This week did not go as planned. I fell again. This time, I broke my ankle.

This past week, I moved, again, about ninety minutes farther north into the Sierra foothills.

There is something else I am noticing. When I think about having a voice - a real voice, maybe even a loud one - something shifts in me.

I am refocusing again.

Lately, I have been thinking about hunger.

I have not been journaling. And I can feel the difference.

Easter is here, and with it, the reminder of renewal.

I have been reminding myself of something lately; I chose this life.

“Just keep swimming; just keep swimming…” — Finding Nemo

My blog was due today, and I forgot.

I will admit something honestly this week: I feel overwhelmed. I am exhausted.

Today is March 1st. Spring is upon us in the western Sierras; a quiet thaw after winter’s long rest. There is promise in this season; buds showing themselves, light lingering longer into the evening, the earth warming again. And yet I am exhausted.

I am home. Back in California. Back in the western Sierras.

This week in therapy has been heavy.

I’m back in Montana for another stretch of intensive therapy.

I’m heading back for another seven days of intensive therapy. Not as an escape. Not as a restart.

I didn’t realize how much I was holding my breath until I arrived here.

Lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling. As I try to connect my writing topics across platforms; to align my words with weekly podcast topics, guests, themes, and timing; I feel my raw voice thinning. Polishing itself into something more strategic. More curated. Less me.

Lately, I’ve been able to reintroduce habits that I had long forgotten; habits that work for me; that make me happy.

It’s the first of the year. I’ve never been big on resolutions. They feel loud, performative—like promises made before listening.