It’s a surreal feeling to approach a new chapter without the faintest idea of what comes next. I’ve always been a planner, meticulous and precise—but all that planning often led to disappointment. Nothing ever seemed to unfold the way I envisioned. After a string of setbacks, I found myself growing impatient with the healing process. I was exhausted. I felt like I’d done the heavy lifting—shed the tears, learned the lessons, endured the pain. I was ready to arrive at the other side already. But instead, I hit a wall of hopelessness. What else was left to try?
So, I did something completely out of character for a perfectionist: I surrendered. I let it all go, every carefully constructed plan, every timeline. I lit them on fire and chose to trust the process and take life week by week (or sometimes day by day).
The first thing I discovered was that letting go didn’t feel like loss. It felt like freedom. I found less disappointment and more curiosity. I stayed open. I stopped forcing outcomes. I focused on effort over expectation, discipline over perfection, and gave myself grace. This taught me patience, something I had forever struggled with.
I remember thinking I could heal and rebuild within a year. I gave myself twelve months to recover from multiple lifequakes: the deaths of loved ones, open-heart surgery, divorce, moving, a totaled car, the unraveling of friendships, and health scares. When the year passed and I wasn’t “healed” and rocking a better credit score… I was crushed. This wasn’t the plan.
But instead of giving up, I continued therapy and deep self-inquiry. I asked myself: What’s my part? What can I change? I reevaluated every relationship. It didn’t matter how many years of history we shared, if someone disrupted my peace… they had to go. There was a season of solitude, and yes, depression. But I nurtured the connections that were healthy, the ones who loved me in my silence, who stayed even when I couldn’t give much. Slowly, I began to understand what healthy love was (and was not). Now, I’m surrounded by people who see me, respect me, and support my growth. Some have been there all along.
I also finally answered a long-standing dream: I went back to school. No hesitation, no overthinking. I woke up one day and said, Fuck it—I’m doing this. I did orientation the next day and started classes the following week.
Now, I’m approaching the end of a year defined by discipline and resilience. I’ve grieved the loss of my brother Eric, navigated friendships ending, celebrated my daughter getting her first apartment, wrote a book, launched a podcast, and balanced it all while working and in a rigorous accelerated program. I’ve looked at my own faults and faced the work I needed to do within myself. Just a few weeks remain, and I’m still standing—healthy, focused, and proud of myself (but still a little in disbelief).
I still don’t know what the future holds, what career path will accept me with open arms, or even what my schedule could look like for the rest of the year. I’ve applied to everything from global corporations to grassroots nonprofits to local hospitals. I have a podcast interview scheduled in Nashville, upcoming media gigs, and workshops on the horizon for my new book.
There was a time when I deeply related to Sylvia Plath’s Fig Tree—the image of a woman paralyzed by choices, watching each fig (each life path) rot as she fails to choose. That was me once. But now? I know I’m not meant to pick just one fig. I am a dynamic blend of creative and analytical, heart and science, logic and magic. I may not know where I’ll land—but it won’t be forced. It will feel like alignment. And I trust that.
As I approach the final pages of this chapter, I feel excitement instead of fear. I believe in myself. I know that every ending carries the seed of a new beginning. I also know I now have the tools and skills to get through anything. Many chapters ago, I couldn’t have imagined this myself in this moment—but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
