To the One who Longs for Change yet Hesitates to Commit

Dearest friend,

There’s a version of you that aches for more.
And not because you’re broken. Not because you’re ungrateful. But because something ancient and holy inside of you remembers the life you haven’t lived yet.

You hear it in the quiet. You feel it when you exhale. You sense it in the rare moments you stop rushing—when you finally let yourself admit that this can’t be all there is.

And still—you hesitate.

Because naming what you want is one thing. But showing up for it? Over and over? And over again?

That’s where the trembling begins.

You want the change. But let’s be real—not the sacrifice. Not the stretch it will require of you. Not the dismantling of everything that made you feel safe and secure, even as it kept you small.

You want the freedom—but you don’t want to burn for it. You want the outcome—but not the edge that asks you to bleed. You want the thrill of arrival—without the raw intensity of the crossing.

You think you need more time.
But what you need is more courage.
And I know—that word gets thrown around a lot around here. But I mean the real kind—the kind we practice.

The kind of courage that shows up with trembling hands—again and again. The kind that says “yes” even when you don’t have a guarantee. The kind that knows investing in yourself—time, money, energy, vulnerability, genuine risk—isn’t indulgent.

It’s essential.

Here’s what I know as I walk with the ones who’ve dared to say yes—the ones who stretch further into their brilliance by taking the risks meant for them:

I have never met someone who regretted really showing up for themselves. Perpetually showing up for all they can be, all they long to be. Not once.

No one has said:

“I wish I hadn’t invested in my growth and gifts.”
“I wish I hadn’t carved out time to finally begin to heal.”
“I wish I hadn’t risked the life I knew for the life I wanted.”

Instead, they say:
“Why did I wait so long?”
“Why did I think I could do it all alone?”
“Why did I treat the call on my life like it was negotiable?”

No one regrets choosing themselves. They only regret the years—literally years—spent convincing themselves they didn’t need to.

And maybe that’s where you are now—at the threshold. The place where the ache meets the invitation. The place where comfort becomes a cage. The place where your courage isn’t loud—but it’s ready.

Because you know there is more in you.
More to give. More to love.
More to experience. More to receive.

You can feel it like an unrelenting hum under your skin—an unearthed potential aching to live out in the wild. Not someday. Not when everything lines up. Now.

Your dreams are not decoration. They are blueprints—entrusted to you by your ancestors, by all that you believe in, and by All Who believes in you.

Your dreams were never meant to sit untouched in the corners of your longing. They were meant to build something real. Through you.

This isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about finally letting the truth of who you are come all the way alive.

By the way, you won’t get the roles, the opportunities that aren’t meant for you. You will get every single challenge required for you to step into the ones that are—the ones already designed with your unique mark upon them.

It’s about giving your gifts a place to land. It’s about building the kind of life that doesn’t just look good on the outside, but reverberates with meaning from the inside out.

You’ve been entrusted with something sacred. Your gifts. Your blueprint. Your calling.

Yet blueprints don’t build themselves.

They require hands in the dirt. They require roots, and risk, and relentless tending. They require showing up again and again—when it’s hard, when it’s holy, when it feels like nothing is happening and then everything changes at once.

And we don’t get to put our hands in the dirt for free.

Not because we’re being punished—but because participating in our own becoming costs something sacred. It asks for our time. Our energy. Our resources. Our truth. Our tenderness. Our decision to stay with it when it would be easier to delay.

And still—there are those who stand at the edge, toes curled against the shoreline, waiting for the water to feel warm enough. To feel safe.

But change doesn’t wait. It doesn’t come find you when you’re finally ready. You meet it in the wild.

You meet it in the water.

So what now?

You can keep delaying. Or you can start building the life that’s been calling your name in a voice only you can hear.

No, it won’t be easy. But it will be yours. And it will be worth every trembling, holy, wildly courageous step.

I don’t write this from on high, by the way.

I know the delay. I know the fear. I know the hesitancy too. Yet everything I’ve ever wanted lives in my own practice of courage. And who we become when we say yes to courage is everything you can imagine it to be.

Say yes, friend—and start building what only you were made to build.

Brick by brick. Breath by breath. With dirt under your fingernails. Not perfectly—relentlessly. Not when it’s more realistic—now.

Honor the blueprint entrusted to you. And for the love of everything still alive in you—get in the water.

You weren’t made to stand at the edge.
You were made to swim.

With fierce belief in you,

Practice Postscript

The Reflection:

• Where in my life have I been circling the edge instead of getting in the water?

• What truth have I been trying to intellectualize instead of live?

• What sacred cost have I been avoiding, even though I know the reward is my own becoming?

The Everyday Practice:

Stand barefoot—outside if you can. Place one hand on your belly and one on your chest. Say aloud:
“I honor the blueprint entrusted to me. I am willing to get in the water. I am willing to get my hands in the dirt.” Then do one thing today that feels like a devotion to that truth. Not a performance. A holy act of participation.

Living in the Question:

• What if the discomfort I’m avoiding is the doorway to the life I keep saying I want?