On beginning again
I woke up this morning, as did those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, to the Spring Equinox, the beginning of a new season and that which comes with it—light, energy, hope. We awaken from the months of the Winter prior, whereby we operated at a slower pace.
Yet we weren’t quiet. Underneath the surface, sometimes hidden from ourselves, seeds were being planted, preparing us for what’s to come.
(I’ve written about sunrises before—what they represent, what they ask of us. This one felt different.)
We can choose to water these seeds, positioning them best for success. Or we can starve them, almost ensuring that they remain small if they grow at all.
What makes us choose one way or the other? Fear. Fear of facing the harsh weather and what might follow. Fear of being exposed. Fear of not sprouting. Fear of growth, too.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
This post is that for me—a type of blossoming with respect to my (re)commitment to writing, and my (re)commitment to you, as it was becoming too painful to remain silent. To not expose myself. To not sprout. To not grow.
I’ve been quiet. A lot quieter than I had expected to be.
I had told myself to wait until I had something worth saying. And I kept waiting, thinking that something worth saying hadn’t yet presented. The reality is I had plenty to say. But I was stuck. I was frozen. I didn’t know how to say that. I didn’t know how to say anything. So I chose to stay small and stagnant with my words.
The why is relatable—it’s a harsh truth far too many of us are going through, or those in our inner circles are going through, be it partners, siblings, friends, neighbors. Where in the past I had found identity, stability, reward, I was no longer finding it. I lost Yoga Alliance. Many of you witnessed this. I then lost RedPeg Marketing. Many of you witnessed that, too. After that, I lost Under Armour. And still after that, most recently, I lost the Washington Nationals. Four major losses in six short years. For a perfectionist, for a people pleaser, for a career professional, these have been hard losses. Visible. Public. Financially implicating. Emotionally gut-wrenching. Ego blowing (dare I say destroying?).
My career is a big piece of my identity. I’m not ashamed of this. In fact, I’m proud of the work I’ve done and the organizations for which I’ve done it (mostly). And yet it hasn’t seemed to love me back. This has been confusing for me. Unnerving. Destabilizing.
So for the last few years, I’ve been unready and unable to share just yet. Accepting that I can’t yet narrate a metamorphosis while still in it. Or choosing that narrative at the very least.
And yet. Looking back, something very much was germinating under the surface. This movement about movement, Move Breathe Be. My coaching credentials. A choice made by me, for me, to continue the impact I get to design for how I show up.
So though silent, I’ve been anything but. I became a coach. Yes, technically I’d been one. But I proudly earned the credentials that represent excellence and integrity to me and for me, in an otherwise unregulated industry. I now stand in my being both a Certified Professional Co-Active Coach (CPCC) and an Associate Certified Coach (ACC). Many of you helped me along this path. I will be forever grateful.
I’m not “in training” or under construction or “almost there”. I’m there. I’m here. I’m now.
I’m choosing to step into a year of movement, of boldness, of energy (as represented by the Fire Horse, for anyone following).
Nothing is in perfect order. And I embrace that nothing has to be.
But it is time.
So here I am. Reaching back out. Extending a dandelion, this highly resilient plant that represents rebirth, resilience and the power to thrive despite challenges.
On that, a dandelion is the proud, humble visual mark of Move Breathe Be. Instead of making space, organizing, “spring cleaning”, it lets go, releasing seeds into the wind and trusting that something will grow wherever they land. That’s rebirth. That’s resilience. That’s thriving. The dandelion represents movement as the seeds go wherever the wind takes them. It represents breath as its flight literally is activated through breath. And it represents being, planting itself wherever it lands and existing. This resonates with me. Loudly. (And it resonated with many of you who participated in helping me solidify this visual direction for Move Breathe Be. Thank you.)
I’m back to teaching—at Lighthouse Yoga Center in Brightwood, the first yoga studio that welcomed me as a teacher when I returned to Washington, D.C. a decade ago. I teach Vinyasa (6:30p) and Restorative (7:45p) each Wednesday night. The practice of showing up, week after week, as an educator with students, is one of the more grounding things in my life right now.
And I’m back to writing—here, each week. With something to say. Or nothing at all. But I’ll be here. Committed. Vulnerable. Eager to share what I can.
And I’m back to building—(re)building what’s next for me career-wise, investing in what’s to come for Move Breathe Be and this movement about movement, cultivating my home wherever my head lies.
Who knew that on that walk in June during the summer of 2020 that the seeds I had been magically dispersing would land me here?
What this is teaching me is that there’s no single path. And there’s no right path. There is choice, however, of going down a path and following it as the wind takes us.
There’s beauty in that. There’s an earnestness in that. There’s a vulnerability in that. And…to not lean into that feels more painful than to remain a bud.
Also from the Archives, On Spring cleaning, a reflection on the Equinox, letting go and what comes next.