This week, I’ve been negotiating with myself.

Even after getting the job of my dreams—returning to the high school that shaped me, stepping into a role that feels like both destiny and homecoming—I find myself wrestling with a quieter, older belief: Dreams don’t come true for people like me. Or if they do, the universe is already lacing up its boot to drop the other shoe.

And maybe from the outside, it looks like everything’s suddenly falling into place. Like some effortless glow-up. Like I’ve been charmed or chosen or just really good at manifesting lately. And sure—there’s been some real magic in the mix. But it hasn’t been easy. It hasn’t ever been easy.

Four years ago, my life fell catastrophically apart. Not in the cute, cinematic way where you cry in the bathtub and then cut your bangs and start over.

No. I mean soul-deep collapse. Burn-it-all-down collapse. I mean waking up in rubble, still clutching pieces of the life I thought I was building.

So how did I rise from the ashes?

Honestly, I didn’t. Not all at once.

I crawled. I screamed into pillows. I went to therapy. I picked up every sharp little piece of myself and asked, Do you still belong to me?

I healed. I failed. I meditated. I fucked up again. I learned to sit still when I wanted to bolt. To stay soft when I wanted to armor up. I learned that the shadows weren’t monsters to avoid but messengers to listen to.

I started practicing micro-shifting. One step. One breath. One uncomfortable truth at a time. I leaned into the flow, stopped thrashing against the current. I whispered yes to things I didn’t fully understand but could feel pulling me gently forward.

And no, I don’t really know how to explain how to do that. Not in a neat 10-step listicle. Not in a way that translates cleanly to advice.

But I know it has something to do with sitting in the spin cycle and not trying to crawl out of the machine. Letting the emotions toss me around until they settle. And lately, they don’t settle for long. It’s wave after wave. Elation. Dread. Hope. Exhaustion. Peace. Rinse. Repeat.

Today, I’m tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from feeling everything, all the time.

The Schumann resonance is spiking, or so the internet tells me. Basically, the Earth’s energetic heartbeat is throwing a cosmic tantrum: Solar flares. Retrogrades. Apocalypse fatigue. Some people say when it does that, we feel it too—like being extra tired, emotional, or just off for no clear reason. I don’t totally understand how it works, but honestly, it kinda checks out. I don’t know. All I know is: my emotions aren’t even finishing their arc anymore before the next ones roll in. I’m in the spin cycle.

And through it all, the world keeps doing its unhinged thing.

Last weekend, we were protesting for democracy. Two politicians in Minnesota were gunned down. This weekend we bombed Iran. There’s talk of war. Of civil unrest. Of some deeply uncivil behavior by people in power. Every day feels like a new headline that tries to convince us we’re powerless. That nothing matters. That we should be afraid.

And yet.

I made a killer soy-ginger salmon with cucumber salad forged from our blossoming backyard garden last night. I finally attempted a peanut butter and jelly sourdough…and it didn’t suck. Jen and I stopped our usual buzzing around the house and stood forehead to forehead in the dining room to just breathe in silence and stop the world from spinning for a few minutes. We had coffee on the porch this morning under a new flag she and the kiddo hung last night—an American flag with a peace sign in place of stars. A reminder. A prayer. A stubborn little belief: We are still united in ways that matter.

Maybe that’s the best I can offer today.

Not answers. Not certainty. Not some blueprint for how to turn heartbreak into purpose or pain into power.

Just this: your dream might not look shiny or perfect. It might arrive covered in dust after the demolition. It might come quietly, after you’ve done all the hard work of becoming the version of you that can actually receive it.

So if you’re spinning—emotionally, cosmically, politically—you’re not alone.

The only advice I have is: Stay soft. Stay human. Make a sandwich. Stand forehead to forehead with someone you love. Let it be enough.

Today, that’s what I’ve got.