In the Wake of Destruction, We Remember Who We Are
There’s a moment in every hard season where your body just wants to shut down. You can’t shift, you can’t cry, you can’t even name what you’re feeling. The weight is real. And for those of us who’ve spent years doing inner work, the temptation to "fix it" fast—to shift out of the feeling, to reframe too soon—is strong.
This past week, watching the devastation unfold across our beautiful Texas Hill Country—my home, my happy place—I felt that heaviness hit like a wave I couldn’t outrun. Entire landscapes swallowed. Lives lost. Communities shaken. And beneath it all, a deep, aching grief I couldn’t logic or coach my way out of.
But here’s the truth: some pain isn’t meant to be bypassed. It’s meant to be witnessed.
The real power doesn’t come from escaping discomfort. It comes from sitting inside it long enough to understand what it’s revealing—about who we are, what we care about, and what we’re ready to release.
This is the heart of what I teach in my work: you don’t have to suffer forever, but you also don’t need to fake your way into peace. You can hold space for the pain and still ask, “What else is true?”
Because pain has layers. And inside it, if you’re willing to stay present, you’ll often find:
Unspoken grief
Unmet needs
Old identities cracking open
And sometimes... a new path forming
Perspective doesn’t mean denial. It means choosing to honor the full truth—not just the pretty parts. It means being with the heartbreak and the hope. It means saying: “Yes, this is hard. And yes, what am I meant to see.”
That was my turning point this week. After giving myself permission to not be okay, I paused. I breathed. I remembered what I teach. And I asked: What else is possible, even here?
And what came was this: neighbors helping neighbors. Businesses closing their doors not for profit, but for purpose—to serve. Strangers forming human chains to rescue, to feed, to clean, to comfort. This is what’s possible inside pain.
It doesn’t undo the loss. It doesn’t erase the grief. But it reminds us that even in devastation, the human spirit rises. There is something sacred in the way we show up for each other.
When I talk about mind shifting, this is what I mean. Not a performance. Not a spiritual bypass. But a conscious pivot—a willingness to expand what’s possible inside the hard moments.
So if you're in it right now—grieving, overwhelmed, or unsure—you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing it human.
Pause. Breathe. Feel what’s here.
And when you're ready, ask yourself: “What else is possible—even here?”
You may not have the answer right away. But the question itself can open the door.
If you’ve found yourself second-guessing everything lately—even how to show up in the world while things are falling apart—you’re not alone.
Grief has a way of triggering those old voices:
“I’m not enough.”
“Who do I think I am?”
“What difference could I possibly make?”
That’s not weakness. That’s a nervous system under pressure. That’s what imposter syndrome sounds like in hard times.
If any of that is echoing for you, know that you're not alone—and you don’t have to sort through it alone either.
I've created a resource called The Confidence Heist, which gently helps you uncover where doubt has crept in and how to reconnect to your truth. When the time feels right, it’s there for you.
Until then, just breathe. You’re doing enough. And you’re not the only one finding your way through this.
