Wrestling Out Loud.

I've spent the last year telling my story over and over. It's become a polished and neat story arc. The girl from Illinois who became burned out in her career and decided to move somewhere warmer to launch her own business, and then suddenly this beautiful life was manifested.

That's a layer of the story. It's the layer I can tell at a networking event or when making a new acquaintance.

When I think about the life I have built today: a thriving business, a beautiful community, a place to call home, an amazing partner—these are not the results of my last year here in Tennessee. It has been many, many years in the making.

Mycelium is always growing within the soil, these fragile threads that hold a forest together. There's a world constantly developing and changing in a tapestry of the life-death-life cycle. And when the conditions are right, something magical occurs. We see the fruiting body emerge—a mushroom that bears witness to the ecosystem under the surface.

Two years ago this month I quit my job. Previously I had visions of being at this particular job for the rest of my career. It felt like I was building something important. I poured my heart and soul into my work, thinking that it would eventually pay off. Until one day I realized it was all just smoke and mirrors.

For the first time in my life, I quit a job without having a plan.

I was also enmeshed within a deeply toxic and abusive relationship. Looking back, I see the purpose of this person entering my life was to help me deconstruct all the safety nets I thought I needed. And deconstruct, I certainly did.

A few months later I was living 3000 miles away from home, my life in freefall. Before this, I had a few particularly difficult periods of life, but this was truly the dark night of my soul.

There's a certain shame that comes with being the person who "has it all together"...and then seeing it fall apart. I spent so much of my life trying to be the overachiever, the one who followed the rules, the one who kept it together, the sensible one, the mature one.

And within a few short months, all of that unraveled—along with my career, my relationships, and my home and everything that had held my life together.

From an outside perspective, I'm sure it seemed like this maelstrom came out of nowhere. But it too was the result of slow work under the surface. Nothing comes out of a vacuum. We think of the crisis moments, the "fork in the road" situations where we realize the significance of our decisions. And yet, we only get to those moments because of all the little things that came before. The gossamer threads under the surface of our lives—in the mess, in the dark, in the confusion and chaos—always pulling and and leading towards the unknown future.

Sometimes, when I feel staggered by the beauty and fullness of my life today, I will say that I am lucky. But I think this does disservice to the reality of how our lives unfold. Luck is not an abstract entity to which we pay homage, rather a feeble attempt to wrap our minds around the complexity of opportunity and agency. There were a thousand choices I've made along my path that have led to this moment, sitting outside on this perfect Appalachian summer evening, watching the setting sun.

I don't know how to reconcile these stories I carry. It is simpler to ignore it and pretend that my story began after the tumult and devastation. But one of the most powerful practices I've learned is to lean into wherever there is discomfort, rather than pulling away. It's a little terrifying to talk about where I've come from. To admit out loud that I haven't always held it together. That my story holds many remnants of failures and regrets. That I've spent many months wrestling with these ghosts, trying to make sense of it all.

I still don't have it figured out. I suspect that the process of self-forgiveness is an ongoing journey. But it feels important at this time to do some of my wrestling out loud. And perhaps telling my story is one way to honor all the versions of myself who have led me here. None of us are a single static identity. We all have these layers, the ghosts of who we've been or might have been, or will become. No single story could possible encompass what it means to be a human in this experience of life. In the words of Walt Whitman, "I contain multitudes."