I’m a lil hungover as I write this. The after glow of my drinking is not extreme--like my internal organs went on strike, picketing against the unfair treatment they endured during the fiesta that took place within my stomach last night. It’s more like the slow pickling of my brain in a salty brine of self-doubt. How did I behave last night?

Thus, in the wee hours of this morning (as I was pleasantly surprised that my mind could formulate coherent thoughts), I decided to embark on an experience I have never tried before: Dry February.

Not because February is the shortest month of the year (though that is definitely an added bonus) but because it begins in three days’ time. Hell, I’ll just start today! (While the thought of a beverage makes the waves in my stomach roll, I am choosing to start now because I am a committed human. When a decision is made, I am all in.)

No sooner than I had voiced my intention to both the Universe and this blog, did I realize a teensy hiccup in my plan: My husband and I are scheduled for a weekend away in Palm Desert on February 2nd. Oops! I would normally celebrate a weekend adventure by indulging in a few beverages, however, this presents an opportunity to lean into self-discovery. Do I need a few drinks to have fun? Can I enjoy an evening without a little lubrication?

Actually, I’m curious about a number of potential upsides:

• Will I sleep better?
• Will I have more energy?
• Will I lose some weight?
• Will I feel pressure when others are drinking in my presence?
• Will my social anxiety become quieter?

The more I ponder, the more Dry February seems like a great idea! As the fog of last night’s beveraging wears off, my excitement and willingness to embrace this challenge is growing. I pause to congratulate myself on this choice and glance up from my keyboard to the calendar hanging on the wall.

This February is a leap year.
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Fuck. 

My family calls me, Bruja (broo-ha), which means “witch” in Spanish.

When my boys were young, the term referred to my magical Mommy superpowers—knowing what mischief they tried to hide, intuitively understanding their emotions and needs. Now, they use it lovingly (I think) to make fun of my interest in karma, manifestation, energy. The nickname was strongly reinforced when a psychic once told me I hail from a long line of sorcery. Plus, I have bony, veiny hands--which apparently give off a very witchy vibe.

A few months ago, my inner bruja decided to attend a wellness tradeshow. As I wandered the aisles of massage therapists, yoga attire, and protein powders, I was drawn towards a woman who sat cross-legged on a satin covered cushion, looking positively peaceful amongst the bustling atmosphere. As she invited me to sit with her, I was immediately attracted to the warm glow of her spirit.  She radiated a loving gentleness and to have access to an ancient wisdom which the rest of us mere mortals are not privy to.  Her name was Sahej. I wanted to know her secret.

A few weeks later, Sahej invited me to attend a sound bath and breathwork ceremony. The intention was to usher in a new year with clean, vibrant energy. Embracing my word of the year—adventure—I decided to go. Wanting to share this unique experience with someone, I texted numerous girlfriends who were suddenly inexplicably “busy” or responded with “I love that for you.” It seemed I was destined to go alone.

On a dark and rainy evening, I stepped into the rural hall where the ceremony was to be held—a heritage building with a century’s worth of memories within its wooden walls. The twenty-foot ceiling was alight with hundreds of twinkling stars projected upon it. Images of swirling universe gases in gorgeous hues of emerald, indigo, and fuchsia danced amongst the constellations. The colourful textiles laid upon the floor were surrounded by white pillar candles. Soothing music played in the background and fragrant rooibos tea brewed on the counter. Sahej sat, smiling, behind a shrine of golden marigolds and sound bowls.

Once we settled, Sahej invited her guests to cocoon ourselves in warm blankets and lay upon the ground. Get comfortable and open our hearts to whatever was destined to occur that evening.

While I won’t share the details of the ceremony because each of us experienced our own journey, I will say that the evening felt sacred and profound.

Why am I writing all of this, you might be wondering? You’re likely thinking, “That’s nice for you, Kel, but what does it mean for us?”

The intention of this blog is two-fold.

One, there may be moments in life when you are inexplicably attracted to a human you meet in passing. I’m not talking about sexual attraction (though that opportunity may hold adventure as well!). I am talking about an energetic connection. When you seem to be vibing at the same frequency as another human you have just met, lean into that moment. They likely have a story, a skill, or a lesson to share with you. Sahej reminded me of the power of my breath, of creating deliciously quiet moments, and of setting meaningful intentions.

Two, when the opportunity to experience something new falls into your lap, seize it. The sound bath ceremony was out of my comfort zone, especially knowing I had to walk into that room solo. I am so glad I was able to get over my nerves and attend this incredible night. I met very cool people, gained new insight into myself and my life, and now have an amazing story to tell you.

Admittedly I may be more woo-woo than you and a sound bath ceremony might not be your jam. That’s fine because it’s not the point of this tale. In writing this blog, I hope to encourage you to walk through the world looking for ways to grow, play, and try new things. Bruja or not, you deserve to live an adventurous life!

And, if the woo-woo does appeal to you, please check out the website alchemyofheart.ca to learn more about Sahej and her special brand of magic. 

Ease.

That was the word I chose to represent my intention for 2023.

Written on a Post It Note and stuck to my bathroom mirror, it was a daily reminder of how I wanted to move through the world and the energy I wanted to bring. You see, I may have developed a habit of something my husband affectionately refers to as, “fighting the Universe”, which is akin to bulldozing my way through life. If I set my sights on something, I would battle for it, even if I had to forcefully shove that square peg into the round hole.

Sound exhausting? It was—for me and those who live and work alongside this overachiever.

Thus, “ease” became my new mantra.

I no longer wanted to force, to manipulate, to exhaust, to hustle my way through life. While I am still wildly goal oriented, I also wanted to hold space for the Universe to offer opportunities in ways which were off my radar and beyond my imagination.

It worked! I can readily say that several goals I set did not pan out as expected. In fact, some of them went down in flames, yet in the ashes, the seeds of something new began to sprout. Instead of walking away from the fire, I stopped to investigate the new smoldering and wonder what had potential to grow from it. I set aside my pride, and leaned into curiosity, often pleasantly surprised at what I found.

Lesson learned.

After some contemplation, I’ve decided that the word for 2024 is “adventure”.

This year, I intend to say “yes” to travel, to play, to stretching outside of my comfort zone. In my effort to chase joy, I need to actively seek moments which invoke awe, laughter, and a different kind of accomplishment. The kind of accomplishment I now crave is one of trying new things just for the sake of the experience. I want to look like a fool, trip and scrape my knees, belly laugh with failure, and celebrate small victories simply because they were fun.

In the spirit of plunging into 2024 in search of adventure, I spent New Years Day doing something I never thought I would—jumping into the freezing cold ocean with a thousand other fun-seeking humans. The Polar Bear Swim.

For someone who rarely swims, even on the hottest summer day, I stood upon the shoreline cursing the inspiration which brought me to the beach on January 1st. Reminding myself that sometimes discomfort is exactly what the doctor ordered, I hushed the cranky voice within me and tried to become present in the moment. The energy was humming, as participants laughed nervously and music pumped in the background. And, when the time came, I ran straight towards the ocean and went for it. Did I dive in? Hell no! Baby steps, people! But I did it.

And, perhaps I created a new tradition. Maybe. 

I truly believe in the power of intention setting. New Years Resolutions are often broken because of their specificity. When you don’t lose the twenty pounds, eat less sugar, watch less TV, you are sucked into a spiral of shame. Intention setting is purposefully broad and leaves room for creativity in your approach. It is less about what you want to do, and more about how you want to be. We are, after all, human beings who walk through life making mistakes and failing all of the time. An intention is a reminder of your mindset, your attitude, your desire to evolve.
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So, what is your word for 2024? Share it below! 

I turned forty-four a few months ago. I am now officially in my mid-forties—a realization which caused me to stop and reflect. In a season when I was making drastic changes and searching for balance, I had set the intention to escape autopilot living. The ultimate goal was to become increasingly present despite life’s inevitable distractions.  

The morning after my birthday, I woke up thinking of a brilliant friend and mentor who celebrates aging with a yearly birthday challenge. Essentially, she chooses something that stretches her potential, takes her out of her comfort zone, and exposes her to a new experience or perspective. It’s inspiring. On my first full day of being forty-four, I decided to do just that and knew instinctively what my birthday challenge would be.

I was going to embark on a Year of Joy.

Let's back up for a moment, so I can provide you with some context.

I’ve always thought society’s obsession with happiness was suspect. In a complicated world where human-ing feels tricky, I often wonder how people walk around with such playfulness and laughter. I am, by nature, an introspective overthinker. This quality makes me deeply empathetic, sparks my spirituality, and stokes the thoughtfulness of my writing but also blocks my happiness from time to time. (When one is over-analyzing conversations and choices while simultaneously over-preparing for imaginary worst-case scenarios, joy feels frivolous. Who has time for it?)

In the past, I’ve written about the idea of happiness. I have pondered the happiest people I know and wondered why that emotion is so easy for them and so elusive for me. I once read that smart people are rarely happy because they spend so much time in their minds that they miss out on being fully present. If that’s true, I must be a fucking genius. I have Googled the definition of happiness which defines it as “the state of being happy.” WTF?! The definition of being happy is to be happy? How deeply unsatisfying.

If happiness was on Tinder, I’d probably swipe left. Too fickle.

Joy, though, has a different flavor to it. The definition of joy is “the feeling of great pleasure”.

This makes more sense to me. Joy is about moments. There is no expectation to extend these moments into a lifetime of bliss. It is about being fully present for a few minutes and appreciating the circumstance or sensation. This I can do. So, I set out to learn more about joy.

My investigation led me to a podcast which discussed cultivating awareness and presence by noticing delights in the world.

Listen to that baby giggling. Delightful!
Look at that fluffy Bernese Mountain Dog. Delightful!
Notice the rich colors of the fall leaves. Delightful!

While I wholeheartedly embraced this daily practice, it still felt as if I was observing things which happened to me and around me.

What if I could take it one step further and purposefully create moments of joy in my everyday life? This way, I wasn’t waiting passively, but could actively architect a joyful feeling.

With this intention, I began a Year of Joy.

Each day, I plan a moment or two which makes me smile, in which I feel deeply present, which makes me laugh, or which inspires resounding gratitude.

Because I suspect you might be curious, here are some of the ways I have cultivated joy over the past few months:

• I woke up to watch the sunrise.
• I played tennis with a friend.
• I watched puppy videos on Instagram.
• I danced in the kitchen to my favorite 90s jam.
• I sang in the car.
• I gave myself a facial.
• I meditated at the pond close to my house.
• I stopped and looked at the stars.
• I laid on the grass and watched the clouds.
• I drank my coffee in bed.
• I sluffed my feet in the fallen leaves.
• I went for a long walk.

Straight talk--some days, it feels difficult to find fresh inspiration or to approach A Year of Joy in a way which doesn’t make it feel like a chore. But each time I rise to the challenge, I never walk away thinking, “Well that was a waste of time.” Quite the opposite. It pulls me out of the chaos and brings me back to myself, something which is always time well spent.

Maybe the thought of chasing A Year of Joy doesn’t appeal to you. It may sound precocious or overwhelming. While I respect that, I need to push back, just a little. Even if you have no desire to sign up for an entire year, I encourage you to take one small moment of reflection. Ask yourself when was the last time you felt joy? Does it happen often enough to lift you out of the grind and notice the awesomeness of life?

In whatever way you can, I implore you to cultivate joy. It’s highly underrated.

A few years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that my work/life balance was not sustainable. In full disclosure, it wasn’t a whispering intuition. There was a forceful voice in my head yelling, “Hey Toots! Your obsessive need to prove your worth through your work is going to kill you. Get your shit together!”

I had been working two jobs for almost five years, the result of my “side hustle” gaining traction and taking up more of my time. The money was rolling in and for someone who has a financial scarcity mindset, success not only felt like security, but it was also a source of immense pride. Look at me go!

The Achiever in me tends to be my greatest strength, but also the poison which leads to a slow decay--physically, mentally, and spiritually.

Long story short, I quit my day job and chose to try my entrepreneurial shoes on for size. Even though I was mentally SO ready to attempt something new, I was absolutely unprepared for the emotional tidal wave of fear that would wash over me. I nearly drowned.

I had no idea how to work for myself--how to market my skills and expertise, seek opportunities for collaboration, or even budget based on an inconsistent income. I was used to being overscheduled from the time I woke up to the time my weary head finally hit the pillow at night. All of a sudden, I found myself with nothing but time...staring at my laptop, waiting for an email to arrive in my inbox. The lack of busy-ness was terrifying.

What have I done?

As I sat at the bottom of a deep, dark hole of self-doubt and self-pity, my mentor (a badass entrepreneur herself) suggested a lifeline in the form of a book. Reaching desperately for any shred of wisdom cast my way, I immediately ordered 10x is Easier than 2x by Dan Sullivan. This book blew my mindset wide open and forced me to pick up the pieces, assembling them in a new and provocative way.

Let me give you the highlights…

Those of us who are Achievers are ever-facing forward, chasing the next mountain to climb. However, as we reach one mountaintop, the view exposes another peak, then another waiting for our ascension. Rather than celebrating what we have accomplished, the finish line feels constantly moving. We are in the continuous motion of striving. It gets exhausting.

Dan Sullivan teaches a strategy known as The Gap and The Gain, where he advocates for a pause. Instead of obsessively moving forward, it is crucial to take a moment and look behind you. Appreciate how high you’ve climbed and how far you’ve come. Celebrate the wins and use them as motivation to keep going.

In a time when I felt on the precipice of failure, The Gap and The Gain helped me recognize the successes I’d had in the last six months leading up to the change in my career. It validated my drive and determination, reminding me that I could do (and have done) hard things. In a year, I would likely be celebrating the brave decision to begin this new adventure.

The second knowledge bomb was the concept that we cannot make massive changes by doing the same thing we’ve always done. Old habits can lead us to minor adjustments and tiny moves forward (2x) but if we want to reach for the stars and increase our success tenfold (10x), we need to let go of 80% of what we know.

Sullivan suggests an exercise which requires readers to look at the last decade (or more) of their lives and record the times they made a huge leap of faith. The instructions are to write down the cost of each decision (the 80% they let go of) as well as the value added as a result.

In engaging in this exercise, I was shocked by the number of instances when I had reached for 10x in my life and found the cost was worth it every time.

Now, I am in a season where I am attempting to 10x again. When I quit my job, I gave up my pension, my benefits, my financial security, my prestige, my accolades, and my identity. What I hope to gain is freedom of time, the opportunity to follow a dream, the expression of my creativity, and the ability to choose how I wanted to work and who I wanted to collaborate with. Writing down my past 10x successes was a visual reminder that I could absolutely make this work. It would simply take time, effort, and a steadfast belief in my abilities.

Why am I sharing this with you?

We often read of success when people have already climbed the mountain. They are at the top, basking in the glorious horizon. I want to share my experience while I am trudging one foot in front of the other, grinding towards the peak. I hope that by seeing me risk it all, by watching me trip and get back up, you might give yourself permission to do the same. I want you to chase your mountain top, but with the knowledge that the journey is sweaty, arduous, and downright fucking hard. But the view from the top makes it all worth it.

As you sprint towards the final days of this calendar year and begin to look ahead to 2024, you might consider pausing to think about what you really, really desire. Listen to that little voice which whispers, “What if…” and give it time to dream. Don’t be afraid to take a risk. Apparently, the view from the top is worth it. 

For me, one of the first markers of aging was the drastic change in my eyebrows. No one told me they would fall off my face the day after I turned forty. Though I found this shocking, you probably couldn’t tell my facial expression. No eyebrows, remember?

My morning routine now includes brushing my teeth and painting on my brows. I don’t generally wear much make-up but there is something ghostly about a dark brunette with nothing framing her eyes. It’s just creepy.

Today, as I gently dabbed undereye cream and moisturized my neck (in upward strokes, of course), I was struck by a hint of crow’s feet around my eyes and the emerging creases between my beautifully drawn brows. Don’t get me wrong, those wrinkles are supposed to be there, for I’m in my mid-forties. It’s just that for the last three or four years, they have been ironed out by a magical invention called Botox.

Staring at my reflection, I wondered what I would look like if I stopped injecting my face with poison. (As much as I covet Botox and love the vibrancy it gives my face, the truth is that I am suffering through countless needles leaking a foreign substance into my body. Counterintuitive to my vegetarian diet and consistent workouts, isn’t it?)

I have not seen my natural face since I turned forty. And, come to think of it, I have no idea what colour my hair actually is because I coat those “sparkly strands” with dye as soon as they dare show themselves upon my head.

This morning, it occurred to me that I have no idea how old I truly look—without the Botox, the eyebrow paint, and the hair dye.

That is fascinating. And fucked up.

During Covid, many women embraced their grey, proudly posting photos of their natural beauty across social media. I began to take screen shots of gorgeous salt and pepper hairstyles and stunning women who fiercely owned the aging process. More recently, I have made a conscious effort to fill my Instagram scroll with women who are gracefully getting older and who describe their wrinkles as proof of wisdom. I’m all for it. They are incredible, bad-asses and I want to be just like them.

Today, my morning coffee comes with a deep pondering about my own process. When will I be ready to meet what lies beneath it all? Will it be a slow tiptoe towards aging, or am I willing to cease the battle cold turkey? Am I confident enough to embrace the new (but old) face that looks back at me in the mirror? Will she still be beautiful, fabulous even?

I am excited and terrified to find out.
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But not today. 

As the holiday season approaches, I am always wary of wishing someone a “Happy Holidays” or a “Merry Christmas”. Though well intentioned, these statements are laden with assumption, aren’t they? At this time of year, I prefer to make deeply uncomfortable eye contact and inquire “How are you, really?”

Some of you come alive at this time of year, sprinkling glitter and powdered sugar everywhere you go. You hum carols, string lights, and smell like gingerbread. You will likely set up your Christmas tree on November 12th. You excitedly pull out your Santa hat earrings and ugly sweaters, and ensure your stash of charming hostess gifts is sufficient for the lineup of events on your calendar. What fun!

Others feel a sense of dread, obligation, and overwhelm during this “festive season”. In past years, I, too, have succumbed to my own prickly Grinchiness. I craved the day when I could stuff my Christmas tree back into its ridiculously tiny box—which is not unlike attempting to force Pilsbury dough and back into its can. Exhale. Christmas is over for another year.

In recent years though, I have reflected on my cold Christmas heart—which felt two sizes too small--and decided there must be a better way. I was tired of white-knuckling my life for the month of December. I wanted to join the joyous singing with the rest of the citizens of Whoville.  

The shift began by giving myself permission to examine traditions and ask what worked and what didn’t. I kept what felt fun and discarded the rest, even when it meant throwing away what has always been done. As a result, the boys and I have stayed in fancy hotel rooms on Christmas Eve and had pizza by the pool. We’ve dined in luxurious restaurants instead of making turkey dinner. We’ve gone for long walks in the snow on Christmas morning, searching for dazzling Christmas lights. Christmas began to feel like an adventure.

I also embraced the idea that Christmas is more than one day. It offers a full month to celebrate with people I love, play with my kids, and create moments of joyful memories. Last year, my boys and I created an “advent calendar”. One evening in November, we sat down, and wrote slips of paper containing creative games, festive outings, and bonding opportunities. We jotted down ideas such as:

• Eat dessert for dinner
• Do a TikTok dance
• Take mittens to the homeless shelter
• Hang candy canes on our neighbors’ doorknobs
• Have a Christmas movie marathon
• Plan a game night
• Bake cookies
• Have a snowball fight

We put all of the ideas into a jar and beginning December 1st, took turns pulling one slip per day. No matter what, we would make that activity happen before we went to bed. What ensued were weeks of laughter and precious family time. By the time December 24th rolled around, it didn’t matter what the day held, for we had already created a memorable holiday season. Turkey dinner or not, we’d had an incredible Christmas together. This is our favorite new tradition.

So, give yourself permission to let go of anything which doesn’t serve you during this busy time of year. Don’t be afraid to create your own brand of magic, carve new traditions, and invite your kids to provide input into the redefinition of this holiday season.

I wont' wish you "Happy holidays."

Instead, from the bottom of my heart, know that I want you to really be okay.
 
Love,
Kel

Seven days. Seven nights.

That’s how long I will be forced to spend with myself this week. Yep, I said forced. How astute of you to notice.

I am an extroverted introvert by nature. At work, when my role and the expectations are crystal clear, I easily put my leadership pants on. I am charismatic and confident. Strip my professional identity and throw me into a social setting? I suddenly become awkward and uncertain. All the confidence I have leaches out of my body and I’d rather be at home in my pajamas.

That said, I am happiest at home in my pajamas with others. I am madly, obsessively in love with my husband. I adore my children and jump at the chance to hang out with them. I’m even thrilled to meet a girlfriend for coffee, provided I can be home in my pajamas by 8pm. Are you sensing a pattern? My life rarely requires pants.

This week, I will be on my own. My husband is traveling, and my boys will be staying with their dad. I have seven days and seven nights to spend with me, myself, and I.

The problem is this bitch is boring.

I’m a recovering workaholic which means for the last twenty years, I have not developed a repertoire of hobbies which I’m passionate about. I worked and I dedicated my energy to my family. Full stop. One of the reasons I recently decided on a drastic career shift was because I desperately needed to create more balance in my life. I want to discover who I am separate from my job. Now that my boys are on the precipice of becoming men, I am challenging myself to become whole and happy apart from them. Our lives are no longer intricately intertwined, which is exactly as it should be.

It seems the Universe heard my intentions and promptly presented an opportunity for me to walk the walk.

Fuck.

I don’t want to spend the week merely surviving, counting down the hours as they tick, tick, tick slowly by. Nor do I wish to numb myself in front of a screen—mindlessly scrolling social media or watching movie after movie. And, let’s be honest, I’m not one to go out at night strapping on my heels and sipping martinis with the girls. (Do I still own heels?)

Which leads me to ask…
What brings me joy?
What makes me feel fulfilled?
What feeds me with purpose?

Logical Kel understands this week provides me with sacred time to dive into self-exploration. It’s a chance to grow and thrive. Emotional Kel is scared shitless. Can I come out of this with my sanity intact?

I’m trying to embrace the opportunity (which I am fully aware other women would give their right arm for) and move towards it with a positive mindset. I’ll let you know how it goes…
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In the meantime, pray for me. Text me. Send Xanax. 

It was only Wednesday, and I was already frazzled. I was having one of those weeks where there simply weren’t enough hours to get it all done—unless I chose to forgo sleeping…

I had asked my sons—14 and 16 years old—to prepare supper that evening. I had a day chalked full of commuting, lectures, and meetings and if the traffic gods allowed, would walk in the door with twenty minutes to put food in my face before both boys needed to be driven to soccer practice. Used to a certain level of responsibility being placed upon them, they agreed.

My kids have always been expected to contribute to our home, but I don’t believe in paying them an allowance. We all live here together, and it takes a team to keep the ship afloat. Besides, they make 90% of the mess, so they should in fact clean it up! Additionally, no one pays me to cook, clean, and do the laundry… I digress.

The stars and planets aligned, and I was indeed able to make it home for dinner that Wednesday. As an added bonus, I even had time to change into my comfy clothes before jumping back into the car that evening. I was SO looking forward to having dinner and sitting down to connect with my family. However, when I walked in the door, I did not hear the joyful sounds of productivity in the kitchen, nor did I smell the spicy sweet tomato sauce simmering. The kitchen was empty of people and food.

WTF?

Almost immediately upon my heels, my oldest son sauntered through the front door.

“Hey Mama!”

“I hope you brought dinner with you.”

“Nope. My brother was going to cook.”

Little Brother looked up from his cellphone with a face of utter confusion. It would have been comical, had I not been starving. “I thought we were going to cook together when you got home.”

The three of us stared at each other in silence, the atmosphere thick with tension.

In that moment, did I react with a calm, firm response and with the intention of leadership and problem-solving? Hell no.  I sat down on the kitchen floor and sobbed.

It wasn’t about the dinner. All of the overwhelm and stress that had been building up leaked out of my eyeballs. My sons stood in front of me, horrified.
Gathering some shreds of dignity, I picked myself off the floor and walked upstairs to my room.

“Mama are you angry?” they called.

“Yes.” (Maybe not enough dignity yet. Must. Calm. Down.)

I’ve thought about this moment in retrospect. Should I have acted with more maturity and been forgiving of their miscommunication? Perhaps. It certainly wasn’t my shining moment as a mother. But what happened next makes me think that my show of emotion wasn’t entirely negative.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a gentle knock on my bedroom door.

“Supper is ready. Please come downstairs,” the boys tentatively invited.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, tears still slipping down my cheeks, I sat at the kitchen table as my children served spaghetti.

We ate in silence, and tears fell from their eyes too. They weren’t used to seeing me break.

“I’m sorry,” I began. “Yes, I am disappointed that supper wasn’t ready, but I overreacted. I’m crying because I’m stressed and tired.”

My sons walked over and wrapped their man-sized arms around me. “We’re sorry too. We called our coaches to let them know we wouldn’t be at practice tonight. We didn’t uphold our end of the bargain, so we don’t think it’s fair to ask you to drive us.”

All of this to say, my friends, that in showing my vulnerability, my children realized how much they take for granted. My tears drove home the knowledge that their contributions matter and that one person cannot be expected to carry the load alone.

We try so hard to shield our children from guilt and shame, from knowing that they hurt our feelings or let us down. Looking back, I see this slip in my armor as a teachable moment for my boys. I hope they reflected upon my meltdown in a way which makes them better humans and better partners in the future.

I’ll admit that sobbing with snot running down your face is a wee bit over the top. You’d likely handle the situation with much more grace than I did. Either way, our little family team grew stronger as a result, and supper is now ready as expected.
  

 




​I am a voracious reader who is a ‘lil obsessive about personal development. The Buddhist in me believes my purpose in life is to grow and evolve thus I am constantly in search of ways to improve as a human. It's gross, I know.

A few months ago, I read Hal Elrod’s book, The 5am Challenge--an inspiring story about the author’s cancer journey. Hal passionately explains that his life was saved, in part, by a deeply intentional morning routine. By starting each day focused on his mental and physical health, Hal forged an iron strong mindset which became not only a crucial component to his healing but also led him to become wildly successful in his relationships and his career. The book ends with a challenge to readers—a dare almost. Set your alarm clock horrifyingly early and see how it changes your life.

Huh. That might be worth a try.

In full disclosure, I’ve always been an early riser. In college, I chose jobs which began at the crack of dawn and set me free by the time most others were on their lunch break. I was a barista. I took the early morning shift at the gym. With tales of massive cash tips, my sister tried to entice me to become a server at the restaurant where she worked, but the thought of staying up until 2am made me nauseous. Not worth the money!  

When I was a teacher, I would arrive at school at 6:30am so that I could leave by 3:30 and take on the remainder of my day. Getting up early gave me freedom. However, waking early for work felt easier than waking early by choice.

Regardless, I promised myself I would stick with The 5am Challenge for ninety days.

Starting the following morning, when my alarm chimed (because I don’t believe in beginning my day with a heart attack prompted by an aggressive beeping noise), I would roll out of bed and put on my workout clothes. Next, coffee. Because I’m not a total monster. Coffee first, life second! I would enjoy the precious caffeine without the distraction of social media. I simply sat alone with my thoughts. Then, I would move my body for at least thirty minutes. Following exercise, I would meditate, chant, read, journal, or listen to a podcast to complete my morning routine. All of this occurred in calm, peaceful silence before my family woke, bringing love and chaos to the day.

The first few days felt exciting and new. I kept waiting for the novelty to wear off. But do you know what? It didn’t.

I became addicted to starting my day by nourishing my body and my spirit. No matter what else happened over the next 24 hours, I started with self-care and the best of intentions. I might go on to have writer’s block, be late to soccer practice, or scorch the supper, but at least I freaking meditated that morning!
 
Ninety days turned into six months. Six months turned into a year and the 5am Challenge is still going strong.

I fully acknowledge that I lost many of you at “5am”. However, if you are still reading, it’s likely because you have some curiosity about dedicating time to your health, even if the suggestion of an early morning makes you itchy and slightly queasy. Don’t let the “5am” trip you or stop you completely. Give yourself permission to create your own rules.

Maybe you simply wake up one hour earlier than normal. Perhaps you work from home and can take a midday “recess” break. Stay up one hour later and finish your day with reflection. I have a friend who ends each day by eating candy in the bathtub, surrounded by candles. When my children were young, I gifted myself with one hour in between the time I left work and the time I picked them up from childcare. Find a way to make yourself a priority!

However it may look—5am, 2pm, or 10pm-I challenge you to make intentional self-care part of your daily routine. Try it consistently for ninety days and discover the difference it makes. You never know, the habit might just stick! 

Or, text me and tell me how much you despise it. I'll be awake. 

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