Going forward, I’ll be using Fridays to finish my Substack instead of rushing to get them out by Friday morning. I’m trying to create a bit more spaciousness in my week, and I’m hoping this will help.

Without further ado, enjoy, and thank you, as always, for being here.

I never noticed how quietly Lua and Charley pitter-patter and shuffle (respectively) around the house until Felix entered our lives. Despite being half Lua’s size, I always know when Felix is on the move. His gait has become even more pronounced since he became a tripawd. When I first noticed this, the musician in me immediately thought, “Oh, he moves in triplets!” But, upon further investigation, Felix’s gait actually mirrors two sixteenth notes and an eighth note, connected by the “bar” of his precious spine. His back paws comprise the spritely sixteenth notes, and his front paw completes the phrase with a longer, more confident eighth note announcing, “I am HERE!”

In David Whyte’s poem “Everything is Waiting for You”, he writes, “Your great mistake is to act the drama [life] as if you were alone… To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings.”

He goes on to invite the reader to notice:

“Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice.”

The dogs’ musical paws. The singular sound each one of them makes when they lap up water from the bowl. Lua’s soft snores when she slumbers. Felix’s shrill backyard patrol siren bark when passersby don’t pass muster. Charley’s click-clack paw stomps when she demands dinner at 4:45 p.m.

These sounds comprise the chorus that crowds out my solo voice during the moments in which I’ve convinced myself I am completely alone.

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I turned 39 a month ago, and in the weeks since, I’ve endeavored to take note of what’s changed over the past year, five years, decade. And resoundingly, the biggest change between now and any year prior to this one centers on the intimacy I feel with myself – and my pack.

I revel in Friday nights tucked in with the dogs and a book – or, more often these days, an episode (or three) of Drive to Survive. I relish time on the trails, AirPodless and hiked at the varying paces of the three of them as they linger or sprint to investigate sounds, smells, and scurrying creat

ures. I delight in the tail-wag-laden greeting I receive from them when I arrive home after an evening yoga class. Moments like these create a feeling within me that I can only classify as “home”.

In his 1971 Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Angle of Repose, Wallace Stegner writes, “Home is a notion that only nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend.”

I’ll never forget the understanding I felt in my bones the first time I read that line, probably twelve years ago now.

My family moved several times during my childhood. I attended two different elementary schools and two different high schools before beginning college across the country in a state I’d only visited once before arriving on campus. My brother and I, both in our mid/late 30s, acknowledged over dinner the other night that neither of us has ever lived anywhere as long as we’ve lived in Bozeman (nearly 11 years).

To be so completely at home in my life at 39 feels novel to me.

Turns out, all I needed was a dog – or four (Angel dog Andy, Lua, Charley, Felix). Not because they remove the loneliness that I know strikes us all in moments, but because they make me so present to the peace that proliferates when I pay attention to the unassuming chorus of life that surrounds me.

In the final lines of “Everything Is Waiting for You”, Whyte invites readers to put down the weight of their aloneness and join the conversation already unfolding around them. Even the most ordinary objects, Whyte suggests, have something to say. All the birds and creatures of the world are “unutterably themselves”. Everything, he writes, is waiting for you.

Many nights, I find myself standing at the kitchen counter, checking my phone one more time before promising myself I’ll put it away for the night. Sometimes, something online engrosses me so much that five minutes turn into ten which become fifteen.

And then, another sound crescendos at my feet. Lua, invariably, will insist that I put my f*cking phone down through her whines that increase in volume and severity the longer I disobey her orders.

She’s reminding me that everything – life, dogs, peace, a bedtime worthy of an excellent sleep score – is waiting for me on the other side of the Internet’s desire to keep me from being exactly where I am, which is the only place I really want to be anyway. Home, surrounded by the music of my life.

Songs for days at home below (Happy birthday, John Mayer!). And, I included Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” so you can hear in the piano theme what Felix’s paws sound like. :)

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And by staying home, I remembered how much it here.

I’m from Montana and have lived in Bozeman/Big Sky for almost 11 years. I pride myself on knowing the best way to get across town. I try not to complain about the traffic and somehow believe I can still get anywhere in 10 minutes, which is why I’m often running late. Some of the changes I witness around town spark nostalgic feelings tinged with wistfulness, but I try my best to remember that all of us, no matter how long we’ve lived here, are just visitors to this land. I look at the mountains, rising up in every direction, and still, each day, feel so grateful that I get to live here.

But somehow, I always feel the need to find reasons to leave, especially in the summer. I’ve gotten it into my head that if I don’t make plans, summer will pass me by and I won’t have lived it well enough or taken enough Instagram-worthy photos, even though I rarely post them anyway, unless they feature at least one dog.

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I’m so grateful that this summer disabused me of the notion that I need to be anywhere other than exactly where I am in order to enjoy each day in this magical place, and I’m especially thankful for this heightened awareness as fall arrives to light up southwestern Montana.

I go out of my way to drive down South Willson to catch the brilliance of the leaves changing on the tall, green ash trees that line the historic street. I revel in reaching the top of Drinking Horse and observing the clear, jagged yet somehow calming, singular delineation on the horizon where the deep blue hue of the surrounding mountain ranges – Hyalite, the Spanish Peaks and the Tobacco Roots – meets the impossible brightness of the midday sky.

I delight in mornings on Peets Hill with the dogs when the air is cold enough that I wish I’d brought another layer, but then I feel the sun on my face and it warms me from the inside out. Or evenings on Triple Tree, when bikers and hikers smile at one another and greet every dog they meet as we all follow the evening light up the trail. There’s the sense that collectively, we recognize how special the exact moment in which we find ourselves is.

Don’t get me started on the sunrises, best viewed from the eastward facing lobby of Zephyr before a 7 a.m. spin class. The clouds to the west light up in pink hues as well, and sometimes the moon peeks out from behind them. The sunsets overtake the whole sky in equal measure.

Autumn meanders up Sourdough might be my favorite. The leaves and trees along the creek, the smell of the air as it stills and cools in that specific canyon, the way the trail reflects every color of the rainbow. There are also so many Andy-man fall memories within each step that I don’t think I’ll ever walk there without feeling like I’m headed home.

And then there are those gray mornings that lead me to believe that winter is coming, only to emerge from teaching a yoga class at 10 a.m. to the light of a clear blue Bozeman morning and the dahlias outside the studio still blooming.

I love how the nights shift, too. Darkness comes earlier. Morning light arrives later. I sleep deeply for many uninterrupted hours in a row. So do the dogs. It’s a welcome respite from the 10 p.m. sunsets and 5:30 a.m. sunrises that bookend the days during radiant Montana summers.

Some people may think Montana’s falls can’t compare to those on, say, the East Coast, where I lived for a decade and half prior to moving back here. But, and I may be biased, this is simply untrue. They may not last very long, but their fleeting nature makes them even more special.

I talk about transitions a lot when I teach yoga or spin, and I’ve written about them here, too. We tend to think of transitions as the things we have to get through to arrive somewhere else. We are always on our way from one life event to another, yearning to be somewhere we’re not. We want to arrive.

But fall keeps reminding me that lingering in the space between one thing and another evokes aliveness in ways the steadiness of routine, habits, auto-pilot just can’t – and that transitions aren’t made to last forever, no matter how much we convince ourselves that they might when we’re in the middle of a big one.

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There’s something almost unbearable about these days because I know how quickly they’ll disappear. Every brilliant afternoon feels borrowed. Every golden tree seems to glow more intensely because I know that one stormy night could strip it bare.

And it makes me want to suck the marrow out of each and every moment.

One more hike. One more breakfast and coffee on the back patio with the dogs. One more afternoon on a trail in my shorts. One more evening where the air feels cool enough but not too cool to leave the windows open.

The fleetingness is part of what makes it so beautiful. It’s different from springtime because on the other side of fall is a colder season, not a brighter one.

Summer can feel endless in its heat and light. Winter in Montana can feel endless in an entirely different way. But fall arrives already leaving. I know that’s why I feel such a sense of urgency to pay attention to it while it’s happening.

I haven’t written here in a couple of weeks. Much of my writing energy has been going toward a consulting project, and while I never mean to go quiet here, sometimes life happens at a rate quicker than my words can keep up. And, truthfully, I’m choosing the trails over my computer screen as much as I can right now.

Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh writes that humans are good at preparing to live, but not very good at living itself. I’m hoping this spectacular season helps me become better at living – at noticing where I am, while I’m there, because it’s too good to miss.

Winter will come. Whatever comes next will come. But not yet, and these days are too precious to hurry through. They’re moving quickly enough on their own.

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A nostalgia-tinged playlist perfect for a fall drive or walk with your dogs, not NOT inspired by my annual viewing of Practical Magic. (And yes, Practical Magic 2 lives up to the hype!) Enjoy.

But for years, I’ve seen the number 38 pop up – on license plates, receipts, trail signs… to the point where I was certain that my 38th birthday and the year that followed would bring about big changes. Maybe I’d win the lottery?!

And as I reflect on 38, it’s a year I’ll hold close to my heart forever – and not because it was an easy one or because I won the lottery (spoiler alert: I didn’t!).

Completely transparently, I wrote an entire substack article about the lessons 38 taught me and the joy, comfort and fulfillment the year brought me. I wrote that I was dragging my feet on planning any celebrations because I didn’t want to say goodbye to a year that had been so good to me. And then I proofread it, made some edits, and scheduled it.

But as I closed my laptop and went about the rest of my day, something gnawed at my insides. As true as many of the words I wrote in that article were, at its core was not an honest representation of my thoughts and feelings about my year. Yes, it was full of life, and yes, I learned so much, but no, I wasn’t dragging my feet on planning anything because I didn’t want to say farewell to the year. Truthfully, it feels hard to celebrate a year for which I had high hopes but that I am not able to wrap up nicely in a big, bright birthday bow to present to my 39-year-old self.

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This year brought so many beautiful people, experiences, and dogs (okay, just the one new one) into my life. I embarked on adventures that led me to all kinds of places. I became a yoga teacher. I adopted Felix. I healed my thyroiditis and in the process learned how to take better care of my nearly 39-year-old body. I took comfort in friendships new and old. I had the courage to try new things I never would have in the 38 years prior. I became more at home within myself than ever before, and became less self-conscious about pretty much everything.

And yet. I’m disappointed that my life isn’t lining up neatly in the way my Virgo self craves.

I wrote this sub on a Virgo new moon. You’re reading it just hours later. While new moons are always an opportunity to plant a seed, set an intention, or commit in both small and big ways to take better care of ourselves and the world around us, none offers this opportunity more potently than this one. The healing energy of Virgo is the ground in which we can plant seeds that will grow sturdy roots when watered with care.

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Thinking about all of this reminded me of something my friend Shelby said when she taught a yoga class to our 300 hour training cohort in Mexico this spring (Shelby helped lead the training because she is an anatomy wizard and yogi extraordinaire). She reminded us that a seed, once planted, does not know for how long it will remain in the dark, beneath the surface of the soil. Given water, care and time, it moves its way toward the surface, but even then, it doesn’t know whether it’s an inch from breaking through or a millimeter. It doesn’t know that it’s in the light, until it is. It just does what well-nourished seeds do: grow, completely in the dark.

So, in the darkness of this Virgo new moon just days before my birthday, I honor the seeds I’ve planted this year. I recommit to trusting that their roots will deepen and having faith that by watering them, they – and I – will continue to grow towards the light and surface on a timeline that is not for me to know in this moment. My job, like the seed, is to continue doing what every human being is meant to do: live, here, now.

I’m teaching a spin class this morning and gave myself full permission to play whatever I wanted in honor of my birthday, as I have done on many mid-September mornings over the past 10+ years. If you happen to read this around 7 a.m. MST, turn it on and know that we’re listening together, moving through the darkness and toward the light – and each other.

P.S. On a lighter note, 38 coincided with the year of the bob, and I ate that trend up! 38 was also the year that reignited my love for a good dance floor (See below :)).

P.P.S. Two of the greatest gifts of 38 included the courage I mustered to begin this substack last November, and the support I’ve received from you wonderful readers since then. Thank you, as always, for being here.

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But somehow my Virgo brain short-circuits when the idea of asking for help surfaces. Asking for help inhabits its own category of connection in my mind – the one I prefer not to have to entertain.

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This is not a new revelation. Anyone who worked with me at Zephyr, the fitness studio I founded in 2017 and sold in 2024, knows delegation was not always my strong suit. Even though I hired wonderfully talented people, releasing my grip on many aspects of the business came in fits and starts and sometimes not at all and at other times only after my team and I endured many conversations during which I struggled to name what exactly it was I needed from and with which I was willing to entrust them.

As an eldest daughter who has lived predominantly by herself since she was 23, I pride myself on being able to handle my life. To delegate only the things that really drive me crazy «mowing the lawn». To have it all handled. To not be a burden.

At some point along the way, I did closely examine this tendency within myself. I came to understand that my reticence towards asking for help stemmed partially from my own self-judgment and also from my aversion to vulnerability – asking for help means it’s possible I will be disappointed or hurt or let down, or that I’ll make someone I love feel uncomfortable by asking them to do something they’d rather not.

But alongside these stories – that I promise I’ve worked through in therapy many times – there’s also the truth that from a very young age, I derived a lot of value from being able to produce good work independently (straight-A first grader over here). And frankly, team projects exasperated me because I relished in the feeling of accomplishment completing a challenging or thought-provoking task on my own gave me. Plus, I just didn’t really want to have to negotiate plans and tasks with others. I didn’t want to have to rely on them when I knew I could do it well on my own. I had deadlines to meet and As to achieve, obviously.

In the nature vs. nurture debate, I think my aversion to assistance is a mixture of both. I do have a Virgo stellium, after all, which is just astrology speak for: I have a LOT of Virgo in my chart, and Virgos like to get things done their way, which, they will tell you, is usually the best way. Or maybe they won’t tell you, but they’ll passively aggressively make sure you know it’s how they feel.

They say, though, that the Universe presents you with the same lesson as many times as you need to learn it, and it appears I haven’t quite fully integrated the truth that asking for help does not make me weak. Enter: Felix, and his most recent major life change: a front-limb amputation.

As it turns out, as a single dog mom, you really can’t manage an injured dog who’s undergone multiple surgeries and meet the needs of your other two very healthy dogs at the same time. And when push comes to shove, I will do anything to ensure my dogs’ needs are met, even if it means muting the part of me that screams “don’t do it!” when I pick up the phone to text or call a friend.

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Plus, Felix has had a heck of a few weeks. He spent a beautiful summer Saturday in Big Sky with his grandpawrents. He moonlighted as an emotional support dog at my friend Carly’s therapy practice. He spent the afternoon with my friend Molly, during which they talked about life and his future (her connection to animals is unmatched, as referenced by the number of shoutouts she’s gotten in this substack alone!). He snuggled with Joy at 7 a.m. on a Sunday and helped Jess meet work deadlines at 1 p.m. on a Wednesday. He spent one-on-one time with me while the girls got to adventure with their buddy Ranger and his mom Kayla. And all three of the kids spent a lovely Sunday at home with their beloved dog-sitter and auntie Emma while I went an an 18-hour excursion to Seattle for a Noah Kahan concert last weekend. Felix’s myriad adventures remind me not only how strong my own community is, but also how strong his is. How he’ll grow up in this world receiving love from and feeling safe with so many more people than just me. What a gift – to us both.

When we were little, my mom always challenged us to write thank you notes without saying thank you. She wanted us to illustrate our gratitude. “Show don’t tell,” as one of my favorite English teachers used to say. And I’ve been thinking a lot about how to express my gratitude for these friendships.

I think, sometimes, it’s by saying, “Yes.” Yes, you can help me. Yes, I need you. Yes, I love you. Yes, I see you loving me, too.

Because apart from the girls getting their needs met and Felix being loved on by so many, the best part about saying “yes” when friends offer to help is realizing how much meaning this kind of connection creates within friendships and communities. It’s experiencing the love that grows on both sides when we let people into our interior worlds. And it’s understanding that gratitude, as David Whyte writes, “is the understanding that many millions of things must come together and live together and mesh together and breathe together in order for us to take even one more breath of air, that the underlying gift of life and incarnation as a living, participating human being is a privilege; that we are miraculously, part of something, rather than nothing.”

We are, miraculously, part of each other.

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It’s not lost on me that she used the words “afoot” and “steps” on the same day that Felix had his right leg amputated and my own dear mama underwent total knee replacement surgery after debating getting the procedure done for years. Yes, years. Both of these beloved beings experienced a complete and total physical severing with what was before, and hopefully Felix and Kate are headed for pain-free trail adventures and pickleball matches, respectively, once they heal up.

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As I write this, a massive afternoon thunderstorm is rolling through Bozeman just after I’ve talked to my dad, who’s reassured me that Mom is settling in well in her hospital room. I’ve also received the call from Felix’s surgeon that he is out of surgery and resting peacefully.

Lightning strikes to the south and I can see the rain falling in Hyalite. Skies to the north are calm, though. This is one of the things I love most about living in the West. Sitting in stillness, I can see multiple horizons, perspectives, weather patterns.

As I read about and feel into what this eclipse means for me in the midst of my resilient mom and sweet dog undergoing significant surgeries, I realize that when big astrology arrives with the message, “Something has to go,” I often assume it’s something external. A person, a habit, my sweet tooth, Felix’s right leg – to name a few.

But this summer with Felix, culminating in today’s eclipse and his surgery, is reshaping my mindset. There is a part of me to which my ego is desperately clinging for dear life. It’s the part of me that seeks external clues, signs, signals, events to ensure I’m doing the right thing, headed in the right direction, making the right choices for myself and for my dogs.

The universe held the feet (there’s that appendage again!) of this part of me to the fire when it came time to make the decision about Felix’s leg. While I received excellent advice and perspective from his surgeon, our vet, trusted friends and many of his fans on the Internet, I knew the decision was ultimately up to me.

And I knew exactly what we had to do. My voice quivered as I held Felix close in the exam room and let the surgeon know I wanted to move forward with amputation. I strung together barely coherent sentences but ended with the one that mattered most: “I have to trust myself here.”

The surgeon, an incredibly talented and smart woman who keeps communication matter-of-fact, said, “I completely support your decision.”

The validation arrived, but only after I’d made the decision myself.

In life, we will sometimes contemplate multiple potential paths forward. And, like a Montana sky, we can’t ever control, ultimately, what rains down upon us. But as my yoga teacher, Jimmy, reminded us in class this week, surrender is not about letting go and trusting that everything will work out in your favor. Surrender is about letting go and trusting that YOU will be there when things don’t go as planned.

So, as the dust settles on eclipse season and Felix begins his road to recovery and three-legged glory, I’m choosing to trust the part of me that knows the truth instead of the one that seeks it somewhere outside of me as we move forward in a new direction. Felix’s right leg is gone, and so is the part of me that believes someone else has the answers I seek. We’re both free.

This week, we collectively mourn, celebrate and honor the life of a woman who built a life trusting herself to make the right decision despite the noise that must have threatened to engulf her myriad times over the course of her 80 profoundly impactful years on this planet.

I saw a clip of a reporter asking her in an interview what she views as her biggest mistake, and Dolly responded with “I haven’t made any.” The reporter laughs but Dolly doubles down. “I try to look at my life as a series of events, and what other people would call ‘a mistake,’ I wouldn’t. Sometimes, what would look like to be my biggest mistakes turn out to be my biggest blessings. I don’t regret things. I don’t go back because I’ve never done anything that I didn’t feel I should have done exactly that way at exactly that time. So how can you say that it’s a mistake?”

When we have the courage to make decisions from the part of us that isn’t seeking external approval or validation or certainty, we liberate ourselves from the energy of second-guessing, regret and worry and make room to experience the wonders of a life uniquely our own.

Felix, my mom, Dolly, the wide open Montana sky and the lunar eclipse remind us that while we’re able to conceptualize many options for our future, the path forward becomes simple when you realize there’s only one that aligns with your heart’s truth. The path can be disruptive, will maybe even require you to sever your ties to the only way of being you’ve ever known, and sometimes requires painful healing. But it’s the only way, and it will set you free – no matter the weather.

I’ve quoted this poem at least twice since the inception of this substack, but I must today, too. Somehow, these lines mean more to me with each passing season.

“Sometimes everything
has to be
enscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.”

- David White, “The Journey”

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Songs for the season…

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In the midst of it all, I find myself relating many moments in life recently to the fourth door of the Seven Doorways style of yoga that I have now spent hundreds of hours studying this year. The fourth doorway is called stoke, or “logs”, as we affectionately refer to it.

The Seven Doorways uses a bonfire as a metaphor for the structure of class. In the first three doorways, we build an internal fire by arriving as we are and creating a sacred space for practice (the fire pit), igniting our spirit/breath (the kindling), and lighting the fire within through our asana/breathwork practice. The fourth doorway, stoke, involves metaphorically throwing a giant log on the fire we’ve built to heighten the flames and bring ourselves to the edge of safe physical discomfort. We do this by holding poses that demand our whole attention for several minutes at a time. Warrior 2, goddess pose, or sometimes, a good ol’ fashioned plank, to name a few. We hold and deepen our presence in these poses to bring ourselves to the edge of our physical experience.

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As doorways master teacher, Heidi, reminded me last week, this part of class is meant to remind us that while our egos may break, our spirits never will. We lean into the sensations occurring within our bodies and we endeavor to soften there. To meet our edge with curiosity instead of assumption. To engage our breath to connect more deeply with ourselves. To burn away the layers standing between us and our hearts.

I’m certain it’s not a coincidence that Heidi, who is a logs master, taught two of the most challenging doorways classes I’ve ever taken while she was in town last week, because life filled the spaces in between with plenty of heat.

I received the news that Felix’s ankle fusion began to weaken as soon as his splint came off. We face either another surgery to insert another rod in his leg or, most likely, amputation.

I had a vulnerable conversation with a friend about the status of our friendship.

And I made a decision about a relationship with someone about whom I care deeply that’s requiring me to stand in the center of one of the biggest bonfires of my life.

The doorway after logs is called “utilize the fire.” We hold yin poses for several minutes (think pigeon, lizard, half frog, full frog, etc.) to use the heat we’ve generated to notice the space we’ve created within our bodies because we had the courage to burn away the noise. This part of class always reminds me that standing in the fire is worth it because of what follows. There is physical relief on the other side, and validation arrives via the body’s gratitude. Letting the log burn allows me to release so much because I’ve come face to face with the discomfort to which I’ve previously bowed, instead of letting it direct my course of action. When this feeling arrives on the mat, I know I’ve honored my soul.

Off the mat, too.

I sobbed in the parking lot with Felix after learning the news about his leg. My heart broke for my unflappably happy little dog, who has been in one constant log since he broke his leg. In the days since, I’ve come back to the knowing that Felix is one of my greatest teachers. We are in this log together. It has taken us both to our edges more than once and our only choice is to stay with each other and each moment as it arrives, leaning into the love that continues to grow between us every single day even when everything else feels unsure.

When in conversation with my friend, I desperately wanted to cave to the physical aversion I experienced throughout my entire being to telling my friend my truth, but because I have become more practiced in leaning into that sensation on the mat, I was able to breathe through my fear and speak from my heart. She met me there, and we both feel safer in our friendship because of it. The relief for having stood in the fire together was palpable.

Regarding the relationship, the me prior to experiencing logs would have leaned on my thoughts, my what ifs, my ego, to make this decision. The me of this moment was able to cut through the noise between myself and my heart and honor its truth, even as the rest of me ached – and still does – with the decision. My fearful ego broke. My spirit flooded my being with gratitude.

I received multiple texts from friends this week who’ve found themselves on their own edges recently, and are embracing them. Hello, eclipse season! They’re leaning in because they know growth arrives on the other side of walking through the feeling that accompanies the thought, “I really don’t want to. But I know I must.”

And they have the courage to face the heat because they’re not wasting energy thinking they have to go it alone.

One of the things I love about getting older the MOST is that my friends and I don’t try to present the best versions of ourselves to each other… we are real. We are messy. And we are in it together. While only we can do the work towards which our souls call us, we need each other to support the process and we’re not afraid about asking to be seen. To remind each other that we’re not crazy for wanting to do things differently. To find our edges, and soften into the support we find there when we do.

So, sending love and courage to your heart from mine. The logs will burn down. You’re not alone. Your spirit? Invincible.

P.S. Over the course of the yoga retreat and the days that followed, I took nine yoga classes in eight days. By that ninth class, my appreciation for the logs portion of practice had completely diminished. I was exhausted. And it reminded me: we aren’t capable of pushing our edges all of the time. We have to take care of ourselves in those moments more than we have to keep seeking the challenge in the name of growth.

My teachers say that, before it is anything else, yoga is a breathing practice. When it all does feel like too much, take a deep breath. Place one hand over your heart and the other over the hand that holds the heart. Hold you, and let that be enough, because it is.

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P.P.S. One of the things I love most about the Seven Doorways is the music. And the songs we choose for logs are often dramatic, cinematic, emotional, intense, worthy of asking our students to stay in the heat longer than they would in silence. This week’s playlist includes some of my favorite logs songs. Enjoy.

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But within minutes of posting, I received a call from the surgeon’s office. They swabbed his bone and the metal implant for bacteria, since clear signs of infection persisted pre-surgery, and we’ve been awaiting results. Turns out the bacteria that grew from the culture is especially resistant to normal antibiotics, and that Felix might need an especially intense round of medication with potentially severe gastrointestinal and neurological side effects to defeat the bacteria that’s plagued his leg for months now. Because everything looked so good at his check up yesterday, they did tell me I had the option to wait and see if the bacteria resurfaces, noting that often the bone flush during surgery removes the bacteria, but of course I started googling, and let’s just say, I’ll have a lot of questions for the surgeon when we meet with him early next week.

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I got off the phone feeling crestfallen. And selfishly, not really for Felix, although that sadness came pouring in shortly thereafter. Despite my big talk about letting go of timelines and plans, I must admit that I am so ready for us to be done with this chapter. To not have to leave him in his cone every time I leave the house without him. To take him off his leash and let him run completely free in mind, body and spirit. To not be watching his every move. To be able to devote more attention to Charley and Lua. To stop spending so much money on medications and vet appointments and surgeries.

In honor of this week’s announcement that a Clueless sequel is in the works, I just have to say, I’m totally buggin’.

Simultaneously, this week brought us our annual Aquarius full moon. Aquarius is the sign of the innovator, the rebel, the one not afraid to do things differently in the name of advancing the collective. On the opposite end of its astrological axis lives Leo, the sign of the light-filled individual whose shine attracts many and whose lion heart loves to care for its pride. The two signs together remind us that we as individuals are part of something bigger than ourselves, but that in order to contribute to and feel the support of the collective, we must discover, love and allow our true selves to shine through, because that’s what the collective needs more than anything: more of us who’ve come home to ourselves.

I asked my yoga students to try a simple exercise in class this week that I learned during my 300-hour teacher training earlier this spring, and I’ll invite you to do the same.

After you read this paragraph, close your eyes. Notice a sensation you’re having internally, whether that be the feeling of your heartbeat against your chest, the feeling of your breath moving into your body as you inhale and out of your body as you exhale. Keep noticing. Then, place your palm on a surface nearby. Notice the sensation of your hand on this object. And then notice how you can both track your internal and external sensations simultaneously. They are connected to one another because you are aware of them at the same time.

This ability to notice and feel the internal and the external reminds us that we are both: individuals through which Consciousness is experiencing itself on a human level, and also, beings not only connected to every other manifestation of Consciousness, but to Consciousness itself. We are not separate from it.

How does this relate to Felix? Goodness, I’m honestly not sure. But I believe that Felix and I are physical manifestations of the same source code. His healing is my own, and so, too, can his happiness be. It’s miraculous to me that he wags his tail at every opportunity, no matter what medications are in his system – seriously, trazodone, the sedative the surgeon prescribed him, has zero effect on this dog – or bandage is covering his leg.

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At our checkup this week, our typically straight-laced – but incredibly excellent and compassionate – surgeon said as she left the room, “He is a very, very good dog.” And you know what? He really, really is.

In the midst of my personal sadness, he is my ever-present ray of furry, smiley sunshine reminding me that happiness and healing not only co-exist, but support one another. That overthinking does no one any favors. And that ultimately, when we are brave enough to share our scars and hurts with one another, to let someone hold our paws as we navigate the unknown, we all feel a little bit more found, seen and loved in the midst of our own individual experiences.

I was lucky enough to go on a gorgeous mountain biking ride yesterday morning with my friend Jess and put on a playlist that I’d used to fuel another bike ride earlier this summer. So many of the songs allowed me to breathe a sigh of relief even in the midst of a continual climb and reminded me just how good life is when we get out of our heads, into our hearts, and take a look around. This life is awe-inspiring in every single way. I hope these songs help you remember the same. Have a beautiful weekend. Sending you all so much love.

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Felix, my mom, and I went to a consultation with his orthopedic surgeon this week, and we received the best news we could have hoped for. After reviewing all of his x-rays, she was confident his bone has healed enough to support his leg without the plates that have helped him rebuild strength and bone over the past few months. She happened to have an opening that same day, so a few hours later, he was back in surgery having them removed.

He’s recovering well. We have to keep things low-key while the small holes left behind by the screws heal, but with a little patience – and lots of short daily walks to encourage the bone to continue strengthening – we’re hopeful he’ll be pain- and bandage-free in just a few weeks.

Needless to say, life has been wonderfully Felix-focused lately, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. After months of uncertainty and seemingly countless bandage changes, Felix and I are grateful for a little extra spring – or summer, as the case may be – in our step.

These are a few of the things that have been bringing me joy alongside his healing.

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I didn’t publish last week and while I know that not everyone is refreshing their inboxes waiting for the next installment of the Aerie to arrive on Friday mornings, the accountability and purpose I find in writing each week feeds my soul, and I felt a little empty last Friday. But last week brought multiple vet visits and potentially tender news for Felix, my newest dog, about whom you can read more here if this is the first you’re hearing of him. I noticed over the Fourth of July that the wound on his leg wasn’t just NOT healing – it was getting bigger. I took him to see his wonderful vet, and she let me know that because of the rod in his leg, his bone is most likely infected, and because of multiple other issues his leg and nerve-damaged paws are experiencing, ultimately, amputation might be the best option for him. It’s too soon to know, and we have an appointment with one of the best animal surgeons in the state next week, but in the meantime, we’re in limbo. Or at least, I am.

Because concurrently, I’m listening to Andrew Huberman’s recent podcast episode with Cesar Millan about dogs. Both men emphasize that projecting our humanness onto dogs does neither species any favors, and I’m trying my best to remember that as my heart cracks for Felix, this little creature, resilient by nature, has no idea that he might be losing a limb soon, along with no concept of the future. Felix is present, always, and appears mostly unconcerned about everything. I know my own human perspective colors my observations of his own embodied experience, and that his peace benefits the most from my ability to protect mine.

I also acknowledge that I’m frustrated that his healing isn’t complete. That we can’t really be on the long hikes and trail runs I envisioned for us this summer. That Felix and I continue to spend hours bandaging and re-bandaging his leg, even though he is the BEST patient. That he has to spend every minute I’m not with him in a cone. That life feels very different than I expected it to a few months after adopting this precious dog.

But ultimately, Felix is reminding me of the truth of my own words and beliefs – healed is not a destination we reach. It’s not linear. Expectations surrounding it will only ever create disappointment and heartache and a festering wound. The antidote, of course, is presence, and remembering what Felix and I do have: a bond that grows deeper every day, a back porch on which we snuggle every single summer evening, Charley and Lua’s acceptance of him as one of the pack, and myriad other things that make our life not just beautiful, but charmed. Magical. One for which we never could have planned and one that feels so completely our own. Also, I’ve never met a dog who wags his tail when a cone is being affixed to his neck. But Felix? Unbothered king.

A new friend at the dog park last night said, “I can’t believe Felix is here, in Montana!” And I thought, “You and I both, sister.” Just as I couldn’t have planned for Felix’s arrival in my life, this summer is reminding me that plans themselves are illusory concepts. Comforting to a human brain, unknown to a dog’s, disregarded by the Universe’s divine timing.

Speaking of comforts, one of my new, dear friends from my Mexico yoga teacher training, Ashley, published a sub in which she shared her insights from having practiced a yogic breathwork technique called Nadi Shodhana, or alternate nostril breathing, multiple times daily for the past two months. She made one distinction that, since reading it, has reshaped the way I think about this moment in time. She writes, “It became less about the breathwork and more about devotion. How often do we abandon the commitments we’ve made to ourselves because they’re inconvenient? Because someone else needs us? Because comfort sounds more appealing?”

I find this juxtaposition between devotion and comfort profound, especially when I consider it alongside everything I’d been reading about this week’s Cancer new moon. Lauren writes that, “Cancer is the sign of the original home, the womb within the mother.” This new moon creates the opportunity to return home, which really, is not an external place but one deep within. Home is wherever we happen to be because, as I’ve said many times in the classes I teach, our bodies house our lives and our souls. They are the living vessels that allow us to experience the physical world like no other species on Earth can.

And yet, how often do we choose comfort in the form of old stories, habits, grudges, plans and expectations instead of devoting ourselves to the miracle that is our own aliveness?

Lauren also writes that, “Words and language are important factors for this NM and week ahead, with Mercury Retrograde in Cancer there is something calling you back into your past, but this time you have the capacity to rewrite this history.”

This moment in time gives us an opportunity to choose devotion over comfort in the pursuit of returning home to ourselves. To acknowledge the old and make a commitment to the new in service to our lives, believing that we are supported by forces bigger than we know.

It doesn’t have to be complicated – nor should it be, in order for it to really take hold. For me, the one thing I know will allow me to feel more at home in myself right now is sleep – something with which I have struggled for many months. And as the new moon fell nearly exactly two months prior to my 39th birthday, I have devoted myself to two months of prioritizing sleep, which, for me, is not comfortable. I’d much rather stay up too late watching Voicemails for Isabelle or reading my new favorite rom com thanks to my friend Allie, Dolly All The Time, and think, “It’s okay – I deserve this deliciousness.” And yet, when I wake up the next morning, the last thing I feel is comforted.

Ashley also writes that, “Trust grows every time we keep our word to ourselves.” This sentence landed deep in my heart. If I can keep my word to myself about my sleep, the trust my being will develop with itself will ripple out into every aspect of my life, including Felix’s leg drama. I feel this in my bones. So, even though the sun sets well past 9:30 these days, it’s early bedtimes, morning sunlight, acupuncture to help calm my liver and ward off 2-3 a.m. wake ups (Katie at Shèn in Bozeman is a miracle worker!), and carefully chosen supplements for me. Somehow, I know this devotion will ultimately create the kind of comfort that lasts.

What will it be for you and your home? And can you choose devotion and the rewriting of the story instead of defaulting to the comfort of the old?

Here’s a midsummer soundtrack to support your heart. Sending you all the love today and always.

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Second of all, Nance’s babies hatched! This mama killdeer and her partner have worked tirelessly over the past 6+ weeks tending their nest in the rocks in my driveway, and seeing their little babies run around my yard is one of the sweetest miracles I’ve ever witnessed. Apparently killdeer return to the same spot to nest annually, so hopefully Nance will be back next year.

Finally, as many of you know, I spent part of June on a road trip to northwestern Montana and Bend, Oregon, all in the name of being on the road with my dogs and riding bikes. You can read all the details here. Alli and Nick, Felix’s rescuers, assured me that Felix is a happy go lucky car dog, and they weren’t wrong. Considering he’s rather nonchalant about pretty much everything except dogs walking by our backyard – a story for another time, but you should hear that bark/scream – I can’t say I was surprised. He even had enough mischief leftover in the final hours of our drive to eat an entire Ocean roll (IYKYK) from Bend’s famed Sparrow Bakery while I briefly left the car unattended to grab a quick dinner in Spokane. Turns out, Felix the Baja street dog is an opportunist. Of course, I don’t blame him.

One of the highlights of the trip for me was the Ladies Allride mountain biking clinic I attended in Bend. I started mountain biking in 2020 when Covid required me to close the doors of my spin studio. My friend Kristen got me out on the trails for the first time, and eventually her first bike became mine – the one that, to this day, I still use! I attended a mountain biking clinic that summer at Copper City and loved it, but over time, I stopped biking as much. Zephyr re-opened, and mountain biking isn’t always an activity on which you can bring the dogs, so I usually opted to explore trails on foot.

But six years later, my heart has asked me to dust off my mountain bike. The sport combines two of my favorite things – mountains and bikes – and it’s also one that frequently places me directly on my growth edge. As a spin instructor by trade, I’ve grown accustomed to bikes that don’t move, and going downhill on bikes with wheels that turn makes me nervous. But as any good spin instructor will tell you, examining what makes you nervous will expand your world. So off to Bend I went.

On day one of the clinic, the assembled group of 35 or so women broke out into smaller groups based on skill level. Each group had a lead instructor, and ours was Steff, a strong, kind, funny woman whose mountain biking prowess I will only ever be able to emulate in my wildest dreams. I felt intimidated initially as I worked through the emotions of being back on my bike for the first time in a minute, but I quickly realized how kind she was and much I could learn from her and buckled up. Over the next two days, we practiced techniques for “rideable drops”, “mandatory air”, braking, and switchbacks in the mornings, and put our skills to work on Bend’s absolutely gorgeous trails in the afternoons.

Through it all, we focused on our “ready position” – the position you want to be in on the bike when you’re traveling downhill so that you’re ready for anything that might come your way.

I’ve noticed mountain biking instructors often provide rhyming phrases that remind you how to ride your bike in the toughest moments, which is incredibly helpful when you find yourself approaching a trail feature that makes you so nervous your brain momentarily short circuits.

The phrase that stuck out among the rest from Steff was “When in doubt, widen it out.” Steff taught our group that our elbows should be out at a 90 degree angle in ready position because doing so provides stability and balance to our upper bodies as we navigate trails.

My elbows like to stay glued to my sides on a bike. I blame this on nearly two decades of taking and teaching indoor cycling classes. But I quickly fell in love with this phrase. It encouraged me to take up as much space as possible in order to be ready for any trail feature that lay ahead. And turns out, in ready position, I worry a lot less than I do if I’m clinging to the handlebars for dear life, contemplating what might be around the next bend. Instead, I’m… ready.

One of the other things I love about mountain biking is that it mirrors life in so many ways. In difficult moments on the trail, my instinct is to tense up. I stop breathing. My elbows tuck in. I make myself smaller.

I’ve realized I do the same thing off the bike. When something scares me, I shrink. I question myself. I forget that I’m actually capable, and that’s why Steff’s words landed. “When in doubt, widen it out.” The phrase resonates beyond the trail, too.

Ready position, on the bike and in life, isn’t about being fearless. It’s about creating enough space in your body so that you can respond instead of react. Instead of shrinking in the hard moment, we can explore what might be waiting for us there. We can lean into our edges knowing that doing so prepares us for the obstacle – and the freedom won by moving through and beyond it – so that we’re ready to greet what lies ahead with an open heart (and arms).

Happy Fourth of July! Here’s a playlist celebrating America, summertime, and the fact that Taylor Swift is getting MARRIED today! Enjoy.

Thank you so much for your support, always. I am so grateful.

It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a Field Notes with you, and I’m excited to do so today, as summer is officially here and I feel so lucky to be spending it in a way that feels completely me: dogs, outside time, music, bikes, yoga, and good eats.

I recently spent a week roadtripping through Montana and Oregon with my dogs, moving from one bike adventure to the next. Long, sun-drenched days, new trails, good music, and that expansive feeling of summer that makes everything feel more alive.

This edition of Field Notes is a collection of those moments: the places, sounds, and small details I wanted to hold onto and share with you for you to take on your own adventures this summer and beyond.

So, without further ado, I present to you: Field Notes, Volume 5: Adventure Edition.

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Felix is an 11.4-pound chihuahua/golden retriever/poodle mix whom I met the day after I returned home from Mexico. Many people think that I adopted him while I was in Mexico, and while this is technically true – I paid his adoption fee one night after dinner while I was there – Felix comes from a different part of Mexico (Baja), and the first conversation I had about adopting him occurred several weeks before I left for my trip. Although of course, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that I would adopt a dog while on a trip to a warmer climate. I tried to figure out how to bring puppies home with me from Belize two years ago but ended up having to settle for helping them get their initial round of vaccinations and flea and tick collars.

Many people also ask me why I decided now was the time to get a third dog, and the truth is, I didn’t decide. I am convinced that the Universe knew we were meant to be together and made it happen.

In mid-April, I received a text from my friend Annie that said, “You need to talk to Alli about Felix.” While this text may have been confusing to some (who are Alli and Felix?!), I knew exactly who she meant. Last September, Annie and her husband Austin adopted a Mexican street dog named Teddy from a couple named Alli and Nick who operate a rescue called Expedition Ola, through which they rescue, rehabilitate, and find the best homes for homeless dogs from the Baja peninsula. I’d been following them on Instagram since Teddy entered our lives, and have fallen in love with each dog Alli and Nick rescued. Their adoptions always tug at my heartstrings. Fostering dogs has never been my strong suit (example A: Charley), and I usually cry every time they say goodbye to a dog they so lovingly helped heal. But every time, the dogs, no matter how timid they are upon meeting their forever families, end up thriving. And then Alli and Nick have space to rescue another one.

When Felix came along, he was a tiny, adorable dog with an injured leg they spotted and knew they wanted to help, but he ran away from them. Distraught, they returned to the same place later in the day and tried again, this time securing his rescue and in so doing, realizing that he was absolutely covered in ticks and fleas. This dramatic beginning to his story combined with Felix’s undeniable cuteness and sweetness enthralled Expedition Ola followers. We all became attached and invested immediately.

Then, there was the matter of his leg. It was broken, but the break was old, and Alli and Nick received lots of advice that amputation was the best route. I myself at one point almost commented that I had a three-legged dog and that she was thriving, but I decided not to – I knew they didn’t need more advice from the peanut gallery.

Miraculously, Alli and Nick found a surgeon who told them he could insert a rod into Felix’s leg that would allow him to walk on it normally. We were all elated. And after his surgery, things were looking up for Mr. Felix. In the meantime, you could tell he was absolutely in love with Alli, Nick and their dog Bodie. And they, with him. The Internet implored them to keep him. None of us could imagine Felix being separated from his pack.

Around this time was when Annie texted me. She told me that Alli and Nick were looking for a very specific fit for Felix. They wanted someone with multiple dogs who was open to a third, someone who would hike or walk with Felix every day and someone whose lifestyle would allow them to be with Felix most of the time. She said, “Just talk to Alli.”

I’m still not sure what I was thinking, but I know what I was feeling. It was as though I were being carried by a current beneath the surface, pulled by something I couldn’t see or resist. Bigger forces were at play, and somehow I recognized them – not with my mind, but in my heart.

Annie connected Alli and me via text and we started chatting. I sent her my Substack about Charley and told her about Andy. Some rescues won’t adopt dogs to people whose animals have been hit by cars, and I understood if Andy’s story meant I wasn’t the right fit for Felix.

Instead, Alli called me. She told me she loved the way I wrote and talked about my dogs – that she could tell I was someone who loved animals the way she and Nick did. Twenty minutes later, we got off the phone and I got to work on my official application adoption. I knew it was a long shot – so many people wanted Felix – but something within me knew I needed to keep going through the steps.

Over the coming weeks, Alli and I stayed in touch. She would send me updates, and I would send her videos and photos of the girls and our daily hikes. One day she texted me and said that they’d let everyone who’d applied for Felix know that they were not his forever family – except for me. As excited as I was, I questioned whether I was the right person for him, and whether the girls were ready to accept another dog into their pack. I also wondered, along with the rest of the Internet, whether Alli and Nick might actually keep Felix. Everyone always wonders this when they rescue a dog because they love them so much, but with Felix, it seemed like it really could be a possibility. Despite it all, a subtle but persistent knowing within me could not release the possibility of adding this little dog to our family.

At the beginning of my final week in Mexico, Alli texted me to tell me that she’d come to terms with the truth that I was Felix’s forever mom. I still couldn’t process it. Out of the hundreds of people who applied for Felix, she and Nick were choosing me?! I Venmo’d her the adoption fee and we agreed that I would come pick him up in California – where they’d be, preparing for a big trip to South America – when I returned from Mexico.

I sat with the feeling of becoming Felix’s mom over the next couple of days. And as I felt through all the emotions that naturally arise during a yoga teacher training, I realized that during my clearest and most tranquil moments, the idea of becoming his mom filled me with light. I also couldn’t help but feel that Andy’s paws were all over this one. In my heart of hearts, I’d always known that I’d want to honor Andy’s legacy by adopting another street dog someday. I just didn’t know how or when. But I firmly believe that the dogs who are meant to find their way into your life and heart DO, and it seemed Felix was finding his way – perhaps with the help of my beloved Andy boy.

A couple of days later, Alli told me they wanted to drive Felix to Montana. It’s as though the Universe could sense the last little bit of resistance in my heart and decided to quash it by delivering this precious creature to my doorstep. I said, “Okay, when are you thinking about coming?!” She informed me they’d be in Montana by the time I got home from Mexico. I was stunned. It all felt like it was happening so fast. Too fast.

But sometimes, when you signal to the Universe that you’re ready to make a decision it’s been waiting for you to, timelines collapse. The last time something this monumental happened at this speed, I sold my business in a span of three months when everyone had told me to expect the process to take four to six times that long. I wasn’t quite ready then either, but I knew it was right. It seemed the same was happening again.

I landed back in Bozeman on Saturday and met Felix less than 12 hours later. Andy seemed to keep sending my signs. The girls, often less than welcoming to new dogs, met Felix with a bit of curiosity but mostly disinterest – an auspicious sign, in my book. Lua’s calm response was especially telling. IYKYK!

Over the next couple of days, Alli, Nick and I got to know each other, and the girls and I got to know Felix. Holding that sweet boy for the first time felt somehow familiar. Like we’d met before. And in the weeks since Alli and Nick dropped him off at my house for the last time, that feeling of familiarity has become such a part of our days that I forget to notice it most of the time, but then when I do, I realize how miraculous it is. From nearly day one, Felix understood our routines, our rhythms, how to use the dog door, when to stay close on the trail and when to explore, when to push Lua’s buttons and when to let her be. It’s as though he returned to our family rather than joined it. He knew us right away.

Real talk: Lua and Charley completely ignored him for the first couple of weeks we had him. Actually, Charley initially played with him, and then it was as if Lua told her, “He can’t sit with us.” And Charley started ignoring him too. My heart ached for this little fella who was pure sunshine and love and, to his credit, was immediately enamored of the girls regardless of their indifference. Sure enough, they’ve realized, relatively quickly, that he’s not here to take anyone’s spot, but if anything, to provide them with more entertainment and a greater number of treat opportunities. And I think they recognize something familiar within him, too. My heart swells when they play or choose to snuggle next to each other in the backseat, on the couch, or on my lap. Our pack. Our family.

Alli and Nick named Felix, Felix because the minute he became comfortable with them, he embodied joy, feliz. A good friend’s mom also recently told me that Felix means “lucky” in Latin. And according to a baby naming website, “Felix literally means ‘happy’ in Latin. Not happy-ish. Not content. Not vaguely cheerful. Happy. As in fortune-favored, radiantly lucky, joyfully unstoppable. It was a name first handed out in ancient Rome, often as a cognomen (the Roman equivalent of a nickname-meets-brand-label), and it quickly became shorthand for someone you’d want in your corner—cheerful, prosperous, probably didn’t trip over his toga.”

While Felix definitely trips over his paws in moments when he’s zooming around in turbo mode, in the month since he joined our family, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is a radiantly lucky and joyfully unstoppable little soul. I can’t believe I get to have him in my corner. And, in his joining our family, I am the one who feels fortune-favored. The universe, Alli and Nick, and Andy brought this sweet Baja pup all the way from Mexico to my front door, reigniting a part of my heart I hadn’t realized was laying dormant.

Sometimes I wonder whether Felix is Andy, returned in another form. Street smart, ear-flipping, loves a good snuggle, unbelievably fast on the trails and loves nothing more than to be on them, relishes a good chew on the hair-tie around my wrist, prefers going back to bed after breakfast, and again, has an almost uncanny understanding of our daily rhythms.

My friend Molly (of killdeer fame) says our pets follow us around in each lifetime, and if that’s true, I have no doubt Andy would find his way back to me. But my heart also hesitates there. My love for Andy has, in many ways, continued to deepen since he died, and I find myself relying on that connection in a way that makes me cautious about reshaping his spirit into something new. And I’m still very much getting to know Felix. I want this small but mighty, magical being to be able to reveal who he is on his own terms, without the weight of any other story placed on him too soon, or ever.

But what I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is that we, the five of us – Andy, Lua, Charley, Felix and me – are soul family. I trust that Felix is exactly where he is meant to be in this lifetime. I am so deeply grateful that it’s with us.

Please enjoy a Felix-themed playlist that I hope feels like sunshine on a summer’s day and which is somewhat influenced by the Off Campus soundtrack. I’m not sorry – both make me incredibly happy!!

P.S. Felix has quite the Instagram fan club. If you’d like to follow along with his new life in Montana, you can do so here!

P.P.S. Yesterday would have been Andy’s 11th birthday. In honor of him, spend a little extra time with your pups or a loved one today and/or go climb a mountain, big or small. Stop at the top to let the breeze ruffle your ears, as he did hundreds if not thousands of times.

According to Molly, “They are often associated with themes of protection, transformation, and communication in various Native American traditions. Its behaviors, such as the ‘broken-wing act’ to distract predators from its nest, symbolize cleverness and self-sacrifice. These traits have led to the killdeer being regarded as a spirit or totem animal embodying protectiveness, family-oriented behavior, and adaptability.”

The “broken-wing act”, as Molly explains, is: “If you get too close to their nest, they pretend to have a broken wing and try to make you follow them away from the nest.”

Over the past few weeks, this behavior has been on full display if I get too close to mama, who Molly and I decided to call Nance. Her wings spread wide as she chirps at me. I’ve tried to give her a wide berth, and also, she fascinates me. I’ve never had a front row seat to a bird incubating/protecting her eggs. I am completely smitten with her.

She sits, day in and day out, over her eggs. In the sun, in the rain, at night and in the morning, in the heat of the day without shade. She is fully engaged in stillness and in purpose; to her, they are one and the same.

As someone who equates movement with productivity, I’m taking notes.

What’s more, I asked Molly (and ChatGPT) if I should provide shade for her, and both advised no. Killdeer are used to the harsh environments in which they lay their eggs. At my friend Jess’s suggestion, I stopped by Wild Birds Unlimited to ask whether I should put out a feeder for her. The incredible employees there said absolutely not; killdeer only eat bugs and they are incredibly self-sufficient, hardy creatures.

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I realized that Nance’s stillness and fortitude amidst the elements make me feel as though she needs help or fixing – but really, it’s my own discomfort that arises as I observe her (Isn’t she hot? Is she bored? Can I sit here for her while she gets food??) that I’m trying to quell. She, however, perseveres. (The Wild Birds Unlimited folks did say I could put out water for her, but not too close to her nest in case it attracts other birds, so this I have done.)

On more enlightened days, I try to emulate her during my morning meditations, which is a practice I resurrected during my Mexico yoga teacher training last month.

Each morning, our group sat in silence for 20-30 minutes (one day for more than an hour). The waves rolled in and out as the breeze floated through the shala doors. I wish I could say I was able to drop right into peaceful silence each morning, but truthfully, the opposite often occurred. My left foot fell asleep most days. My mind wandered to all kinds of wild places. My back ached. I yearned for movement. But in certain moments, I was able to observe the part of me having the thoughts that distracted me and be in awe of that awareness. To let my mind relax as I matched one breath to each of my mala beads. To revel and rest in the sound of the waves… I knew that soon enough, I’d be missing them at home in the mountains. And despite my discomfort many mornings, slowly but surely, I noticed the effects of meditation seeping into my movement practice and the rest of my day. More calm, less anxiety, deeper connection to my heartbeat, dare I say, a bit more joy?

Each morning at home now, I sit on my PEMF mat with my infrared light mask on (I can’t help myself with this bit of multi-tasking – I’ll sneak in pieces of my skincare routine wherever I can!), Lua at my feet on her dog bed. And instead of the ocean waves, I channel Nance, especially in moments when I really want to abandon my meditation to relieve the discomfort in my body, or for whatever item on my to-do list feels most demanding of my attention.

Nance is alive, focused and purposeful in her stillness as she tends to new life, no matter her external circumstances. And the circumstances this June have been those of a classic Montana early summer: beautiful, but also predictably unpredictable. Heat, cold, wind, rain, snow… you name it, Nance is out there in it.

An especially tender circumstance appears to be that Nance has lost her mate. He patrolled the driveway day in and day out for a couple of weeks but has been nowhere to be found the past few days. My neighbor Ina (who is observing the situation as closely as I am) and I are heartbroken for her, and yet, she is not deterred. She leaves her nest at dusk and in the early morning for food but otherwise, stays put.

WRITER’S NOTE: HE CAME BACK!! Shortly after I hit “schedule” on this post, I heard Nance chirping in the driveway and went out to investigate/make sure no one was bothering her. But there was Mr. Nance, returned!

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I can’t help but notice that she chose my driveway within days of my return from Mexico. Every morning, she seems to offer the same reminder: stillness and even loss are not the absence of life. Sometimes they’re where life begins.

Recently, I taught a candlelit class at Zephyr and revisited Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day.” The final two lines of the poem are quoted endlessly online, often as a call to action: to go, do, achieve, become. But when I reread the poem, I realized that productivity, bucket lists, and summer travel plans were not what Oliver meant.

Instead, I think the answer lies in attention.

In the way a grasshopper chews.
In the way a killdeer tends her nest.
In the willingness to sit long enough to notice.

As you head into the weekend, perhaps consider: Do the plans you have for your one wild and precious life leave room to pay attention to the world you inhabit?

Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

And finally, a playlist for slower, light-filled June days. Enjoy.

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And you know what I’ve realized? I can’t write about it all at once (thank goodness my incredible friend Joy corroborated this theory earlier this week, otherwise this post may never have seen the light of day). Similar to the process of life integration I’ve been moving through since returning home, I think those two weeks will continue to weave themselves into my writing in ways I’ll discover over the coming weeks and months (maybe forever?).

But the physical element of Mexico I miss the most and wanted to share with you today is the constant, reassuring presence of the waves. The way the light danced on them at sunrise and sunset. The feeling of jumping into them directly after morning classes, running from the shala in my yoga clothes and right into the water, often with tears of grief/gratitude/joy/release/you-name-it-I-felt-it in my eyes. Somehow, these waves felt gentler than any I’ve ever encountered. And the sound of them – during practice and especially in savasana, at night walking back to my room, in the morning as I ate peanut butter toast and drank cinnamon tea (greatest combo on the planet!) – provided a reassuring soundtrack as I moved through constant cycles of emotion.

During one of the classes we took, Jimmy, one of our teachers, spoke to the persistence of the waves. They rise up, crash to shore, recede, and return – not for any other reason than that it’s inherent in their nature to do so. He reminded us that arriving on our yoga mats requires a similar kind of devotion, and that the world needs more people willing to show up, day in and day out, not to do what they think they’re supposed to do, but to have the courage to discover who they already are, and live from that place of knowing (dharma is a topic for another day, but don’t worry, I’ve bookmarked it!).

In the final class we took, Jonah, the leader of our training, reminded us that when the bottom of a life wave is tossing us around, depositing sand everywhere and rendering us completely unsure of which way is up or down, we can’t mistake that moment for permanence. The nature of life is movement. The wave rises again. The tide changes. We evolve.

In the same class, one of the first songs he played was “7 Years” by Lukas Graham. I immediately started to cry. The opening melody of that song takes me straight back to 2016, the year I moved back to Montana. The first 30 seconds of it comprised the only sounds that could calm my boss Krista’s six-month-old son when he was upset. Krista and I took a trip to Glacier National Park together the fall after I started working for her, her son in tow. We must have listened to the opening measures of 7 Years at least fifty times.

At the beginning of this yoga class, as I reflected on the previous two weeks and – thanks to good ol’ Lukas Graham and memories of a fall trip to Glacier – the past ten years, a gentle yet sturdy knowing clicked into place in my heart. A feeling for which I didn’t know I’d been waiting.

If you’d told 28-year-old Caro that in ten years she’d be attending her 300-hour yoga teacher training after selling the spin studio she’d built with her whole heart, she wouldn’t have believed you.

But as the opening strains of 7 Years moved through the shala that morning, 38-year-old Caro knew something with absolute certainty: despite all their seeming twists and turns, the past ten years made complete sense from where she was sitting. Or down-dogging, as the case may be.

The wave of relief overwhelmed me in the most tender and caring way.

For months (and through this substack), I’ve been describing this season of life as a transition and a space between what was and what will be. But that morning on my mat, I realized that what’s next will never arrive; I needed to trust and devote myself fully to what’s now. After a lifetime of second-guessing myself, I finally understood that I don’t need to know the plan. I’m living the plan, one miraculous moment at a time. The ability to trust myself, and the timing of my life, resurfaced from somewhere deep within me and took a long-awaited breath.

The ocean waves were especially big after that final class. Of course, I ran right into them alongside many others from my training group. We lingered beyond the break, floating together in the water, grateful for the sun, the ocean, the yoga, and one another.

As I eventually made my way back to shore, a wave completely pummeled me. With Jonah’s words about the bottom of a wave and my own revelation still fresh in my heart, I relaxed my body as the wave drove me straight into the sandy ocean floor before bringing me back to the surface – and the sunlight – moments later.

I laughed to myself. It’s true what they say: yoga off the mat is life.

Sometimes it looks like trusting the wave, even when you don’t know which way is up. Or trusting that experiencing disorientation is not the same thing as being lost. Knowing, always, that surrender is not the same thing as giving up. And believing that by fully experiencing each wave as it comes, you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

The final song Jonah played that morning, as we sat entwined in a heart hug with the person beside us (one of the best hugs of my life thanks to my new and dear friend Ashley), was Kyle (Northern Line) by Fred again.. Earlier that morning, before class, I’d shared the same song on my Instagram story. It’s as though the Universe really wanted to make sure I knew it was holding me and used my love language, music, to do so.

I found you.

I found you beautiful.

I found you exploding.

I found you.

By then, tears were again streaming down my face as I, for the first time in my entire life, met myself exactly where I was, and trusted her completely.

A note about the bigger, less forgiving waves.

While I will never say painful things happen for a reason, I can look back on some of the most excruciating moments of my life, especially losing Andy, and see how they created space for things that were waiting to find me (as my brilliant friend Kayla would say).

Andy’s death returned me to yoga as a way to process the bottomless grief of losing him. As uncomfortable as it is to acknowledge, I don’t know whether I would be on this path, one that feels so deeply aligned in this season of my life, if grief hadn’t first brought me to my knees, and then to my mat.

Even writing that feels complicated. But when we have the courage to let life in instead of trying to control it, explain it, or turn back the hands of time, we begin to see that peace isn’t waiting for us somewhere in the future. It can exist within each moment, if we’re willing to receive what that moment has come to offer.

Lucky for me, three of my teachers have been to this specific training in Mexico, and one of them told me recently that I’d encounter big, beautiful, white butterflies everywhere – they flutter around the entire property.

In one of the first classes this same teacher, Jean, taught our 200-hour training cohort earlier this year, she told us an allegory about a little boy and a butterfly. He saw the butterfly struggling to free itself from its cocoon, and in wanting to alleviate its struggle, he opened the cocoon to liberate the butterfly, who subsequently died. He was devastated, of course, and asked his mother what had happened. She gently shared with him that one can’t help a butterfly shed its cocoon – it’s a transformation that each winged miracle has to undertake on its own.

The story made me cry in class while simultaneously reminding me of a term I’d recently learned from Gillian, a new friend: bug soup.

Martha Beck, a Harvard-trained sociologist, world-renowned life coach and New York Times-bestselling author, coined the term “bug soup” in a psychological framework she calls “the Change Cycle”. She uses the caterpillar/butterfly’s life cycle as a metaphor for significant life changes, and breaks major transitions down into four stages/seasons/squares. In the first square, a “catalytic event” (a shock, an opportunity, or, simply, growth) precipitates a “new iteration of change” that makes it impossible for us to be what and who we once were. This first stage, “death and rebirth”, is the place in which, Martha says, “you’ve lost who you were.”

When a caterpillar is born, its only job is to eat and grow until it becomes exactly the size it needs to be to become a butterfly (“full-fed”), at which point it builds a chrysalis out of its own saliva and fully melts down into its own liquid: BUG SOUP. In order for the caterpillar to transform, it has to totally and irretrievably dissolve its previous form. Only at that point can the imaginal (or imago) cells, which hold the blueprint and DNA of the butterfly, begin to transform the soup into something completely different.

I won’t write too much about the other stages today other than to note that Martha teaches us that the longer a butterfly struggles to break free from its cocoon once its time to emerge arrives, the stronger and more resilient it becomes for the rest of its life. And also, while caterpillars can only become bug soup one time in their lives, humans get to transform many, many times.

I was thinking about all of this as I prepared to teach my final class before leaving for Mexico, and in doing so, learned that initially, the caterpillar’s immune system attacks the imago cells because it views them as a threat. But the imago cells persist and multiply faster than the immune system can attack them.

As someone who feels like I’m in one of the buggiest person soup phases I’ve ever encountered but also wants to be able to control and foresee what’s next – which, in turn, prevents me from fully dissolving and landing in a place of acceptance with my present – this information landed in my heart with a palpable “thump”.

And made me reconsider… what if there is a blueprint waiting for me? One from which I cannot build if I stay committed to holding on to my past forms? What if resistance to the formlessness of this moment, even though I paint it as productivity, is preventing my next form from taking shape?

When people ask me what I’m up to these days, I briefly speak of yoga and then am quick to say, “But I’m still figuring out what I’m doing next.” But the truth about the yoga is that it’s my chrysalis. I feel completely safe dissolving on my mat and when surrounded by people courageous enough to do the same, which is one of the reasons I’m lugging my own mat from Montana to Mexico. (Yep, I’m the girl in the airport with a yoga mat strapped to her backpack. Never thought I’d see the day, but here we are.) I have a feeling it will hold me in every other stage, as well, but we’ll see. I actually don’t need to know.

I can’t wait to see the white butterflies in Mexico. This beautiful, real-life, magical creature that reminds us that transformation may be just around the corner, if only we are brave enough to release our grip on the need to know whether we will ever take flight.

P.S. I will be fully immersed in my 300-hour training for the next two weeks, but will be back in your inbox mid-May. Thank you, as always, for being here. I cherish writing these notes and am so deeply grateful you read them.

Today’s new moon is, supposedly, the most powerful new moon of the year. Every planet is stationed direct and many of them find themselves in Aries, a cardinal sign of initiation, new beginnings, and a little (or a lot) of devil-may-care energy. New moons themselves are potent moments for new beginnings. So, coupling the energy of Aries with the power of a new moon seems to naturally invite (dare I say, demand) the start of something new.

That energy might motivate many today. But for those who may feel overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge that NOW is the time to begin again, embark on a new project, explore a new relationship or direction, please know, you’re not alone.

Am I about to quote David Whyte two weeks in a row? Yes, indeed. I make no apology. He writes about beginnings:

“Beginning well or beginning poorly, what is important is simply to begin, but the ability to make a good beginning is almost close to a learned art form: beginning well involves a clearing away of the confusing, the irrelevant and the complicated to find the beautiful, often hidden lineaments of the essential and the necessary…And it is always hard to believe that the courageous step is so close to us: that it is closer than we ever could imagine.”

I’ve read this passage many times over the years, and while it lands differently for me each time I revisit it, it always gently refocuses me when I’m in the midst of creating something new.

I often think that a new beginning requires many external precursors that range from but are not limited to tarot cards, journaling, a new outfit, moon water (you read that correctly), a new book, signing up for a class, asking all my friends what they think about it (“polling”, as Glennon Doyle would say) and taking my dogs for a walk before I make any big moves.

But perhaps today’s new moon can be a reflection of the truth that a beginning doesn’t necessitate adding anything to the to-do list, the vision board, or the shopping cart. Rather, a beginning invites us to discontinue the notion that we require anything external to understand our own purpose – especially if what we seek is permission. That instead, our efforts might be better spent clearing away anything that causes us to distrust our intuition. That in darkness, we can remember our own inextinguishable flame. The Aries that lives within and connects us all.

As if pulling from my favorite animal spirit card deck, I picked up Consolations, closed my eyes, and let the book open to a page, releasing control in hopes that the Universe would deliver. I opened my eyes to peek at the page.

“COURAGE

is a word that tempts us to think outwardly, to run bravely against opposing fire, to do something under besieging circumstance, and perhaps, above all, to be seen to do it in public, to show courage; to be celebrated in story, rewarded with medals, given the accolade, but a look at its linguistic origins leads us in a more interior direction and toward its original template, the old Norman French, Coeur, or heart. Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work, a future.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only because I knew what I’d be talking about in yoga class that week, but because my whole being needed the reminder.

So far, my life in 2026 has asked me to strengthen my courage. To feel every emotion, learning again and again that often, it’s not feelings of joy, happiness or peace that actually take my breath away. To tell people, “I’m getting there.” (My endlessly wise yoga teacher and owner of Namaha, Jess, asked me gently in response to that comment one day: “Getting where?” A loving reminder that there is no estimated arrival time to Healed City because it’s a destination that does not exist.)

At the same time, I’m grateful that I continue to head in the “interior direction” of the safe harbor of my heart. Whyte writes, “To be courageous, is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply and then to live through the unending vulnerabilities of those consequences.”

Every courageous moment is rooted in things deep-felt that I continue to make conscious. And the depth of that truth within my own being has held me steady through every “unending vulnerability”. That, and the support of my dearest friends, family, and of course, dogs, who’ve helped me learn that by allowing my external world to reflect my internal knowing, I am met with so much love that my “heartfelt participation with life” increases infinitely.

During the class I taught with these words in mind, I thought about how indignant we become when our hearts deliver messages we don’t want to hear. We try to reason with them, ignore them, do anything other than face the thing our soul knows to be true because our minds can’t rationalize the fear, inconvenience and pain that they believe will result if we listen. But our hearts understand us better than our minds know us. And perhaps the shock we experience when our soul’s wisdom breaks through is a result of the minuscule (if any) amount of time we spend simply being with our hearts in the first place.

We know we live in a world rife with opportunities for distraction. Our minds would have us believe (through no fault of their own, really – let’s consider the lawsuits Meta lost recently related to the addictive nature of social media) that these distractions will soften or eradicate the pain, but really, they only serve to heighten it when the guard rails of our souls, if we’re lucky, bring us back into alignment.

Whyte writes that, “To be courageous is to seat our feelings deeply in the body and in the world.” We think that spending time in stillness, staring at our dogs’ ears in the morning light and feeling the love that arises when we do, turning our faces toward the sun to experience its warmth, and breathing into the space that surrounds our hearts (among myriad other ways of being) is indulgent, but what if the time we spend becoming more familiar with our bodies and souls – experiencing life as it’s happening – is one of the most courageous endeavors we can undertake? Not only for our current selves, but for our future ones too?

I had a make-up therapy session scheduled the same day I taught this class (thank you Universe), and Lexi (my therapist) asked me about the moments when I know I’ve dropped into my heartspace. I named the usual suspects – meditating, dog walks, hot/cold sessions at the hot springs, stillness in the early hours of the morning, a good spin or yoga class, a loving conversation with a friend, etc. She asked me how often I consciously note, “I am connecting with my heart in this moment” during any of these activities. I acknowledged that I often didn’t. She suggested that I try to bring more awareness to that connection while it’s happening so that I’ll know it more intimately going forward and better understand the feeling I seek when in connection with others. So, for now, those are my coeur-ageous marching orders. Feel free to make them yours, too.

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A note on grief.

This weekend (April 11) marks three years without my Andy. He continues to teach me so much in his absence. Today, I’m sitting with the truth that grief is an emotion humans dread experiencing, which is one of the reasons why connecting with our hearts can feel so daunting, especially once we know pain. The only emotion that stands in equal measure to the strength of the love that emerges from the sacred space of the soul is grief. And yet, I wouldn’t trade the love I have for Andy for anything. I think you understand.

This week I’m also thinking about my Gemini moon – how much talking about the things I’m feeling allows me to not only connect with others, but heal in the process. How sometimes I feel self-conscious about how much I need this, especially when it comes to my sweet dog. But I will never not miss him. And I will never stop bringing him into daily conversation. It’s what makes missing him bearable.

My beloved friend and soul sister Molly shared this wisdom on her Instagram story the other day, and it, in tandem with the Artemis II crew naming a bright spot on the moon after Carroll, the late wife of Commander Reid Wiseman, reminded me that it’s okay to keep grieving in the open. It might give someone else permission to do so, too.

As I said to him every night before bed (and as I tell my girls every night now, too): I love you to the moon and back, Andy boy. Forever and ever and ever and ever.

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So if you’re feeling like you’re in a season of transition too, consider that it might just mean you’re connected to the natural rhythms of life itself and that you don’t necessarily need to change a thing. Just be here, now.

This week’s Field Notes volume gathers the songs, meals, movement rituals, and small moments that are grounding me as I move through this season of life. Consider it a gentle offering for whatever seasons in which you find yourself right now.

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My heart knocked, steady but nervous, against my ribcage. Would these results look like the last seven months… or would they finally reflect what I was beginning to feel: that I was healing?

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Let’s go back to August 2025.

For three months straight, I’d been waking up with a sore throat on the left side. Nothing severe. The kind you write off as allergies or a lingering bug that’ll go away if you just drink enough water. It would fade during the day, then return the next morning.

Simultaneously, I was having a summer of highs and lows, literally, on the trail. I was supposed to be training for the Rut, a mountain trail race in Big Sky, Montana, that people in Bozeman either love to do, or love to hate because everyone who’s doing it talks about it – a lot. Some days, I felt strong. Climbing a couple thousand feet, moving with ease. Other days, I’d stop mid-run and cry. My heart would race even at an easy pace. Putting one foot in front of the other felt impossible. It scared me.

I didn’t connect the dots at first. But eventually the sore throat came with brain fog, ringing in my ears, and a kind of fatigue that made it hard to focus on anything for long.

I met with my nurse practitioner, who recommended an ultrasound, which felt serious. If you’ve ever gotten an ultrasound, you know the technician can’t tell you anything about what she sees, so I spent a few days waiting for/worrying about results.

When my NP let me know I had sub-acute thyroiditis (an inflamed thyroid), my first reaction was relief (honestly, my mind had been trending toward cancer catastrophizing), and then, guilt. How could I have let this happen?

My NP also recommended bloodwork to make sure I didn’t have an autoimmune disease (Grave’s or Hashimoto’s). Everything came back clear. Her prescription? Rest, noting that the condition should resolve itself over the course of the next 12-18 months.

Not satisfied with that advice (12-18 months?!), I also did a full blood panel with Essential Health, a functional medicine practice in Bozeman, which revealed that my testosterone levels were basically zero (a side effect of thyroiditis, it turns out) and that certain markers indicated I was either a heavy drinker (nope), big smoker (I would never), or very stressed (...).

My mind tried to think its way out of this. How could I be stressed? I had sold my business (a significant source of both stress and joy) a year before – shouldn’t I be recovered by now?

But my body was telling me a different story.

In the months that followed, I did rest. I recused myself from the Rut and pulled back from cardio-heavy training. But I also started to get curious about the root of what was happening.

My friend Taylor lent me the book Electric Body, Electric Health by Eileen Day McCusick, and a passage about the throat stopped me in my tracks:

“When we habitually bite our tongues, hold back our emotions, stifle our natural expressions, and resist our own truths, energy builds up on the left side of the throat chakra…It takes a lot of energy to hold our emotions back – much more than the amount of energy required to let things out. When we suppress expression from the throat chakra, we deny passage of that emotion through this energy center, which means the thyroid isn’t getting the juice it needs to run properly…I think it’s one of the most destructive things that we can do for our health. Why? Because what doesn’t come out stays in.”

It almost pained me to read much further.

Clearly expressing myself in difficult moments has never come easily to me. Whether it’s a hard conversation with an employee or a tender one with someone I love, I tend to soften, sidestep, or stay quiet in an effort to keep the other person comfortable (spoiler alert: this rarely has the effect you want it to).

Turns out, trying to regulate everyone else’s nervous system for the past couple of decades had done a number on mine. I felt the line,“It takes a lot of energy to hold our emotions back,” in my bones. No wonder I was exhausted.

It felt like a catch-22. The very thing I needed to do to heal, express myself, also activated me. But I knew I had to start somewhere, so I started small. Saying no when I meant no. Declining invitations when my body was tired and opting to stay home to cook anti-inflammatory meals instead. Opting out of workouts that drained me. Singing in the car, because something in me knew it mattered.

As I strengthened my ability to speak and also my awareness of the signals my body is always sending me, I became braver in conversations, some of which I know I wouldn’t have been able to have prior to my thyroiditis diagnosis. Through them, I’m realizing that maybe it wasn’t always the other person I was trying to protect through my silence, but also myself. I’m learning that having the courage to speak your truth doesn’t always mean your heart won’t break when you do.

I kept getting bloodwork done, watching my body swing from hyperthyroidism to hypothyroidism like a pendulum, slowly finding its way back to center.

I stayed the course and signed up for yoga teacher training, trusting it would help me continue using my voice and deepen my relationship with a practice that has carried me through many seasons of healing.

Last week, I decided it was time to get my bloodwork done again. So here we are, back in the car in my driveway.

I nervously tapped on the link to see my results and closed my eyes. When I opened them, no yellow “abnormal” label jumped out on the screen to me like it had so many times prior. Just my TSH and T4 levels, both within normal ranges for the first time in almost a year. My entire being flooded with relief. I had an Elle Woods moment of pure elation in the car. We (my body and I) had done it, and changed so much in my life in the process.

I took a yoga class the other night in which the teacher, a new friend of mine, said, “Don’t waste your suffering.”

I think we as humans tend to take one of two paths when we’re presented with pain, physical or otherwise. We either avoid it, explain it away, or try to outrun it as quickly as possible. Or, when there’s no way around it, we surrender. We get to know it. We become curious. We grieve what life felt like before it arrived. We learn how to live alongside it. We let it change us.

We don’t waste it.

I often say I’m grateful my thyroiditis presented as a sore throat. I’m not sure I would have listened otherwise.

Because what I needed wasn’t just rest. It was expression.

It was saying the thing. Singing in the car. Telling the truth when it would have been easier to keep the peace. Becoming a yoga teacher.

My body wasn’t betraying me. She was asking me to use my voice. And going forward, I hope I have the courage to listen before she has to ask so loudly.

I feel closer to her now.

And I can’t wait to be back out on the trails with her this summer.

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Ways I supported my thyroid during hyperthyroidism (& now, beyond!)

Always check with your provider, but this is what helped me and are practices I will carry forward with me, hopefully always:

• Selenium (200 mcg/day)
  A simple supplement that can support thyroid function. I take it every day.

• Reduce stress wherever you can
  Not in a “perfect life” way. In a “be honest about what’s draining you” way.

• Rest. More than you think you need.
  I pulled back from intense cardio and stuck to gentle movement. It’s felt good to amp it up a bit more recently, but I no longer view rest as a “have to” but rather as a “thank goodness, I get to!”. Really truly.

• Eat in a way that supports healing
  Less gluten, sugar, and processed foods. More whole foods, vegetables, and enough protein.

• Regulate your nervous system
  Meditation, breathwork, hot/cold exposure, gentle yoga. Think: anything that helps your body feel safe again.

• Use your voice (yes, really)
  Singing, humming, chanting. It might sound woo, but moving energy through the throat mattered more than I expected.

• Give it time
  If it’s not autoimmune, it often resolves. But in my experience, how you care for yourself along the way can shift the timeline of healing in your favor (i.e. it may not take as long as you think).

P.S. I was on a podcast!

I recently joined my dear friend for a conversation about following your happiness, what it costs to let go, and the kind of courage it takes to listen to yourself when it matters most. You can read the full piece, watch the episode, and get the recipe for the divine lemon bars she made me on her substack, Dish + Tell.

Before I land in the city, I fall down the usual rabbit holes – TikTok, the ’gram, texts to friends – while also returning to my own well-worn list of places I trust. Everyone has their own rhythm in New York. This week’s field notes volume chronicles mine. Save it for when you find yourself there wanting to feel good in your body, eat well, and weave a little culture through it all.

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