The Shift

From Pausing to Planning

Thank you to the little voice in my head trying to keep me safe from change. Thank you for reminding me, in every possible way, that everything could go wrong. But please—please—quiet down at night. Can’t you see I’m trying to rest so I have the capacity to endure what’s next?

Ah, fear. So necessary, yet so… annoying. I haven’t felt this way since my first leap of faith five or six years ago. Though my life was incredibly different, it’s clear to me now just as it was then—realignment is calling.

I’ve outgrown this model, and it’s time to move forward. This is nothing like my first jump, when I was 22 and felt I had nothing to lose. This time is different. Not only are Maggie and I much older now, but the stakes feel higher with ownership of a vehicle and a house on wheels. Those thoughts of “I’m almost 30” and “my dog just turned 12” continue circling constantly. And while being “older” doesn’t mean we can’t do certain things, it does mean we require certain things.

State-to-state travel is harder on Magg than it is on me, but it’s stressful for us both. Add in my daily physical and mental exertion at work, and by Friday afternoon there’s usually a knot that needs untangling. I’m better at managing those knots now. I pause when needed, and I’ve built habits that help me slow down so those pauses don’t have to be quite as abrupt. Rearranging priorities was fundamental in this—Maggie and I need to be sleeping well and pooping well. Bottom line. Those are our requirements, and they’ve become the foundation of the holistic habits I’ve been incorporating.

We’re taking it slow so as not to overwhelm—and so far, so good. But slowing down hasn’t yet bridged the gap between where I am and where I feel pulled to go.

Right now, my work routine looks like this: driving on route, meter to meter—electrical meters for businesses and residences—talking with strangers for five minutes or less, hoping their dogs don’t maul me, and sometimes using all my strength and wit to safely service or replace equipment. It’s a strangely specific job: simple, exhausting, and well-paying. I’m lucky to have stumbled into it back in 2019.

This work provided opportunities I didn’t know existed for me—like hauling and living out of a camper, or traveling to states east of the Mississippi that I otherwise never would’ve explored (some of them because they were truly BFE). I’m incredibly grateful for the growth this path has allowed over the past five or six years, but my priorities have shifted. This is not how I want to spend the next five or six.

Between the daily mileage on my only vehicle, the physical toll of the work, and the constant effort it takes just to locate a restroom on route (my pelvic floor has paid a price), it’s time to ask myself a familiar question again.

What do I want?

Except this time, it quickly becomes: What do I need?

Of all the things I love—music, dancing, gathering, connection—what sits at the root of them? Music connects us. Dancing, for me, is a spiritual return to myself—an embodiment of the magic that music creates. And connection… always connection.

So what does that mean? Gathering? Holding space? Retreats and connective opportunities? That feels like a ten-year vision, not a right-now exit strategy. Besides, what qualifies me to hold that space anyway? Don’t I need to be some spiritually awakened guru?

I know the answer to that is no. But I also know that if I’m willing to walk toward this, I have to do so sustainably. Which brings me back—again—to the question of need. And with it, now: what might the first steps look like on the path toward that ten-year vision?

When I imagine a life that includes music, movement, and connection in meaningful ways, I feel alive. True. Like my heart is vibrating at a frequency that reminds me I’m actually living. I don’t expect that feeling to be constant, but I do want others to know that this quality of life exists in general, right on the other side of their challenges.

Too often, in this area of wellness, people use enhancements or stimulants to reach that feeling. But those aren’t sustainable routes. So how do we help people access something better—without bypassing themselves? Even if it starts with nothing more than asking what they want and what they need.

And there it was.

My root.

Helping others. Supporting them in their pursuit of betterment—in pursuit of their dreams.

When I shared this realization out loud, I was asked a simple question: What do you want? I used to ask myself that all the time. Somewhere along the way, I stopped.

“I want to be on a dream team,” I said. “I want to help make people’s dreams come true.”

What I didn’t realize then was that there’s a grounded, evidence-based way to help people help themselves.

And that’s where my shift begins.