The Day I Came Home to Myself

Seventeen days ago, I had a reckoning.

A crushing realization washed over me: I had completely stepped away from the things that were feeding my soul. The rituals that rooted me. The quiet that steadied me. The practices that reminded me who I was.

So much has changed in the past year.

I opened my own boutique publishing house.
I created a program that’s helping writers become published authors.
I started teaching somatic writing practices to communities that deeply need it.
My partner and I bought our first home together and began a new chapter here in Hawai‘i.

All beautiful things. All dreams come true.
And yet… somewhere in the expansion of my life and business, I lost the connection to the very things that made this work sacred to me.

When Carrie and I met, I was sober. I was deeply rooted in the rituals that fed my spirit. But slowly, as the business grew and life sped up, I started drifting. From friends. From family. From my body. From my voice.

And yes, I started leaning on alcohol again.

But it wasn’t just about the drinking.
I was craving stillness. Silence. A way to slow the racing thoughts, to hush the to-do list that kept screaming for my attention.

I felt disconnected. Moody.
The things I once loved—writing, coaching, creating—began to feel like chores.

Then everything came crashing down.

I realized that my inner saboteur had slipped back into the driver’s seat. And I let her. It would have been easy to blame stress, the state of the world, the government, my industry—but the truth is, I was the problem. My choices. My detours away from what I know to be true.

So I did what I would tell my own clients to do.

I came back to the page—not for performance or perfection, but to meet myself again.

I started moving my body. I meditated. I cleaned up my diet.
I stopped listening to every “expert” telling me what I should do to grow my business.

No more chasing algorithms. No more forced emails or awkward cold DMs.
I returned to caring deeply for the clients already in my world.
I returned to writing what mattered.
I returned to me.

And what happened?
Clients started signing. Conversations became easier, more honest.
The neediness was gone. The pressure dissolved.

I realized I was still recovering from a toxic coaching experience that had nearly convinced me that my love for books and longform writing was outdated. That people “don’t want to read anymore.” That books were dying and Instagram Reels were the future.

But I didn’t believe her then, and I sure as hell don’t believe it now.

Because this week, I saw proof that the world is craving something different.

✨ I read new research showing people are leaving social media platforms and moving toward slower, deeper content—places like Substack and LinkedIn.
✨ I learned that Barnes & Noble, which was nearly bankrupt six months ago, is now booming again.
✨ And yesterday, I experienced it for myself.

My partner and I went on a date, and I decided to treat myself to a new book. We went to Barnes & Noble, and when I walked in, I nearly burst into tears.

Every chair? Full.
People sitting on the floors, reading in every aisle.
The line? Wrapped around the store.
It was ALIVE.

My heart lit up. I smiled like a kid again. I remembered trips to the bookstore with my dad—the reward for a good week always being a new book.

Books are back.

People are craving slower mornings, deeper connection, and a return to soul.
They’re tired of watching other people live curated lives on a screen.
They want their own stories. Their own rhythm. Their own voice.

And that’s exactly what I’m here for.

I’m not here to chase trends.
I’m here to help people come home to themselves—
To slow down.
To move their bodies.
To quiet the noise.
And maybe, just maybe, to write the book their soul has been whispering about for years.

So if you’ve been feeling the pull to return to yourself…
If you’ve been dreaming of finally writing that book,
Of using your story to heal and lead,
Of creating something lasting and soul-aligned—

The Inspired Author Program is here.

And who knows…
Maybe one day you’ll walk into a bookstore, see your book on the shelf, and smile as you whisper:

“I did that.”

But the most beautiful reminder of this truth came yesterday.

I had a hair appointment across town, and knowing how busy it gets in the summer—with kids out of school and limited parking—I left early. I decided to stop at one of my favorite places on the island: the local library.

This particular library has always been a sanctuary for me.
The quiet. The cool air. The smell of books that hits you right as you walk through the doors.
It’s a kind of reverence I’ve never been able to replicate anywhere else.

When I pulled up, I got frustrated at first—every spot was full.
I assumed it was the nearby farmer’s market drawing the crowd. But when I stepped closer, I realized… the library was full.

Full of people.

Little ones curled up in corners reading to each other.
Parents and kids sprawled out with stacks of picture books.
Elders slowly turning pages in comfy chairs.
A quiet hum of joy and attention filled the air.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

These sacred places—these libraries we feared might vanish—are coming back to life.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of imagination, curiosity, presence.

I didn’t even go in.
I found a tree outside, sat under the shade, and read my book with a heart that was bursting.

And it didn’t end there.

When I arrived at my hair appointment, every single client in the room was holding a book.
Not a phone. Not a tablet.
A book.

They were swapping titles with the hairdressers, talking about how the stories had changed their lives or cracked them open or made them laugh for the first time in weeks.

Six months ago, I questioned this path.
I wondered if the world still wanted books.
If anyone still cared to read, to write, to slow down long enough to feel something real.

But now I see it clearly:
We are remembering.
We are returning.

To authenticity.
To deeper learning.
To soul work.

To the written word.

And I am more sure than ever that this work—my work, your work—is needed.
Not just needed. Cherished.

So if you’re hearing the call to write, to reclaim your voice, and to contribute something lasting to this great remembering, I invite you to take the first step.

Because the world is making space again—for your story, your truth, your legacy.

The Inspired Author Program is open.
Let’s write your book.
Let’s build your sanctuary.

Let’s come home.