Recent

What do you do when your whole soul wants to create impact…

and your whole nervous system wants to disappear?

Because that’s where I’ve been.
And maybe you’ve been there too.

Recently I noticed myself sinking into a confusing but very familiar space.

As I downsize and try to “stay small” to wrap up some projects before stepping into my next career era, I watched myself move through a few phases:

An antsy desire to just do the fun things instead of the necessary things that felt boring, tedious, and uninspiring.

Chasing dopamine: wanting to create new things, get “bigger,” help more people. (Ideas are never an issue for me.)

Holding myself back on purpose, because I understood the greater goal… and then feeling a little down, with a side of shame.

From there, a desire to get much, MUCH “smaller” — to disappear completely.

What a fascinating tug-of-war on my psyche.

Get big out of service!
No, out of discomfort!
No, get big because it’s fun!

No, no, no, stay small. Be wary. Don’t trust yourself to stay small.

Now feel shame and disappear before the shame is seen by others.
Disappear completely because what the hell were you thinking?!

Who I AM changes the world.

How might you live differently if you believed that were true?
I—bone deep—know who I would be.

For years, my drive home from Christmas holidays with family has been my six hours of deep reflection—my 70mph temple for goal and intention setting for the new year.

In the last couple of years, I’ve added a November practice: setting the tone by clearing mental and emotional hurdles before that December planning sprint.

This year, my “pre-game” looked like a mix of:

Personal meditation

Marinating in what’s making me uncomfortable (aka: honest acceptance)

Star’s local Badass Manifestation group

A Lifehack Method mantra training

And—believe it or not—working with AI to extract themes from my writing and point me toward my guiding principles

In the background, I can feel it: it’s time to slow down and live more deeply—a strong pull to be more meditative and intentional and embody the “wizened elder.” I feel called to create in the physical world (not just ideas and programs, but actual objects). And I feel a fierce drive to create meaningful community in an increasingly isolated and siloed world.

Of course, when the rubber hits the road, that brings up a lot of feelings—feelings that need to be acknowledged and worked through. As I dug deeper, I realized my protective parts feel: overwhelm, shame, fear, dread, pressure, grief, boredom, longing, excitement, hope, humor, defiance, pride, sovereignty, relief, determination, rebellion, playfulness, wildness, aliveness, and power.

Our brains love to play Mental Health Mad Libs.

“I feel a sensation! It’s different! What is it?!”

And then—off they go—filling in the blanks with possibilities that range from the predictable to the wildly imaginative. Just like the old game, you never quite know what you’ll get, but one thing is certain: things are about to get interesting.

I’ve seen it in clients, and I’ve seen it in myself.

The insomniac feels heavy and foggy and fills in the blank: “I’m depressed.”
But sometimes, the truth is simpler: “I’m just tired.”

The perimenopausal person wakes in the night with a pounding heart and declares, “I’m anxious!”

Then the brain adds its favorite follow-up stories: “I’m failing as a parent.” “I’m losing my edge.” “I’m in crisis.”

When really? It might just be “A hot flash woke me up.”

And then there’s the perfectionistic adult with undiagnosed ADHD who sits down to work and—thirty seconds later—gets up for tea, then laundry, then a random scroll.

By noon, they’re declaring, “I’m lazy. I can’t focus. I’ll never finish anything.”
But if we slow it down, the story might change.

It might be, “My brain needs novelty to engage,” or “I’m overstimulated and don’t know where to start,” or even, “This task doesn’t align with my strengths.”

I wanted to see something new, so I followed a hunch and found a sweet little park in Cincinnati—Johnson Nature Preserve—and went out for a hike. Only later did I learn it was in the direct path of the F4 tornado in 1999, just after I moved to the Cincinnati area.

What a scene to stumble upon.

Because your eyes won’t quite accept what you’re seeing (mine didn’t), I’ll describe the photos:

A tree bent to the ground and split from force now forms an arch-shaped base…and from the top of that splintered arch, a full-sized tree rises straight up.

Another tree is bent at 90 degrees, and from that bend—twenty feet in the air—trees of another species emerge and climb vertical like it’s the most obvious thing to do.

What looks like a dead, partially rotting log is still alive, and growing as what appears to be two separate, full-sized trees, but they’re clearly one plant.

I couldn’t help reflecting on how this is, truly, each and every one of us.

I’m bored as <>.

Really.

Really.

I hate when I’m working my tail off but it’s not the exciting stuff. My brain loves creativity — weaving new insights together for different healing needs.

The good, embodied,
grounded stuff.

The trouble is that when I’m deep in creative flow, I don’t always pause to re-examine the foundations.

And right now? I’m in a season of foundations — right-sizing expenses, tying up loose ends, and changing major systems in my business.

Important, yes. Exciting? Not so much.
Flash to the mantra class I took today.

Mid-class, my brain was off to the races, redesigning the entire experience to make it more embodied, more impactful.

Who needs it?

Where would I teach it?

What would I call it? Who’s the audience?

My brain LOVES to build new worlds.

A minute per hour.
An hour per day.
A day per week.
A week per month.
A month per year.

I ran into this concept in a book on voluntary simplicity back in my early 30s, and it’s been a bit of a compass for living a more grounded, intentional life—so much so, I even shared it in our recent retreat, Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty.

If something brings joy, slows you down, or breathes calm into your world — how do you infuse your life with it meaningfully and sustainably? How do you commit?

Imagine yoga is your grounding practice. What if you stretched for a minute every hour, practiced for an hour each day, lived more meditatively one day a week, did a special yoga immersion one week a month, and spent one month a year on retreat or deep study?

Now imagine working the same way with something that drains your energy, like social media. What if you took a complete break for one hour each day, a full day off each week, reduced or eliminated it one week a month, and took a true social media sabbatical one month a year?

Jan and I spent a lot of time asking ourselves: what exactly is the magic of what we do in our retreats, workshops, and classes?

On the surface, it looks like a lot of things. In fact, we made a list—Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy, mindfulness, creativity, art, polyvagal theory, guided visualization, breathwork, conversation, and more. It’s a long list of powerful modalities.

But the thread that ties them all together?
We teach deep listening—of the intrapersonal variety.

We help people learn to listen inwardly: to their own bodies, intuition, inner wisdom, and quiet knowing. This kind of listening helps participants create lasting, meaningful change in their lives because it’s guided by deep connection to the self.

Then, the other day, I was listening to The Good Life Project with Jonathan Fields and Emily Kasriel, talking about the power of interpersonal listening—the kind that happens between people. And it hit me (though it probably shouldn’t have): we teach that, too!

I recently shared this with a lovely group of entrepreneurial women:

I consider myself someone who’s very real and realistic about the nature of the world. Yet, as grounded as I try to be, I still find myself constantly readjusting to what that actually means. It’s like fine-tuning a signal—clicking the dial, just a hair at a time, until the image finally comes into focus… and then realizing, nope, still not quite there.

I was talking both about the United States and about the changes I’m making in my business right now.

So yes, I’m realigning for a new phase of my work—leaning into intensives, workshops, groups, and retreats. I want a business structure that leaves room for a richly authentic and creative life. But, as with all transitions, new realizations keep showing up.

Right now, I’m realizing I need to change my systems to truly support this next phase–not just to save money during the lean part of a reboot, but because the change will make community building far more powerful in the long run.

(Did I mention that the new platform I invested in will allow group conversations outside the social media giants? I cannot wait to exit Facebook groups!!)

This is a scary moment—which is probably why I didn’t fully realize the scope of it until now. It means intentionally breaking some of the beautiful, labor-intensive things I’ve built… so that I can birth something new.

A mantra for growth, grace, and grounding in hard moments.

“I am all of that and I am none of that.”

Communicating well is very important to me, and the underlying need is to be understood. Seen.

But what happens when it all goes sideways?

The mantra above was my dose of redirection.

People have their own lens shaped by their background and experiences that bend their interpretation toward conforming with what they expect out of others. Add to the top of that that I am truly I am an imperfect human. No matter how hard I try, I’m going to fall short on pleasing every one in every way in every moment.

(And that’s just my inner people pleaser talking. There’s also the part of me with good boundaries that knows that’s not my job.)

And as much as I may want to place the blame on others or reject their diagnosis of my motives and intent, Carl Jung made it clear that I am participating in a defense mechanism right along with them.

They may be projecting onto me, but I am also projecting onto right back onto them. They have become the anti-hero in my story, and me in theirs.

Carrying Retreat Home With You

In the Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty retreat, we explored the importance of solitude and ritual—tools that help us live inside uncertainty without unraveling.

Here’s one ritual I love: cleaning up after company.

When guests leave, I find myself replaying conversations as I wash dishes, fold bedding, and reset the house. It’s a warm way of savoring the visit even as it ends—recalling conversations and love as I move slowly through tasks I might usually kick out quickly.

After a retreat, I do something similar. I sit with my team and ask: How did it go? We celebrate connections (between and within participants), note what could have gone better, and then tweak every detail—from typos to activities to timing—to make the next gathering even richer. This “tidying up” keeps me connected to participants. I linger on moments of insight and imagine the ripple effects in their lives . . . IF they let the retreat keep working in them.