There was a number Sarah never said out loud. Not to her broker. Not to her husband. Not even to herself, not really. But her body knew it. Her skin knew it. And every single year, like clockwork, her skin made sure she stayed right under it. Sarah sold houses for a living. Good houses, in good neighborhoods, to good families. She was the kind of agent other agents wanted to be. She showed up early. She remembered birthdays. She could read a room before she even walked into it. By every measure that matters in real estate, she was excellent. But there was one thing nobody could explain. Every year, without fail, right around the same income mark, something in her would shut the door. A deal would fall through for no real reason. A client would go quiet. She'd "forget" to follow up on the one listing that would have pushed her over the edge. And if none of that worked, if the Universe somehow let one more big check slip through anyway, her body took matters into its own hands. Hives. Red, angry, climbing up her neck like vines. Every time. Right on schedule. Her doctor had no answers. Allergists shrugged. Sarah just learned to keep an EpiPen in her car and an apology ready for open houses. To understand how Sarah got here, we have to go back. Back before real estate. Back before her name was Sarah-the-agent and she was just Sarah-the-kid, growing up in a small house with thin walls and a father who worked construction and a mother who cleaned other people's houses on the weekends. Most months, there wasn't much money. And most months, the house was quiet in the way a held breath is quiet. But every so often, money would come in. A bonus. A big tip. An uncle paying back a loan. And little Sarah learned something no seven-year-old should have to learn, more money did not mean more safety. More money meant her father drank more. More money meant doors slammed instead of closing softly. More money meant she learned to count the footsteps coming down the hallway and guess, by the weight of them, whether tonight was a night to disappear into her closet with a flashlight and a book.

What does success really look like to you? Notthe picture society or your relatives tell you. Not the version you held onto for perceived safety. What does it actually look like to you? THIS is one facet of what success looks like to me. Fresh fruits and veges delivered straight to our door in a sustainable and more than affordable manner. Drop your pics or ideas in the comments

There are 5 key emotions that when stored, become the ruling force of our lives. This emotion becomes the captain of our ships and they stop us from ever being at the same port that money is available for us. Which one of these emotions feel like they're the captain of your ship for at least the past 3-6 months?