Letting go of my big-girl job. Living and working on organic farms. Moving into a tent, full-time, with a man I’d spent roughly three days with in person.
Starting a made-up business doing made-up things. Relinquishing proverbial plan-B’s. Spending money I didn’t have on things beyond sense.
Questioning invisible business rules. Unleashing creativity with ferocity. Bumping into boundless responsibility.
My maiden risk-taking era.
Astonishing.
May this fire live on in my daughter, brighter and purer.
This era sought to transition into its next phase years ago.
And I resisted it. Wonderfully.
Moments of feeling unsettled. Requesting attention inward.
Fighting them. Thinking a ferocious move was the answer.
Medicine had become poison.
Pregnancy.
Birth.
Postpartum.
The holy trinity. Of annihilation.
Cleaning me out.
That version of risk-taking swiftly exits stage left.
Floating in emptiness. Of myself.
Direction eventually returns. Bearing new demands.
Risks I had grown used to, replaced with quiet, almost invisible, blueprints.
Archive your Instagram. Add sparingly. Share less.
Eight months largely off social media, and the internet at large. Peculiar move when you run an online business.
Simplify everything. Excruciatingly so. Take a sabbatical from having a team (first time in 7 years). Distill.
Stand back—look. Listen. Assume you know nothing.
The work flows, amidst it all.
A miracle? Natural? Both?
A different edge.
Someone new stands at the helm.
I just barely see her outline, amidst wind and sea.
Dignified. Graceful. Steady.
The Mother.
Quiet risk-taking.
