The Year I Stopped Caring What Wasn’t Coming With Me

There are years that ask for action.
And there are years that ask for honesty.

2025 was not a year that could be rushed. It wasn’t interested in productivity, performance, or proving. It asked me to slow down enough to notice what I had been carrying simply because I always had—and to decide, with intention, what would not be coming with me any further.

This year required endings that didn’t look dramatic from the outside, but felt seismic internally.

I left behind versions of myself that were built for survival, not truth. Ways of working that once felt aligned, but had quietly begun to drain me. The need to explain, justify, or soften what I know in order to be received.

—> I left behind urgency.
—> I left behind the belief that visibility requires constant output.
—> I left behind the idea that my worth is proven by how much I can hold at once.

Perhaps most importantly, I left behind the habit of staying in places—roles, rhythms, identities—past the moment they had already taught me what they came to teach.

There is a particular grief that comes with outgrowing something that once saved you. I felt that deeply this year. Gratitude and release rarely arrive separately.

. . . . . . . . . .

When I think back to the women who used to walk into my studio years ago—nervous, guarded, hopeful in a reflective way—I recognize that moment now as a threshold.

They didn’t come because they wanted photos.
They came because something in them wanted to be witnessed without being fixed.

They wanted to see themselves differently, and they wanted proof of a truth they already sensed but hadn’t yet embodied.

Every time, without exception, the shift happened before the camera clicked.

It happened when they realized they didn’t need to become someone else to be powerful, and when they felt their own presence return to their body. It happened when they stopped negotiating with the parts of themselves they’d been taught to hide.

They walked out changed—not because I gave them something, but because they finally allowed themselves to stay with who they already were.

I see now that I’ve been standing in that same doorway myself.

. . . . . . . . . .

2025 was the year I chose to step fully into a new initiation.

Growth asked me to commit to depth instead of breadth, and to sit with complexity instead of bypassing it with insight. To learn how to hold people ethically, skillfully, and responsibly, not just intuitively.

Love asked me to soften in places I’d learned to brace, and to trust consistency instead of intensity while letting partnership feel safe rather than destabilizing.

My spiritual practice shifted too—not louder, not more mystical, but more embodied. Less seeking. More listening. Less interpretation. More integration.

I learned that personal evolution doesn’t always feel expansive. Sometimes it feels like contraction, like pruning. Like choosing fewer things and standing more fully inside them.

. . . . . . . . . .

As I turn toward 2026, I’m not interested in reinvention for its own sake. I’m interested in alignment.

What I’m welcoming in isn’t a new identity, but a clearer one.

🖤 I’m welcoming work that is slower, deeper, and more relational.
🖤 Clients who aren’t searching for answers, but ready to integrate what they already know (even if they don’t think they know what they know yet).
🖤 Visibility that feels like presence, not performance.

I’m welcoming a business that doesn’t require me to fragment myself across platforms or personas. A rhythm that honors my nervous system as much as my ambition. A way of serving that feels clean, grounded, and sustainable.

I’m welcoming devotion—to my studies, to my work, to my relationships, to my own becoming.

I’m welcoming a kind of leadership that doesn’t rush people across thresholds they’re meant to linger at.

. . . . . . . . . .

What I’ve learned—through photography, coaching, energy work, and through the body itself—is that transformation does not come from being pushed.

It comes from being met.

Met in the moment before you can’t unsee the truth anymore, in the space where clarity is present, but courage hasn’t caught up yet, and without being rushed, fixed, or told who to become.

This is the work I return to now—not as someone trying to prove depth, but as someone who has lived it.

If you are standing at your own threshold—feeling the discomfort of something ending, something asking to begin—know this:

You don’t need to force the next chapter.
You don’t need to become someone else.
You don’t need to rush your readiness.

You are allowed to let what no longer fits fall away.
You are allowed to trust what’s already stirring.
You are allowed to be supported as you integrate what’s next.

Whether that support comes through your own reflection, through community, or through working together, the invitation is the same:

Stay with yourself long enough to feel the shift.

I’m here again. Not to convince, not to perform. But to witness—and to walk with those who are ready to cross.