They were falling for the puzzle. The mask. The mystery. Because I haven’t met a guy yet who doesn’t want to get the girl that no one gets.

But then I’d retreat. Because if you don’t know me when I’m spinning out with too many words, or when I’m crying at fireworks on New Year’s Eve because life feels both unbearably heavy and impossibly beautiful, then you don’t really know me at all and eventually this game gets boring and bolting isn’t hard.

So here’s where I’m landing: I don’t want to fix my too-muchness. I don’t want to always reel it back in like a dog on a leash. I don’t want to measure every story, every laugh, every word, in teaspoons, afraid of spilling.

I want to trust myself enough to let it spill. To believe that when I let it all out, when I get carried away and fall into the deep end of my own passion and my own fire—I can hold myself through the vulnerability hangover that follows. I don’t have to trust them to stay. I have to trust me not to abandon myself in the middle of practice.

And if someone can’t handle it? That’s not my indictment. That’s their limit.

This is my one, wild, silly little life. I’m not here to be small. I’m not here to play the game of being palatable. I’m here to live braver, not quieter. To keep tending the fire, even when it scares me. To practice staying soft and loud.

Because when I let myself burn, when I let the “too much” breathe—that’s when I actually feel most alive.

Xx, to the brave thing,
Cait

I’m turning everything I’ve learned about self-trust, heartbreak, and living out loud into my book Braver, Not Fearless, coming November 14 — the day I turn 35.

If you’ve been waiting for a sign to stop shrinking, this is it.

I’ve been carrying this question around lately like a pebble in my pocket. Every time I turn it over, it shows me something new.

For me, one of the answers has been dancing.

It’s funny, because this shouldn’t feel like a revelation. When I was a kid, I was in dance classes every week. But then I got hit by a car. I survived, of course, but looking back I wonder if something in me got knocked loose that day too. Because after that, I traded dance shoes for soccer cleats. I never went back. And for years, if anyone asked me to dance, I said no. My excuse? I’m bad at it.

But here’s the truth: that wasn’t the whole story. Somewhere inside, I still loved it.

It took years before I realized that joy doesn’t care if you’re good at it.

Recently I went to a bar in Montana and danced my ass off. No choreography, no plan, no partner to follow for parts. Just music and movement. And it felt like falling back in love with life. It turns out I’m not bad at dancing after all. I’m not especially “good” at it either, but that’s not the point. When I get out of my head long enough to trust my body, it remembers what to do. And that’s enough.

That night I laughed harder than I had in months. I left sweaty and free and alive. And it reminded me of something my grandmother once told me. She’s 87, and she said, “Caitie, never stop laughing and never stop dancing.”

At the time I brushed it off as one of those sweet Nana things. But lately I’ve realized she was onto something deeper than I even knew.

The point of all this isn’t that love means giving yourself away to joy without boundaries. Quite the opposite. Love, in its truest form, can still exist while withholding access. I’ve learned that I can love someone, want them to win, to soar through life, to be happy, even if I can’t be a part of their story anymore. (Stick with me, I’m going somewhere with this hard pivot lol)

That’s what love is to me: not control, not possession, not “all or nothing.” Love is cheering for someone’s wholeness, even from the sidelines.

And when I think about it, the experience of loving life mirrors that too. To love life is to let it be what it is — messy, imperfect, unpredictable — and still choose to root for it. Still choose to delight in it, even when you’re not in control of every outcome.

Love your life with chosen abandon. With meaningful, wholehearted abandon. Life gets unimaginably more valuable when we love it and love. And love, in case you haven’t heard, doesn’t need to make sense. It certainly doesn’t require us to be good at it.

So I’ll ask you:

What would you love if it didn’t have to make sense?

What joy is waiting for you outside of being taken seriously?

What’s worth doing badly, just because it makes you feel alive?

Because in a world that constantly pressures us to monetize everything, maybe the bravest thing you can do is keep something sacred. To laugh too loud. To dance off-beat. To do it for no reason other than it brings you back to yourself.

That’s what I’m learning. That’s what my Nana meant.

Never stop laughing. Never stop dancing.

This is also what Braver, Not Fearless is about — learning to live with the mess, with the uncertainty, with the imperfection. To choose joy and trust yourself enough to let it matter, even if you’re not “good at it” and it doesn’t make sense to a single person but you.

Xx, to the brave thing,

Cait

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If I wasn’t confident, if I didn’t feel qualified, then I didn’t belong in the room. So I studied. I researched. I convinced myself that if I just learned a little more, achieved a little more, then the fear would vanish and I’d finally be ready to present myself.

But here’s the truth no one tells you: waiting for “ready” is how dreams die quietly.

When I first learned about coaching, I thought I needed to become something more before I could claim it. Everyone around me would have said I was already coaching, already supporting, already qualified — but inside, I told myself I had to earn it. I thought: when I know enough, I’ll feel qualified. When I feel qualified, I’ll feel ready. And when I feel ready, I won’t feel afraid anymore.

That cycle kept me stuck for years. Because “ready” never came.

I filled journals with ideas. I filled my calendar with coaching programs, trainings, podcasts, and certifications. I filled my head with so much noise that I couldn’t hear the truth that was quietly humming underneath: I was already doing the thing I thought I wasn’t allowed to claim. But fear had convinced me that more preparation was safer than beginning. If I didn’t have the resumé then no one would take me seriously.

It took someone else seeing me and sending me a client referral with nothing more than a note that said, “You’ve always been ready. You were born for this,” to break the cycle Cait.

I was terrified, but I said yes.

And in that yes, something cracked open. I showed up to every session with shaking hands, carrying the fear that I wasn’t enough, that I might mess it up, that she would see straight through me. But I stayed anyway. And together, we watched her life shift: ending a toxic relationship, setting boundaries with her family, making space for the book she had always dreamed of writing.

What changed me most wasn’t just her choices, it was the confidence she found in herself. The way her voice sounded different at the end than it did in the beginning. The way she sat taller. The way she began talking about her life as if she had agency again. It was like watching someone remember themselves in real time.

And somewhere in her remembering, I began remembering too. I realized that real bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s showing up in the trembling, in the uncertainty, in the ache of not knowing if you can, and doing it anyway. (Spoiler: you can.)

Even the concept of “fearless” sets us up to fail, not only because it creates an impossible and inhuman expectation but it breeds a hollow way of living. It removes necessary tools of boundaries, self-awareness, and healthy communication skills. When we start removing the human moments that ask us to grow it actually creates the exact opposite of a braver and more resilient human, it creates fragility.

The goal is not and should never be to take the human experience at its realist out of living and call that strength. There is nothing brave about bowing out of the moment before its allowed to teach you anything. No feeling is final and yet we believe if we feel the fear that we will stop there and suffer, but that’s not what happens. Suffering happens when life forces us right back through the same fear and pain time and time again and that is when the exhaustion and hopelessness sets in.

Fear can’t be learned away. You can’t outthink it or outrun it. You can only move through it. Like if you were afraid of dogs, you don’t get unafraid by reading about dogs, you get unafraid by sitting with one with healthy boundaries, by letting your nervous system learn safety in the middle of the thing itself.

That’s what bravery really is: the practice of staying. The practice of living, even when you’re sad, anxious, uncertain, or scared. The practice of saying yes when your voice shakes, and choosing to trust that you’ll figure it out in real time.

So no, bravery doesn’t mean fearless. Bravery means this:

Do it scared.

Do it uncertain.

Do it sad.

But do it anyway.

This is the heartbeat of my upcoming ebook Braver, Not Fearless — because the life you want won’t wait for you to feel ready. And neither should you.

xx, to the brave thing,

Cait

________________

little update:

hello my loves!

Long time, no post! I acrually wrote this whole post from my phone because I forgot my laptop charger at my friend’s house and I wasn’t about to let that stop me but alas, it’s still annoying all the same.

Anyway, I have quite a lot of moving parts happening right now and I’m actually doing my best to narrow them down. Which I have been largely unsuccessful with up until this point because I genuinely love creating. I love podcasting, I love writing, I love posting on TikTok and Instagram too believe it or not! (I know saying that here is like… instantly blacklisted but I don’t care!)

Something I’m giving myself permission with lately is that instead of holding myself to the standard of consistency and creating an expectation I don’t really know how to meet with that quite yet, I’m going in with the standard of creation. So I will be posting here, I will be on TikTok, I will be on Instagram, and I will be podcasting too (more on the logistics of this later) but I’m going to allow myself to follow my creativity and not some weird deadline system. I have a funny feeling that doing it this way might naturally lend itself to this without force and I’m kind of excited to try!

Also I’m writing a book! Braver, Not Fearless!

It’s a practical memior that will help you learn how to trust yourself even when you’re afraid. Coming … November 14th! My birthday!

Okay, talk soon!

She’s Hungry Podcast on Spotify

She’s Hungry Podcast on Apple

Takeaways

• Life evolves and changes, and so should our expectations.

• Self-identity can be built on survival mechanisms.

• Grief can manifest as self-hate when we don't recognize ourselves.

• Mirror work is about acknowledgment, not just acceptance.

• Curiosity over criticism fosters a healthier self-dialogue.

• Building a new relationship with oneself takes time and effort.

• It's okay to feel lost and unsure; you're not alone.

• Your worst days don't define your worth.

• Embrace the messiness of being human.

• You are worth getting to know, no matter your past.

Keywords

self-identity, personal growth, mental health, self-acceptance, trauma, self-discovery, podcast, personal development, authenticity, self-love

I don’t know how to describe the last few weeks except to say, I’ve never felt more like myself and more undone by it at the same time.

This wasn’t the trip I imagined.
But I think that’s the point.

If you’ve been following along on Substack, then you know I took off in the van a few weeks ago. 1,600+ miles. Me, my dog, my thoughts, and every version of myself I’ve been avoiding.

I didn’t go looking for answers. I went looking for space to ask better questions.

And somewhere between the weight of my own expectations and the weight of the cooler I dragged down a rocky embankment in Coeur d’Alene, I cracked open. And not in the cute, Pinterest-road-trip, “omg this sunset healed my inner child” kind of way.

In the sitting on the van floor, covered in dirt, crying to my mom on the phone kind of way.

And still—this trip changed me.

I thought this would be the kind of solitude that delivers epiphanies.
You know, the romantic kind: deep breaths, starlit revelations, maybe a letter to my future self.
But what I got instead was an exhausting exercise in how many micro-decisions I could make before my nervous system waved the white flag.

Because here’s the truth no one tells you about living on the road:
It’s not a vacation. It’s life.
Just mobile.
And if you’re like me—neurodivergent, running a business, managing chronic uncertainty—then van-life becomes less about the destination and more about resource management and executive dysfunction.

Every new town was a puzzle:
Where do I charge my house batteries?
Where do I shower?
Where can I work that won’t glare at me for needing an outlet and bringing a dog?
Where’s the nearest Planet Fitness?
Where’s a flat place to sleep tonight?
And how do I keep Wyatt safe when it’s 90 degrees outside and I need to run the A/C that drains my batteries faster than I can recharge them?

I used to think “finding routine” was the magic trick.
Now I know the real trick is learning to adapt faster than the chaos can catch up.

There’s a story from Coeur d’Alene that I keep returning to.

It was one of those days where everything was already too much—the heat, the lack of shaded work spots, the logistics of charging the van, the looming weight of medical decisions I didn’t feel ready to make.

So I decided to say fuck it.
I grabbed Wyatt, my camera, my tripod, my cooler—yes, my actual cooler—and hauled all of it down a muddy hill to find a sliver of shade and a sliver of peace.

But then a group of screaming kids ran up behind us. Wyatt spooked. I slipped. My body met the dirt. Everything I carried scattered. I was bleeding, bruised, soaked, and still clutching my camera bag over my head like it was the only thing holding me together.

And no one helped.
Not a single kid paused or offered a hand.

I wanted to scream.
Instead, I sat in the mess.
And then I breathed.

And something in me said,
This, too, is part of it.

That moment didn’t heal me.
But it changed me.

It reminded me that resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just the quiet decision to keep showing up—to wipe the blood off your legs, gather your things, and try again tomorrow.

I kept going. To Sandpoint, ID, and then took a big fuck it leap to Cranbrook, BC (because I had never been to Canada), then to Fernie, BC, and then finally to Waterton, Alberta, where I hiked Bearhump Trail alone and sat at the summit in a moment of stillness so thick it felt ancient.

To Whitefish, Montana, where someone asked me the question I never quite knew how to answer:
“So… where’s home for you?”

And for once, I didn’t spin into a complicated, long-winded answer about where I was born or where I pay taxes.

Because the truth had already landed, days earlier, quietly, without fanfare:
Home isn’t a zip code. It’s a feeling.
A resonance. A click. A quiet yes.

Sometimes I find it in the way light hits the side of a mountain.
Sometimes in a stranger’s laugh.
Sometimes it’s just the peace in my own body after a really long cry.

And that kind of home?
I can take with me.
I can carry it inside.

I started this trip hoping to reclaim something.
My time. My confidence. My sense of control.

But I didn’t find control.
I found surrender.

And in that surrender, I found something sturdier than fire.
Something that doesn’t just burn, but holds.
The mountain.

Coming home looks different now.
It feels different now too.

Which is why I’m coming home to myself.
To the version of me that knows how to stand in a room and say,
“What you want matters. And you are not crazy for wanting it.”

And that’s why I’m coming back to She’s Hungry.

The podcast. The Substack. The mission.
The truth is—I never should’ve left.
And honestly? I don’t think I did. I think I just had to go gather the parts of me I left behind.

So if you’re still reading, if you’ve followed me through the pivots and plot twists—thank you. Truly.
This space is for us.
For the ones who are still searching.
For the ones still becoming.
For the ones trying to find home in a world that keeps moving.

I don’t know what comes next. But I know I want to keep building it with you.

PS: I’m planning an in-person event here in Portland soon. If you want to be the first to know, make sure you’re subscribed here and following me on Instagram. Because I believe that real change starts in brave conversations. And I want to host the kind of rooms where we stop pretending and start remembering.

PPS: If you’re feeling lost—maybe you’re not.
Maybe you’re just remembering what it feels like to come home to yourself.

She shares the messy middle of van life—managing power systems, finding safe places for her dog, and learning to surrender her expectations. This episode is for anyone feeling untethered, in transition, or unsure where they belong. Spoiler: the answer might not be a place—it might be you.

You’ll hear about:

• The truth about solo van life and executive dysfunction

• A very real meltdown in Coeur d’Alene (and what it taught her)

• Why routine tricks us into thinking we’re safe

• What it means to find home in a moment, not a map

• Why Cait is rebranding everything back to She’s Hungry

Keywords (SEO): van life podcast, solo travel mental health, finding home within yourself, neurodivergent travel story, redefining home, van life struggles, Coeur d'Alene van life, she's hungry podcast, Cait Pearson, emotional self-discovery, travel burnout recovery

🎧 Listen now and share with a friend who’s been searching for their place in the world.

“There are just so many things that could go wrong,” she said.

And I get that. I really do.

Because when something is unfamiliar, the fear gets louder.

It paints worst-case scenarios like they’re guarantees.

But I found myself saying—

“You’re just as likely to get into a car accident driving to work as you are driving down a road you’ve never been on in Montana.”

The danger isn’t new.

It’s just that routine convinces us we’re safe.

You drive the same route every day and your brain starts calling it certainty.

But comfort and safety aren’t the same thing.

Familiarity doesn’t make the risk disappear.

It just makes you forget you’re taking it.

So you might as well go somewhere that shifts something inside you.

Somewhere that reminds you you’re alive.

Because here’s the difference—

One version of you arrives drained and dreading.

The other arrives braver than you thought you were.

And that’s what makes the risk worth it to me.

Not because it’s safe.

But because you are.

Especially when you trust yourself enough to go anyway.

If this made you feel something—follow along.

I talk about this kind of brave sh*t all the time.

to the Brave thing,

C

I just got back from a solo trip that spanned 1,618 miles.

There was no one in the passenger seat to pass snacks to. No one to split gas money with or take turns choosing the playlist. To reflect on sites seen or which direction to go.

There was just me, the dog, and the quiet thrum of my own heartbeat. Sometimes steady, sometimes anxious, sometimes so full of awe it felt like it might burst. And it did, over and over. I left trails of tears in every incredible view I saw.

And I need to say this, plain and clear:

It was worth it.

Every unglamorous second, and there were many. Vanlife is hard, let’s leave it at that.

Every unsure turn, u-turn, and I-think-I-made-a-mistake-but-now-I-have-to reverse-down-this-very-narrow-rocky-road-on-a-cliff-side-because-did-I-forget-I-don’t-have-4-wheel-drive?

Every moment I wondered if I should’ve waited until someone could come with me because there would be no one to reflect on this view with, and the profound realizations when I’m 90.

Every time I had to negotiate between seizing the road less traveled or being recklessly foolish.

Every person I met, danced with, and drank with, choosing between bits of truth to be known and taking care of myself and my safety.

There are so many negotiations, choices, risks, and wildly beautiful triumphs.

Because somewhere between the music I had to play too loud on the trail because I was afraid of bears which made me cry so hard I had to catch my breath because … I was alone and the stillness of the sky and the 12 shooting stars I saw before my eyes couldn’t stay open any longer, I felt it click in my body—

Yes, I’m alone, but I am not waiting anymore, ever. Because counting on or waiting for someone to come is asking to control something outside of myself, and that’s risking a life I’m perfectly capable of living right now.

The stars and mountain peaks as my witnesses.

Because can you imagine missing this because you won’t have anyone to reminisce with when you’re an age you don’t even know if you’re going to make it to when you’re staring at the living yes right now?

I don’t know when we’re taught to believe we need permission to go after what we want, when we had to be realistic in the pursuit. What the fuck even is that?

But I do know the message is loud, and persistent. Wait until you’re ready. Wait until you’re partnered. Wait until you’re more financially stable, less emotional, more certain. Wait until it makes sense to other people. Until someone cheers you on.

But that’s the lie.

That’s how whole decades pass by.

That’s how you wind up building a life that looks right but feels wrong.

Here’s what I know now: admitting you want something more, before you know how you’ll get it, is a brave thing to do. One of the bravest, actually. It’s a top-of-the-mountain kind of realization. One that shifts something deep in your bones.

Because once you see it, once you feel the clarity of “more” ring out through your chest—you can’t unsee it. More importantly, your soul can not unknow it.

You can never fit your wild truth back into a box.

You’re standing on the peak, and suddenly, you’re not wondering whether it’s okay to go ahead.

You’re wondering why you ever thought you had to wait.

I don’t think people talk enough about how lonely those moments can feel.

Not because you’re unloved or unsupported, but because most people are still convincing themselves they’re fine in the valley. They’re still waiting for permission. Or partnership. Or proof that it will work.

Or to like themselves enough to think they are worth living for. Yeah, read that again.

So when you’re the one who climbs, it can feel like betrayal. A little like you’re abandoning people by choosing yourself, all the while getting a little bit annoyed that we live in a world that a lot of actual living has to be done alone, because the people that bet on themselves are too few and far between.

Or maybe that your people won’t like who you’ll be when you get back, and they’ve moved on.

But the truth is: you’re not abandoning anyone—you’re answering a call.

And life moves too fast to keep waiting for someone to catch up before you say yes to what’s calling you forward.

Sometimes we have to go alone so we can hear ourselves think.

Sometimes we have to go alone because no one else can walk the stretch we’re on—not yet.

Sometimes we go alone not because we’re brave, but because staying still is finally scarier than the unknown.

So we pack the car.

We grab the dog.

We go anyway.

Scared. Uncertain. Alive.

And somewhere in the middle of nowhere, we remember who we are.

We find pieces of ourselves that were shooting through Montana skies, or swimming in Canadian glacier lakes, tiny reminders that as much as we want company, your own when it comes down to it is more than enough. You are enough.

The one who didn’t wait.

The one who didn’t abandon herself.

The one who climbed anyway.

That’s who you become.

And once you meet her, you’ll never be the same again.

⸻

If you’re standing at the edge of something and wondering if you should go—let this be your sign: you already know.

You don’t need more clarity. You need more trust.

And maybe just a little courage to do the brave thing before it feels easy.

Go.

Go alone.

Go scared.

Go now.

Your life is waiting.

To the brave thing,

PS. If you’ve been waiting on podcast episodes, they are coming! Since I’ll be in one space for the next month and some change, I’m going to nail down my setup for road recording and to make sure I can stay consistent when I want to be because I did want to record, between tech and internet it was just too much.

ALSO, if I hosted a live event/live podcast recording next month… would you attend? I’m co-hosting an event in Portland, OR with a friend of mine before I have surgery and trying to decide if people would watch if I streamed it live. Answer the poll below!

I loveeee you!

And here is the route I took for my trip!

The high-level trek details:

Hood River, OR → Spokane, WA = 289 miles

Spokane, WA → Coeur d’Alene, ID = 33 miles

Coeur d’Alene, ID → Sandpoint, ID = 46 miles

Sandpoint, ID → Cranbrook, BC = 113 miles

Cranbrook, BC → Random Campsite, BC = 51 km ~ 32 miles

Random Campsite, BC → Bear Lake, BC = 60km ~ 37 miles

Bear Lake, BC → Fernie, BC = 116km ~ 72 miles

Fernie,BC → Waterton, AB = 172km ~ 107 miles

Waterton, AB → Whitefish, MT = 198km ~ 123 miles

Whitefish, MT → Glacier National Park = 76 miles x 2 = 152 miles

Whitefish, MT → Big Fork, MT = 34 miles x 2 = 68 miles

Whitefish, MT → Hood River, OR = 546 miles

= 1,618 miles or 2604km

I’m sitting under a pavilion at a picnic table in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. It’s hot. Quieter than I expected along the river for the week of the 4th of July. And if I’m honest, I’ve been here longer than I thought I would.

Back in January, I imagined this trip would feel like a homecoming. Like freedom. Like some wild and romantic reclamation of self. I thought I’d be driving through landscapes that stitched me back together. I thought I’d feel more... me by now.

But instead? It’s been quieter than that. Slower. A little hollow in places.

Not broken. Not painful. Just… stripped down. Like I brought myself to the mountains hoping they’d flood me with clarity, and instead they handed me silence. Space. The kind of space where all the things I thought I’d escaped find me again—just in a different outfit.

I’ve been chewing on this: maybe I wasn’t running toward freedom. Maybe I was still trying to outrun the ache. The grief of a life I thought I’d be living by now. The dream that didn’t pan out. The person who didn’t stay. The future that, if I’m honest, was more fragile than I wanted to admit.

That my heart still wants to make something beautiful out of the life I had to walk away from—like if I shine it up enough, maybe I’ll feel like I won.

And yet… even as I sit here with those truths, I feel stronger than I’ve felt in months.

Not because it’s easy. But because I’m facing it. I’m not pretending the plan worked. I’m not gaslighting myself into silver linings. I’m standing in what is—and I’m still choosing to build and believe.

That’s the quiet win no one claps for.

Here’s the realness: sometimes you build an entire chapter of your life around something that doesn’t hold. And what lingers isn’t always heartbreak—it’s the echo of who you were when you still believed it could work. It’s the ache of trying to make something beautiful out of the rubble just so you can say it was worth it.

But lately I’ve realized… I’m what makes it worth it. The way I keep showing up. The way I keep listening for what’s real, even when the road is silent. The way I keep asking better questions and refusing to settle just because it’s safer.

And here’s another truth I’ve been circling: I want to be the one who fuels this life. Not just the dreamer of it, but the builder, the driver, the one who funds it, chooses it, owns it. There’s something deeply clarifying about realizing that no one’s coming to hand me the life I want. I’m the one. It’s me. And that power is mine to claim.

I get to create a beautiful life because I do.

And I know, my life probably looks like freedom from the outside. It might even sound like freedom.
And you wouldn’t be wrong. But two things can be true.
This version of the dream? I’m deeply grateful for it.
But if this was the peak? If this was the legacy I left behind?
I’d resent the hell out of myself for settling here.
And that’s not a failure. That’s a signal. It means I’m not done yet.

What I want is crystal clear now:
I want to live a life so full of my own choosing it feels like truth in motion.
I want a love that sees me and stays.
I want to build the house, buy the land, write the book, have the family.
I want to take the long road, not because it’s hard, but because it’s mine.

So maybe that’s what this summer is really about.
Not arrival.
But recognition.
Not a big breakthrough—but a steady remembering of who I am, what I value, and why I’m here.

Maybe you’re there too.
In your own version of the quiet middle.
Where things aren’t falling apart, but they’re not quite clicking yet either.
Where the dream feels blurry around the edges, but something in you knows it’s still alive.

Maybe the not-quite-there isn’t a problem to fix.
Maybe it’s the exact place your power is being recalibrated.

Here’s what I know: the life I want doesn’t live in some imagined future.
It lives in the choices I make now, the stories I stop rehearsing, the values I live loudly as the vision comes into focus, and the brave things I do even when no one’s watching.

And right now, that knowing—however quiet—is enough to keep going.
Not because I have to.
But because I get to.

Want to be a guest on the Chronically Over It podcast?
Or know someone who should be?
Submit your info here!

Afraid you won’t figure it out? Use my eBook to reframe that fear into something that empowers you.

• Starter Kit: Reframing Fear Ebook

  • The Reframing Fear ebook isn’t about getting rid of fear—it’s about learning how to work with it so it stops working against you.

The fights we think we’re winning, because women now have platforms, because more voices are being heard, because we understand the value in creating more seats at the table, are actually masking something deeper. Something more invisible. But maybe we’re missing the new boxes they are trying to fit us inside. The ones built around virality and marketability and being the most palatable version of ourselves online. And we’re walking into them with open arms, handing the packing peanuts and tape over with disassociated smiles on our faces because this time, they’re disguised as freedom and progress.

We used to be conditioned to believe that women had to fight for the one seat at the table. That that’s just how it was. Because men ran the boardrooms, it made sense that we needed to take what we could get. So many of us believed it. That belief is how we ended up with “catty woman culture.” That belief is what led to entire movements about women supporting women and trying to figure out what that support really looks like. What it means. What it doesn’t.

And we’ve done the same thing with love. We (as in the collective we) thought, okay, relationships are ultimately about procreation. So love, deep, lasting, recognized love, was meant for a man and a woman. And most of the world nodded and said, “Yeah, that makes sense.” But we never stopped to consider that maybe it doesn’t. That love was never about procreation in the first place. That having children can happen in many ways. That love doesn’t require a specific set of parts. That gender isn’t about parts. That identity is expression. And expression is yours. Entirely your own.

So we fought. We still fight. Because those outdated ideas aren’t just old—they’re harmful. Violent, even. People are dying because of them. So we fight.

But what I want to introduce, what I want to name, is that I think something very similar is happening again, right now, right in front of us, and we don’t see the harm (overtly) because this new way of being makes sense in the world we’ve built. It makes sense given the landscape of the internet and how it’s evolved.

What I mean is this: shrinking to be relevant, morphing into online personalities, becoming brandable, thinking in content formats, ingesting and ingesting, more and more curated online experiences, it’s changing us, how could it not?

They say the best way to learn a new language fluently is to immerse yourself in where it’s spoken, i.e. the country/landscape of origin. I think we need to consider that this is exactly what’s happening with the language of the internet since social media took form. It’s changing how we relate to each other. It’s changing what we say, how we say it, what we prioritize, and what we even think is worth sharing. It’s changing how we date, what we talk about on dates, and how we feel safe (or not) in those spaces. We’re editing our sentences so they don’t have too many commas or em dashes because we don’t want people to think we’re AI. We’re over-correcting our speech patterns and our syntax because god forbid something gets misread. On Substack, the sweet spot is apparently three to four minutes of reading. And I’ve never written anything worth reading—true for me, in less than six.

So I start to wonder if I don’t fit. And if I don’t fit, do I need to shrink, to shift? Do I need to edit more? Because I want to be seen. I want to be accepted. I want to belong. But what if the thing I’m cutting out to belong is the exact thing that makes me human? What if our humanity is being edited right out of us and we’re smiling through it because atleast “I get to make a living from it and be my own boss”, right? It’s freedom wearing a new coat, but make sure it’s on brand not just that you like it.

Read more

I was reminded—loudly—of the kind of space I always wanted to create. Not just content. Not just community. But something bigger. Something deeper. Something that actually holds people while they build the lives they want instead of the lives they think they’re supposed to settle for.

This episode is where it all starts to take shape.

I talk about:

• The actual origin story behind my coaching and podcast work

• Why I believe we don’t need more strategy—we need more spaces where it’s safe to ask brave questions

• The importance of building a life with both emotional depth and structural clarity

• Why the She’s Hungry podcast was the first yes that started all of this, and why I’m bringing its energy back now—but evolved

I’m not starting over.
I’m starting from the exact middle of where I am right now—with clarity, momentum, and a vision that’s finally ready to take up space.

It’s the beginning of something I’ve been circling for years. And this time, I’m letting it land.

The last couple of weeks, I’ve taken some time away from Substack, as I loved the writing routine I had and how my neurodivergent brain thrives there was an itch at the back of my brain and a tug on my heart that I needed to explore.

So as I do, I answered the call, or at least followed the curiosity. This year, but more specifically, the summer has been declared the time for exploration in the van. I want to go places I haven’t seen, touch things I haven’t touched, bask in light in places my younger self would dance around with elated joy that I made it happen.

I’ve also been inspired to pick up my camera again. One of the many hats I wear is photographer, editorial photographer, to be more specific. Telling stories, or capturing images that inspire a story within the viewer, is something I put at the center of how I shoot. I want you to look at my work and either want to be there, or remember a time you felt like you were. Either way sparks emotion, and that’s the best compliment an artist can get.

So naturally, because I have spent more time shooting and editing, I have spent less time writing. At least here, for and on this platform. I even took last week off the podcast. And there was a time in my life when that would have freaked me out. I would lose subscribers, lose momentum, get off track, lose interest. And there was a very small sliver of that at first, but quickly, then came the feeling of a shoulder shrug because I truly believe that what is on my heart to explore isn’t taking away from anything at all. It absolutely can’t be, and I’ll get into why the more I embody that, the more it feels true in a minute. Story time first because humans and silly mistakes and and/both, divine timing, and surrender or something.

Yesterday, I was driving from Ashland, Oregon, back to Portland to fix my air conditioner. The original plan was to drive from Portland to Santa Cruz, down to Carmel, then to Menlo Park to see friends, and then back to Bend, Oregon, where the journey would continue north to Montana by way of Spokane (both places I haven’t yet been before).

But I realized the day I was heading out from Portland that my house AC (the one that is located on the top of the van to cool the “house” portion of the vehicle) wasn’t turning on. My friends who are here in Portland know far more about the intricacies of electricity, but I had to leave, and the weather where I was headed wasn’t going to need it anyway, so the plan then changed, and I would have to come back.

I arrived yesterday after 12 hours of driving, divided between two days, for my friend to flip the switch on my AC (alternating current for those who don’t know) box, and the air conditioner came to life. Again, for a very small sliver of a second, I was so mad about wasted time and wasted gas and and and.

But here is the thing about all of this. As much energy as I could and have spent in the past on being annoyed at wasted time or being nervous about losing subscribers or people’s interest, is the exact amount of energy it would take to choose to believe something else.

This isn’t about toxic positivity or telling myself inflated statements that aren’t grounded in anything real or true, but more about the power of awareness in how often I choose a perspective that doesn’t serve me in things and situations that just are.

The drive was done, and it turns out that I get to be here for a friend of mine whose mom just passed away, I get to take care of all my doctor’s appointments I’ve been putting off, and I get to utilize no sales tax on getting my air conditioner remote and my tail light cover replaced before I head out. ‘

I also got to be on the highway yesterday when a 19-year-old girl was run off the road by a guy who merged while she was in his blind spot. He side-swiped her and kept going. She veered into the grass median to then overcorrect, 360 through all three lanes of highway without (miraculously) getting hit, and ended up smashed front end into the grass ditch on the right side of the Northbound highway.

This all happened right in front of me in slow motion. I immediately pulled over and ran to her car. She was physically unharmed but was hysterically crying as we waited for the police and the tow truck for her smashed car to arrive. I once spun out on the highway in the snow. I wasn’t hit, and my car was fine, but seeing all those cars coming toward me as I was spinning was a type of fear I won’t soon forget. All I could think was I didn’t want her to be alone with that fear.

Later, when the police were asking me the details about the accident, the man asked, “What made you stop?” I told him exactly that. He said, “Most people don’t stop.” So later, when I was standing in a driveway, listening to the hum of the air conditioner that wasn’t broken, cooling my house, I chose to remember that girl. Maybe it is all in benefit to us after all.

I want to acknowledge that I am a white, cisgender, middle-class woman in a first-world country, and that affords me a lot more choices and options than so many have. That is just true.

What is also true is that the only person who gets to decide what we allow to take in and make a home inside of us, stories about who we are, or what is possible about us, is us. We may not have control over what happens to us, or what is fair, or just, or kind. But we have a say in how it influences us, and that choice permeates everything I’m finding. I had to decide.

I have to keep deciding.

Nothing you choose with your heart is “getting off track” or “falling behind.” Everything is meant to serve you, and the best things can’t find you if you settle only for what’s good enough.

You are built for wild and beautiful things, and all that is in your heart to be realized, and nothing you do in the direction of holding that true in your chest can pull you away from that. You are worthy because you are.

I heard this yesterday in a guided visualization on my wildest dreams, “this or something better.”

This or something better.

to the brave thing,

p.s. I love you.

This week, I sat down to record an episode with no outline, no bullet points—just a full heart and a messy brain. The only thing I knew was that I needed to talk about this idea that’s been chasing me down lately:

What’s meant for you will not miss you.

I wrote it on my whiteboard. And then I added: No exceptions.

That part surprised me. Because if I really believed it, why would I feel the need to clarify that? Probably because somewhere deep inside, there’s still a part of me that thinks maybe I’m the exception. Maybe I’m the one person who could do all the right things and still end up empty-handed. Maybe I missed my window. Or made the wrong choice. Or stayed too long in the wrong story.

But then I think about the math of being alive—how the odds of existing as you are, in this moment, are 1 in 400 trillion. And I remember: That’s what a miracle is.

You are not here by accident. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not the one person this won’t work out for.

You are on purpose.

Even if you’re limping toward what you want. Even if the timeline looks different than you imagined. Even if you’ve made decisions that don’t make sense to anyone but you.

Especially then.

I talked in the episode about how I’ve always made choices from a place of inner truth, even when they came with consequences I didn’t anticipate. At 16, I quit soccer (for only a season) after tearing my ACL—but that choice, for that one season, changed the trajectory of my life. But I knew it was the right decision, even when it hurt. Even when it didn’t make sense to other people.

And that’s how I’ve lived most of my life. Not with a five-year plan, but with an inner compass. And sometimes that compass points to places that feel terrifying. Sometimes it feels like walking blindfolded through the dark. But every time I trust it, it gets louder. Clearer.

The truth is, we don’t get to know how it ends. But we do get to choose how we show up in the middle.

And the middle is where the magic is.

So if you’re here—confused, tired, maybe even doubting if you’re still “on track”—I want you to remember this:

The way your heart aches? The way you cry at both sunsets and commercials? The way you feel too much, want too much, try so damn hard to make it all matter?

That’s not evidence that you’re too much. That’s proof you’re still open.

And that’s everything.

So no—you're not the exception.
You're the evidence.
That healing and hurting can coexist.
That not knowing doesn't mean you're lost.
That becoming is messy—and still sacred.

You’re not late.
You’re just in it.
And you’re doing the brave thing.

Keep going. No exceptions.

to the brave thing,

In a world that requires you to mask just to survive, that’s a losing battle. It keeps you in a chaotic, chronic loop of perfectionism, burnout, and boundary-less shape-shifting in the name of “figuring it out.”

And you know it doesn’t work for you.

So let me ask a better question:

What if instead of “Who am I?”

We started with “How am I?”

And I don’t mean that in a fluffy, “check in with your big feelings” way.

Because if you’re anything like I was, your feelings are just… circulating. Constantly.
Sad. Exhausted. Disassociated. Frustrated.
Those are the regulars.
And the happy moments? Fleeting. Suspicious, even.

You start wondering—Is this real? Is it a pattern? Is it a mask again? Is it trauma pretending to be joy?

You want it to make sense. Because if it makes sense, maybe you can trust it. Maybe then, it’s real. Maybe then, it’s you.

But it never quite lands like that, does it?

Okay okay. Take a walk with me.

Here’s what I do know:

Throughout my life, no matter what was falling apart, I’ve always had this quiet, blind faith that I’d figure it out eventually. Even when I felt like I was drowning, I never really believed I’d stay stuck. That kind of quiet determination? That’s me. That’s the thread I always come back to.

I believe in the pivotal moments—the ones that change you. The ones you don’t realize matter until later, when everything’s already different.

For me, it was choosing track instead of soccer.
It was choosing food photography instead of all the other genres they handed me.
It was choosing Portland when I didn’t have the money or the plan to prove it would work.
It was choosing the van when I had a “nice” life and a business that “worked.”

Not all of those stories have happy endings. But that’s not the point.

The point is: I chose. And when I chose, I did it from a place of integrity. From a place of trust. From a place that sometimes only knew what was currently happening wasn’t working anymore. And listening to that knowing mattered more than what happened next.

I used to think self-trust was this big, noble thing. Like, if I worked hard enough to heal, or journaled enough, or figured out the right morning routine, then one day I’d wake up and just… know who I am. Like the version of me underneath all the masks would introduce herself and we’d be good to go.

But no one tells you how quiet that version is, and how wildly inconsistent she is in spite of all the work you do to create a safe environment for her to do so.

How sometimes she doesn’t show up with clarity—she just shows up with resistance. With unease. With the feeling that something’s off and no longer aligned, and that’s all you get. And your job is to listen anyway.

Your job is to not abandon her when she doesn’t have a plan.

And that’s where I’ve been lately.

Sitting with the resistance. Letting the grief come up for all the times I was so good at being everything for everyone—and really, truly, I didn’t hate it. I actually loved her. I just know now I can’t sustain her. Not if I want to live.

Not if I want to feel like I’m mine.

So maybe we’ll never fully figure out who we are.

Maybe that’s not the requirement.

Maybe the only thing that’s ever really mattered is congruency—showing up, right now, in a way that feels honest, even if you don’t have the words for it yet.

That doesn’t require a label.
That doesn’t require a brand.
That doesn’t require a breakthrough.

It just requires courage.

And maybe a little less self-analysis. And a little more trust. LOL, imagine that!?

I’m working on it too.
Let’s figure out how we are, together.

💬 PS: If this post hit like a hug and a gut-punch at the same time… I just opened up something new.

It’s called The Mirror Call—a 60-minute 1:1 space to reflect, reframe, and remember your way forward with me.

Not a coaching package. Not therapy.
Just one honest hour where you bring the thing that feels heavy, sticky, or loud—and I help you find language for it. We sit in it together. And by the end, you’ll have more clarity, more self-trust, and at least one reframe that softens the noise.

No pressure, just faith.

You can book here if it speaks to you:
👉🏽 Book a Mirror Call