Softly Shedding

I'm not becoming, I'm uncovering. I'm not building, I'm discovering.

Last night, I had a strange dream.

Vivid dreams are not unusual for me. Often, my nights are spent in a hazy state, inside of dreams that are convincingly real, emotionally intense and sometimes distressing.

They seem to come and go, ebb and flow. Maybe it’s the moon. Maybe it’s trauma. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s just part of my existence.

For weeks, I’ll sleep peacefully. Unbothered. Then suddenly, I’ll be plagued by a series of nightmares. Dreams that leave me drained of my energy and essence, waking me in the middle of the night feeling panicked and out of sorts.

But last nights dream was not a nightmare.

It was one of those rare dreams. The kind so close to reality, they could be confused for a memory. My house was my house, my life was my life. I was wearing my clothes, in my kitchen. But I wasn’t in my own body—I was watching from the outside.

It was an early winter evening. I opened the sliding glass door to our backyard. Cold wind whipped into the room as I called out for our dogs to come inside. They ran in, as they always do. Then just as I pulled the door shut, a bird landed on my arm.

A raven. She gripped onto me and refused to leave. She wasn’t hurting me, but her presence and closeness was alarming. Eyes dark, feathers shining. I tried frantically to shake her off, to scare her away.

She stayed. Staring at me with a disarming and persistent calmness.

With each passing moment, I felt my fear shift into curiosity, my resistance fade into trust. Until, eventually, I gave up. I could see that she wasn’t leaving, so I allowed her to stay. And as soon as I did, she flew away.

I woke up, not panicked, just aware. The dream still fresh on my eyelids. I could remember every moment, as if it had just happened.

I’ve been grappling with something lately. Not stagnancy, not exactly, but something close.

Almost doubt, not fear.

Last week, I had a Facetime call with my dear friend, Angelica. You may be familiar with her work—she is the writer of a beautiful newsletter, Unravelled.

I’m lucky to know her. To be seen by her, to be held in her love. Aside from our publications here on Substack, we’ve both recently launched new businesses. It’s hard to express what an incredible gift it has been to have a friends like her, walking the path of entrepreneurship with me. Women who get it, who I can reflect and process with in real time.

Our calls always seem to be just what I need.

As we were chatting last week, I opened up, sharing with her the root of the uncertainty that was sinking into my chest. My business and it’s painfully slow growth. I felt half stuck, unsure of where to go and what to do next, how to spend my time and energy. The pace of my progress left me uninspired and disconnected, despite having just finished my most successful week yet.

It’s a strange feeling—knowing you’re on the right path but still feeling unsure of exactly how to be keep moving forward.

Gently, our conversation led me to where I was blocked.

I was losing my connection to the present. I was forgetting to appreciate the moment I was in. I was focusing on the speed of my growth, rather than celebrating the fact that I was growing. I was so determined to uncover a how, I’d lost touch with my why.

As a recovering control freak and perfectionist, I often find myself in this place. Arriving at my destination—only to immediately search for the next finish line. Constantly in pursuit of a guaranteed path. Always aching for external validation and outside guidance.

All month, I’d gone back and forth with the idea of hiring a coach or purchasing a course to help me grow my business.

We live in a fast and hard world. One where everyone seems to be reaching for the same goal on the highest shelf. Success is a destination that seems to mean more when it is reached overnight. Everyone is waiting to be chosen, hoping that they’ll be enough to viral, that their work will suddenly take off.

But if I’m completely honest with myself, that energy, the desperate hunger, doesn’t resonate. It doesn’t feel right.

What if my business is growing slowly and softly because my authentic existence is soft and slow? What if this is actually the perfect pace of growth?

Our conversation moved from our businesses to other areas of life. Eventually—we ended the call. I smiled with gratitude as I closed my laptop. Clarity washed over me. I knew what I needed, and it wasn’t a course or coach.

I needed to believe in my guidance.

To follow my authenticity and intuition with radical devotion. To trust that the right clients will find me. To stay connected to my purpose and my gifts and my truth.

The moment I leaned back into trust, I was flooded with inspiration. Three months after launching my freelance copywriting business, I uncovered a new layer of my why and realized I needed to rebrand in order to fully embody it.

In just three days, I redid my entire website. A task that took me almost two full months to complete the first time.

I started my business before I was ready. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just knew I had to do something. I started even when I was terrified of failing. I kept showing up, even when I didn’t know where I was going. I see now that every step forward was leading me closer to a more rooted and authentic version of my why.

Connection.

As the world falls deeper and deeper into a disconnected, artificial state—I’m anchoring my work in the magic and power of real, human connection.

Connection has carried me through my entire life. In every job I’ve ever held, it’s where I’ve shined. It’s what I do best. It’s what I know. The purpose of this chapter in my business is to help aligned entrepreneurs nurture deep and meaningful connections with their clients and customers.

And just like that, the strange almost stagnant feeling, dissolved.

This morning, before I sat down to write this letter, my eye was drawn to one of my old coffee table books: Animal Power by Alyson Charles. I bought it a few years ago on a whim and had forgotten about recently, the way you often forget about the books that matter to you until you need them. When I saw it, I lunged off the couch to grab it, flipping eagerly through the pages until I found what I was looking for.

The book describes the medicine of the raven as that of death and rebirth, dissolving one way to make room for something more aligned. The raven is a sacred messenger, carrying the information you need to know around deep changes that are happening in your life. She visits when “…it is time for you to embrace the profound wisdom and gifts that you carry.”

Of course.

The idea of death and rebirth is almost an old friend. It’s the year of the snake. I’m about to start my Saturn Return. But I’ve already spent years peeling away layer after layer, letting go of what was never mine to hold. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering—what do I have left to shed? I’ve surrendered so much.

But still, there is more. There is always more.

When I listen carefully, I can hear a softer, wilder me, calling out.

I can feel her, almost see her.

After years of scraping away old, dry layers of wounding and unburdening myself of heavy, tired beliefs—a truly authentic version of self is emerging. She is tender and steady, fierce and embodied. I’m holding her and reconnecting with her soft and wild nature. I know, like everything, she is temporary. But for now, this is her story.

I’m not becoming my future self.

I’m uncovering her.

I’m allowing her to lead me, following behind with close curiosity on the never ending journey of self-discovery. I’m learning that the shedding is almost always followed by uncertainty, but when I lean into trust—that fear is softened into clarity.

This is how I want to approach my business.

I don’t want to build, I want to discover.

I’m giving myself permission to trust deeply in the process. To allow my business to unfold with the same compassion and grace that I’m giving to myself as I unfold. To shed, and unlearn, and surrender. To peel back layer after layer. To replace control with curiosity. To honor the softness and slowness that my soul is craving. To move forward with small steady steps, in quiet and tender truth.

Love Always,

From This Week:

From The Archive:

You’ll Never Get There

You're Not Starting Over

One Day You’ll See It