But I have to admit something.

It is in those “highs” that I sometimes become static.

When everything feels good, I stop shining a light on the growth that still wants to happen. Comfort can make me complacent. Conversations slip. Relationships get quieter. My prayers to God soften. My connection lightens because my nervous system is calm.

My growth mindset pauses and enjoys the peace.

But accepting discomfort is my path to continual becoming.

Becoming what?

For me, becoming is what my soul is here to explore. How can I reach outward and be of service to others? Not as some selfless saint who only gives. That is not me. I am selfish with my family, my girls, and my own needs. But purpose shows up when I practice being helpful, even if that is just offering a smile or a simple hello.

Discomfort is where I return to my goals.
I realign them.
Organize how to achieve them.
Adjust them to rise with my new growth.

Every major shift in my life has come from discomfort.

Discomfort grows motivation.
Motivation roots into action.
Seeds begin spreading and new versions of myself bloom.

My Master’s degree.
Running my own home.
My teaching career.
My licensure to become a personal coach.

Yes, in this current season of discomfort I am working toward my personal coaching licensure, and I could not be more excited.

When the mindset shifts from fearing discomfort to recognizing it as pure growth and revelation, I realize something powerful.

I can do anything I set my mind to.

The real fear would be living in a permanent state of comfortable stillness. Just existing.

That is not the journey I want for my soul.

I want to break barriers.
Feel the pain.
Let the tears fall when they need to.

Because when that river clears and I look at my reflection, I want to see the strongest, most powerful woman standing there.

🌅 Hanging By Sunrise

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I put my hand on this absolute monstrosity of a brace and talked to my leg the way I would talk to one of my daughters.

You’re doing a good job.
You’re working so hard to heal.
You’re literally turning a donor graft into a ligament.
You’re making magic happen.
You’re powerful.
And you’re mine.

Then I touched my heart.

Life is hard.
Trusting God is easy.
But the transitions? They use up a lot of emotion.

Just like this graft, my heart is always healing. A lifelong rebuild. Taking what feels like minor travesties and slowly turning them into empowerment.

My heart is making magic, too.

No matter what my body endures, it keeps showing me what it’s capable of.

Turning stone into gold.

And that is something to think about.

🌅 Hanging By Sunrise

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you don’t panic.

You slow down.

You assess.

You carefully pick up each piece

so you don’t create more harm.

Injury. Setbacks. Unexpected turns.

Same concept.

You don’t thrash.

You get strategic.

And sometimes the curveball

just calls for a stronger swing.

Not reckless.

🌅 Hanging By Sunrise

At first, it doesn’t feel like detox.
It feels like rejection.
Confusion.
Maybe even failure.

You replay conversations.
You soften your needs.
You wonder if you were too much.
Too emotional.
Too intense.
Too available.
Too honest.

But clarity rarely feels clean in the beginning.

Sometimes the most loving thing someone can do is step down.

Not because you are unworthy.
But because they cannot hold the height you stand at.

Growth is uncomfortable.
Depth is uncomfortable.
Accountability is uncomfortable.

And not everyone wants to stretch.

Some people prefer connection without responsibility.
Intensity without intention.
Closeness without commitment.

When you ask for alignment, you expose capacity.

And when capacity doesn’t match yours, it reveals itself quickly.

That is not punishment.
That is protection.

Detox is not dramatic.
It is biological.

Your nervous system recalibrates.
Your energy stabilizes.
Your clarity sharpens.

You stop negotiating with potential.
You stop translating mixed signals.
You stop shrinking to make someone else comfortable.

You begin rising without waiting.

The truth is simple.

If someone cannot meet you in depth, in consistency, in emotional presence,
they are not your match.

And when they fall away, it may hurt.
But it also makes space.

Space for reciprocity.
Space for steadiness.
Space for someone who does not need to be convinced to show up.

Nothing detoxes your life faster than someone who cannot rise to meet you.

It stings.

And then it strengthens you.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

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“Courage is knowing it might hurt and doing it anyway. Stupidity is the same. That’s why life is hard.”
— Jeremy Goldberg

Do it anyway.
But release the attachment to how it must turn out.

Adjust as you go.

The emotion is part of living.
The discomfort is part of becoming.

Growth is not avoiding the hard feelings.
It is learning how to move through them without abandoning yourself.

— Hanging By a Sunrise (Jess)

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There was no clear start date.
But there was a distinct end date.

The end came the moment I realized I had been seeing myself through someone else’s lens, and mistaking that view for truth. I didn’t know it at the time.

“What did you put down during that season?” I was asked.

I didn’t know the answer right away. Then it landed.

Myself.

I had poured into someone else’s heart while my own sat displaced and untended.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.
It was a quiet, slow leak.

I don’t even think I knew there was a hole. Maybe it started as something pin-sized. Small enough to ignore. Small enough to keep going. Over time, it widened. By the time I noticed, the loss had already happened.

I was pouring love outward instead of inward.
Measuring my worth in the eyes of someone else.
Exploring my value through reflection instead of truth.

And somewhere along the way, I mistook effort for connection, and self-abandonment for love.

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Grief shows up even when what’s lost is a failed dream or a wish for a different circumstance. Broken hopes come tumbling down, convoluting reality with the willingness to wish harder, work harder, bend yourself toward a different outcome.

Grief presents as personal failure.
Where did I screw up?
Self-blame and guilt. Shame.
How did I ruin everything?

Grief brings a strange sense of triumph and conclusion to ultimate lows, lows that are doubled down by the constant reminder of pain in the chest.

Grief is stubborn. It sits.
It pulsates and aches.
It allows no shortcuts.

It breaks you down so you can build back up.

The hardest part is succumbing to the pain when instant gratification could falsely mislead you, covering it with a bandage labeled not now. A story of denial you’re tempted to believe, so you can tiptoe quietly past it, like a sleeping bear you’re afraid to wake.

Going to what you think is the source of comfort,
when it is, in fact, the source of the pain.

Going to what you believe will save you,
and learning it cannot.

Grief stays until you stop bargaining.
Until you stop blaming.
Until you stop asking how to undo what was real.

Only then does it loosen its grip.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

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A little under a week until surgery.

I met with three different orthopedic surgeons. The goal was to find the best. When I say the best, I mean reputable, with tangible outcomes, real reviews, and a high volume of ACL surgeries performed each week.

But also something harder to quantify.

Connection.

In a field of intensely intelligent human beings, some would say magic workers, there are vast differences in philosophy from person to person, even when they perform the exact same surgery. It always comes back to the person experiencing the surgery and the trust required to make the most capable decision.

No matter how incredibly smart, talented, or credentialed someone is, you still have decisions to make that must align with your own philosophy, even when you are not the expert.

That is a confusing thing to digest.

It is easy to ante out the decision making and avoid the fear of making the wrong choice.

Trust the gut.
More importantly, trust yourself.

You are the expert on you.
I am the expert on me. Period.

When I thought about my goals for a surgeon, I was not just thinking about credentials. I cared about how they realistically framed recovery timelines, how they viewed progress, and where they landed on the spectrum between aggressive and conservative post-op physical therapy.

I wanted alignment.

Not just skill, but philosophy.
Personality.
Bedside manner.
Passion.
Thoughts.
Ideas.

The basic connection needs we navigate every single day.

I know who I want around me.
I know who I am drawn to.

That supported my decision when credentials were almost equal.

I went into each consultation with my best foot forward. Literally, the non-torn ACL foot forward. I brought my trusty inky Sharpie and a brand new bound notebook filled with questions.

As prepared as I was, so were these surgeons. They covered an incredible amount of information and sent me home with detailed printouts. I was able to express my perfect world outcomes and goals, then come back to reality through their straightforward explanations.

Processing Time

There is denial.
A wreckage of routine.
Denial again.

Superhero thoughts that maybe I do not need an ACL.

The denial forms in feeling too.

My knee feels fine.
It is not swollen.
I can fully extend it.
I can bend it equally to my right leg.

I am still doing all of my workouts except skiing, which I am too worried about. Pilates. Barre. Peloton. Lifting. Pacing my classroom. Cleaning my house. Carrying laundry upstairs. I did advice my surgeon and physical therapist and gained knowledge to keep the knee safe.

My knee is playing a fake-out.

Yet it is not in recovery.
It is in a state of still time.

Not progressing forward.
Not progressing backward.

Personal choice for me, I want back to full sport. The sports I partake in now and maybe some I do not even know about yet.

I want an ACL.

I decided I do not want to be a “coper.” I want to be broken down and built back up to full capacity.

In the grand scheme of time, this is a blip. Or at least I hope it is. If I am lucky, I will resurrect my being as many times as needed.

I say that spiritually.

Post-divorce.
Post self-discovery.
Post inner work.

I have blossomed many times already, and I will blossom as many times as God intends my soul to do so.

The Cleanse

Crying. Crying is ok.

Those tears mourn the known. The routine. The fear. They wash away uncertainty. External sweating of internal anguish to make space for the new.

It is invigorating.
It is motivating.
It is healing.

I cried twice. In my car. And at the gym.

Afterward, I felt stronger.
Ready for my comeback.

I have never undergone a change that did not ultimately change my life for the good. People. Places. Self-trust.

Growth has always come from the cleanse and the repair.

Until post-surgery…

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

No simple task.

Packaging tape, which is apparently a hot commodity in my home, and the printing of return labels and package inserts. Enough friction to make anyone succumb to a mediocre item and swallow the return value just to be free.

I drove to the post office. Then UPS. Then Staples.

A return pilgrimage.

At Staples, I discovered they accept this foreign shipping QR code.

“Oh, that code,” the employee said. “The line for that code is over there.” He pointed near where people pick up prints a liminal space for those already processing something.

The package was scanned.

Or… attempted.

A slight fright prickled goosebumps across my skin when the angle of the scanner couldn’t successfully capture the QR code glowing on my phone. The beep did not beep. Time stretched.

Third time is a charm.

Weary smiles were exchanged between the teller and me as I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. We were bonded now.

“All set,” he said wearily, as if it were his 1,000th return.

I perked up in complete shock.

“Really?”

I scanned the room around me to see who else was with me, locking eyes with absolutely no one. I filled my chest with an accomplished breath. My face lightened. My eyes opened a little wider. I rolled my shoulders down and back.

I looked at the teller and said, “Thank you.”

Not a casual thank you. A survivor’s thank you. As if we had been in a holding cell together for three days with no food or water.

He responded, “Next in line.”

It may take time for others to truly digest what we’ve been through. I’m sure that tonight, in his quiet reflection of the day, he will feel the relief and joy of our shared accomplishment.

I turned on my heels, tilted my head slightly toward the patron behind me, and strode toward the door like cameras were on me and reporters were calling:

How do you feel?
Did you think the scanner was going to work?
What was that QR code?
Have you done this before?
Who does your hair?

“I do it myself,” I said silently and walked out through the double sliding doors.

Time slowed.

I pulled my purse from my forearm to my shoulder. It was lighter than it had been in a month since I’d been carrying that package around with every intention of returning it.

A little lighter now.

And unmistakably more superhuman.

I have never felt more proud or accomplished in my life.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

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I know the exact moment it happened. You know those moments when something occurs and you immediately sense its weight, when you think this is going to matter. Not in the day-to-day way, but in the way that quietly changes the trajectory. The kind of moment where you realize things won’t be the same.

That moment was the pop.

At the time, I didn’t know what the trajectory looked like. I was relieved it wasn’t a break. Seven days later, I wish it were.

Smiling through the disappointment, I kept moving through what had suddenly become routine. X-rays, an MRI, and a meeting with an orthopedic surgeon. What I thought would be “phew, just a torn ligament” quickly turned into something much heavier. A complete identity wobble. Suddenly, I was staring down what felt like a year-long journey full of unknowns. I found myself contemplating choices I didn’t know existed. Surgical versus non-surgical. They call the non-surgical route “copers.”

I started hearing a whole new language. Prehab. Physical therapy. Year-long rehab. Specialized ACL surgeons. Grafts and the different types of grafts that would best fit my lifestyle. Pivot and rotation were no longer options for that leg. Words like mental game, identity loss, grief, logistics, crutches, bruising, inflammation, pain, screws, cadaver.

Choosing the right surgeon.
Routine interruption.
Crying through smiling.
Lying awake at night, wishing I could go back to the top of the mountain and make a different choice.

Why didn’t my skis pop off?

Anger.
Jealousy.
Self-pity.
Guilt for the self-pity.
FOMO.
Longing to get back on skis.
Longing that this mental game didn’t have to begin.

And still, saying “I’m fine” when I don’t feel fine at all.

I feel uplifted and regretful. Grateful in the grand scheme of things. Mentally challenged by decision-making. I feel loss. I feel grief.

I find myself searching for ACL journeys on Instagram. Listening to ACL podcasts. Learning about prehab, surgery, timelines, phases, exercises per phase, and expectations of movement. I think about how this affects my kids, my workday, and my personal life.

I think about my New Year’s resolution.
It was simple and sincere. To be the best athlete I could be.

I wrote out what that meant. Fitness goals. Consistency. Progress. I was working toward a handstand by the end of the year. I hit a headstand faster than I expected.

This isn’t a post about inspiration or silver linings.
It’s just a place to write the truth and watch it unfold.

This is not a comeback story.
This is a learning story.

Here’s where it begins.

I fell skiing on a really, really fun day. I remember tumbling longer than expected. I felt the pop. Ski patrol took me down the mountain in a yellow bag on a sled. I had an X-ray. I found a physical therapist who specializes in working with athletes with serious recovery goals. I had an MRI. I learned I had a complete ACL tear and a bone contusion.

I read the report myself at work.

I timelined the process alone.

With collaboration and trust in my physical therapist, I continued working out safely. Limited swelling. No pain. No ACL. The workout was approved, so I did it. I’m doing it. Pilates, power yoga, lifting, and Peloton. I went to the gym for leg day and did hip thrusts at the Smith machine while tears streamed down my face the entire time.

I met with my first surgeon. I researched others. I scheduled two more consultations with highly recommended orthopedic surgeons who specialize in ACL reconstruction. I learned you don’t grow back an ACL or reconnect what’s torn. You add one back in. A few different ways. All of which sounds scary and made me a little squeamish.

For now, this is a simple record.

Of listening.
Of building trust.
Of learning how to be strong in ways I didn’t train for.

One leg at a time.
One honest entry at a time.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

Resistance, by default, sounds negative, an objection, friction, something not cohesive or compatible. We resist change. We resist discomfort. We resist the unfamiliar.

Yet in athletic training, resistance is everything.

Resistance builds muscle. It strengthens the heart. It boosts focus and mental health. It increases flexibility, improves sleep, and supports longevity and quality of life. Even the language around it is hopeful: growth, strength, boosts, increased, improved.

So why, in life, do we fear it?

When We Resist, We Deny

I moved from the ocean to the mountains. From beaches to vast land, woods, hills, and peaks. And I resisted every step of the way.

I white-knuckled the transition. I didn’t trust God’s plan. I dug my heels in and slid myself into a new region of the state, clinging to what I had lost instead of what might be gained.

At first, resistance felt like survival.

Leaning In

Then something subtle shifted.

As I walked my girls to school each day, I started to lean in, just a little. I asked paras along the way, “Any teaching positions?” I introduced myself to the school secretary. I checked in. I showed up.

Day after day.

Until one morning, to my disbelief, a para said, “Someone just went on leave today.”

Within two hours, I was hired as a year-long long-term substitute first-grade teacher.

That was the moment I stopped gripping so tightly and gave God room to show me His plan.

Following the Thread

Not long after, an email landed in my inbox about a Master’s program.

I didn’t overthink it. I jumped in.

I connected with professors and peers who shared similar experiences, all of us working toward the same goal: earning our Master’s degree and teaching license. I formed beautiful, life-altering connections, relationships that changed the trajectory of my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Resistance was still there, but it was no longer blocking me. It was guiding me.

Learning to Love a Different Kind of Magic

It took a full year in what I call “the country” to stop resisting resistance.

Instead of digging my heels in, I took myself to the lake. The ponds. I kayaked. I hiked. I spent time among trees and mountains and discovered a different kind of magic than the ocean, quieter, deeper, just as healing.

Sleek ripples across the pond.

Sanctuary.

Spiritual.

I was changed.

Year Two: Snowfall

Then the snow came.

Year two.

Instead of dread, I put skis on.

Fresh, crisp air wrapped around my warm layers. I learned to find my footing in boots and skis rather than gliding through waves. Freedom, fear, joy, and meditation, all in one moment.

This time, resistance was for growth.

I worked my heart muscle. I accepted change. I boosted my mental health. I surrendered, fully, to God’s plan.

A Life Expanded

I found community at the Pilates studio. I found family and friends. I completed my Master’s program and earned my very own Kindergarten classroom.

I built a beautiful home that holds my thriving daughters.

I gained not only summer joys but winter adventures too.

My world opened twofold.

Choosing Resistance, On Purpose

Now, I practice using resistance for growth.

I squeeze every last lesson from change even when it burns in the process because I know what waits on the other side.

Strength.

Expansion.

Beauty.

Resistance no longer means denial.

It means becoming.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

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There’s the moment you hear your baby cry for the very first time.
The moment you say “I do” at an altar.
The tiny kiss goodbye on the first day of preschool.
The “Be safe. Don’t text while you drive,” shouted from the doorway as your teenager pulls out of the driveway for the first time.
The “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, make sure you study” as you drop your child at their freshman dorm.
The “Do you agree?” whispered by a judge during a divorce.
The first instant you lock eyes with someone and know - this person will matter.

These are the concrete moments in time.
Moments threaded together like beads on an endless necklace, different colors, different shapes, different qualities, each one nudging the next, each one waiting for what comes after. A story being told even as it unfolds.

Some moments stand out. Some reroute everything.

The diagnosis.
The stillborn baby.
The angel baby.
The suicide attempt.
The first “I love you.”
The crash.
The forgotten object on the counter that changed the entire shape of the day.
The yes.
The no.
The “I’m going to stay in tonight.”
The grief of a loss.
The elation of a miracle.
The degree.
The addiction.
The accident.
The moment that tilts your trajectory forever.

And then there are the moments before all of that, the moment our soul was sent to earth, carrying some unfinished job, some purpose we haven’t fully named yet. Who are we here for? What bead are we in someone else’s necklace?

I find myself hoping my bead matters.
Maybe it’s meant for one person.
Maybe many.
Maybe it’s simply meant to let my soul feel its full experience: the ache, the joy, the rock bottom, the perseverance, the love, the brokenness, the healing, the loss, the yearning.
The endless gifts contained inside the moments we’re given.

So I wonder…
What will your necklace look like?

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

There are patterns we wish we could unsee, moments where hope feels louder than memory. Sometimes the body remembers what the mind refuses to believe, and the quiet between the two becomes its own kind of truth.

Poem: A Wall

The pattern you’ve seen before
yet the hope that this time, the change is real,
erases the lessons of recent pasts.

Shock, as if it’s the very first time.
Shame, because it’s a lesson already learned.

Memory sits in the body
while the brain sees reality
a quarrel within,
and the body wins every time.

A wall.
A brick wall.
Silence.

And the hope
that soon the body will empower
what the mind already knows,
the lesson not to be learned again,
but to know.
To know how.

A wall.
A brick wall.
Silence.

Healing can look like accepting that recognition is enough.
It’s enough to notice the quiet shift,
the body remembering
and finally, gently,
refusing to forget.

If you know, you know.
And if you do, you’re not alone.

One sunrise, one breath, one truth at a time.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

The version of myself I thought I knew is gone. What remains is the ache, and the undeniable truth: something has to change.

As the puddle grows, the reflection wavers. Blurred. Uncertain. And in that blur something shimmers: the possibility of another way, a different story.

Then the choice arrives. I press my palms to the floor, rise on all fours, and stare into that trembling reflection, the tears of the soul made visible. In that moment, I ask: What is the next right thing?

I know the “next right thing” may also be the hardest thing I’ll ever do. Still, the deeper question whispers: Do I trust myself enough to trust that God will show me the way?

The free fall, that is faith for me.

The embrace of pain, sometimes unbearable, reveals that what felt impossible can become possible. Pain breeds courage. Courage builds resilience. Slowly, the edges soften, and the tears blur into a small, honest smile. Until one day the smile is just myself.

The unravel.

The shedding.

The breakdown.

This is the fall in the trust fall.

Trust, for me, is believing I will land not on hard ground but in a cloud of glitter. It is faith that the breaking is the beginning of rebuilding.

To trust the process is to trust myself. To trust myself is to trust God’s plan, knowing that through every fall and every unraveling, I carry within me the capacity to rise again.

And the reward? It is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

🌅 Hanging By a Sunrise

I was thinking it too, though I wasn’t about to say it first. That “feel bad” feeling comes for me often in small, ordinary moments. Like the other night, when I was taking the dog out and a kid rode past my driveway balancing a large Dunkin’ refresher and a paper bag that clinked and rustled with what I imagined were snacks. He slowed right in front of me, struggling to adjust his grip.

I called out, “How much farther do you have to go? That doesn’t look easy.”

“Just up the street,” he said. “I got my siblings some food.”

And there it was, that sinking feeling. My throat dropped into my stomach. Wanting to help, I blurted out what I realized later probably sounded incredibly creepy: “I can follow you and hold your refresher if that helps.”

He declined, wisely. I still think about him sometimes, hoping he made it home with the snacks intact. That’s how I trick myself into easing the ache; imagining it all ended well.

So when I looked over at Big Sis, my 13-year-old, I said, “Ugh, I know. Why would she do that on a Tuesday afternoon? At least save it for a Saturday.”

Big Sis didn’t miss a beat. She sat up straighter, mimicked the woman we’d just seen, and announced with theatrical flourish: “Just putting on the finishing touches! All set up.”

I spit out a laugh. She’s so clever. At home she’s all quick exchanges; “Did you eat?” “No.” “Can I make you something?” “No.” Or, “Hi Mom. Love you, Mom. Bye, Mom.” Like two ships passing in a crowded harbor. But in the car, in moments like this, I get to see her lightness, her timing, her humor.

When I laugh at her, I can feel her cup filling. She doesn’t even have to look straight at me; I see it in the proud little glance she sneaks out of the corner of her eye. She knows she made me laugh. She knows I see her.

After I dropped her off, still giggling at her performance, I told her, “Well, I have to drive by again and feel bad all over.” We said our goodbyes, playful and easy.

Driving past the yard sale that had triggered all our sympathy, I slowed down. Maybe I should go be that one customer, I thought. But then I noticed something new: the woman wasn’t the lonely seller we thought she was. She was handing money to another woman, hidden from our first glance. She wasn’t desperate. She was a paying customer. A genius, really, hosting a yard sale on a Tuesday evening along a busy road.

I can’t wait to tell Big Sis. To laugh again together, to share that revelation while we drive with our eyes forward, comfortable in the silence until something really matters enough to be said.

It’s in those moments, when I see her humor and feel her presence, that I’m reminded we are cut from the same cloth. That even if daily life is crowded with “Did you eat?” and “Love you, bye,” she and I are bound by the same sensitivity, the same way of seeing. And that she has no idea just how much I adore her for it.

It turns out, the real treasure on a Tuesday afternoon wasn’t in the yard sale at all; it was in the quiet, forward-facing way my daughter and I found each other.

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise

Opening the door, the still, humid air wrapped around me like a welcome. I hopped down the steps, crossed the driveway, and onto the soft sand of our little street beach. Knees pulled in, I watched the water shimmer with the sun’s first outcast of colors; a red carpet announcing her arrival. Confidence. I like it.

“Are you ready?” My next-door neighbor, my best friend, my summertime companion, slid in beside me. We kicked off our sandals and lay back, legs stretched, eyes tracing clouds, feeling the sun warm the bottoms of our feet.

“I’m ready. I grabbed the Hershey Bar,” I said, enjoying the simple comfort of chocolate and sun.

“I have the thermos of chocolate milk,” she declared, holding it up to confirm her statement.

That’s how our summer days began. Rowing around in our dinghy, exploring Ten Pound Island, wandering the woods of Eastern Point; every adventure punctuated by bites of chocolate and sips of milk, carefully rationed so it lasted the day.

And maybe that’s why the memory stays with me. Life has grown noisier, messier, full of unexpected turns. But I can still return to that morning: the sun rising over water, the soft sand beneath my feet, my best friend beside me. The child I was knew something I often forget as an adult; that grounding isn’t found in control, but in simple rituals, in trust, in showing up. Chaos may arrive, but the dawn always comes. Breathe. Feel. Be present. And remember: every dawn is bold, unapologetic, and waiting for you to show up.

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise

I sit silently listening to my 8-year-old daughter, Lil Sis, ruminate about the absence of zero in our counting string. I’m thankful she is ruminating, because I’m thinking to myself, “This question is going to be more difficult to answer than ‘Where do babies come from?’” I don’t interrupt; her thoughtful dissection feels sacred.

I think about the first year of an infant, 0–12 months. Instinctual creatures, born with a knowing. You see this in the bond with their momma, the way an infant roots to nurse, recognizes her scent, and settles in her arms. In that closeness, they are safe. Year zero is the most spiritual year of all: pure soul, no ego. Just naturalism at its best. A year that, like my daughter said, holds all the other years from falling.

Zero is not emptiness. It isn’t nothing. It feels like the fullest number. It is the beginning, the pause before creation, the moment of reset, the quiet foundation of balance. It’s your favorite mug before the coffee. The tea bag before it blooms in hot water. The blank page before words. The mattress without gorgeous blankets and pillows. The canvas before paint. Without zero, nothing else can exist in harmony.

For me, faith is zero. The unseen that holds everything together. The return to the foundation. My children live closer to zero than I do. They don’t rush to fill silence. They don’t leap ahead. They linger. They question. They remind me that starting from zero is not nothing. It is everything.

My own life has returned to zero more than once, and I know I will return again. Each time, it has been a gift. To live closer to zero is to reject a fixed mindset and to choose evolution, curiosity, and becoming.

I go back to the canvas, select my brushes, mix my colors, and create again. I am not fixed. I am not finished. I am the beauty of a blank slate, the possibility of zero.

And in that, my daughter was right all along; zero is what keeps everything else from falling.

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise

A year and a half ago today, I took a 30-day alcohol-free challenge. I never could have imagined how it would change me. Here are 10 things I’ve learned along the way (though the list could be endless, so I’ll start here):

1. I have a lot of different feelings. Joy, happiness, and laughter are the easiest ones to access.

2. Every other emotion teaches me something about who I truly am. They need attention and care, just like any other subject worth studying.

3. Emotions don’t come with a translator, they aren’t in English, and they’re easy to misinterpret.

4. Waking up without alcohol’s fog is better than that first sunny-day buzz ever was.

5. Problems don’t disappear with or without alcohol. They’ll still be there. I am the solution. Doing the work is easier than running from it.

6. I am more confident, adventurous, and creative. I can set long-term goals and see them through.

7. I get to be a role model for my kids: present, calm, supportive. The same tools I use to nurture my inner child are the ones I now offer my children. Living alcohol-free gives them security, safety, and pride.

8. I am breaking cycles passed down through generations, giving my daughters the chance to live differently.

9. Sobriety is not boring, I stay so active I sometimes exhaust myself!

10. Rest is necessary. Water and nutrition matter. Community is medicine. Journaling without fear is cleansing. And living life sober and present is the greatest adventure I’ve ever chosen.

That’s 10. I could keep going and maybe I will. Each one could be a story of its own. Because sobriety is magical inspiration.

With love,

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise

I’ve been an ocean girl for 42 years. The smell of salt air. The sand, hot and textured beneath my feet. The sound of seagulls overhead. The shoreline: waves crashing as they rumble in and out, rising and falling. Sweeping over rocks, seaweed, shells, pebbles, and glass, turning, recycling the energy she just carried in on her rise. She cleanses, then comes back again. A slow, consistent descent, following a pull that no human has control over.

I find God in the ocean. In her spiritual realm of energy, instinct, and connectedness. My existence feels small in comparison, reminding me of my frailty.

She is powerful, peaceful, still, angry, angelic, mystical, and mysterious. She has depth. She is moody. She speaks a wordless language that screams her mood. She doesn’t need words to connect, to tell her story. She is felt in her rhythm, in her breath that pushes the waves along, in her pull. Some days she whispers peace. Other days, she shrieks warning. There is no language barrier.

She is relentless. She sways to her own tune, unapologetic, ferocious, and free.

She is the fine line between Your Majesty and Your Demise.

She is a teacher. She is a mirror. She is in me, especially when the barriers break down and drift into the tide, softened into driftwood.

She declares space. She invites introspection. She inspires boldness. She flows to the rhythm of her own making. She slips between two rocks and a hard place with ease. Friction does not exist in the ebb and flow of her waves.

She is freedom.

She is.

She.

Me.

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise

Feeling

Fear = False Evidence Appearing Real

Ask

What might be possible if I didn’t believe this fear?

Do

Courage means moving with fear in your pocket. 

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise