I’m tired, and I suspect you are too. For three years I made you a longer plan every January, and this year I threw most of it out. The 2027 plan is shorter, bolder, and built around one word, audacious, for the woman ready to stop waiting to be handed what she was always allowed to take.

It looked like a closed door, a plainer bag, a quieter passport, not progress. This is about the choices that don't reveal what they were building until years later, and the ones I'd still make.

Nobody was making me get into a stranger's car before sunrise, in a city I'd never been to, to sweat with people I'd never see again. That's the part people seem to miss. This is about what happens when you stop treating discipline and adventure as opposites.

They aren't wrong about my order. That was never the problem. This is about what happens when discipline becomes visible to someone who hasn't made the same choice for themselves, and the years it took me to stop apologizing for it.

It has been twenty five years since 9/11. A reflection on how we look back on time, with nostalgia, curiosity, judgment, and bias, and what it means to be held by this exact moment while still knowing how precious and finite it is.

For twenty years I kept a journal full of the same buried longing, mountains, a different pace, a life I never let myself say out loud. This is about what it costs to keep a dream on paper instead of in the world, and the small, unglamorous practice of saying it anyway.

Before I met Andy, I had ten glorious years of being single. Glorious, because those were the years I came home to myself. What I didn't know then was how much that homecoming would matter when love finally arrived — and how much courage it would ask of me to let someone in without losing what I'd built.

For the women who came through the hard things strong — and are still waiting to let someone hold them. Self-sufficiency can be its own kind of armor. And armor, however elegant, keeps things out.

We underestimate the power of sharing what actually fills us. Not the things we think we should do. The things that genuinely work. Here are mine, in honor of summer energy and the permission this season gives us to reprioritize what matters.

I've been told more times than I can count: you're intense. Yep. I sure fucking am. Let me tell you what that actually means, and why I've stopped apologizing for it.

I arrived in Portland having never been there; a city I didn't know, for an experience I couldn't quite picture. What I came home carrying surprised me in ways I'm still absorbing.

I have always been a writer. And a dancer. What I have never been, by any honest accounting, is an artist. So why did my heart start racing the moment I saw a painting retreat?

Every family has a waterfall, a continuous flow of tradition, wisdom, and love moving from one generation to the next. Most of us don't notice it until the moment it reaches us. This is about that moment, and everything it asks of us.

We are walking around in our lives, heads bent, eyes down, missing the world that is happening right in front of us. The beauty. The people. The sky. Ourselves. This is about what it costs to look away, and what it feels like to look up.

In January, I sat with a circle of extraordinary women in Costa Rica and discovered a theme none of us had planned for, but all of us needed. Remembering to remember. Who we are, what we want, what's possible. The research backs it up. The practice will change you. Here's where to start.

I've been searching for my voice. Not the one you’re used to. The current one. The one that belongs to who I'm actually becoming right now, in the middle of all of this.

We were taught that seeing is believing. But what if we have it backwards? From a moment of clarity in a yoga class to the research of Albert Bandura and Stanford's Dr. Alia Crum, here's what science and lived experience both confirm: belief isn't the reward at the end of the journey. It's the very thing that makes the journey possible. This is what it means to believe something into reality, and how to actually build that practice in your own life.

I have never felt what it means to be a woman as viscerally as I do right now. In my bones. In my chest. In that place where love and grief live side by side. This is for every woman who is tired in a way sleep does not fix, and still refuses to surrender.

If you've achieved everything you thought you wanted but still feel like something's missing. If you've spent your life caring for everyone else and forgotten what lights you up. If you're experiencing an awakening and ready to define your next chapter with intention. This letter is for you. You deserve unwavering support as you unfold into who you're becoming. And I'm here, ready to walk beside you.

Last month I led my first destination retreat in Costa Rica. Ten women arrived at meaningful edges, carrying questions about who they're becoming. What unfolded over seven days was far more powerful than we imagined—a journey of choice, connection, and coming home to themselves. Here's what happened when women finally gave themselves permission to want what they want.