The Wake Up Call That Changed Everything

Welcome to the weekly post! Glad to See Ya!

Recently in the Brain

After a chaotic May—complete with a car accident and a tainted birthday—I’m ending the month in reflection. June feels like a reset. I’m (hopefully) planning an international move to Spain, picking up a third job just to make it through my final months in LA, and trying to return to the self-care rituals that once kept me grounded—hot yoga, SoulCycle, journaling, and Jesus. In the background of all this movement, I’m being pulled into a new phase of my femininity. A softer one. A deeper one. One that requires stillness.

The crash forced that stillness on me—abruptly and without warning. A screeching halt that left more than just my car totaled. As I stressed over logistics—how to get around LA without a car, how to afford a new one—I found myself spiraling into much deeper questions:

If I hadn’t hit the brakes in time…

If I had died…

Would I have been proud of the life I lived?

The job I was trying to climb out of?

The untouched vision I kept delaying “until the time was right”?

Would it have taken my 9–5 just four days to replace me? Maybe a week?

Would they have even cared?

Would my four close friends, two cousins, my mom, dad, and grandma be the only ones at my funeral? Would my siblings—strangers in many ways—unite in grief, pretending to be the family we never were? Would they even recognize the woman my chosen family would speak about at the pulpit?

Those thoughts echoed during an unplanned weekend of total stillness. No yoga. No errands. No lunch dates. No bookstore visits. Without a car, I was quite literally sat. And in that stillness, I realized: it’s time for change.

The Lies I’ve Been Telling Myself

I’ve been pretending I’m okay. That the job that consumes 40 hours a week isn’t draining my spirit. That the creative part of me isn’t slowly dying in a system that rewards silence over intuition. A place where the air hums with tension, and the unspoken rule is simple: ignore your body, do the work, don’t complain.

It’s a culture that gaslights your inner voice—the one quietly whispering, “this isn’t right.” A workplace built on grind, ego, and facades. A place where stepping on others to get ahead is just part of the game, as long as you do it with a smile. To be fair, my specific role isn’t at the epicenter of this power-play, but I’m close enough to feel its weight.

And here’s the thing: I carried that weight so well, it became second nature. But no one warned me that releasing it wouldn’t feel like relief. That freedom could come with a strange weightlessness—less like being unburdened, more like being unmoored. Letting go left an ache, a quiet grief for the parts of myself that got lost along the way.

Sometimes the grief is about people.

But more often, it’s about the paths you didn’t take.

The versions of you that no longer fit.

The identities you shed just to survive.

The Vision I’ve Been Delaying

I can’t keep postponing the dream God placed in my heart. I’ve been hiding behind the idea of “doing it right”—chasing the “big girl job” that looks impressive but feels like slow death.

But how do you pivot in a market that feels immobile? I’m looking for something new—something that makes me feel alive. A role I’m excited to wake up for. A place where colleagues actually know and support each other. Not another closed-door, referral-only situation that punishes outsiders.

I want to grow. To be a sponge. To learn the skills I don’t yet have. Right now, in a creative world growing at a ferocious pace, I feel like I’m falling behind. I can’t afford to keep putting off the learning. I need to be in a room that challenges and nourishes me. I need work that fuels me.

The Armor I’m Shedding

Honestly, that accident might’ve been the second-best wake-up call I’ve received.

(The first? That’s a story for another day—maybe something about stepping into my soft girl era.)

Softness wasn’t always accessible to me. I was raised to be strong. To carry weight silently. To meet expectations, even when they crushed me. Somewhere along the way, survival became my identity. Ambition. Perfectionism. Constant productivity. It all looked like purpose, but it was just armor.

Armor that kept me moving but never allowed me to feel safe enough to simply be.

And now? I’m tired.

Tired of performing strength.

Tired of shrinking my joy to stay palatable.

Tired of delaying peace until I’ve “earned” it.

The crash cracked something open. And through that fracture, I saw my life clearly for the first time in a long time.

I don’t want to build a business rooted in burnout. I don’t want a life that looks good online but feels hollow in real-time.

Redefining Ambition

So now, I’m redefining what ambition looks like for me.

Not in hustle.

But in healing.

In softness.

In realignment.

And this new path starts with a realization I’ve been circling for years—one that, ironically, begins with someone who never truly saw me.

To be continued in Part 2: Pink Was Never His to Give

With love,