In this episode, I get personal.
No script. No guests. No plan.
Just me and the microhphone.
The other night I was sitting in my living room working on a diamond painting, half-watching one of those investigation shows about murders over the last thirty years — because apparently that’s what I choose to unwind with — and I had this thought that would not leave me alone. I haven’t shown up for myself in a while.
I’ve shown up for work. I’ve shown up for my students. I’ve shown up for church. I’ve shown up for Tawasi Club. I’ve shown up for interviews. I’ve shown up for everybody else’s stories. But when it comes to mine? I stall. I freeze. I circle around it like it’s something fragile that might break if I touch it too directly.
I’ve been divorced for three years now, and I’ve said out loud that I’m healing, that I’m growing, that I’m rediscovering myself. And all of that is true. But there’s another truth underneath it that doesn’t sound as empowering. Sometimes I feel lost. Not dramatic. Not spiraling. Just… untethered. Like I’m floating through my own life instead of living it.
At work, I know exactly who I am. Mondays I open my planner, map out my week, write down my meetings, my one-on-ones, my scripture, my habits. I thrive in structure. I thrive when someone needs something from me. Give me a project, give me a deadline, give me a room full of students who need leadership — I will rise every single time.
But at home? I don’t always know how to move. I’ll stand in my kitchen thinking about dinner and suddenly feel overwhelmed by the fact that I have to make sides. I’ll look at the laundry and feel paralyzed by the idea of folding it. I’ll think about reading or journaling or recording and instead just sit there, scrolling or staring or telling myself I’ll do it later. And later turns into another day where nothing personal moved forward.
And that’s the part that scares me.
Interviewing people on my podcast is easy. I can prepare. I can research. I can outline thoughtful questions. I can help someone else shine. I can hold space for their brilliance without hesitation. But sitting down and recording a solo episode? That feels like standing in the middle of a room with no armor on.
I have solo episodes written. Fully written. I have ideas for days. I have notes in my phone and outlines in binders. I wrote a whole book — a whole book — and it’s sitting there because I’m afraid to let it be seen. I created a plan for a diamond painting YouTube channel. It’s organized. It’s color-coded. It’s untouched. I drafted a book recommendation series for Women’s History Month because I love reading and I love talking about books, and that plan is just sitting in a folder waiting for a version of me that feels braver.
And I hate admitting that fear is what’s holding me back.
Somewhere along the way I learned how to operate exceptionally well for other people. I can execute. I can lead. I can build. I can pour into everyone else. But when it’s time to center myself, to believe that my voice is enough on its own, something inside me shrinks. I start questioning whether anyone will care. Whether it will land. Whether it will matter.
2025, if I’m being honest, felt like a year of floating. I met expectations. I did my job well. I kept commitments. I smiled. I showed up. But internally I often felt like I didn’t know which direction I was headed. I felt like I was just existing inside my responsibilities instead of actively choosing my life.
And I don’t want that again.
I’m turning forty in a couple of weeks, and maybe that’s part of why this feels so loud right now. When I was a little girl, I imagined I would grow into this fearless woman. Bold. Certain. Unapologetic. I don’t think I realized that fear doesn’t disappear with age. It just gets more sophisticated. It sounds like logic. It sounds like strategy. It sounds like “not yet.” But underneath it, it’s still fear.
Fear of being seen. Fear of not being received. Fear of trying publicly and failing publicly. Fear of investing fully in something and watching it sit in silence.
And yet I tell other people every single day that they are capable of amazing things. I affirm it. I teach it. I believe it for them. I just don’t always believe it for myself.
I don’t have a dramatic conclusion here. I don’t have a ten-step plan. I’m not making grand promises about what will be done by my birthday. What I do know is that I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of floating. I’m tired of treating my own voice like it’s optional.
So maybe this season is just about choosing differently. Recording even when I feel awkward. Publishing even when I feel exposed. Talking about books or dating or pop culture or faith or grief or joy without asking permission first. Letting my story take up space the same way I’ve helped so many other people let theirs take up space.
I don’t want to walk through another year feeling like I’m hovering above my own life. I want to be inside it. Fully. Imperfectly. Bravely.
And maybe this — writing it plainly, saying it out loud — is the first small step back toward myself.
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