There is a specific spot at my kitchen counter where I have rebuilt my entire business at least twenty-five times.

It’s early. The house is still quiet in the way it only is before my son is awake. The coffee is too hot to drink, so I hold the cup with both hands and I start talking. Again. To the man who married me and then, somewhere along the way, became my confidant and my mentor and my coach all at once. Ya’ll have to know my husband is not a morning person as so it’s only love thats having him even engage in the conversation in the first place first thing in the morning.

I have a new idea. A new launch. A new thing that is finally, surely, going to get me over the wall I keep hitting.

Because there is a wall. My business has been good for years. Good enough that I should probably stop calling it a wall and start calling it success . But every time I opened my phone, the blue light told a different story. Somebody just did five million dollars in a single launch. Somebody grew by a hundred thousand followers in a couple of weeks. And there I was, having shown up faithfully for years and years, feeling like the number I knew was mine kept sliding just out of reach.

So I’d ask him. What should I build? How should I do this? And when I ran out of ways to ask him, I’d ask my mentor the same questions, in slightly different outfits, over and over and over. Shoutout to Kim ! She’s seen the many daily iteration of my overthinking brain .

Here is the part that still makes me wince. The answer was already in the room. It had been in the room the whole time. All I had to do was get quiet enough to look at it.

But my mind had other plans.

My mind kept me chasing, and I wanted the fast, loud, online kind of success for reasons that were real. For my family. For my son, who needs more from me than most children need, and for the person I wanted to be able to bring into our home to help care for him. I told myself that once I hit the million-dollar launch, I could finally afford the help. His disability has made life a bit more challenging and I couldn’t deny it I needed the nanny. The housekeeper. The breathing room. So the hustle was never vanity. It was love, pointed in the wrong direction.

And underneath the hustle was something quieter and more expensive. I could not see my own strengths plainly. So I kept building versions of a business that belonged to other people. A course. A new product. Another funnel. Another long, grinding launch that ended with me exhausted and quietly resenting the very thing I had just made.

The whole time, the data sat there like a note I kept forgetting to read.

Every single time I get near a woman, something happens. On a Zoom call, sure. But especially in a coffee shop. And most of all when it is a relationship we have let grow over weeks or months. I don’t pitch. I don’t push. I don’t perform. The conversion just arrives, like it was always going to. The numbers kept telling me this. They also kept telling me that Instagram was never my closer. It made a little noise, a little heat, a little attention. But I always had to carry that attention off the platform and sit with it, tend it, before it ever turned into anything real. At one point I looked up and nearly every client I had came from someone I already knew, or someone they loved enough to send my way.

By the end of 2025, I was tired.

So I sat down. I pulled all of it. Every number, every launch, every year, and I laid it out in front of me. And what startled me was not the data. It was that I had never once let myself fully look at it. I had been so busy building a business I wasn’t built for that I had walked right past the evidence of the one I was.

That was the morning I understood the real problem. I had been watching the wrong women.

There was one woman, near the end of that year, who cracked it open for me. Her name is Candice Marie. I couldn’t tell you the exact mechanics of what she does, only that every time I consumed her content, I felt better. She barely sold anything. A social media guide. A course, maybe. Everything else rested on the identity she had already built, quietly, as the expert. And the loudest voice in my head insisted I wasn’t allowed to make content like that yet. That I hadn’t earned the reputation to step back and simply trust that the right people would find me.

And still. I kept getting pulled toward her, and toward every woman like her. The one who markets slower. The one who builds a room instead of a following. The one who hosts. The one who lets you see her life but only the parts she decides. She loves art, she cares about the way things make you feel. The pull itself was the answer I kept refusing to see it. I didn’t want to be like these women. I was already them!

Here is what I finally admitted. I never actually wanted the volume. I had convinced myself I wanted three thousand people buying a three-hundred-dollar offer, when what I wanted was that same number reached through a small, close circle of women I could genuinely transform. Women of my own caliber. Women I could stand beside, not as some savior parachuting in, but as one small part of the beautiful thing they were already building. What I wanted was intimate. Curated. A little bit luxurious. I had let myself admire that in other women for years without ever giving myself permission to be her.

Until the top of 2026.

The Eden Eleven dinners were the first thing I have ever built that felt like the truth. New Orleans. Then Houston. I barely had time to promote them and they sold out anyway. And then I walked into rooms full of women from every industry you can imagine, opening up about the real parts of their journeys, and something in my chest went still. I could do this forever. Andre 3000 said he wanted little rooms instead of big rooms, and I finally understood him in my body. Not the giant conference where you pray to catch someone at the coffee station. The gathering where one conversation actually changes a person, and you both walk out with a friend for life.

So this year I started watching different women. Not the ones I want to be like. The ones who show me the woman I already am. And I started letting myself be her. Luxurious. Intimate. Selective.

I have built the rest of this year around all of it, and I am not being dramatic when I tell you it feels good in my soul. It feels good on my nervous system. It even feels good in my bank account, which is the part I didn’t see coming, that the aligned thing is so often the profitable thing too. I am taking the next couple of months to author something I am deeply proud of, and to build the next version of these gatherings for the end of the year and into 2027.

People keep asking if I’m excited. Excitement is in there somewhere. But the word I keep landing on is better than excitement. It feels aligned. It feels like a fit. It feels like the thing I should have known the whole time, the thing that stood directly in front of me, waving, while I looked straight past it because I was too busy chasing a model that was never mine and studying women I was never meant to become.

If you are tired at your own kitchen counter, rebuilding the same business for the twenty-fifth time, I want to give you the only thing that finally worked for me. Stop watching the women who make you feel like you’re behind. Go find the ones who make you feel more like yourself. Then get quiet, and go read your own data. It has been trying to tell you who you are this whole time.

I noticed it almost all at once, though it had always been there!

I was eating lunch between calls, between ChatGPT tabs and calendar blocks and voice notes spinning across WhatsApp to clients and team. And I caught myself mid-bite, shoveling food down like I was running from something. Like I was in the military. Like a tiger was at my heels. I stopped and actually tasted what I was eating, and in that one conscious breath, everything else became visible.

My shoulders were jammed up to my ears. My body was hunched forward in a posture that was going to cost me in another decade. My desk held five identical cups of coffee, each one abandoned mid-sip. The laundry was piled. The projects were last-minute. And I had to ask myself the honest question: what was I actually building this for?

For years, I’d worn exhaustion like a credential. Pushing to the edge of burnout felt like proof I was serious. Constant motion equaled constant progress. This was the blueprint I’d been given. The one that said ambition looks like chaos, that rest is laziness, that a six-figure business should demand everything else. And I had built that business. I had reached six figures running that way.

But somewhere in the process of actually arriving at the success I’d been sprinting toward, I realized I didn’t want to keep sprinting.

I didn’t want to hurry through meals. I didn’t want shoulders permanently clenched. I didn’t want to wake up and immediately feel behind. I wanted to move intentionally through my mornings. I wanted to finish one project fully before chasing the next. I wanted to know that everything was unfolding on time, because I was actually building something sustainable.

The shift came when I enrolled in Robert Hartwell’s five-day challenge. And what struck me wasn’t the content. It was the craft behind every single thing. The emails that arrived with videos. The visuals that were considered. The graphics that landed just right. The challenge itself, beautifully structured. The follow-up sequence. The offer. Every detail was weaved in with intention and care. You could feel it. And he made a million dollars from that launch. I could see exactly why.

That’s when it hit me. I’d been building my six-figure business through half-formed ideas launched in a rush. Ideas that sparked, and then I’d hurry to get them out into the world instead of sitting with them, crafting the right campaign, building the visuals, letting them actually become something.

I’d been chasing other people’s business models. The ones where you throw out mini-offers randomly, pop a new program every week, keep everything frantic and chaotic. I thought that’s what business was supposed to look like. But it didn’t work for me. It didn’t yield the results I wanted. It didn’t let my people actually connect with me.

So I decided to slow down to speed up. To block out the noise and build my business the way I actually wanted to build it. To take my time. To craft it correctly. When I launched it that way, I had one of the highest-range programs to date.

I realized then that I’d been building my six-figure business through grit and determination and force. And while there are seasons when that’s necessary, I no longer want to operate that way. I want just as much ambition as I want ease. I want the right people in my offers, not all the people. I want to bring in the income that lets me live the life I want to live comfortably, without sacrificing my well-being, my rest, my peace.

So here’s what slow business building actually looks like for me in this season:

I stopped spinning my wheels on short-form content. I’d chased Instagram reels for years with sporadic success, but I finally admitted the truth. I’m a long-game, slow-burn, relationship-building entrepreneur. My earning potential is infinite, but only through deep relationships, not through five-second clips people scroll past daily.

I moved to Substack as my primary awareness platform. One piece of long-form content becomes a newsletter, a video, a podcast episode, a YouTube post. Working smarter, not harder.

I launched the Studio as an eight-week program instead of a twelve-month one. It’s the perfect container for real transformation, for me to give everything I have, and then for me to rest and recharge in the months that follow. I’m building in cycles now, not in endless streams.

I’m hosting real-life experiences. A dinner series starting this summer. Nothing builds deeper relationships like being in the same room.

And maybe most importantly, I talk to myself like somebody I love. I notice when my shoulders creep up. I catch myself when the chewing gets frantic. I honor every pivot, acknowledge when I’m off pace, and give myself the emotional support I need to come back into alignment. I’ve become that trusted confidant and friend to myself that so many people desperately seek elsewhere.

So here’s what I want you to understand about creative directing your ambition. You’re sitting in the director’s chair. That means you get to decide the plot, the cast, the characters, the costumes, everything.

Right now, most people are building business models they think they have to build because they’ve watched someone else build it that way. They’re remaking someone else’s film. But if you were the actual director of your ambition, if you got to author it instead of follow it, what would be in your film? What wouldn’t? What characters belong in your story? What opportunities would you write in? What content? What revenue streams? What seasons of rest?

Start paying attention to your own data. Not the data everyone else is chasing. Yours. Which projects make you feel alive? Which ones leave you scattered and drained? When do people respond to you most? What are they actually buying from you, and what are you forcing into existence? Follow that trail. It will tell you everything you need to know about the business you actually want to build, not the one you think you’re supposed to build.

Your ambition doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. It doesn’t have to follow their three-act structure. You’re the director. So direct it.

If you’re somebody like me, somebody who understands the power of ambition and big vision, but who also wants life to feel good, to be healthy, to be happy, to be at ease, I hope this lands for you. Slow does not mean small. Slow means sustainable. Slow means you actually get to enjoy the life you’re building.

I called my husband from the parking lot.

The sun had that particular 6 p.m. Houston quality the kind that lets you know the day is ending if the traffic wasn’t sign enough. I had just wrapped a special filming project, my makeup was softening at the edges, stomach was growling in hunger but I just had one thing on my mind. And I was already an hour behind for it

“Turn it on,” I said. “Just hit record. I don’t want to miss it.” I told my husband on the phone who was at home with the kids . It was Met Gala Monday

The math was unforgiving. Thirty minutes home if Houston traffic was being kind. Forty-five if it wasn’t. And the carpet was already moving without me.

I assumed I had lost the night entirely by the time I pulled into the driveway. But the TikTok girls and the YouTubers did me a kindness, as they tend to, full coverage, live streamed and dissected, ready to be rewound to the very first arrival. I got to start from the beginning after all while eating the most makeshift of dinners . Kids mac and cheese and bbq meatballs.

Last year, the Met Gala wrecked me in the best way.

I was deep in a season of branding work then, most of what I sold lived in the language of palettes and identity systems and visual cohesion, and that night, Met Gala 2025 inspired an entire mood board. Colors, textures, lines, postures, the architecture of self-presentation. I built brand inspiration around it for weeks.

This year, I sat down to do the same thing and felt nothing.

The clothes were beautiful. Of course they were beautiful. But beauty, on its own, has never been enough to make me write something. I almost forced a think piece anyway, there is always a part of me that wants to keep up, to comment because everyone else is commenting but I’ve been making a quieter decision lately. Not to speak on something until it actually lands. To wait until I have something to say, instead of finding something to say.

I almost didn’t write this at all.

And then I saw what Colman Domingo posted. (We love him right?)

I don’t dress to look nice. I dress to tell a story.

It moved through me the way all the right lines do slowly, then all at once. Because it explained the thing I had been feeling and could not yet name. The theme this year was fashion as art. And what is art, if not story made visible?

I started thinking about it backwards. About every garment I had watched walk that carpet, the most subdued and the most extravagant, the ones the internet adored and the ones the internet picked apart. None of them were merely beautiful. Every one was saying something about the wearer’s politics, their lineage, their grief, their ambition, their refusal, their belief in their own becoming. The over-the-top looks were declarations. The quiet ones were declarations too. There is no neutral garment. There is only the story you meant to tell, and the story you told anyway.

I used to dress like a woman who was not paying attention.

In the years when my children were small, I would throw something on between a feeding and a school pickup, a practice and a homework table, and call it a day. I wasn’t choosing. I wasn’t directing. I was surviving in cotton and tights, and I told myself it didn’t matter because I had bigger things to think about.

But here is the truth I have arrived at lately: that was telling a story too. That outfit , the half-attention, the muted palette, the in-between was an autobiography of a woman in service. It was an entire chapter. I just didn’t know I was writing it.

Lately, I’ve been writing on purpose.

A few nights ago, I wore a pair of pants. And I must say Zara did their big one with these… The weight of the fabric. The silhouette they cut as I crossed the room, the sheerness, the shape . The way they made me move differently than I would have moved without them. They told a story before I had introduced myself. They said something about who I am right now, who I am becoming, what I think about my body, what I think about beauty, what I think about being seen. People responded to me before I had spoken a word.

That is what story does.

I have lead a lot of conversations with women about this lately. Most recently, a five-day training for entrepreneurs, where we kept circling the same idea from different angles. So many of us are building businesses around what we do and what we sell, and in the age of AI, that is the fastest way to disappear. What machines cannot replicate is the narrative, the specific shape of a woman’s attention, her history, her taste, the weight of her meaning. Everything that is unique to the founder is the one thing that cannot be flattened.

The same is true of a wardrobe.

The same is true of a life.

This is what I mean when I say creative directing your life.

It is not about being the most-photographed person in the room. It is not about a uniform, or a brand, or an aesthetic in the small sense of the word. It is about asking, every time you leave the house, every time you cross into the rest of the day: what story am I telling, and is it the one I meant?

The woman you are becoming might still be evolving. Mine definetly is! But you can dress for her now. You can speak for her. You can choose the rooms, the lighting, the pace, the language she would speak. You are allowed to write a fantasy on Tuesday and a romance on Saturday and a comedy by next month. The power is not in picking the right story forever. The power is in remembering that you are the one picking.

That is what the Met Gala, the best of it, anyway ..has always been. Not a parade of expensive things. A reminder that every choice made on the body is a sentence, and every sentence belongs to an author.

It just has to be you

[a few of my favorite looks from the night — the ones that told a story I couldn’t stop thinking about ]

The lesson we can all learn from the Billie Eillish & Justin Bieber Saga

If you didn't see it, let me set the scene.

Weekend two of Coachella. Justin Bieber is headlining. He gets to "One Less Lonely Girl" — the same song from 2009 where, as tradition, he pulls a girl from the crowd and serenades her on a stool. Except this time, the girl is Billie Eilish. And Hailey Bieber, standing next to her in the VIP box is the one who pushes her onto the stage.

Billie can barely climb up. She's collapsing. Covering her face. Laughing in disbelief. Because the twenty-four-year-old standing there is also, still, the eight-year-old with Justin Bieber posters wallpapered across her childhood bedroom. The one who once said, on camera, that if she ever got a boyfriend she wouldn't be able to focus on him because she'd be thinking about Justin the whole time.

I watched that clip and I couldn't stop thinking about one thing:

The obsession was the information.

What a childhood bedroom is actually telling you

Here is what I want you to understand, because I think we've spiritualized this idea so much that it's lost its edge:

The things you were obsessed with as a child were not random. They were not a phase. They were not "cute little interests." They were data. They were a transmission. A signal about a life you were built to live, a life that, at that age, you had no reason to filter, no reputation to protect, no market to perform for.

You just loved what you loved.

And then somewhere between ten and twenty-five, most of us were taught to stop trusting that. We were taught that passion is impractical. That the thing that lights you up is a hobby, and the thing that pays the bills is your life. So we put the posters in a box. We picked a reasonable major. We took the stable job. We told ourselves we'd come back to it later.

And then "later" became a pattern.

Billie Eilish did not put the posters in a box. She didn't shrink the obsession into something more palatable. She followed the frequency of it . And the miracle of that Coachella moment is not that she got serenaded. It's that she was in the room at all. She was there because she kept moving toward the thing she loved, one small decision at a time, for fifteen years.

The obsession was pointing the whole time.

Obsession isn't always about the thing. It's about the frequency underneath it.

This is the part I think gets missed.

Billie Eilish wasn't destined to marry Justin Bieber. The literal object of the obsession is not always the destination. What the obsession is really telling you is the frequency you're tuned to— the emotional, aesthetic, spiritual territory that is yours to live inside.

For her, it was music. Performance. Emotional intensity. The world Justin Bieber represented as a kid wasn't really about him it was about that life being possible for someone like her.

So when you look back at what you were obsessed with, don't take it so literally. Ask:

• What was the feeling I was chasing?

• What kind of world did I want to be inside?

• Who did I want to become in proximity to that thing?

That's where the information lives. Not in the object, but in the resonance.

A small practice: The Obsession Inventory

Before you close this tab, I want you to actually do this. It takes maybe fifteen minutes and it's one of the exercises I use with my clients.

1. List five things you were obsessed with before the age of twelve. Books. Shows. People. Places. Smells. Subjects. Games you played alone. Things you re-watched or re-read until your parents were concerned. Don't edit for dignity.

2. Next to each one, write one sentence: What was the feeling I got from this? Not what it was. How it made you feel. "Powerful." "Seen." "Like I was somewhere else." "Like I was finally home."

3. Look for the repeating word. Every person I have ever done this exercise with finds a pattern. A frequency. One or two words that keep showing up under completely different objects. That pattern is the signal. That's the information.

4. Ask: Where in my current life am I living on that frequency? Where am I refusing to?

I will tell you right now, most of you already know the answer before you finish question three.

The thing you call "unrealistic" is usually just unfamiliar

The reason we ignore the obsession isn't because we don't know what it's telling us. It's because we know exactly what it's telling us, and the life on the other side of that knowing requires us to become someone we haven't met yet.

The obsession is patient. But it is also persistent. It will keep showing up as a lump in your throat every time you see someone else doing the thing you were built to do. It will keep showing up as that ache on Sunday nights. It will keep showing up as the tab you open and close without clicking apply.

Billie Eilish's version of that could have been any one of a thousand reasonable decisions. Don't pursue singing, it's a long shot. Don't move toward that world, it's not practical. Don't take yourself that seriously. She made a different decision. And a different decision. And another one. And the accumulation of those decisions is what put her in the front row of a Coachella VIP box next to the wife of the man whose face was on her wall. The irony of it all lol

This is what Body of Work is about

Next week on Substack, I'm releasing the full teaching from Body of Work, my 5-day creative direction intensive. And this is what Day 1 is built on.

The premise of Body of Work is that your brand, your business, your creative life does not come from strategy. It comes from excavation. It comes from going back to the frequency you were born tuned to, pulling out the data that's been there since you were eight years old, and building a body of work that only you could have made.

Everyone is telling you to pivot. Fix your funnel. Fix your messaging. Niche down. Post the money screenshots. Copy the template.

What nobody is telling you is that the most essential part of your brand — the only part that is not replicable — is your perspective. Your lens. The thing the eight-year-old version of you already knew. And you cannot market your way into that. You have to return to it.

Body of Work is the return.

I'll be dropping the full teaching here on Substack next week, free, so make sure you're subscribed so it lands in your inbox

Are You Lying About What You Actually Want to Build?

Most of us say we want to build a body of work. I think a lot of us are actually building something else and calling it that.

This episode is the conversation I’ve been having with myself for months, and finally said out loud. It’s about the quiet difference between two things that look identical from the outside and feel completely different from the inside and why mistaking one for the other is the reason so many talented people end up successful and starving at the same time.

What we get into:

• The one word that separates a business from a body of work (and why it changes every decision you make this week)

• A test I use to know which one I’m actually building on any given day

• The metric most creatives are tracking that’s quietly telling them they’re failing at something they were never trying to do

• Why some careers compound and others just repeat

• The two mistakes I see over and over and the one I’ve made myself

• The question I want you to sit with after you turn this off

A warning:

If you’re in a season where the work is working but something feels off, this episode might name the thing. I’d listen with a notebook.

Come build your body of work with me.

Body of Work is my free 5-day intensive, and it’s the room where this conversation becomes a plan. Five days, the Eden Edit methodology, and the structure to stop performing the version of your work that sells and start architecting the version that lasts.

We start April 20. Enrollment closes April 17.

DROPPING ON APRIL 8th

A few years back, someone looked me dead in the eye and said, “You need to pick a lane.” I was in my thirties. I’d already done more pivots than most people do in a lifetime, and I was still hearing it. Still doubting myself because of it. But here’s what I know now: the person giving that advice wasn’t built the way I’m built.

And if you’ve heard variations of that same message, if you’ve been called scattered, unfocused, or told you need to commit to a niche, this is a love letter to you.

The Applebee’s Years

I used to work at Applebee’s in my twenties while I was in college. Not my fondest years. I was a waitress, winding through sticky tables, carrying plates of reheated pasta to people who were already annoyed before I got there. Every single shift, I could see the bar from where I stood. The bartenders were laughing. Chatting up strangers. Moving with this easy confidence that the rest of us in our aprons definitely did not have. And they were making twice the money.

So I set my sights on becoming a bartender. And I went and got it.

That’s been my whole life. Not the Applebee’s part. The I saw something I wanted and I moved toward it part. I’ve been in plays. I’ve started businesses and watched them end. I’ve joined organizations because I wanted to mentor, taken random trips to the Poconos for an all-women camping trip, built things from scratch, broken bonds that stopped serving me, and made connections I would not trade for anything.

Every single time, somebody had something to say about it.

You’re all over the place. You need to pick a lane. You don’t know what you want.

And for the longest time, I let that land. I made myself wrong for the way I moved through the world. I looked at every unfinished project like evidence of something broken in me.

The Epiphany This Morning

I was listening to my headphones this morning as I was getting my kids ready for school . Something I do daily as a way to bring joy to my morning routine. This morning, it was a human design masterclass. For those of you who are not familiar with human design, you def need to look into it. Start Here! It gives you the deepest understanding of who you are and how you operate like a personality test on crack. I digress….The host of the class was talking about Manifesting Generators, which is what I am, and describing how MGs look to everyone on the outside. Scattered. Inconsistent. Like they can’t commit. And then he said:

You’re not scattered. You’re designed to skip steps. You accomplish in weeks what takes others months. You’re meant to move fast, pivot when something stops lighting you up, and circle back when it’s time.

I paused the class immediately to explain this to my husband who ( is one of the ones who calls me scattered lol.. still love him though ) He nodded in fake agreement..the kind you give when you are more interested in your coffee than the conversation but you want to be nice. I kept listening intently because hearing it named, hearing someone describe the thing I’d been apologizing for as the thing I was built to do, felt like finally being given permission I didn’t know I was still waiting for.

If you haven’t looked into human design yet, go find your chart. It will give you so much clarity around the way you operate. And if you’re a Manifesting Generator, I hope this lands for you the way it landed for me.

What the Scatteredness Actually Gave Me

Here’s what I know about us, the multipassionate ones.

We don’t let grass grow beneath our feet. We feel a desire rise up, full and insistent, like a sound turned all the way up, and we move toward it. We don’t sit with “what if” or “but how” or “what will people think.” We act. Sometimes to our detriment. Sometimes to our tremendous benefit. Always as a lesson.

And the experiences that come from that? I have been in rooms I had no business being in. I’ve sat in a ball gown at the Houston Attorneys Association gala, surrounded by people I never would have met if I’d stayed behind that Applebee’s counter waiting to feel ready. I’ve made friendships with no logical origin story, no straight line from A to B, just two people who found each other because they were both following something true.

That is what the scatteredness gave me.

But Not Every Impulse Deserves Your Action

There’s a difference between following your urges and chasing what you saw someone else do on the internet at 11pm. I’ve done both. A lot…twice this week actually . The difference is in the body before it’s in the brain. A genuine desire has a particular weight to it. It resonates, it persists, it comes back even after you’ve tried to talk yourself out of it. Comparison shopping for someone else’s dream feels different. Hollow. Like wearing a coat that fits fine but isn’t yours.

When the next desire comes up, before you move, ask yourself: Where is this coming from? Does this resonate, or does this distract?

You will know. The truth always has a distinct vibration.

Find Your Through Line

Here’s what I discovered when I finally stopped being ashamed of how I move: even through all of it, all the pivots, the different rooms, the things I started and the things I released, there was always one thread running beneath everything.

Creativity. Every single thing I’ve ever chased has been a creative urge wearing a different outfit.

That’s your anchor point. Not a niche. Not a business model. The one thing that connects all of your so-called scattered ideas, the thing you would defend on a hill, the thing that remains truest about you even as everything else evolves. Find that thread, and build everything around it.

Tips & Tools for The Scattered Ones

1. Find your through line. Write down every major thing you’ve done, explored, or been obsessed with. Businesses, hobbies, roles, random Tuesday night rabbit holes. Look for the connective tissue. What theme lives underneath all of it? That’s not your niche. That’s your north star.

2. Build a discernment practice. Before you act on the next desire, pause. Not to talk yourself out of it, but to feel where it’s rooted. Is this mine, or did I borrow it from someone else’s highlight reel? Impulses that come from your through line will feel different from impulses that come from comparison. Learn the difference in your body, not just your head.

3. Let your brand reflect the through line, not a box. When you build a business as a multipassionate person, anchor into who you are, the way you think, the thread that runs through everything, rather than forcing yourself into a category you’ll outgrow in six months. Your audience doesn’t follow a niche. They follow you. Give them something to follow.

4. Stop finishing things for the wrong reasons. Completion for completion’s sake is not a virtue. Some things you started were meant to teach you, not to launch. Let yourself close chapters without performing guilt about it. You’re not abandoning things. You’re extracting what you need and moving with intention to what’s next.

The Permission Slip

Forget those who don’t understand your scatteredness. Forget those who don’t understand your passion. It is not your job to explain your evolution to people who decided who you were before you did.

You’re not all over the place. You’re building a life with more texture, more experience, more range than most people will ever let themselves have.

Creative direct it like that on purpose.

Tell Me in the Comments

What’s your through line? The one thing you can trace through every version of yourself, every interest, every pivot, every obsession? Drop it below. I want to see what’s been running underneath you all along.

I told my husband that the other night. He didn’t flinch. He’s heard me say things like this before. Things that don’t make no damn sense but somehow I mean every word. And I do. I mean it the way you mean something when it lives so deep in your body that arguing with it would be arguing with your own heartbeat. To be clear I want to win these awards for creative direction and I will !

I turn 40 in September.

These past five years have been a culmination of experiences I never thought I’d have. Rooms I didn’t think I’d be in. Conversations I didn’t think I’d be part of. Opportunities that showed up not because I had a perfect plan but because I made a decision. And then another one. And then another one. And each time, the woman I was becoming got a little clearer.

But here’s what nobody tells you about growth. Every single time I got settled, every time I thought okay, I’ve figured out how to do this, here came a new lesson. A new stretch. A new version of myself asking me to shed the one I just got comfortable being. Five years of that. Five years of building and unbuilding and rebuilding and wondering if the next version is the one that finally gets to stay.

I spent 2025 doing everything right. And I mean that. I sat at my desk and asked myself what kind of language was marketable. I studied what content my audience wanted to see. I tracked what performed on the algorithm. I reverse-engineered what would attract my ideal client. I built funnels. I refined offers. I wrote copy that sounded like what copy is supposed to sound like.

And every single day, there was this low hum underneath all of it. This quiet friction. Because what I was doing worked. But it wasn’t mine.

I was wrecking my brain over the how. How to say it, how to position it, how to package it. Instead of letting my body lead. Instead of letting my intuition run. Instead of creating the way I actually create, which is from this place that lights me up so completely that I know, I am certain, it would light other people up too. Because that’s how it works. When something is real, people feel it. You don’t have to convince them.

But I didn’t let myself play in that space. I kept thinking that sales and marketing needed to look a certain way. That being a serious business owner meant creating a certain way. That the container had to match what everyone else’s container looked like.

By the beginning of 2026, I was burned out. Not from working hard. I’ve worked hard my entire life. I was burned out from creating against my own grain. From pouring energy into a version of my work that was responsible and strategic and completely disconnected from the thing that actually made me dangerous in the first place.

And this is where I want to talk to you. Because I know you’re in this.

You know exactly what your worst case scenario looks like. You can map it out in detail. The failed launch, the empty webinar, the moment someone unfollows, the month the revenue dips, the conversation where someone asks what you do and you fumble the answer. You have rehearsed your own failure so many times you could direct the movie.

But when’s the last time you imagined the best possible outcome?

Not the safe goal. Not the “realistic” one your mentor helped you set. The real one. The one that lives in your chest. The one you’re almost embarrassed to say out loud because it sounds too big for the life you’re currently living.

I’m not talking about manifesting. I’m not talking about vision boards. I’m talking about the fact that somewhere between becoming a mother and getting fed up with my own limitations, I made a decision. I decided to have everything I wanted in this one life. And I know that might trigger you. The audacity of a woman who says that plainly and doesn’t apologize for it. But it is a decision. It’s available to you right now. Not when the kids are older. Not when the business is more stable. Not when you’ve earned enough to feel like you deserve it. Right now.

Here’s what I’ve learned in five years of building, breaking, and rebuilding:

The opportunity is never in the plan. It’s in the story you’re willing to tell yourself about who you are and what’s possible for you. It’s in the willingness to choose the unfamiliar route when every voice around you is saying you should really play it safe. To zig when they tell you to zag. Not to be different, but because your body already knows which direction is yours.

Most people build their business, their brand, their entire life inside the boundaries of their worst case scenario. They make decisions from the floor. What’s the safest move. What’s the least risky option. What won’t embarrass me. What won’t fail publicly.

And then they wonder why their life feels small even though they’re doing all the right things.

The women I work with, the ones who build something that actually lasts, they’re not the ones with the best strategy. They’re the ones who gave themselves permission to want what they actually want. And then had the nerve to go get it.

I’m a creative director. For five years I’ve built brands, visual identities, entire worlds for other people’s businesses. But the work I’m here to pioneer isn’t about logos and color palettes. It’s about this: your life is a creative project. The most important one you’ll ever touch. And most of us are not directing it. We’re reacting to it. We’re letting the algorithm, the market, the expectations, the fear make every creative decision for us. And then wondering why nothing feels like ours.

Creative directing your life means you stop being a passenger. You stop taking what’s given to you and start choosing what you build, how you build it, who you become inside of it. It means looking at your morning, your money, your relationships, your environment, your ambition with the same intentionality a director brings to a film.

This is what I’m here to talk about. This is the hill I’ll die on.

I built this Substack as a space to teach and talk around how I’ve done this. In my life, my opportunities, my relationships, my experiences. None of it was accidental. Every room I’ve walked into, every opportunity I’ve created, every version of myself I’ve stepped into started with a decision that most people are afraid to make.

I’m going to show you how I made them. And more importantly, I’m going to show you how to make yours.

Welcome to Creative Directing Your Life.