10/24/2025
I’ve had a really rough week. Between moving everything down from Virginia and feeling the finality of this huge life change, I’ve been sitting with a lot, the weight of doing this all on my own, the ache of being away from my girls, the unknowns of trying to build something new, and the quiet grief that’s been hanging in the air with my dad’s ALS. It’s been… a lot.
And yet, and this is the part that keeps me soft, I’ve also felt this deep wave of love and support from the people here. Friends who have shown up for me, helped me find places to live, shared laughter and kindness, helped me grow my business, handed me comfort when I needed it most. It’s been such a balm for a weary, healing, grieving soul.
There’s the grief of a relationship lost, of a life that used to be, and the daily reality of holding it all, the bills, the errands, the cleaning, the pets, the remembering to wash your damn face, while still showing up as a mom, daughter, friend, and business owner. Some days I feel like I’m crawling forward, but I still show up. I still move. I still meditate. I still try to shift my mindset toward hope, not just the belief that something good can happen, but the deeper hope that something good can happen for me.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, grace keeps finding me. Like my friend Tina driving down this week to help me unpack and reorganize the chaos that was dumped into my space. Like the neighbors who showed up at my yard sale today, strangers who became friends. One woman literally handed me her truck keys so I could haul things away. People spoke kindness and encouragement into my life. It felt like a quiet affirmation that I’m in the right place, at the right time, for my soul’s growth.
Even today, conversations turned into connections that felt meant to be. Clients introducing me to their friends, who then introduced me to their friends, it’s how hope builds, brick by brick.
And tonight, I talked to my dad. He’s having a really hard time. The sadness in his voice just gutted me. He told me how guilty he feels not being able to work or provide anymore. I told him how busy I’ve been, working all weekend, and he said, “Aren’t you a lucky woman? You get to go to work. You get to do what you love. I wish I could.”
That stopped me cold. Because he’s right. Every time I move, breathe, stretch, or teach, I think about the gift that movement is. How easily it could have been taken away. I don’t have to do Pilates or aerial yoga, I get to. And my dad, even in his struggle, reminded me of that sacred truth.
Still, my heart breaks. As a daughter. As a breathing specialist who can’t fix her own father’s breath. As a movement teacher who can’t restore his muscles. As a human who just wants to make it better and can’t.
So maybe I’m sharing this because life really is this strange, beautiful coin, joy and sorrow, resting back to back. You can’t hold one without the other. And maybe we’re not meant to.
Who decided we have to “hold it all together” all the time? Who decided we can only be happy when things are perfect?
Maybe the truth is that every moment, the joyful ones, the aching ones, the quiet ones in between, are all precious. Maybe the work isn’t to fix or rush past them, but to feel them, honor them, and let them shape us into something softer and stronger at the same time.
That’s where I’m at tonight, somewhere between exhaustion and gratitude, between heartbreak and hope, between the ache of what’s changing and the beauty of what’s unfolding.
