So much of this isn’t about branding. Or business.
It’s about the ability to heal, to show that you are human while building something beautiful—something you are called to.
It’s the painful journey of realizing how much you are doing, how much you are not doing, and assessing that in real time. It’s about getting the help you need just to show up.
My head hurts right now because I’m moving through the pain of feeling misunderstood—ironic, considering my life’s work is about making sure people feel seen.
I want to talk about my healing in public.
I think I’m supposed to.
But right now, I am in literal agony.
Every moment, every juncture, is an invitation to be more honest about how life has been and how it has felt. Maybe I’m supposed to share that this is excruciatingly painful.
I have struggled with consistency. I have struggled with showing up as my full self. Because when I tried to do that in my teenage years—when exploration is key—every attempt was met with screams:
“You are not right. There is something wrong with you.”
So now, I hide my need for help.
Or, I remove my armor—only to slip it back on without even noticing.
The pain of change is that staying the same is familiar.
It feels safe.
I know how to be safe.
I know how to mirror others, how to fall in line with what they expect, who they say I should be.
But the attempts to truly be myself?
Agonizing.
Because they are not safe.
I’ve spoken about creating safe and soft places to fail—because the ability to tell the truth of your experiences is what makes the things you create meaningful.
But as I write this, I am in physical pain, wondering:
Am I really going to let people see how vulnerable I actually am?
How inconsistent I actually am?
Not for a lack of effort.
I have tried.
I have really tried.
But every time I step outside to explore, there is a voice screaming at me:
“Outside is not for you.”
When in reality, I should be learning how to acclimate—to move through the world in a way where my gift has room to exist.
I don’t even know how much sense this makes.
But I need to get it out.
The 14-year-old in me is still trying to explore.
She is whispering:
“You don’t understand.”
And in return, using the voice I’ve learned is correct, I have shouted back:
“Go back to your corner. Be a good girl. Please. People are counting on you to be good for them.”
You don’t really know how to do this.
You feel unsupported.
But you have to be perfect.
You have to show up like you know what’s going on.
And yet, the result is confusion.
You don’t know what’s going on.
You don’t have what you need to keep it up.
So the balls keep dropping—especially in areas that aren’t natural to you.
But misunderstanding has been met with such hostility that you’ve learned not to ask for help.
You are holy.
But beneath the dressing, there are so many unaddressed holes.
And we will never address them.
Because you are supposed to look pure.
You are supposed to look finished.
You are supposed to look like this thing you’ve created was meant to be this way.
But you never get the chance to fill in the gaps and become whole.
Instead, you carry hidden shame.
Unspoken questions.
Instructions about who you should be.
Rules about how you should act.
And now, you are collapsing on yourself.
You are afraid to address the holes
Because you are supposed to be holy.
And you are too old now to misunderstand what others want from you.
You know the rules.
Be good.
Be good.
Be good.
But you were never given the tools to be good for yourself.
You give everyone the voice of love—the one that speaks outwardly, the one that comforts, the one that encourages.
Because you should have received that voice.
But you never knew how to voice the need.
You never knew how to request it.
You learned to misunderstand yourself in order to make space for others to understand you.
I just don’t want to hurt anymore.
I don’t want to hurt myself.
I don’t want to hurt others.
But these holes—
These unspoken, unattended, aching holes—
Are caving in.
And I can’t tell you the truth of this.
Because you’ll hold me against a wall in shame.
You’ll tell me that I am shame.
And then you will dress me in holiness.
But here’s what I know—
The holes are real.
The pain is real.
The fear of being seen, undone, unarmored—it’s real.
But so am I.
I am not just the echoes of what was screamed at me.
I am not just the shame I was handed to hold.
I am not just the misunderstanding I have learned to accept.
I am here.
I am learning.
I am breathing into the spaces that were once hollow,
Filling them—not with perfection,
But with presence.
I am allowed to explore.
I am allowed to need help.
I am allowed to become whole—
Not because I have to earn it,
But because I already am.
