Today’s article is based on this week’s RTDB episode so if you prefer to listen to your content, click above to listen on Apple!

I sat down to record this week’s Rock the Damn Boat episode with absolutely nothing prepared. No outline, no topic, no grand plan. And for a split second, I panicked.

Then I thought — this is actually perfect.

Because what happened next was exactly what I want to talk about: intuition showed up right on time.

The Noise Problem

We are living in an era of relentless content. Courses for $7. Masterclasses for $27. Coaches promising you’ll make $2,000 an hour if you just follow their exact system.

I’ll be honest — I’ve clicked on plenty of them. And my algorithm has never let me forget it.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with low-cost learning. I’ve taken notes from a $7 course that gave me genuinely useful reframes. But there’s a pattern worth naming: a lot of these offers are designed to funnel you toward something that costs significantly more. It’s the modern version of snake oil salesmen — those traveling elixir peddlers of the 1800s who promised to cure everything and delivered... well, sometimes opiates.

Like those elixirs, I have become addicted to the idea of a quick fix. My recovery plan included meditation and intuition.

Because when something online seems too good to be true, your gut probably already knows that it is. The question is whether you’re listening.

Our Brains Aren’t Just in Our Heads

When I coach women through the Thrive framework, I talk about intuition as more than a feeling — it’s actually a physiological system.

Most of us were taught we have one brain. But there’s growing evidence we have three centers worth paying attention to:

• The cerebral brain — your logical command center

• The heart — not just a pump, but a powerful regulator of your entire physical state

• The gut brain — your enteric nervous system, which research increasingly links to mood, decision-making, and overall wellbeing

That “sinking feeling” when you agree to something you don’t want to do? That’s not drama. That’s data.

And when you’re talking about something you’re truly passionate about — a project, a person, a purpose — notice what happens in your body. Butterflies. A full chest. Cheeks that ache from smiling. That’s your gut brain and your heart brain agreeing with your head.

The Difference Between “Should” and “Yes”

There’s a saying: don’t should on yourself.

So much of what we tell ourselves we need to do is actually internalized external pressure. Social expectations. Other people’s timelines. Someone else’s definition of success.

Intuition sounds different. It’s quieter. It doesn’t argue with you — it just keeps showing up.

The practice is learning to get still enough to hear it. To notice how something feels in your body, not just what you think about it in your head. That’s the work of somatic awareness — and it’s something I explore deeply, including through my own experience working with a somatic experiencing coach while writing my memoir.

Your Path Is Not Their Path

I attended DFWCon writers conference in 2021 before I published my book. The statistic was shocking: fewer than 0.2% of authors make the New York Times bestseller list.

I applaud every writer who makes it onto that list. It’s prestigious, indeed.

But here’s the thing — I don’t write because I want to be on that list (though I wouldn’t say no). I write because it takes me somewhere. I’m currently finishing a novel about four women navigating their own crises, and when I get lost in their world, I think a little less about mine.

The same principle applies to every “fast track” offer you’ll ever see. Someone’s path to success is real — for them. But a small fraction of people who follow any given blueprint will replicate those results. Your path is yours. It’s specific, it’s nuanced, and — I genuinely believe that it’s divinely guided.

What To Do With This

You don’t have to have it all figured out. But I’d invite you to start paying attention.

When you talk about a certain idea or project, what happens in your body? Do you light up? Do you feel a pull toward it even when it scares you? That’s worth following.

And when something feels heavy, obligatory, or like you’re performing someone else’s life — that’s worth examining too.

Your intuition isn’t loud. But it’s consistent. And it will keep showing up until you listen.

If your gut is steering you toward a corporate exit, join me LIVE on Tuesday, April 14th at Noon CST for “What Nobody Tells You About a Corporate Exit.”

Save the Link!

The next Thrive cohort starts in May — a peer group format for women ready to move forward on whatever that thing is that keeps nudging them. 3-week and 6-week options available. And if you’re craving something in person, we have retreats in Texas (April) and Tahoe (June). Find everything at thrivewithchristy.com.

Something is calling you. Louder than your calendar, louder than your salary, louder than the version of success you’ve been performing for years.

And maybe you’ve already asked yourself the question I wrote about recently — what if you leap and the net doesn’t appear?

That question deserves a real answer. Not a motivational poster. Not a “trust the process.” The actual, honest answer — which is what we’re getting into on this live.

We’re going there on the finances — the real numbers, what a safety net actually needs to look like, and why “I’ll figure it out” is not a plan. We’re also talking about what happens to your nervous system when the title disappears, what it feels like to walk away during perimenopause or menopause when your brain chemistry is already rewriting itself, and how to have the conversations that terrify most women — including the one with your partner.

This is not a highlight reel. It’s the honest, unfiltered version of what a corporate exit actually looks like from the inside.

Join me live and bring your questions. We’ll cover:

• The financial reality — what “enough” actually means and how to calculate your real number

• The emotional weight nobody prepares you for, especially if hormones are already in the mix

• What to do when the people closest to you don’t get it — or worse, push back

• How to talk to your partner without it turning into a fight about money or identity

This one is for the woman who is seriously considering it, quietly planning it, or already in it and wondering if she made a mistake.

Join me on Tuesday, April 14th at Noon CST for an honest discussion from all angles. I’ll answer any questions you have with my boat-rocking energy!

RSVP & Add to Calendar

Pro-tip: If you have the Substack App, just hit the 'Notify Me' bell on the livestream page. You'll get a direct buzz on your phone the second I go live so you don't have to keep an eye on the clock.

I grew up watching Elizabeth Montgomery twitch her bewitching nose in black and white reruns. I wanted to name my future daughter Tabitha, and I was convinced I held a hidden otherworldly talent that would someday be revealed.

My twenties introduced Sabrina the Teenage Witch starring Melissa Joan Hart. One of my favorite characters on the quirky sitcom was her snarky cat, Salem. He was her familiar. Her protector. Behind his blasé attitude lay a loyalty that transcended the human–animal bond.

While I never developed magic abilities, I now, at 50, have my own familiar. She is a slender cat with a smooth, grey coat as soft as rabbit fur. Her rich, gold eyes, round saucers save for one dark amber imperfection, convey a level of empathy foreign to most felines.

More than just a Willie Nelson song

Lefty and her sister, Pancha, arrived on our farm four years ago. We were looking for mousers to help protect our small house from the rodents who invaded each spring. Unable to locate older, more experienced huntresses, we agreed to let our neighbor bring two 9-week-old kittens home from her sister’s barn cat population.

When the neighbor drove up with our two new residents, I placed their carrier on a work bench in our small tool shed. As an experienced rescue volunteer, I’d taken great care to create a border around the confined space where they could acclimate for a few days.

Cautiously, I opened the carrier door. I wanted to allow the young cats to come out on their own accord. My husband and the neighbors were eager to greet our new arrivals. The longer the kittens crouched in the back of the crate, however, the more impatient everyone became.

Finally, I extracted the kittens, a mistake that only 20/20 hindsight could have prevented.

I knew better than to let our new arrivals loose. I’d counseled adoptive pet parents on acclimation a hundred times. A nervous, trapped animal is going to do its best to escape, no matter the circumstances.

These girls were no different.

In a flash, they scaled the metal fencing I’d stapled around the workbench, dropping to the ground below. The tortoiseshell kitten disappeared behind a fortress of buckets. I watched in horror as a small grey bundle of fur dashed out of the shed and across the yard.

Our Mallard camper rested about a hundred feet away. My husband and I traipsed through the high spring grass that cloaked her escape, presuming she had taken shelter there. We searched behind tires. I even laid down on the dirt to wiggle underneath and see if she was hiding somewhere in the chassis. Nothing.

To say I was devastated would be an understatement. The flood of tears that ensued wasn’t just for the missing kitten. An unbearable shame overtook me. I had ignored my intuition, and nothing good had ever come from that.

My husband jumped on the golf cart to begin his search. Meanwhile, I went back to the shed to find our fugitive’s littermate. Crouching down to peer between stored equipment, I finally spotted two wild, golden eyes staring back at me. I retrieved the kitten, placing her back in the borrowed carrier for safe keeping.

The debate on which cat would be named Pancha and which would be Lefty had concluded. Pancha, meaning “calm” in Spanish, was the small tortie who froze in place. Our other kitten had left us, here whereabouts a mystery.

I was inconsolable that evening as we sat on our front porch swing. My husband had covered every square inch of our twenty-acre hobby farm. The wee kitten was going to spend the night in the wild unknown, where coyote howled and hungered.

The next morning, my husband boarded the golf cart to make the feeding rounds. I was tending to Pancha in the shed when he drove up, missing kitten in hand. He had been driving down to the bottom pasture when he heard meowing. Unable to locate the source, he finally stopped the vehicle. Looking underneath, he found the terrified kitten, who at some point, had curled up underneath it for shelter.

We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He considered the acreage he covered and wondered if she’d been there the whole time. The sense of relief helped alleviate the shame that lingered over my mishandling of the situation. Mistakes happen, yet I couldn’t absolve myself of this intuitive negligence.

Fool me twice, shame on me

Pancha and Lefty proudly wore the crowns of most spoiled barn cats in existence. I housed them in our empty cabin shell over the summer, ensuring they had frozen water bottles for comfort. I teased them with fake mice on strings, preparing them for the duties that lay ahead.

Over the next few years, they became braver in their exploration of our homestead, but never ventured beyond the barbed wire fence, even though they could easily slip through. It was as if they knew the role they played in my life after the death of my beloved Cooper.

We moved in September 2024, a decision we didn’t take lightly considering we had two outdoor cats. Would they acclimate easily? How should we manage the transition? I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

We made trips back and forth from the old house, leaving food for the girls as if we were just traveling. On the final night of our move, we placed them in their carrier and made the drive an hour north to our new home. Their new barn would be a Taj Mahal-level upgrade from their original shed (but let’s be clear, they never strayed far from our front porch).

Once again, I was left with a choice: let them explore, or keep them confined.

My husband convinced me to open the carrier and let them out on our new front porch. At first, their timidity kept them glued to us. Every noise made them jump. Courage building, they began to explore the yard. Finally, much to my chagrin, they trotted off across the backyard and disappeared into the night.

The same wave of disappointment swept over me. I’d chosen wrong. I was never going to see my cats again.

I called to them the next morning, shaking their food bowl to entice them to breakfast. Nothing.

A soft mew began to waft from the woods beyond our fenceline. I continued calling the cats’ names. I finally spotted Pancha emerge in a nervous army crawl toward the back fence. Unbeknownst to us, the electric fence wire to deter the previous owner’s horses from leaning against it was hot. The girls likely shocked themselves on their nocturnal exploration, keeping them out rather than in.

I had to walk all the way around our 3-acre property and into the woods to retrieve Lefty. She was crouched among the high grass, and our reunion was every bit as sweet as it had been two years earlier.

Me and my shadow, or should I say “familiar”

I love both cats. Pancha is persistent in her need for attention, her favorite gesture being a solid butt scratch right where her spine meets her tail. Interestingly, she refuses to be picked up, which is where Lefty wins out as the more affectionate of the two.

Lefty is especially attuned to my emotions. If I’m seated outside, she seizes the opportunity to crawl across my lap. She’s antsy, however, and I wonder if that’s part of our bond. On the rare occasion that she curls up for a short rest, I feel incredibly special. It means my own energy has matched hers and we are at peace with our surroundings.

I decided last summer that we should paint the house. I hoped the update would serve like a magician’s glamour, transmuting both the house and its residual tension. The previous owner had grown resentful of rural life, and neighbors claimed she was a pot-stirrer. I could feel the energy left behind.

The dark, moody shades I’d seen on other modern farmhouses appealed to me. After testing out several samples on our well house, we decided on Graphite (Raccoon Fur was a fun option, but too yellow-toned for our taste).

The painters finished within a week and the house had delivered on its promise. We were outside admiring the makeover. Lefty was perched like a statue on the light-colored limestone ledge halfway up the house, the newly painted siding serving as her backdrop.

In the past, the contrast of her silhouette against the outdated cream color I loathed would have been obvious. Now, she blended like a shadowy ninja.

It was only then that I realized: the color exactly matched the cat.

Most people would chalk this up to coincidence. Dark grey paint shades offer a refreshing change to the sea of modern farmhouse white made popular by Chip and Joanna Gaines.

For me, however, my ‘familiar’ cat creates a sense of comfort. I’m convinced that our bond, and not the latest trend in exterior paint, subconsciously influenced my choice. She is my cohort in this life. She is my Salem.

“Leap and the net will appear.” My coworker’s voice trailed off as he passed me in the hallway. I turned to respond, but he was already disappearing through a doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other poised in the air in a goodbye wave.

This was last November, my final trip to the New York office of my employer. I’ve worked remotely since 2017, before COVID made “WFH” a mainstream acronym. I traveled back and forth to Omaha, Nebraska many, many times before trading that role for one that took me to the Big Apple regularly.

I had given my notice in October. Rather than the standard two weeks, I offered to stay through the Thanksgiving holiday. My departure was a surprise, and I didn’t want to leave my boss in a lurch heading into the annual sales meeting in December. Besides, I wasn’t on anyone’s timeline.

I was on a freefall into self-employment.

My coworker’s words of affirmations in the hallway that day shot me back a quarter of a century. My first husband, an aspiring actor, often recited that phrase. I always resented those words, presuming they were his way of shirking responsibility.

Now, as the six words echoed down the small stone hallway, I wondered if they would ring true for me.

I couldn’t drink (or yoga) my way out of this one

My level of bravery has amplifed tenfold in my eight years of sobriety. When I got sober, I acted as if I were making up for four decades of lost time (rough math revealed that my blackouts accounted for nearly three months of my life, so I literally lost days).

Over the next few years, I became sobriety’s version of an adrenaline junkie. It wasn’t fast cars or bungee jumps that thrilled me, but the idea of setting my mind to a goal and achieving it, something that eluded me during a lifetime of black-and-white thinking and self-sabotage.

In 2021, I self-published my sobriety memoir. I hosted my first women’s retreat on our property in 2022, two years past my desired goal thanks to the aforementioned pandemic. Midway through 2023, I started my 200-hour yoga teacher training. I doubt most graduates finish and open a yoga studio, but what did I have to lose? The doors to The Rooted Soul Yoga + Wellness opened in January 2024.

I was as big of a thrill-seeker as any former perfectionist, people pleasing alcoholic could be. Calculated risks. Practicality with a dose of eternal optimism.

Leaving my safe job for entrepreneurship might have seemed like the next logical move in my big, bold life, but 2025 had me spinning. For the first time in sobriety, I didn’t know which end was up.

I would learn that menopause, and late-diagnosed ADHD along with it, had its hooks in deep. At the time, I blamed a declining yoga business and Trump’s tariffs for the constant barrage of stress that I thought I could handle.

The pressure relief valve was a corporate exit I’d been contemplating for nearly a decade

Ten years ago, when I worked for a boss who encouraged me to quit the company we worked because of his own discontent, I vowed to “quit retail and write full time.” Instead, I made a career pivot into sales, working for small companies that brought me contentment for a time.

The corporate exit goal has taken on various iterations: by 2020, by my 50th birthday. Each milestone passed and I’d done little to make it a reality.

The dream always came with a strict savings plan I could never adhere to. My husband and I made huge financial strides when we sold our house at the height of the pandemic, but our life still required two incomes.

I built more passion projects than Taylor Sheridan, but nothing seemed to stick. I rarely filled retreats on our sprawling 20-acre hobby farm, usually breaking even with the ad spend.

I dabbled in public speaking and pitched the occasional essay to online forums. My most consistent writing gig was as a columnist for Tiny Living, but like the name of the publication, circulation was tiny, my prose unpaid.

I’m all in, Universe

When we sold the hobby farm last summer, I knew my time had come. The reason nothing had been more lucrative, I rationalized, was that I hadn’t fully committed to faith in a bigger plan, one that would reward my creative endeavors with limitless abundance.

The bold move, therefore, was to push all my chips across the table and tender my resignation. I’m all in, Universe.

Leaving my job felt freeing. At first. There was little fear because countless Case Kenny posts assured me that no matter how delusional I felt, success was headed my way.

Then came an ice storm that cost me thousands in refunds. A service launch that came and went with no enrollment. Ten and twelve hour days spent at the computer trying to convince my nervous system that I was going to be fine.

But what if I wasn’t? What if I took this leap and the net was never going to materialize?

Nobody talks about the freefall.

Sure, entrepreneurs talk about the early failures. Those stories make for incredible tension on the speaking stage. An inspiring hero’s journey.

What nobody talks about is the gap between the leap and the landing.

I have yet to hear about the actual sleepless nights, the tears, the disappointment, and the second-guessing that permeates the early days.

If I had a dollar for every course that promises a 7-figure income, or assures me I can make $2,300 daily, I’d be as rich as those course creators. Americans have always loved overnight success stories, but they are few and far between, despite social media’s attempts to prove otherwise.

I’m still in the freefall.

Maybe someday, I’ll stand on stage and tell the story of the seventeen people who started a bet that we’d lose our house. And I won’t hold back. I’ll describe in detail the early days, the ones nobody talks about because they are a distant memory once you’ve arrived.

I’m in them. And they aren’t fun. But documenting this journey, warts and all, will remind me that regardless of what comes next, I’m writing.

The Neil Sperry devotee who resided in the house before us considered these bushes a good idea. They couldn’t fool me. My plant skills may be middle-of-the-road, but I knew enough to see them for what they really were: high maintenance.

Roses are anything but a “set and forget” plant.

We moved into the house the following month. The hot pink buds wilted, then shed to the ground, leaving behind pale green triangles with crispy brown edges. If I squinted, they bore a slight resemblance to the terrorizing creatures in Stranger Things. Or maybe that was my Rorschach-style interpretation.

I spent time that winter educating myself on the pruning they would need in the spring. I refused to let my preconceived notions about the plant dissuade me from their proper care.

The roses were fortunate for this reason. I am a plant lover through and through. I’ve lost count of the number of houseplants we own, much to the chagrin of my husband. It’s akin to “chicken math” in the form of propagation.

Gratitude and resentment can live in the same garden.

President’s Day, the apparent marker for many rose horticulturists, came and went. I worried I’d waited too long for a proper haircut when the bushes sprouted new growth, but in early March, I armed myself with shiny new pruning shears and a paper lawn bag.

I set to work, following the guidance I’d learned from YouTube experts: trim anything smaller than a pencil, cut out the bull canes (stalks that have turned to wood), and sever anything that doesn’t support the vase-like shape.

When I finished the task, I was certain I’d butchered them beyond hope. They looked correct, as sparse and spindly as many of the educational videos I watched. As a plant lover, however, it felt cruel to remove thousands of tiny leaves edging their way to new life.

Within weeks, the bushes were thriving, as if I’d never trimmed a stem. By April, the buds were emerging, ready to explode with pink pom-poms. By summer, the green foliage practically disappeared beneath a fuschia flower blanket.

The tedious task of pruning was behind me. The thorny stabs and meticulous shaping, hours spent perfecting the plants, all disappeared with the end result. My resentment took a backseat to pride as the bushes graced us with iconic Texas landscaping beauty.

The roses even gifted me with stress-relief one day as I learned the gratification of dead-heading. Taking the pruners to each spent bloom, my worries fell to the ground like the withered flower I was removing. It reminded me of the cathartic nature of bubble wrap.

We’d left the driveway bushes alone, curious to see what would happen left untended. They operated similarly to the others, bursting with new leaves and flourishing with buds, but they didn’t seem to repeat their blooms like the pruned ones did, despite deadheading. It was a “one and done” explosion of color.

I didn’t hate the roses. I hated pretending.

I took note of President’s Day this year, mentally preparing myself for this obligatory annual ritual. In total, we have eleven Knock Out rose bushes, which I hoped I could knock out in one weekend. The unseasonably warm February was spurring new growth alongside the demagorgons. The bushes at the driveway entrance were unruly thanks to our experiment in neglect last year, overrun with neighboring pasture grass and wayward Mesquite saplings.

I’d studied the growth patterns last year and became concerned we were victims of RRD, Rose Rosette Disease. It is a fatal virus that results in an overgrowth of thorns, among other symptoms. My bias against the roses secretly rooted for this to be the case, as immediate removal is the only solution.

Before this year’s haircut, I sent photos to a Master Gardener friend. The dense thorns, another demonic attribute for a seemingly-innocent plant, were suspicious, she concurred, but alas, she did not think the plants were RRD victims. She suggested we keep an eye on new growth for more obvious signs, thwarting my campaign to replace them with red yucca.

The thorns were especially troubling this year. In addition, the unchecked growth of our experimental “feral” bushes had staked claim on several inches of airspace through the welded wire fence.

I was equally as ruthless, cutting out entire canes and pruning to the point of dulled shears. My husband continually suggested he could take the hedge clippers to them. The perfectionist in me insisted on following the rules of engagement as recommended by several rose experts.

I tried crafting an analogy in my head as I trimmed.

The thorns could represent hardships in life, the difficulties hidden behind the beauty of a bloom.

I’m cutting away an old life to make room for new growth, having left a lucrative corporate career and reluctantly closing my yoga studio.

My life coach uses the word ‘pruning’ often for the myriad pursuits I’m exploring in the spirit of creative entrepreneurship.

Thoughts swirled, but all life lessons were lost on me.

Only one thought permeated my brain.

I hate roses.

The idea felt scandalous. Roses are the floral world’s version of America’s Sweetheart. There is an entire parade dedicated to their beauty. They are a symbol of love and romance. And I don’t hate love and romance…do I?

All I know is that by the time I got to the last cluster of bushes, I followed my husband’s advice. Wielding the hedge clippers, I hacked the tops of the shrubs off like a crazed Edward Scissorhands.

At 50, I’m finally living my truth. I could no longer tolerate pointless negotiations in the retail world, and I can no longer tolerate maintenance of plants that inflict pain. In a nod to my former Director role, I’m delegating this job to my husband next year.

I’ll take my roses safely arranged in a vase, thank you.

To say I understand the term “tiny living” would be an understatement.

I am 62.5 inches tall. I have always suggested to the medical assistant at any doctor’s appointment that they are free to round up or down. I claim the half inch either way, although if I am anything like my grandmother, I will be a mere five feet by my nineties. That half inch of bone density is disappearing along with my steady stream of estrogen and dopamine.

I use step stools to reach tall shelves. My preference for hugging my husband is to be one step up from him on a flight of stairs. It’s humorous until I’m unheard in conversations, especially the hallway variety where I’m pumping my feet furiously to keep up with tall coworkers. My tiny larynx struggles to project my voice upwards by six or eight inches.

I don’t expect pity for my genetic shortcoming, but I do believe it prevented me from fully expressing myself for most of my life. I shrank because it required an exorbitant amount of energy to take up space.

An appreciation for all things tiny? I finally feel SEEN.

When “tiny” living became a trend a decade ago, I was happy to jump on board. After all, Merriam-Webster even lists the idiom good things come in small packages on their website. The tiny house movement gave me the ability to help others in a trend-right space: our twenty-acre hobby farm, Part Time Pastures.

We purchased our property in October 2018, just five months after I kicked booze to the curb. The hard work my husband and I put into the raw land wouldn’t be possible with a fuzzy head, so the timing was nothing short of magic.

Over the course of five years, we built a chicken coop, multiple sheds and tractor ports, five acres of fencing and a corral shelter for our (tiny) Dexter cattle herd, and a garden that was always haphazard at best, but was my favorite annual experiment.

In early 2020, once I felt more confident in our DIY abilities, I was struck by an idea. The rural property had been such a big part of my healing journey that I wanted to share it with others.

What about, I imagined, a holistic homestead experience for other women?

Shortly after this idea took hold and my dream formulated into concrete action items, the pandemic began. Any real-life gatherings were put on hold, but it gave me plenty of time to solidify a curriculum and create a business plan.

Most importantly, it gave me time to overcome the fear and impostor syndrome that would come with leading others.

Tiny people are invisible, or so I believed for a very long time.

Fast forward to spring 2022 and I set my flag, laying claim to a date in early September for the first event. I was off to the races, furiously finalizing every detail.

I ordered the furnishings for three fancy White Duck Outdoors canvas tents. Despite even me ducking to enter, the 13’ center height was suitable for any size and slept two people comfortably. Each tent was named after a boat-rocking role model: Carrie Marcus, Emma Tenayuca and Lady Bird Johnson.

I sold my beloved Jeep in favor of a 384-square-foot cabin shell, designed to be premium lodging for the anti-glamper. During its build-out, my husband was forced to have shoulder surgery. I learned to wire lights and install baseboards with his guidance, install vinyl flooring on my own, and tackle taping and bedding sheetrock.

I channeled my renovation idol, Nicole Curtis (who coincidentally comes in a small package). Being tiny paid off when I had to crawl underneath the building to install the plumbing line to the kitchen. I documented the entire journey for YouTube and still marvel at my accomplishments considering my novice skill set.

On the evening of September 9^th, several women from surrounding metropoles of Texas arrived at our little slice of the northern Hill Country. Palpable apprehension mixed with optimism filled the air. We made introductions and settled in the nearly complete cottage for my charcuterie spread. Everyone, including me, breathed a collective sigh at the natural ease with which we gelled.

Saturday morning, we bonded over coffee, then took a short trek down to another semi-tiny dwelling – the 600-square-foot workshop delivered in spring and purchased with every cent of my day-job savings.

I did little to finish out the “yoga barn” as we dubbed it - just a simple coat of porch paint on the plywood floor and some curtains to give a feminine feel to the otherwise rustic space. The three large barn doors that opened to the pasture were the showstoppers. Mother Nature is the best decorator.

Throughout the gathering, I allowed plenty of breaks for introversion recharge. Every time I returned to the tiny cottage, however, laughter spilled from inside. Nobody squandered a moment of connection, even cramped inside a tiny makeshift kitchen.

Small but mighty, megaphone in hand

I am incredibly proud of what I created that year. Tiny spaces that filled hearts to the brim. Miniature dwellings with all the creature comforts of home. A small chunk of time to truly unplug from an increasingly busy culture.

And me, stepping boldly into the role of “retreat host”, a leadership role my inner wise woman had assured me, during a desperate pandemic year, was coming.

Although my small business didn’t flourish at the time, it served as a training ground for a reemergence of the idea. Now, four years later, I am scheduling retreats with new experience. I’ve opened and closed a yoga studio, embodied the confidence that comes with corporate team leadership, and learned to take up space, physically and energetically.

I still come in a tiny, 5’2” package, but I am no longer content to sit quietly in the middle of the boat while life passes me by. I’m now the coxswain, the “coach in the boat”. Necessarily small, these leaders motivate rowers to work together, navigate challenges, and stay on target.

Taking up space may never feel easy, but it finally feels authentic. I no longer measure leadership by volume or dominance, but by consistency and courage. For nearly a decade now, I’ve led quietly—through example, tenacity, and resilience. If playing big means living in alignment with who I am, then I have arrived, megaphone and all.

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Without warning, I burst into tears.

I have plenty of interests - writing, podcasting, coaching - but none as well-established as the thirty year retail career I built.

Lately, I’ve been working twelve-hour days and ending them with the same hollow feeling: What did I actually accomplish?

I’m wearing all of the hats with no big return. No clean metrics. No satisfying “done.” I’m a marketing major and a creative, but already weary of the never-ending cycle of ideation, creation, posting, and waiting.

Effort seemingly evaporating into the void.

This isn’t the kind of frustration that comes from laziness or lack of discipline. It’s the grief that comes with a liminal identity - leaving the hustle culture that no longer reflects who I am, while trying to build something that hasn’t yet taken shape.

And no one really prepares you for that part.

Entrepreneurship doesn’t just change your work. It fractures your mirror.

When I left a traditional career, I didn’t just lose a six-figure paycheck and a title. I also gave up:

• Clear measures of success (albeit someone else’)

• External structure and support departments

• Predictable momentum

In corporate life, my effort equaled outcome—in the end, at least, after I’d crossed the milestone of seven years of sobriety and hit the pinnacle of my career: a Director title.

With a 9-to-5, I could track progress against someone else’s to-do list. I could explain what I did at a dinner party with conviction, not the winding resume of a multi-passionate entrepreneur.

I’ve played with plenty of new titles. Regardless of my identity, I’m buried beneath tasks, none of which create a guaranteed ROI. And all the while ignoring the novel tugging at my sleeve.

Suddenly, I’m the strategist, the marketer, the content creator, the salesperson, the visionary, and the janitor. I’m building something from nothing, and although I’m revisiting lessons from the past, none of those ventures cleared the way to leave a steady paycheck.

This time, it was a wild leap of faith with no safety net.

That’s where identity starts to wobble.

The social media problem isn’t about discipline—it’s about erosion.

I dread social media, a common trap and incredible time suck of self-employment. Not because I don’t understand it, and not because I’m “bad at consistency.”

I dread it because it asks me to perform instead of lead.

Because it subtly teaches to measure worth in engagement instead of impact.

Because it’s managed by a code which very few of us can easily crack.

For people who are wired for meaning—for thoughtfulness, discernment, real connection—social media can feel like a slow leak in the soul.

So when people say, “Post consistently,” what I hear is: Dissociate a little harder.

And my nervous system complies by shutting down.

There is a phase where effort and outcome are completely disconnected.

No one likes to talk about this part of the corporate exit.

There is a long, quiet stretch of entrepreneurship where you are doing real work—thinking deeply, building intentionally, laying foundations—and nothing external reflects that yet.

No applause.

No traction.

No dopamine hit.

The danger isn’t that this phase exists. The danger is staying in it without questioning the rules you’re still playing by.

When I finally slowed down long enough to listen, a different question surfaced—not “How do I work harder?” or “What’s wrong with my strategy?”

But this:

Who am I trying to prove myself to right now?

The answer is a bitter pill to swallow. My husband agreed to a year of earning the sole paycheck. In my mind, the clock has been ticking since January 1 despite having more savings in the bank than some might see in a lifetime.

I’m conditioned for security.

Twelve-hour days churning out content for mass appeal, not joy, means I’m still operating under someone else’s scoreboard—one I inherited from productivity culture, capitalism, or my former professional career.

A scoreboard that doesn’t actually reward the kind of work I’m here to do.

Identity doesn’t come from effort. It comes from alignment.

I am not retired, I am a creative entrepreneur. I am on my own for the first time since I looked up corporate salaries in college to determine a lucrative career.

I know what I want to do.

Author and retreat host. My inner mentor, Lois, bestowed me these honors in a visualization exercise five years ago.

Entrepreneurship doesn’t require that I disappear into productivity. Pushing harder will not bring results. Posting more will not bring confidence.

It requires me to become more myself—slowly, imperfectly, and often without witnesses. Or assurances.

It returns me to the reason I gave notice last Fall in favor of an uncertain future.

It reminds me why I heeded the call to help women reclaim their own voices.

That’s not quitting. That’s recalibration.

If you’re here too

If you’re an entrepreneur—or a creative, or a woman in midlife—who feels untethered right now, please know this:

You are not failing.

You are not lazy.

You are not behind.

You are in a season where the old identity no longer fits, and the new one hasn’t fully landed yet. That space is uncomfortable, under-validated, and deeply human.

But it is not empty. It is where the truest work begins.

In April 2025, my skin glistened as I sat in a crowded waiting room. It was my first time visiting this obgyn office so my nervous system was already on high alert. Their air conditioning woes and the warm Texas spring day did little to ease my mind.

I had dreaded this appointment for weeks. Mirena, an IUD form of birth control, had been a godsend since age 40. The device must be changed out periodically and the “swap”, as my friend group called it, was no picnic.

My reaction to the initial procedure warranted a Xanax for my first replacement five years later. This new office had not complied with that request, and my anticipation of a vasovagal response all but guaranteed I would have one.

This time, there would be no exchange. As my fiftieth birthday neared, I decided to removed the small device and let Mother Nature take the reins. My online yoga community had been discussing menstrual cycles for years. All the while, I felt like an outsider. My periods stopped completely with Mirena, so I hadn’t bled in a decade.

Undressed, the paper sticking to me with a combination of nervous cold sweat and my body’s response to the stuffy office air, I mentally reviewed this decision.

I knew I was perimenopausal.

Hot flashes were a common evening occurence, typically striking at 8 PM and recurring as soon as I slid under the covers at ten. I quickly acclimated to the routine: ceiling fan on, one leg out from beneath the blankets.

Brain fog clouded my mind on many days, the memory lapses a laughable sign of aging among my girlfriends. The gaps were innocuous then, chalked up to my busy schedule that included a full-time job and yoga studio ownership.

I was curious to know what would happen without birth control. The hot flashes had slowed in recent weeks and I wondered if I had gone through “the change.” My mother had a hysterectomy in her thirties, so I was a lonely traveler for our lineage in this new season of womanhood.

The doctor, a stranger to me, discussed my options with clinical expertise. “You know, the Mirena is now proven to be effective for up to eight years. You don’t have to remove it today.”

She informed me that hormone regulation provided by the device could prove useful in minimizing perimenopausal symptoms. I weighed that with my conviction to let my cervix breathe after ten years.

“Tempting,” I told her, but my mind was made up. Though surprised, the doctor agreed that regret would be a far worse outcome than a few night sweats.

I’m thankful that I listened to my body that day. There were complications with the removal. Though brief, I endured a level of pain I can only assume rivaled childbirth. The doctor was bewildered that the routine extraction was anything but. I praised Mother Nature for her guidance.

The Crash

The ensuing weeks were surprisingly normal. My hairdresser clued me in on the “Mirena crash” months before my appointment. I expected an immediate reaction - a Jekyll and Hyde transformation. Instead, the changes crept in slowly, imperceptibly.

It started with mood swings. Erratic responses to my husband’s immature sense of humor. Road rage, which I thought I mastered in early 12-step recovery. An irrational annoyance with my coworkers.

Mood swings gave way to impulsivity. I waffled on my desire to sell our beloved Hamilton, Texas acreage, a homestead we’d built from the ground up. It left our renters in a wake of uncertainty.

I looked at houses near my yoga studio, fixating on a fixer-upper that surely held the key to our happiness: a new home for our renters and an escape hatch for me when I needed “me time”. When it went under contract with someone else, I bawled.

My fiftieth birthday was a tipping point. My husband drank excessively that night. An offputting joke at the dinner table - the kind that made everyone gasp and glance in my direction to gauge my reaction - mortified me. The following week, I sobbed as I shared with one of those friends that I was considering a split.

At the same time, work was a pressure cooker. Tariffs made for a tumultous year in manufacturing and team morale was in the toilet. My eternal optimism bordered on toxic positivity, so I adjusted my approach to realism.

It took the wind out of my sails, and my company noticed. I was reprimanded for the amount of (unlimited) vacation days I had taken. In my mind, supporting my personal passion projects while taking mental health days to combat stress were the key to work-life balance.

In hindsight, I wasn’t balancing anything.

As my doctor would state in a report formally diagnosing me with ADHD, “Christy’s intelligence allows her to hold many spinning plates at once,
but this mental juggling act fuels anxiety and drains the energy needed for
execution.”

More Than Menopause

The fourth quarter of 2025 was a blur. We officially sold our Hamilton property, the proceeds more than enough to justify a year-long sabbatical. In a much better place with my marriage, my husband and I had several deep conversations on the matter. Although nervous, he reluctantly agreed to my career break.

I gave notice at my job in October. With genuine regard for my boss, I stayed through late November to ease the transition. My Corporate Exit was a milestone written in my personal roadmap for years. It’s arrival felt surreal.

On a whim, I launched a podcast called Rock the Damn Boat to document this transition. I updated my coaching curriculum and began to sign clients for a January launch. I was sad to close my yoga studio, an unexpected decision based on months of declining business, but I knew I was creating space for new endeavors.

I thought, amidst all of this positive change, that my stress level would normalize, making the previous impulsivity and moodiness a thing of the past.

Instead, I found myself leaving the trash bin drawer open all day after taking out the bag. I left laundry in the washer for hours on end.

I would forget to eat lunch, or more often, intentionally skip it because it didn’t fit into my new ambitious schedule. I was drinking coffee with the fervor of my drinking days.

Conversations with my husband were complete voids, something I hadn’t experienced since my drunken blackouts. “I don’t remember us talking about that” was a phrase steeped in shame.

A daily deluge of entrepreneurial business ideas crowded my busy brain. I tried to tap into my previous strategic thinking skills to lead my mighty team of one, but I was paralyzed. Even my previous obsession with Personal Kanban failed me, the brightly colored Post-it’s on my corkboard mocking me as they failed to move to “Complete”.

Soon, creativity gave way to a jumbled mess of thoughts. A hair appointment I intended to cancel cost me the full amount of the service when I missed it. I received a telehealth bill for $95, rather than my $25 copay, because I finally looked at the clock thirty minutes past the appointment time.

These once laughable memory lapses were no longer funny, they were costly.

Late Answers

It was no coincidence that the algorithm was serving me a constant stream of neurodivergent content. My husband grew weary of my incessant self-diagnosis. I began listening to Late Bloomers, sharing an episode with him to normalize my stream of consciousness entrepreneurial spirit (which at one point, of course, included launching a couples podcast).

My medication manager, treating me for my longstanding General Anxiety Disorder diagnosis, assured me my symptoms were all menopause-related: “It’s like every woman your age is reading from a script,” she said smugly.

That passed muster for a while, but after forking over $230 of forgetfulness funding, I knew in my bones that there was more at play.

Little clues emerged from the cobwebbed corners of my brain. An adult-onset ADD commercial from the previous decade. Wentworth Miller’s public announcement of his autism diagnosis in 2021. A family friend who took her own life when I was too young to comprehend the explanation that she was “struggling with hormones”.

I wanted it to be as simple as hormones. HRT is readily available these days and has made a world of difference for friends. But as someone who has revisited journals written in puberty, when my fluctuating hormones led to suicide attempts and phrases like “I’m not worth it”, I couldn’t leave anything to chance.

Referrals from ADHD-diagnosed friends all involved private practices that didn’t take insurance. Thankfully, Google led me to one who did. I made the appointment, completed twenty online questionnaires, and drove my racing mind an hour north to Fort Worth a week later.

The tests were exhausting and nothing like I expected. At times, my eyes welled up from both exhaustion and shame. My perfectionism was in high gear. I left the office and cocooned for the rest of the day.

Yesterday, I received a 26-page document outlining my test results and concluding with two diagnostic codes: General Anxiety Disorder and ADHD, predominantly inattentive.

I recognize that ADHD is primarily diagnosed by self-proclaimed degrees of focus and attention. Combined with an hour-long interview with a professional, however, I believe the questionnaires and battery of psychological tests resulted in the correct conclusion.

I have no doubt that estrogen’s slow departure from my endocrine system has affected my mood and my memory. Science continues to help us understand this complex change. However, science, along with sociology, also helps us recognize mental health patterns that once went undetected. They know more now about brain function than they did in 1980.

I look back at patterns in my life and see how modern interpretations of ADHD behavior were present: self-criticism, perfectionism, overachieving. I also know my mental health didn’t wake me up at night, having sweat through the sheets. It’s a both-and scenario.

Herein lies the mystery: did my IUD removal, and the subsequent absence of artificial hormones, unlock latent symptoms of my ADHD? Or did these menopausal symptoms lead me down the path to a coincidental adult diagnosis of a lifelong condition?

The answer matters far less to me than the awareness I now possess. I started hormone replacement therapy six weeks ago and a non-stimulating ADHD medication last night. Combined with new therapy formats and a ramp-up in my well-established mindfulness practices, I’m ready for the next chapter.

I look back at everything I have accomplished in my life, especially in the eight years I’ve been sober. My sobriety in itself is a worthy feat knowing I combat anxiety and ADHD daily and no longer soothe it with booze.

If my methods of organization need to change or I need to keep less irons in the fire, I am open to that. I know I have another book in me, that the podcast conversations I’m bringing to the world are necessary, and that I’m excited to spend next weekend on retreat with a dozen ladies inspired by my leadership.

At times, I worry my mental health and behavior last summer led to a premature exit from a lucrative corporate career. Armed with newfound knowledge, the answer is clear. Experience fuels leadership and inspires others. I didn’t leave, I leveled up.

You can listen to the full episode here:

It is said that March comes in like a lion. In my opinion, December stole those honors for 2025, coming in with a ferocity that said “look at me, I’m about to shake your tree.”

It is self-imposed, this exhaustion from wrestling with the lion. For the past several years, I’ve drawn the Rabbit card from my Animal Spirit Deck by Kims Krans, a strong indicator of how I feel in December. Trapped. Paralyzed by fear. Typically craving a change but unsure how to create it.

The rabbit is a prey animal, keeping watch as she eats, twitching at every sound or movement during her meal. I watch the cotton-tails in my backyard each morning. Still sentries, ready to retreat through the fence at a moment’s notice.

Last month, unbeknownst to me, a new friend pulled a card with me in mind. For her, it was a surprise, a way to get to know my energy. I, however, could have predicted the image long before she turned over the glossy rectangle: Rabbit.

Her deck talked about Rabbit’s co-creation with someone. My Rock the Damn Boat podcast had just come to life, and I easily attached the meaning to that idea. My free flow of thoughts combined with engrossing interviews has been life-giving. A total surprise after a lifetime obsessed with the written word.

The podcast has been a bright light in an otherwise tumultuous finish to 2025. Comfortable, well-worn labels were stripped away and I was left as a 50-year-old woman with an identity crisis. I’m pretty sure we used to call them “nervous breakdowns”.

I planned to stay at my corporate job until December 5th, but ended up leaving before Thanksgiving. My menopausal brain could no longer handle the stress. At least, that’s the shameful speech I give myself on the days that I question that decision.

My yoga business took a holiday nose-dive and I chose not to renew my lease, the stress of the business far outweighing the benefits of communing with students. At least, that’s the logic I use on the days where I feel guilty for abandoning my members.

In truth, I’m tired.

The high pressure Director role I chased my entire career wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. My expertise helped guide the team, but ultimately, the direction of the business didn’t suit me. It was less a gap in skill as it was a gap in core values. If upholding my integrity is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Small business ownership would deplete the most energetic of women. It’s understandable that the yoga studio wore me down. In fact, I should get a medal for my determination to bring yoga to conservative, rural Texas. Breaking even for two years was no small feat in an area where people asked, “can I be a Christian and do yoga?”

This year, Rabbit tangled with Lion, and I’m still not sure who came out on top. What I do know is that self-expression is one of my core values, and I’m excited to amplify my voice.

Dismantling my corporate identity will not be easy. I catch myself scrolling LinkedIn jobs, the insecurity and fear of being a self-employed creative in the driver’s seat of my thumb. I’m slower to delete the junk texts offering remote, part-time work.

My resolve is low, but I have been here before. It’s winter. It’s Rabbit energy. It’s cedar season in Texas.

I look forward to the buds on the trees, the greening of the grass, the longer days ahead. Until then, I will stop chasing a million ideas that equate to financial gain and focus my efforts on what I truly love. Words.

If you are also tired but craving more, join me on retreat at the rustic Hideaway Ranch in Bluff Dale, TX, January 23-25, 2026. We’ll honor winter energy while planting seeds for spring.

The thing about this book is…relatability.

I also grew up in a very religious family (or so I thought…my parents foray into Unity church made me realize later that we were following the marching orders of the family matriarch). Purity culture was alive and well in Arlington, Texas, but I was busy opening my petals, desperate for male attention. True love may wait; insecurity and low self-esteem do not.

Fast forward a few decades. Jen and I are now in the same season of life, a midlife awakening that promises to be far more magical than the first half century. Not to say I don’t love everything the past decade has blessed me with but, in a way, I’m just getting started.

Thanks to the pep talks I received from Jen, I launched a new podcast this weekend. I committed to the Texas retreat I’d been mulling over for weeks. I’m doing the damn things.

I was already awake. Now I’m inspired.

The workshop centered around edible flowers that can be used as garnish or ingredients for drinks and food. My new friend Sheri of Bijou’s Blooms did a lovely job instructing our novice gardeners. Our guests left with a seed tray packed with possibility.

Along with flower-infused sangria, we offered tarot readings from my friend, JeanAnn.

Enter the magic.

Say what you will about the woo-ness of it all, she always has a waitlist of the intrigued when she visits our events.

I went first to break the proverbial ice. I unwittingly chose the same deck from my Root to Rise festival reading, Woodland Creatures. No surprise considering I deem myself a Disney princess when it comes to animals. I handpicked four cards from various points in the deck. JeanAnn slowly flipped them over one by one and began to craft the story they revealed.

On one side of the table, she slid the sheep and the eel. Labeled “safety” and “devotion”, she explained that there was something slightly sinister about each. The sheep was caught in brambles, its wool snagging on the thorns. The eel…well, its metaphorical history speaks for itself: slimy.

Sliding the other two cards to the right of the table, JeanAnn and I examined them together.

“The black cat,” she said.

“No,” I replied, “that’s Lefty, my grey cat.” Aside from a small white chest blaze, the cat was the spitting image of my feline shadow. The card read Independence, a trait I’ve borne since age two when I refused to let my mother tie my shoes.

An orb weaver spider adorned the second card. The words ‘Creative Ingenuity’ were stamped at the bottom, bringing to mind beloved Charlotte, who wove words into her web in the corner of Wilbur’s barn (take that, ChatGPT). It’s fair to say I’ve never shied away from a creative challenge.

As a means to tie it all together, JeanAnn turned over one more card. She asked if I had Aries in my birth chart, the card bearing a ram’s Determination. I didn’t, as far as I knew. Aside from identifying closely with my sun sign of Gemini, I’ve only admired the constellations, not sought out messages from them.

The next day, I reached out to JeanAnn with an epiphany: for most of my life, I’ve played it safe, prioritizing safety and devotion above all. She followed up with a text to say I should look into the influence of Chiron on my natal chart.

There was a time I would have shrugged this off, but the aforementioned creative ingenuity had me intrigued.

I enlisted the help of a young woman I met in aerial training. For a small fee, she promised me an explanation of the complex graph that returned with my “free natal chart” from the World Wide Web.

A week later, I received my document. My mind was a thousand exploding head emojis. Chiron, the wounded warrior and healer, was a prominent figure.

I’ve always been sensitive. The Four Agreements’ “don’t take things personally” advice was written for people like me. My heart aches when I displease someone. For much of my life, it literally broke with every rejection, the scars on my arms a lingering reminder of trying to release the intensity of that pain.

It sounds like a fairy tale to say that any life event is “written in the stars,” but even Psalms 19:1 has been translated to this meaning. Is it possible our entire persona is determined by the alignment of the heavens at the precise moment we were born? Am I fated to be a wise healer yet always bearing the burden of my wounds?

Much like the enneagram or Clifton Strength Finders, my natal chart is just one tool to help me understand how to relate to the world. Coincidentally, Chiron has returned to a similar position in the galaxy. Google tells me “this transit often brings unresolved core wounds to the surface, prompting a mid-life awakening and providing an opportunity for deep healing.”

Bring it on. My creative ingenuity and independence, combined with a level of tenacity that is exploding with the catalyst of determination, are ready to awaken.

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