From No to Now: The Path to Feeling Ready

When I moved to the mountains, I had a vision: retreats and workshops in this healing space. My roommate and I brainstormed endlessly, dreaming of what it could become. But one day, on a solo six-mile hike, I felt a visceral no in my body. It wasn’t fear—it was truth. I heard, “I’m not ready for this.”

That sentence stuck with me. What is this? What does “I’m not ready” mean? What would I need to feel ready?

The answer rose like mist through the trees: I wasn’t ready to hold space for others when I hadn’t yet held it for myself. The land was sacred, yes. The idea was beautiful. But I couldn’t yet lead people through terrain I was still crawling through.

What I needed was time. Support. Direction. A new plan.

I wasn’t ready to return to full-time work, and I was tired of hustling my art just to survive, all while battling the voice that whispered, this won’t be enough. So I did the only thing I could: I used my time in the mountains to heal.

I sat with the feelings—not to fix them, but to understand them. I journaled constantly, letting the process move through me. I brain-dumped the chaos. I celebrated tiny wins—like surviving another panic attack post-caregiving. I let myself dream again, not with pressure, but with permission. I wasn’t dreaming about what's next; I was dreaming so my spirit could remember possibilities.

I looked at my broken self—eyeball to eyeball—and gave her what she needed: support, gentleness, and acknowledgment. I wrote about what still hurt from caregiving.

The deeper I went, the clearer it became: I wouldn’t be able to build my own thing before I needed money. And that’s real. We need income to support the healing, not just to survive, but to stay on the path. So I chose to return to therapy work. I recommitted to completing the licensure process I had abandoned multiple times—most recently to care for Steve.

The hours it would take overwhelmed me. My dreams of retreats and workshops felt so far away. And patience? Not my strong suit. But this became one of the many ways I learned to practice it.

My supervisor became a lifeline, helping me process the layered complexity of holding space for trauma while navigating my own. My confidence grew in ways I didn’t know were possible.

Years passed. With each client, each coworker, each layer of healing and self-love, I grew. And when the city called me back, I answered. I left the Blue Ridge mountains with a full heart—and for the first time, I felt ready.

I had once asked myself, What will it feel like to be ready? The only answer I had was: I’ll know when I’m there.

And suddenly, I knew.

My license approval took the same amount of time it took to find my next home and step into what’s next. It was the perfect storm, shaking out the final bits of fear and doubt. The dream I had been nurturing since 2020 was finally becoming tangible.

It looks different now. I no longer co-own a mountain retreat space. But honestly? It feels more aligned than I ever could’ve imagined back then. Trusting the process brought me here—and I’m still trusting, every step.

They say, If you build it, they will come. I’ve always loved that phrase. Because if you’re truly aligned and invested, your people do find you. And while the build has been slower than my impatient soul prefers, I see it happening.

I’m brought to tears by the ones who already trust me with their healing. It’s the deepest honor—and when I question if it’s working, that trust reminds me: it is.

Still, social media has trained me to equate my worth with numbers. I have to constantly catch myself. I see posts about Steve get 20,000 views—and I’m grateful, because ALS is still tearing lives apart. I want people to see that.

But when I post about my current offerings and struggle to reach 2,000 views, I have to dig deep into my purpose and stay grounded in what I know.

The slow build is not a failure. It’s a mirror.

It’s saying: Hope, the content you’re creating is beautiful. You can feel it when it pours through you, when the chills hit as your visions land on the page. You can feel how much healing wants to move through you.

From Pedal & Process to Wellness Wander, I’ve taken honest inventory—of habits, distractions, effort. I’ve seen what’s working, and I’ve adjusted. Because now, I can feel my full-body yes. I can feel it in the way tension dissolves and expansion rises.

I’m writing this from a Switchyards desk, headphones on, phone silenced, wishing I could put the world on “Do Not Disturb.” And yet—amidst the noise—I find clarity. That question arises again: Am I ready for this to grow into what I know it can be?

Yes.

The rain taps the window beside me, refracting light into a tiny rainbow. And I realize: I’m ready to live through that prism. To let the light bend and break and become something beautiful.

I’m ready.

A few days ago, I went on a ten-mile bike ride. It was harder than I expected—I found myself gasping. But then I noticed the trees. I imagined the air in my lungs being sent from them. The Earth was exhaling into me.

I matched her rhythm.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Not gasping—expanding.

That’s what this season feels like.

The Earth is breathing life into what I’m building. I feel it. My friends, my clients, Steve, the hawks—I feel them breathing with me.

I’m ready to bring people into this clarity, this peace, this presence.

Not finally. Just—perfectly timed.