Uncertainty has emerged as my recurring theme
—a theme I've learned not to dread, but to embrace.
In the quiet of my heart, sometimes I have this little whisper of fear.
The rumbling of a question that carries the weight of my intentions. It's a question that dances at the edges of my thoughts whenever I put pen to paper or, more accurately, fingers to keyboard.
Do my words paint a picture of someone who has it together? And what are my goals here?
I worry that writing— sharing my writing, specifically— may make it appear as though I think I’m in a position to share wisdom, ready to dole out life lessons or offer guidance.
It's not that I don't want to help or share what I've learned; it's just that I don't want to be seen as someone who has figured this stuff out.
I don’t want to fall victim to my own certainty.
I have no interest in being a leader to follow, speaking from stages, or creating and teaching formulas for how to live better.
I want to be a student engaged with curiosity in my own life.
Looking closely
Ready to learn
Open to hearing
Open to changing
Open to growing
Curiosity thrives in an environment of uncertainty.
When I am certain, I stop questioning, exploring, or seeking new perspectives.
I want to live in the space between what I know and what I long to learn.
I want to write freely, and I want to share it without feeling trapped by my own words.
I want to be able to stay curious and grow beyond the things I write about now. And I fear I can’t do that from a position of teacher.
My body of work (my podcast, my writing) is called what it is (In The Middle) because I’m in the middle of learning.
Uncertainty has emerged as my recurring theme—a theme I've learned not to dread but to embrace.
The idea of having all the answers, of being strong in my own certainty, no longer holds the allure it once did.
I’m in the middle of a reshaping, of a remaking, of becoming.
And I hope and pray that that’s always the case.
I don’t want there to be a time in my life when I’ve arrived into my after.
I’m in the middle and I want to talk about it while I’m here.
For most of my life I’ve moved from source to source looking for the right formula, the right routine or the right schedule, looking to find the *thing* that would finally pull it all together for me.
My love for self-improvement content is deep in my bones, and my ability to not get tired of it is almost… embarrassing.
But I don’t want to in any way be a self-help creator, instructing or prescribing.
I am finally, joyfully living in an aligned way— my insides and my outsides match and I have to talk about that. I want everyone to get to feel that.
But I don’t have a way to teach it, and I don’t have the desire to.
All I hope to do here is let you in to my story, letting you walk through the same emotions and thought processes with me in the awkward in-betweens of learning, the defeats and the victories.
I find contentment in the role of storyteller. I am not a guru with a grand theory of everything. I'm just a narrator, sharing from my own life, with all its unpolished edges and evolving chapters.
The older I’ve gotten the more I believe we can each find successful and happy ways of living and they may not look anything alike.
There is freedom in that.
That’s not a flashy thing to say. I can’t give that freedom a brand, can’t make it a movement.
I’m just me and you’re just you, on our own journeys.
But I find the people who embrace living that out, live truly and boldly and beautifully, and it’s what I want for me, for my children, for my friends.
That’s what we’re doing here together.
I want to be the people who share our stories, even the gritty, unpolished parts, doing it with vulnerability and honesty.
In art, there's a concept known as "wabi-sabi”. I know. What a name. But it’s rooted in Japanese aesthetics.
It's the appreciation of impermanence and imperfection.
Wabi-sabi finds beauty in the weathered and in the worn.
It's the patina on an old bronze sculpture, the cracks in a ceramic bowl, and the fading colors of a vintage photograph.
Wabi-sabi teaches us that nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect—and that's perfectly fine.
The parts of me that I keep returning to, thinking about, writing about, the aspects of myself that I've viewed as flaws, cracks in the facade of the person I aspire to be—traits like my impatience and restlessness— I see in a different light these days.
Those tendencies and failures are not reasons for shame or self-condemnation or hiding.
They are reminders that my life is a work in progress and I still have a good work to do while I’m here.
And I don’t have to be quiet and wait until the work is done to talk about it, because that work will never be done and my goal isn’t to teach you how to be done with your work either.
I'll forever be the student and it's from this place, this dynamic middle place, that I'll continue to share my experiences as I live them.