Tiny Brave Steps. The Blog. 

You try to picture the woman you're becoming, and somehow she feels like a stranger. Calmer than you. Braver. Further down the road, living a life that looks good to you. She just doesn't look much like the woman standing in your kitchen in your fuzzy slippers before anyone else is up, drinking coffee and looking at a list that never seems to end. So you do the math. That woman sounds lovely. She's just not you. And you quietly set the picture aside, maybe even feeling a litt

Someone asks what you want and you go quiet. Not because there's nothing in there. You could answer in a heartbeat if the question were pointed at anyone else. What your daughter needs. What your team needs. What would make the next six months easier for everybody in the house. Turn it around and aim it at you, and there's a pause where the answer should be. It’s not that you don’t know or that you don’t have any. It’s more that you haven’t been asked for so long, you don’t

There is something you want. A version of your life that feels more like yours. You don't say it out loud. Because saying it out loud makes it real, and then you have to either go after it or explain why you didn't. So it stays where it is. Quiet. Just under the surface of an ordinary week. It's not that you're afraid of the thing you want. It's that you don't know how to stop hesitating. And you're afraid of the distance. The chasm in front of you You're here. What you want

I found out something about Fred a little while ago, and it stopped me in my tracks. I was following a trail of curiosity, the way I do, and I landed on a small piece of brain science. And there it was. Fred, the voice of fear I'd been describing to women for years, the one I'd given a name and a personality to almost as a way of coping, turned out to have a real home. He lives in the amygdala. It's a small almond-shaped part of the brain, tucked toward the back, and here is

I knocked on the door. Not a real door. An imagined one. In an exercise I'd been led through, I was asked to picture my future self's home. To walk up to the door and knock. To wait. I wasn't entirely sure what I expected. She answered. And I knew immediately she was me. Some version of me that hadn't happened yet. She smiled like someone who had stopped waiting for things to be different. And she had this light in her eyes. There was this way she moved - the kind you notic

Maybe you've been waiting a long time. Waiting until you feel more confident. More prepared. More like the version of yourself who has it together enough to actually do the thing. And meanwhile, the thing you want to do — the program development, the framework, the workout…the step forward — just sits there. Patient. Waiting for you to feel ready enough to approach it. That feeling you're waiting for? It doesn't arrive before you act. It arrives after. Step first. Certainty