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I LOVE the lead-up to a retreat almost as much as the retreat itself.

There’s something magical about planning experiences that give people space for their own self-understanding—and creating an environment where that can actually happen. (We like to call it sustained sacred community.) Honestly, it feels like the perfect antidote to the uncertainty this world has been drowning us in for the last few years.
As I prepare the afternoon session of our upcoming retreat, Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty, I found myself returning to a TEDxAtlanta talk I discovered a few years back.

It’s called “The Real Reason Why We are Tired and What to Do About It” by Dr. Saundra Dalton-Smith—and it was my first introduction to the idea of different types of rest.

Growing up, “rest” meant sleep, maybe a lazy day of fishing, or an afternoon nap in a sun patch. Later, as an adult, I added yoga, meditation, and relaxation practices to the mix.

But Dr. Dalton-Smith takes it further: she names 7 types of rest—physical, creative, sensory, social, emotional, spiritual, and mental.

If you’re neurodivergent, you’re probably already nodding along. It just makes sense. But for everyone else, let’s play this out a little:

I’ve been talking a lot lately about the stress we choose.

We all volunteer ourselves for stress in multiple ways—whether it’s making a big change, chasing a dream, or even just getting up in the morning (cortisol spike mandatory). But today, I’m talking about a sneakier kind: the stress we create by worrying about things outside of our control.

I know—control is a loaded word. Some of us grab for control to feel safe. Others fixate on danger because it feels impossible to look away. Either way, when we’re obsessing over what might happen, we’re choosing stress we don’t have to carry.

A family member recently shared their fears about a loved one. The conversation was full of a telltale phrase that signals you’ve wandered into “stress-you-choose-ville”:

“What if…?”

“What if it’s A? What if it’s B? What if C happens and then D, E, F, and G? I couldn’t handle it!”

Whew. Have I ever been there! In my 20s I spent an entire month torturing myself with “what if” spirals—my body buzzing with anxiety as I was faced with a health issue that could have lifelong implications—all for scenarios that never happened. That month? Gone. A twelfth of a year I’ll never get back. A whole month I could have spent laughing, dancing, loving, and being present.

The plot thickens: even if the worst-case scenario had come true, that month of joy would’ve given me more resilience to face it!

I’m a multitasking queen.
That’s not a brag—it’s a confession.

Like so many people holding households, caregiving, and big dreams together, I learned to split my attention into tiny pieces just to survive. The cost? A brain that feels scattered and further splintered by a household full of requests (because hey, I deluded them as much as I deluded myself that I could do it all), and a nervous system that feels this must be the only path because I feel as though I am always behind.

And here’s the kicker: multitasking isn’t just a bad habit. It’s an economy. Whole industries profit from keeping our attention fractured, selling us the idea hat we should be able to “do it all.”

So you can see why I keep circling back to the same practice.

Note the intentional word choice there: practice.

We can take change seriously, fall short sometimes, and return to the active engagement with change—meaning we are still heading in the same direction because we are practicing it!

The practice? What would happen if I just… did one thing at a time? And how do I increasingly make that practice a part of every nook and cranny of my life?

That’s where The Twelve Monotasks by Thatcher Wine comes in.

Wine identifies 12 areas where we can increasingly infiltrate our busy lives with the intentionality of slower living and monotasking: reading, walking, listening, sleeping, eating, getting places/traveling, learning, teaching, playing, seeing, creating, and thinking.

Am I Deluding Myself?

I actually ask myself this question fairly often. I used to be an emotional stuffer—the kind of person who shoved everything into a closet until it overflowed into physical symptoms. That overflow led me to therapy in my mid-20s, and I vowed never to get to that point of debilitation again.

That question is up again now as I send my youngest “off” to college. (My oldest is commuting, so this is my first round of a child truly fledging the nest.) Friends kindly keep checking in, and I notice my lack of the expected sob-fest. So I watch myself closely.

Here’s what I’ve noticed so far:

I’ve spent a good part of this afternoon staring out my window . . .

Both here, on social media, and in my journal, I’ve been writing a lot about how we need safe, growth-filled community more than ever. More and more, I feel that the intrinsic hierarchy baked into the therapy relationship just isn’t the right container for the kind of collective healing we need right now.

From the outset of my career, I was a “different” kind of therapist—incorporating the body before it was “cool” and engaging with my clients as someone who (yes, has expertise, but mostly…) is a co-journeyer.

So it’s no surprise that this past month has been one of deep reevaluation. I wish I could say it’s been all magical—but honestly? It’s also been uncomfortable. I’ve been squirming a bit, even as I hold myself through the process with as much grace as I can muster.
I’m 54-and-a-half. It’s legacy time.

I don’t have forever to hang out in a rut—especially one that keeps me busy with maintenance-level system-supportive work instead of the deep, purposeful rewiring kind. It’s time to shift out of the container of therapy and fully into the container of inner wisdom and transformational growth.

I’m stepping out of the overfunctioning, workaholic, Midwestern-farmgirl part of me…

I’ve spent a good part of this afternoon staring out my window . . .

Both here, on social media, and in my journal, I’ve been writing a lot about how we need safe, growth-filled community more than ever. More and more, I feel that the intrinsic hierarchy baked into the therapy relationship just isn’t the right container for the kind of collective healing we need right now.

From the outset of my career, I was a “different” kind of therapist—incorporating the body before it was “cool” and engaging with my clients as someone who (yes, has expertise, but mostly…) is a co-journeyer.

So it’s no surprise that this past month has been one of deep reevaluation. I wish I could say it’s been all magical—but honestly? It’s also been uncomfortable. I’ve been squirming a bit, even as I hold myself through the process with as much grace as I can muster.
I’m 54-and-a-half. It’s legacy time.

I don’t have forever to hang out in a rut—especially one that keeps me busy with maintenance-level system-supportive work instead of the deep, purposeful rewiring kind. It’s time to shift out of the container of therapy and fully into the container of inner wisdom and transformational growth.

I’m stepping out of the overfunctioning, workaholic, Midwestern-farmgirl part of me…

“Disorienting dilemma.”

This is the term Stephen Cope uses in his book, The Dharma in Difficult Times: Finding Your Calling in Times of Loss, Change, Struggle & Doubt, to describe those moments that rock your world. You know—the ones where life will never be the same.

Included in disorienting dilemmas are things like divorce, the death of a loved one, or having someone drain your bank account. They are unexpected, jarring, and demand a radical reshaping of how we relate to the world.

I’d argue that this moment in history is a disorienting dilemma for the collective. Some are longing for a return to the 1950s or the 1980s—“the good old days”—not necessarily because they were better, but because they feel more certain than now.

How we hate uncertainty.

For others, the illusion of safety in those eras is giving way. The veil is being lifted, and we’re seeing how those “good old days” weren’t good for everyone.

There’s grief in that, but there’s also awakening.

From planetary shifts to global health crises to identity politics—uncertainty is here.

Even as I write this, trying to communicate something meaningful about chaos and uncertainty, I feel my body tightening. My movements are speeding up, and my nervous system is following suit.

This era feels like this moment: a little cluttered, a little frantic (like my body and the dining room table I am sitting at).

So I pause. I breathe. I look up from my dining room table and let my eyes rest on the trees outside my window. This is what I know to do. I take refuge in what is true, and steady, and real, and the trees remind me of YEARS of standing tall–of deep roots and of quiet growth.

As I gaze at them, something inside me settles.

Whether it’s in the name of balance, because new revelations have happened, or because—like that Wascally Wabbit and me—you missed that left turn in Albuquerque… life requires flexibility. If you want to live full out, pivoting is part of the process.

This spring, I knew we all needed more connection, so I carved out nooks and crannies in my schedule to offer more groups. As a result, my formerly flexible Mondays and Fridays got a little crowded; Wednesdays too. But with more reflection, I’ve realized that bigger changes are needed to make room for the retreat-style offerings I’m so excited about.

Imagine:

EMDR, IFS, somatics, and energy healing in immersive group experiences

Nature- and yoga-based retreats

Our fall retreat, Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty

I used to think that if I couldn’t plan it, predict it, or perfect it… I was doing something wrong.

But that’s just not how life happens.

That belief came from a more simplistic framing of the world—one I developed in childhood, where success meant good grades and being a “good girl.” But the world is far more complex than that. It demands we evolve.

(And the real question is: will we meet that challenge?)

So how did I start breaking free from that story?

Kicking and screaming, of course.

It felt like failure. It felt like chaos. But it was actually reality… paired with the unmooring from old identity. Sometimes that unmooring is forced upon us. But always, it’s a doorway into a deeper, wiser way of living.

Uncertainty, if we stay present with it, becomes the alchemist. It doesn’t just disrupt—it transforms.

It invites radical reimagining—of ourselves, our relationships, our work, our world. It asks us to loosen our grip on old rules and roles and trust the mess enough to listen for something new.

I am thrilled to announce our next retreat:

Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty

The more I sit with this theme, the more I feel its truth. It’s the flavor of the moment. The medicine of now.

I believe this chaos we’re living through is not random—it’s revealing. It’s as if every wound is being torn open so it can finally be seen. And I trust that healing follows when the truth is exposed, even when the unraveling feels endless.

As a Gen Xer, I grew up during an era that appeared stable—at least “for people like me.” Looking back, I see how much harm was hidden beneath that surface. It’s humbling. And it makes me long for something more honest, more inclusive, more whole. We’re being invited—forced, really—to let go of illusions. To die to what’s no longer working. To begin the slow, sacred process of becoming new.

And I’m ready if not trepidatious. Not because it’s easy—but because I know how to stay steady in the storm.

That’s what this retreat is about. My mother-in-law, Jan, and I have been exploring how to find the concentrated droplets—the purest nectar of spirituality—in the very process that comes before the rebuild–the part that feels anything BUT holy or good. Just like last year’s retreat on aging, this one asks us to honor the death-rebirth cycles of life. But this time, it’s collective.