I am home. Back in California. Back in the western Sierras.

This week in therapy has been heavy.

I’m back in Montana for another stretch of intensive therapy.

I’m heading back for another seven days of intensive therapy. Not as an escape. Not as a restart.

I didn’t realize how much I was holding my breath until I arrived here.

Lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling. As I try to connect my writing topics across platforms; to align my words with weekly podcast topics, guests, themes, and timing; I feel my raw voice thinning. Polishing itself into something more strategic. More curated. Less me.

Lately, I’ve been able to reintroduce habits that I had long forgotten; habits that work for me; that make me happy.

It’s the first of the year. I’ve never been big on resolutions. They feel loud, performative—like promises made before listening.

The space between Christmas and the New Year has always felt different to me.

For a long time, I believed that finding my place meant arriving somewhere; - physically, emotionally, spiritually - and knowing, without question, that I belonged.

We are in the midst of the holiday season. For me, life is simple again this year.

The holidays are painted as a time of joy, connection, family dinners, and warm living rooms filled with laughter. But that is not the season I know.

The holidays are here—ushering in the familiar rush of calendars, family gatherings, late-night wrapping sessions, and houses transformed into twinkling reflections of cheer.

Healing often arrives quietly—like sunlight through the pine trees or the soft wind vibrating the strings on my harp.

Growing up in a home built on privacy teaches deep silence—and sometimes, self-erasure.

Here I sit, the day before escrow is set to close on the sale of my house.

It’s that time of year again — when I roll up my sleeve and prepare for my annual vaccines.

I love to walk.

I have been on a journey to find myself again.

I am a systems thinker and a cyclical thinker.