Nashema’s Blog

Survival

It is peculiar that I am still dealing with the same situations I faced a few years ago—desperation, frustration, confusion about my finances and life path. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do to bring in money and care for myself. For a long time, the pressure to earn made me feel I had to do a lot at once.

I have many interests and talents, but my motivation wasn’t rooted in enjoyment; it was rooted in survival. I kept juggling projects so I’d have a backup if something fell through. This constant juggling pushed me to extremes—doing the most and then doing nothing at all.

Origins & Frustration

Social media amplified these feelings. Endless content, endless ideas, endless people documenting their lives. I was overtaken by comparison and felt pressured to create, produce, and monetize myself as a brand.

Under our current system, survival means selling your labor, and value is measured by productivity, credentials, and profit. I was taught that working harder leads to worth and stability. But working harder didn’t bring financial abundance; it brought exhaustion and burnout.

Even with a master’s degree, I struggled to make ends meet. I tried to stay afloat but found release only when I stopped resisting—when eviction forced me to quit fighting for my apartment after another job burnt me out. I believed the lie that doing more would earn more, but all I was pushing a rock up a hill.

I still desire to thrive, not just survive—to have more than the bare minimum, to earn without being drained. Sometimes I feel I don’t want to do anything at all. A girl on TikTok said, “Your purpose isn’t what you do; it’s being an embodiment of love.” That resonated. It means how I show up every day matters more than the job title.

Realization

Deep down, I know everything is fine—even when I forget. I’m still cultivating what my life looks like. I don’t mind working creatively, but I also feel vulnerable living with family. I want security, yet I don’t want to put pressure on music to provide it and drain the joy out of it.

I want work that’s low-stress, offers work-life balance, and aligns with my activist spirit. Teaching fits some of that, but when it comes to creativity, I worry. My lack of money feeds my stress, but stress won’t solve it.

Faith means choosing what I enjoy even if it doesn’t pay right away, and knowing everything will work out. I don’t have to pressure my creations to fund me. I can do what I love freely and trust the process. I can withdraw, listen to myself, and act from alignment.

There’s no blueprint—no right or wrong way. I’m choosing the path of least resistance because there’s already enough to combat externally. Things are divinely orchestrated, and we co-create with our actions. I’m choosing actions that let me glide through existence: present, calm, not unconscious but awake.

Driving reminds me of this. There’s no need to speed. Others rush and get frustrated, but often I end up behind them anyway. Sometimes they vanish, and I wonder, “Was it worth it?” This mirrors my life: pushing, hurrying, hyper-focusing on self and destination without regard for the cost. I don’t need to do that.

Practices & Solutions

Knowing myself and accepting where I am helps me find answers. I make decisions based on truth, not on what I think I “should” do for safety. There’s no right or wrong—just alignment.

If someone asked me what I’m actually doing to stay centered while I rebuild my life, this is what I’d say:

Practices & Solutions

• Morning pages & journaling – Daily writing to release thoughts and gain clarity.
  
• Sitting with feelings – Allowing overwhelm, jealousy, or despair to surface without judgment.
  
• Breathing & napping – Simple pauses to reset the nervous system.
  
• Movement & music – Dancing, listening, or creating to shift energy.
  
• Spending time with loved ones – Grounding yourself in connection.
  
• Choosing alignment over urgency – Making decisions from truth rather than “shoulds.”
  
• Letting go of income pressure on art – Creating for joy first, trusting the process for the rest.

These practices remind me that life is a process, not something to be rushed. They ground me so I can make decisions from wholeness rather than fear. In the moment they can feel counter-intuitive—who would think that pausing instead of pushing could move you further along?—but they’re a form of self-care. I’m still unlearning the belief that I don’t have enough time to devote to myself. The more I love myself, the more my life improves, and the more fully I can show up for others. Change starts within.

How are you showing up for yourself today? I’d love to hear in the comments — your reflections inspire me too.

I’ve been thinking a lot about art and content. I’ve been in a space where I’m letting go more and allowing—not trying to figure everything out all the time. Trusting where I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m being led. It’s led me to believe that living is its own art. Being in the moment and present is a skill. Being conscious enough to make your own clear decisions outside of what we are taught to believe and do is the radical artist at work. 

Although my body wants to tell me to panic. I’m starting over. Thirty-three, living at home with my family. Not in the career I want, and the state of the world can bring its own anxieties. But I know deep down that I have no worries. I’ve been through this before; I’ve made it through the fire. I can trust myself and know that everything will be alright. I can sit in ease, breathe slowly, and take my time. 

But that goes against how I’ve been programmed. This mindset is contradictory to the constant push and pull and pressure I apply to myself. To operate from a place of deep knowing—despite what is around you—is peace. 

I follow my anxiety up with rest and slowness; my fears, I combat with movement; my confusion, sometimes with both rest and movement.

I listened to a quote from a lecture by Marimba Ani. She talks about the African perspective of time and how it is cyclical. She says it “transcends those lineal (or linear) categories of past, present, and future. Their concept is beyond those. We’re dealing with a reality that makes everything one.” To me, this means that if all time is present here and now—and our conception of time as linear is erroneous—then I can be attuned with the energies of the past, present, and future in this moment. 

In other words, I’m in communion with my ancestors and my future when I allow myself to be in the present moment, in flow, in presence—regardless of what it is. 

There is so much to gain from what seems mundane. Those moments where I wandered around the garden with my grandmother as she watered her flowers. Words didn’t have to be spoken, but we held space for each other and for those who came before us and walked the same lands. Those who imagined us as we remembered them. The hours of witnessing and listening to storytelling and performing and laughter as we gathered in the communal spaces of kitchens and living rooms, holding space and being present. Remembering. I knew that I was collecting and archiving for the future. 

What about taking what we’ve been through and alchemizing it into something that transforms you and allows you to show up improved? Is that art? Taking my life experiences and learning and growing from them—being able to show up as the tattered but improved version of myself. Being so in love with and embodied in who you are that your mere presence becomes an art form. Being intentional. Not just surviving, but making something out of your survival. You are the artist and the medium. I’m showing up as the form, and with me, I carry all that was and is and will ever be. Every lesson I’ve overcome—and still continue to show up. I don’t have to force or paint it; the energy speaks for itself. 

We are taught to “perform improvement, polish the brand, make it look easy.” But I want to show up as I am, as the work in progress. Accepting and loving myself fully for the embodiment that I am. You no longer need a stage because you become the living altar of truth. It’s in my doing and stillness, and my presence in both. Knowing and listening to when to shift between the two. 

Slowing down and allowing myself to tune in—despite the pressures, algorithm, fear, and capitalist time that indoctrinates us with doing more and getting more done. When I slow down, I know that I am opening myself up to hear, to feel, to travel beyond form. Time is no longer about the to-do list, but sitting in it becomes a meditation, a ritual.

That’s why in my vlogs, I tend to want to capture the ordinary: me sitting on my bed, writing, driving, making food—times where my mind tends to leave me and dream of faraway lands. Holding space for others to sit in their stillness without worrying about what’s next. Being in flow then becomes about reconnection to the all. Being in the now allows me to remember when I think I don’t know. Reconnection. Your presence becomes a prayer. Your life is the art.

I went to see Sinners again.

Shout out to the Kametaphysics Sacred Alchemy channel on YouTube for offering a lens that hit me right in the spirit: the vampires in the film aren’t just monsters—they’re archetypes. Reflections of our inner demons, trapped thoughts, and inherited beliefs that keep us stuck, disconnected from our purpose.

That stuckness is something I know intimately.

If you’ve been following my career journey, you know I’ve been in and out of the public school system since 2018. I have not been an angel in every space, and I’ve had my fair share of struggles—with systems, with authority, and with myself.

But the best places I’ve worked gave me room to be human. They made space for questions and pushback, honored creativity, and saw the people behind the work.

Shout out to Dr. Robert Randolph Jr., the first boss who allowed me to simply be. Shout out to the entrepreneurs and collaborators who recognized my value before I did—not just for my skills, but for my spirit.

When I stepped into those spaces, I felt seen.

When I stepped into public school systems, I felt sacrificed.

It never felt free. It never felt like “a calling.”

It felt heavy. Oppressive. Like something I had to survive.

And every time I left, I felt lighter.

But the world tells us, “That’s what working is.”

You endure. You survive. You retire.

I wrestled with that deeply.

How could I know that life-giving work exists, and still be told it doesn’t?

We’re taught not to trust ourselves. Not to trust our desires.

We’re told that struggle is holy, especially if we work with children. That it’s selfless. That it’s a calling.

But what happens when your lived experience conflicts with your so-called calling?

I now understand that multiple things can be true.

Yes, I served a purpose in those classrooms. Yes, I learned.

But there was also exploitation.

And yes—I stayed longer than I should have because of spiritual bypassing dressed up as duty.

We are expected to pour endlessly with no thought to our own humanity.

A few resources. A celebratory week. But no raise.

We are told not to complain—because “the children need you.”

In 2023, I mentally broke down.

I was working full-time and still struggling to make it through the month. Paid on the 1st, and by the time bills were covered, I was lucky if I had $300 left. No kids. A minimal lifestyle. And still—barely getting by.

But I was taught to be quiet. To be grateful.

To believe that my desire for more was selfish.

How was anyone else surviving?

I kept showing up. Smiling. Pushing through.

The stress wore me down. Eventually, I quit.

That decision—along with everything that followed—led to my eviction and brought me to where I am now: living with family.

I deeply admire the teachers who raised me with love while navigating their own private storms.

I tried to do the same.

Even when exhausted, I tried to love my students well.

Tried to keep the space calm and grounded—because the environment around me wasn’t.

By 2024–2025, I found myself in a familiar situation.

This time, I didn’t have so many expenses going out.

This time, I’d have some cushion to breathe.

This time, I was starting at the beginning of the school year.

But the problems were systemic.

Different school, same reproduction of the beast.

I tried a new approach: focus on what you can control. Leave the rest at the door.

Teaching is holy—but it is also demanding.

You don’t just teach content.

You teach while managing a room full of young souls: reading them, nurturing them, disciplining them, protecting them.

You become part-parent, part-therapist, part-lighthouse.

And it takes a toll.

On top of the usual load, I was now battling people who were supposed to be guides.

Before I left, my hair was falling out.

I was emotionally eating.

I was depleted.

So I started shifting.

Coming in early or staying late—but not both.

Saying no. Taking my weekends back.

Listening to my body.

In April of this year, I was suspended with pay until the end of the school year—“insubordination,” they said.

While I still believe it was unjust, I also see the gift.

The suspension gave me what the job never did: rest, rejuvenation, and reflection.

Teaching served its purpose.

I walked away with skills, strength, and self-awareness.

But I also walked away knowing what toxicity feels like—and what I will no longer tolerate.

I stayed in those roles out of necessity. Out of fear.

I let others’ beliefs about work and worth distort my vision.

I told myself my dreams were too big. That I was being unrealistic. That my desires were selfish. Even demonic.

And so, I stayed trapped.

I see now that I was living under a story that told me my desires were dangerous.

Like wanting more meant I was ungrateful.

Like dreaming big was some kind of betrayal.

I thought maybe something was wrong with me.

But now I realize—those thoughts, those beliefs, those systems—they were the vampires.

Not in the fangs-and-cloaks kind of way.

But in the slow, draining, soul-numbing kind of way.

Vampires, as an archetype, show up in a lot of stories—not just as monsters, but as symbols.

They represent what feeds on us while pretending to serve us.

Jobs that promise purpose but leave us empty.

Beliefs that say sacrifice is holy, even when it’s killing you.

The voice that whispers, “this is just the way it is.”

And what makes vampires so dangerous is that they don’t force—they seduce.

They make you doubt yourself.

Make you think you have to stay.

But healing doesn’t always mean slaying the vampire.

Sometimes it means recognizing it.

Calling it what it is.

And choosing not to let it feed on you anymore.

I think that’s what Sinners helped me see more clearly.

That sometimes, the system knocking at your door isn’t here to grow you—it’s here to consume you.

And the way out isn’t by fighting it on its terms, but by choosing yourself.

By reclaiming your energy. Your voice. Your truth.

I stayed in those spaces because I thought I had to.

Because I thought I was supposed to.

Because I confused suffering with service.

But I’m learning now that choosing my well-being isn’t selfish.

It’s vital.

I know that working at something I didn’t fully enjoy served its purpose—but the lesson was never to suffer endlessly.

The lesson was to see. To listen. To transform.

Maybe that’s what sacred alchemy looks like—

Letting the fire burn away what doesn’t serve, so what’s left is real.

Whole. Rooted.

No one should endure abuse in the name of security.

The next time evil comes knocking, I’ll know how to answer.

And this time, it won’t be from fear.

It will be from truth.

I thought my gift should bring sparks.

I thought that the one thing I was meant to do with my life would flood me with bliss and euphoria every time I did it—

It didn’t.

My gifts helped me process. They brought peace. But I didn’t see them as “gifts.”

I kept waiting. Waiting for a voice from above to bellow out my direction.

I didn’t trust that my nudges, interests, and quiet whispers were the inspiration.

The only block has been me—because I’ve been a slave to certainty instead of nuance.

I always had a problem with sugar. I remember stealing restaurant sugar packets and hiding to eat them in private. This insatiability spread into other areas of my life. I was always looking for something to make me feel good– sugar was the easiest to attain and the easiest to hide if I was emotionally spiraling. I took this feeling with me in my ideas about my career. Shouldn’t I feel high? Like I’m lost in the sauce for hours? But it has been a slow-release. A slow build leading to alignment.

I had to sit in bed and really come to terms with something:

My magic is in my consistency.

I know what happens if I keep moving forward. I’ve seen the pattern.

Sometimes the “magic” doesn’t feel like magic until later—

When things finally come together after building in small, quiet ways.

I wasn’t seeing the beauty of things developing.

Maybe because I wasn’t doing them consistently.

But then I started vlogging.

I’d pick up the camera when I felt led—not because I was 100% convinced I should.

I just had this sense deep down that it would all come together, that it would matter somehow.

Even when I didn’t see it, I followed that urge.

And when life happened and I couldn’t record, I gave myself grace.

But I always tried to come back to it, to speak from the heart.

As I edit now, I see myself more clearly.

I see the person who is trying.

Who is tired.

Who is still showing up.

I see that the magic was in the repetition.

That even when I couldn’t see the outcome, I could trust myself enough to just do it.

To give myself the chance to believe—even without clarity.

And now, as I piece together these clips, I see beauty in both the process and the final composition.

The magic came from me being me.

Showing up.

Being alive.

Being aware.

I’ve learned that sometimes, meaningful work feels mundane, unsure, quiet, and messy.

But it’s still beautiful.

I used to chase a feeling.

I’d delay decisions, ponder, and wait—because I believed that clarity would arrive before movement.

That there would be some cosmic sign lighting the way.

But really, the desire for certainty came from fear.

Fear of not knowing if I was going the “right” way.

Fear that my desires might not be “pure” or in service to others.

Fear that I was being selfish for wanting something so different from what I saw around me.

I thought a confirmation would make me move forward with confidence.

But what I really needed was a shift in belief:

I had to believe in the vision now, even if the present felt cloudy.

Movement brings clarity.

Just like when you step back and look at your life in retrospect,

And realize everything you’ve lived has led to this moment.

That realization gives you the confidence to keep going.

Vlogging helped me see that.

By living my life with awareness, I am walking the soul’s journey.

And that journey is a creative process.

Living is creation in action.

It just takes waking up and remembering:

Everything you do is sacred.

We’ve been programmed to believe that things have to look a certain way to be important.

But being alone with myself can be just as holy as being in a pew.

The vlogs showed me that.

They gave me evidence of my sacred existence.

They helped me see that even in confusion, as I composed each video, it was all meaningful.

I believe in free choice. But I also believe that my choices haven’t always been made from freedom—they’ve often been shaped by my past, by the people who came before me, and by wounds I didn’t even know I had.

Unlearning is part of this journey. So is forgiving myself.

I’ve followed my intuition even when it led to pain. And in the pain, I found reflection. I grew. I healed.

I’ve had affairs. I’ve been cheated on. I’ve been emotionally abandoned and ghosted more times than I can count. Relationships with men often felt more like chasing than resting, more like forcing than flowing. Inconsistent reciprocity and deep emptiness.

I know those choices came from longing, low self-worth, and the belief that if I loved hard enough, it would eventually be returned. When I didn’t receive what I longed for, I was forced to ask myself hard questions:

I feel abandoned—where am I abandoning myself?

I feel like I’m not chosen—where am I not choosing myself?

That’s when the real work began: closing the gap between what I needed from others and what I could give to myself.

I also have to admit—I didn’t always walk away because I had the clarity or the strength. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes I stayed until I was pushed out or cut off. I wasn’t always the one who initiated the ending for the “right” reasons. But I still accepted the endings. I still grew. I still learned.

And that’s okay.

I can’t deny that those experiences cracked me open. They made me look inward. They became part of my healing.

And just like in my relationships, I stayed too long in careers that didn’t see my worth, hoping they’d change. Hoping it would feel like alignment if I just worked harder.

In truth, it wasn’t only the jobs that kept me stuck—it was me. My fear of leaping out on faith. My attachment to clarity before movement. My belief that unless I was certain, I shouldn’t leap.

That’s a subtle form of self-abandonment: ignoring your intuition because you’re afraid to bet on yourself.

Now I see that freedom isn’t always loud or magical. Sometimes, it’s quiet. It’s a series of soft, steady yeses to your soul—even when you’re scared.

I am no longer here to shame my past.

I am here to honor how far I’ve come—and how deeply I’ve learned to listen to myself.

I trust that if love or purpose is meant to return, it will meet me where I am: whole, rooted, and free.

I close the doors that no longer protect me.

I open the ones that lead me home to myself.

Have you ever realized your choices weren’t fully your own—shaped by wounds, patterns, or survival?

Did they still teach you something? Did they help you grow?

Navigating these structures has been a journey. I tend to be someone who questions things, wants to speak up, and can sometimes be downright defiant. In the past, I let my emotions get the best of me and allowed my pride to take over. There was a desperation and darkness that loomed over me because I hated working in the school system and felt that the people in charge didn’t have my or the students’ best interests at heart. It felt like I was working for a business that used education as a front for something else. I kept quitting and running away. I also think working with older students contributed to my workplace depression.

Now, I’m learning that finding joy is a process. It’s taken a lot of work. I had to choose myself over and over again. I had to speak up, quit when necessary, shift my mindset, and find things outside of education that brought me happiness. Changing to work with younger students has made a big difference. I’ve also learned that sometimes, to survive, I have to step back from confrontation because those in power can use their position to disadvantage you.

I’m still learning balance—for myself and for my students. My priority is always my students, from the moment I step on campus to when I leave. I’m also learning to let go of the stress. I do my best while I’m there, then I leave it behind and move forward. Most importantly, I make time for myself and my creative pursuits outside of work.

Giving my best as a teacher is an authentic expression of who I am. I may not reveal every part of my personality in that space—and honestly, I’m still navigating what full self-expression looks like outside of it—but I believe my online creative work allows me to express myself authentically. Maybe through that process, I’ll find more ways to show up as my true self in the workspace, too.

“Everyone is wearing a mask. It takes a lot of courage to admit and be vulnerable.” — Debra Silverman

How Do I Live My Life to the Fullest?

Lately, I’ve been struggling with how to show up as my most authentic self. I find that I can do it around people I trust completely, but even then, there are still pieces of me that I hide—unless I fully let go and stop overthinking. For example, if I’m singing casually with friends, it’s easy for me to join in without hesitation. But when it’s time to sing seriously, just me in front of people, fear creeps in. Singing has become a vulnerability practice for me, and each time I gather the courage to perform, write, or speak, I feel like I reclaim an authentic piece of myself.

But I still question how to show up fully in environments that don’t feel safe for authenticity.

I’ve come to accept that the workplace isn’t always where I can be my full self. In these settings, it often feels like I have to let my work speak for me, rather than my voice. I’ve often questioned if it’s safe to express my thoughts or question things openly. But maybe if I continue to show up authentically outside of work, eventually everything will merge.

I’ve been in conflict for years about the tension between being a teacher and being a creative. They’ve always felt at odds. In public education, I feel pressure to censor myself, but my creative pursuits ask me to be fully honest. Creating calls me to share my experiences with the hope that they will help others, and yet, there’s this fear that by doing so, I’ll be judged—because I’m also a teacher. It feels like a contradiction, especially when I’m critiquing the very system I work within.

I’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship with teaching in public education, religious doctrine, and capitalism—systems that normalize struggle and sacrifice for the “greater good” or for the necessity to “pay the bills.”

Each time I left a job, it was an act of defiance, choosing myself over systems that drained me. It was a decision to live in faith rather than lock myself into a place out of fear.

It’s been a journey of learning who I am and what I truly want. I know I want to do work I love—not just work that pays the bills. The idea of a job that aligns with my passions, a desire to serve, and offers financial stability—that’s what I want. Something that gives me life, that inspires me.

Yet, living in a capitalistic world means I must work to survive. I’ve always sought a career that marries my passions with financial security, but this system constantly asks me to sacrifice my authenticity for a paycheck.

In teaching, there’s this unspoken rule: stay quiet. I hear things like, “We already know teachers don’t make money, so stop complaining,” or “The kids need you to stay because everyone else leaves them,” or even “Be a marigold, not a walnut tree.” While some of this advice is valuable, it also overlooks the very real, lived experiences of teachers, especially in Title 1 schools. It ignores the systemic problems that bleed into our lives as humans.

As a single Black woman, this hits differently for me. I don’t want to trauma dump, but I do believe that sharing our experiences empowers us to change them. We have the power to make change, and we have the right to speak on the realities that affect us.

I want to write about these lived experiences, the structural barriers and history that make things difficult, how stress plays a role, and how the school system is complicit in keeping things as they are.

In the digital age, there is hope. Platforms like YouTube and social media have created new opportunities for Black entrepreneurs and creatives to build careers around their passions. These modern avenues are democratizing access to creative careers. Organizations and initiatives that support Black entrepreneurs are helping to overcome systemic barriers by providing resources, mentorship, and funding.

While there’s still a long way to go, and the legacy of systemic racism and economic inequality continues to impact our ability to pursue passion-driven careers, progress is being made. This is especially significant for single Black women like me who continue to face the tension between economic necessity and creative fulfillment. But I’m hopeful. With the rise of new opportunities in the digital world, there are paths forward for future generations.

As Keke Palmer put it: “Entrepreneurship is about investing in your purpose.” For her, that’s entertainment, but it’s expressed in different ways—hosting, acting, music. She states, “It’s all about seeing yourself as the business and finding ways to share and express that knowledge, instead of feeling cramped in one role.”

I want that personal autonomy in my own creative and professional life. It’s not just about surviving—it’s about finding ways to thrive in this complex world.

If you’re new here, let me catch you up. In 2023, I quit my teaching job—again—and have been regaining my footing after being evicted from my apartment. I left that job out of frustration with the education system but also as a way to fully commit to my creative pursuits. Or so I thought.

The truth? I was in a self-imposed limbo. I jumped into entrepreneurship with no real plan, never fully committing to my dreams. I didn’t realize that visions take time to brew, and I was afraid of making the “wrong” choice. What if I failed? What if I made a mistake? I kept bouncing between different jobs, none of which really stuck.

When you last saw me, I was living with a friend’s family, navigating odd jobs—fired from both a daycare and a tutoring center. I became a 7th grade science/math guest teacher, Doordashed to pay bills, enrolled in an Educational Preparation Program, wrecked my car, moved in with my aunt, and even got microlocs.

Most recently, I started teaching 5th-grade literacy. It’s been five weeks of navigating this new chapter.

Embracing the Phases of Life

Looking back, I think I’ve been waiting for things to “level out.” Before, I tried to be patient through all these transitions—ups and downs, losses, and growth. I hated working in grocery, but it got me through a season. In hindsight, what if I had embraced that job with more gratitude, knowing it was temporary? What if I now embraced where I am—with belief in where I’m going? 

Everything doesn’t have to be perfectly planned out for me to get started. I’ve realized that doing my best now—right where I am—is enough. 

Starting Over with a Clearer Vision

I am starting over, but this time, it’s my chance to build with a clearer vision and more dedication. It’s not about perfection. It’s about appreciating where I am and trusting that this moment is laying the groundwork for where I’m meant to go.

Even though life feels bleak sometimes, I must shift my perspective and see that I am exactly where I need to be. There’s a blessing in every phase, even the tough ones.

Reflecting on Hustle Culture and Self-Worth

I often feel like I’m working myself to no end, caught in toxic hustle culture—productivity for the sake of productivity. Comparisons, social media, and consumerism add to the pressure. But what am I really working for?

I want my work to be meaningful. I’ve been caught up in chasing the “big thing”—the big impact. But in doing so, I’ve ignored the significance of the small steps I’ve been taking. I’ve envied people who seem to be doing it all because I’ve been too focused on the end goal to see that progress happens one small step at a time.

Lessons Along the Way

Here are some of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far:

“Our biggest journey in life is overcoming obstacles of self-doubt” (Elana).

Stay optimistic and look at your circumstances from a new perspective.  

Remember who you are— even in the most challenging times.  

Abundance is everywhere. The illusion of lack can make us feel like we need to do a million things to achieve success. But it’s our mindset that needs to change.

“When the ego isn’t trying, just being, it’s most magnetic,” trusting yourself to just be is a powerful practice (Aaron Doughty).

Moving Forward with Intention

I’m learning to slow down and appreciate where I am. I’ve spent so much time wanting to be somewhere else, doing something more, but now I’m shifting my focus. I realize that life isn’t about having it all figured out—it’s about taking one step at a time. Each day, each decision moves me closer to the life I want.

Facing Fear and Finding Clarity

There has been a deep fear around embracing the fullness of who I am. A fear of being too much or too little, too scattered or too focused. But now I see that fear is just another obstacle to overcome. I’ve made decisions based on what I thought was best, but I’ve also had to accept that sometimes things don’t work out as planned—and that’s okay.

Through all of this, I’m starting to see the fruits of my labor. Processing emotions like envy, fear, and isolation has been painful, but necessary. I’m learning that moving forward through uncertainty is the only way to conquer these feelings.

Where I Stand Now

Here I am. An unfinished but complete work of art. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m committed to moving forward.

I know that every small decision I make today is shaping the life I want tomorrow. It’s not just about the big vision—it’s about the everyday steps, the relationships I nurture, and the trust I build in myself.

I’m ready to embrace the blessings in the present moment, knowing that this journey is mine to shape.