The Ache & the Aliveness
A midsummer letter for anyone living in the questions.
Dear friend,
There’s a certain kind of ache that doesn’t mean something is wrong.
It means something is waking up.
I haven’t sent a letter like this one lately—not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I’ve been in it.
In the middle of becoming. In the space where clarity hasn’t quite arrived, but something deeper has. I’ve been feeling it in my bones:
A restlessness that isn’t a problem to fix—but a pulse asking for my attention. Not urgency. Not confusion.
But a certain kind of ripeness.
And maybe you’ve been feeling it too.
Maybe you’ve been waking in the night with your jaw clenched and your chest wide open. Maybe your heart has started pounding in stillness instead of stress. Maybe you’ve found yourself crying at things that never used to touch you. Or laughing in places that used to ache.
This kind of ache isn’t weakness.
It’s your life asking to be felt again.
The world right now is hard.
Fractured. Overwhelming. It can be tempting to go numb or simply go faster so the feelings aren’t felt. But I’m finding myself doing the opposite.
I’ve been slowing down and listening—not just to the world, but to what’s moving underneath the surface of my own life.
There’s something growing in me.
Not a plan. Not a resolution.
The kind of slow growth that comes from unlearning, from choosing presence over performance, from letting go of the answers that no longer fit and sitting with the questions that won’t leave me alone. Questions like:
What is life asking of me now?
What kind of woman am I becoming?
What kind of courage is being called for—not the public kind, but the private kind? The kind that happens when no one is watching?
And what is The Courage Practice being asked to evolve into—not just as a business, but as a living body of work?
I don’t have all the answers. Yet I do feel this:
Something in me is shedding.
Something in me is surfacing.
And something in me is finally ready.
So here’s to the summer that doesn’t need to be perfect to be holy. Here’s to the ache that breaks you open and the aliveness that rushes in.
Here’s to letting the questions stir beneath your ribs. Here’s to the slow burn of evolving—and to staying awake for all of it.
Because joy isn’t a destination.
It’s a pulse inside the ache.
A flicker of aliveness reminding you: you’re still here.
And you’re still unwrapping yourself.
If you’re standing at your own strange edge—tender and brave and not quite sure what’s next—please know this:
I see you. I feel you.
And I’m walking it too. We’re in it together.
And that means you’re not alone, friend.
Practice Postscript
Where the letter ends—and your life begins.
This is the part you don’t just read. You live it.
The Reflection
Where in your life do you feel the ache that isn’t pain, but a pull?
What part of you is stirring beneath the surface, waiting for your attention?
What questions keep echoing in the quiet moments—the ones you can’t quite shake?
The Everyday Practice
Choose a moment this week—five minutes, an hour, an afternoon—and instead of reaching for clarity, reach for presence. Let the ache speak. Let the aliveness flicker.
Place one hand on your belly, one on your heart.
Inhale gently, as if you’re receiving yourself.
Then ask aloud:
“What is asking to be unwrapped in me right now?”
Let your body answer. Not with language. But with sensation. You may notice a flutter, a tightness, a warmth, a tear. Please don’t analyze it. Just honor it.
Living in the Questions
What is life asking of you now?
What is your ache here to awaken?
What if joy is not something to chase—but something that pulses inside the ache, waiting for your touch?
