I had a toddler, a baby, and a divorce decree so fresh the ink hadn’t dried yet. My finances were in shambles. I was lost. Those of you who’ve been there, you know the feeling—that messy combination of heartbreak, low-grade panic about money and survival, and steely resolve to never wind up in this situation ever again. What nobody tells you about rebuilding your life is that the entire structure has to be demolished first, and that’s exactly what it felt like—like I was sitting in the ruins of my old life, with a baby crying on my lap and a toddler playing in the debris. This wasn’t how I’d planned on raising my kids. 

Divorce forced me into rigorous honesty with myself. I accepted the hard truth: I had chosen a partner who was emotionally unavailable, whom I thought I could save if I just tried hard enough. And trying harder was what I knew how to do best. I wish I could tell you that I laid that burden down and walked away from it after my divorce, but that wasn’t exactly what happened. I was growing, but growth always takes longer than we’d like. 

My personal journey of growth led me back to school, where I got my MSW.  

Those were not glamorous years. I was working multiple jobs, single-parenting, studying late into the night, and barely keeping up with it all. I had no time to breathe, no time to take care of myself, no time to really even consider what I was doing with my life. When “trying harder” is your main strategy in life, shame calls all the shots, and the more shame I felt, the more I leaned on my perfectionism to try to escape it. If I could be the perfect parent, then I wouldn’t have to feel shame about where life had brought me and my kids. If I could get a 4.0 in grad school, then I would be worthy. If I could create the perfect career, then I would finally feel good about myself. So I just kept going, focused so hard on the hustle that I missed the process. 

Of course, as you can imagine (or perhaps have experienced yourself), defining myself solely by my productivity left me burned out and disconnected from myself. It was like life had no color in it. All I could feel was the exhaustion, the emptiness inside, the strain. I’d worked so hard; I’d done all the right things since my divorce, made something of myself. But I still wasn’t who I wanted to be, and my life still wasn’t satisfying. 

After a decade of grinding, the reckoning finally came.  

I looked at my kids, at their own developing relationships with hustle and achievement—patterns they were learning from me—and I realized, This is not what I want for them. And hard on the heels of that thought came the next one: This isn’t want I want for myself! I had to slow down.  

I’ll be honest; slowing down was scary. Once I slowed down, I finally had the chance to look in the mirror—to look at myself, to really look. What I saw, though, was not just the burnout, but also the hope and the longing. In examining myself and the life I’d created, I started to understand: I am not what I do, and my worth isn’t in how much I produce or how busy I am or how successful I look on the outside. It was suddenly so clear. I was meant for more than this. But to experience that, I would have to change everything. 

For the first time, I started making space for quiet. The change wasn’t some big dramatic transformation. It came mostly in small practices that no one else could see—earlier wakeups so I could have slow mornings, and watch the sunrise as I drank my coffee; meditation; journaling. But the impact of those small practices was incredible. I became fully present in my relationships. My career shifted to something more life-giving and sustainable. I started seeing beauty again. The floodgates of gratitude opened. 

Today, I have a life I would never have dreamed was possible.  

I feel rooted and happy, confident that my choices honor my values and aren’t just an extension of generational inherited wounds. My days are filled with moments of deep contentment and profound enjoyment: laughing with loved ones, horseback-riding under a blue sky, feeling the strength of my legs as I rollerblade, smelling the changing seasons on evening walks. And I still drink my coffee and watch the sunrise every morning.  

Your version of contentment and joy will be different than mine; the things that bring meaning to your life many not resemble what I’ve found. But while the rhythms may look different, it’s that same feel that I want for you: quiet inside your mind, expansiveness in your chest, a sense of delight and wonder, a deep conviction that this is enough—that you are enough, and that the life you have is enough to satisfy. If that sounds like something you want, I would love to hear from you. Contact me [hyperlink to email or contact form] to schedule a free consultation.