Lately I’ve been paying closer attention to the way fear shows up in my life, and I’ve realized something I didn’t always know: there’s a big difference between fear as an idea and fear as something I actually feel in my body. For years, I treated fear like a single thing, one big, looming signal that meant stop. But when I look back, most of what I called “fear” wasn’t a feeling at all. It was a story I’d inherited or rehearsed so many times that it felt true. 🤯 For me, conceptual fear is the narrative that starts running before anything even happens. It’s the voice that says: 👄 - “If you speak up, you’ll upset someone.” - “If you try this, you’ll fail.” - “If you want more, you’ll lose what you already have.” Those thoughts don’t come from my body—they come from old patterns, old expectations, old versions of me trying to keep things predictable. ❤️ The feeling of fear is different. It’s the quickening in my chest, the tightness in my throat, the warmth rising in my face. It’s my nervous system saying, 📣 “Something matters here.” 📣 And I’ve learned that feeling fear doesn’t mean I’m in danger. It means I’m alive to something important. When I confuse the story with the sensation, I shut myself down. But when I can tell the difference, when I pause long enough to ask, Is this a narrative or a feeling? I get to choose my next step instead of reacting from habit. ❓If it’s a story, I can question it.❓ 🤗 If it’s a feeling, I can support myself through it.🤗 And when it’s both, I can meet myself with a little more clarity and compassion. When fear comes up in your life, how do you tell the difference between the story and the feeling?

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time on my grandparents’ farm in West Tennessee. Behind the house stood a smokehouse. Originally built for preserving meat, but by the time my cousins and I came along, they’d become storage sheds. To us, they were treasure rooms. Lifting the heavy latch, we would step into that dim, dusty space. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere. Softened by humidity, edges collapsing, labels long gone, we’d open them one by one, hoping for something magical. In reality, they held the things no one wanted to deal with. Not because they didn’t matter, but because they did. They were full of memories, decisions, and emotions that were easier to box up and shove into the shed than to sort through. This week, as I’ve been exploring fear, how it shows up, how it hides, how it shapes me, I’ve been thinking about those smokehouses again. Honestly, it’s been scary. Not the dramatic kind of fear. The quiet kind. The kind that sits in the back of your mind in a box you taped shut years ago. The kind you forget about until you brush up against it and realize it’s still there, still heavy, still waiting. But here’s what surprised me: Alongside the fear, I found longing. Longing for clarity. Longing for freedom. Longing for the version of myself I’ve been slowly becoming. Longing for the space those old beliefs have been taking up. It turns out longing is often what leads us back to the smokehouse door. It’s the tug that says, “You’re ready to see what’s in here now.” This week revealed perspectives and limiting beliefs I thought I’d outgrown. Turns out, I’d just stacked them neatly in the back and closed the door. But longing, steady and patient, nudged me to open the boxes anyway. And here’s the truth: Opening them doesn’t break us. It frees us. Every time we name a fear we’ve avoided or unpack a belief we’ve outgrown, we reclaim a little more space inside ourselves. A little more breath. A little more choice. A little more of the life we’ve been longing for.

When I first met my husband nearly eight years ago, he used to make bold, absolute statements, little lines in the sand. You know the kind. Protective. Certain. Final. ⚠️ And instead of arguing, I’d quietly slip off my shoe and rub my toe across the floor… erasing that imaginary line he’d just drawn. 👣✨ Eventually he asked, “What are you doing?” “I’m rubbing out that line,” I told him. “Because I don’t accept it—and I’m not sure you even believe it.” That moment taught me something big: Most of the lines we draw aren’t boundaries. They’re fear, conceptual fear, pretending to be truth.** 🧠💭 This fear doesn’t live in the body. It lives in the mind, sharp, convincing, and rarely questioned. 🔺 It says: • Not past this point. • This is dangerous. • I can’t. • I’m not ready. But when we bring that fear into awareness, everything softens. 🌿 Awareness says: ✨ “Something in me is reacting—let’s get curious.” ✨ “Is this fear a fact or a story?” ✨ “What does this part of me need?” The line loosens. The story loses its grip. And choice returns. 🔓 Awareness doesn’t silence fear, it puts it in context. It turns fear from a stop sign into a signal. 🚦 An invitation to pay attention, not pull back. Where have you recently noticed yourself drawing a “line in the sand”, a place where fear was speaking as if it were truth? And what happens when you look at that line with curiosity instead of obedience?

For most of my life, if you asked me, What’s your favorite time of year? I would have said Fall. It was an answer I adopted long ago, and I never paused to ask myself why. Why Fall? For years, Fall felt like closure. A chance to wipe my hands of another year, finished, done, survived. I’d look at my list of what I hoped to accomplish, celebrate the wins, and ache over the failures. If I’m honest, Fall carried a heaviness: sadness, unmet goals, and the exhaustion that comes from pushing through another twelve months. By year’s end, I wasn’t just tired, I was worn out, bracing myself for the pressure of a new beginning. Several years ago, something shifted. I can’t point to a single moment, though the years leading up to it were full of what I’ll call adventures. Not the glamorous kind. Some of them made people angry. Some looked reckless from the outside; emotionally, financially, even professionally. And layered on top of everything, I was pursuing a master’s degree in an “emerging” discipline that sat far outside most people’s comfort zones. To some, it looked like I had gone completely off the rails. But for me, the longings finally outweighed the discomfort of being misunderstood, and the fear of making “yet another” mistake. So when I turned 59 and realized I was stepping into my 60th year, something in me said: mark this differently. Celebrate the becoming, not just the surviving. So I threw myself a launch party. I invited a small circle of family, friends, and colleagues; people who had shaped my life in both beautiful and complicated ways. We gathered at a local restaurant, and before dinner, I introduced each person to the group. In the background, Fight Song played softly, and something in me sparked. That January night rekindled a light that I believe first flickered the day I was born, January 31, 1960. Ever since, I’ve found myself looking forward to the new year; curious, hopeful, energized by what might unfold. Yes, I still arrive at year’s end tired. But now, I can say I’m satisfied.

@Rhimah Ajlouni @Serena DAfree @Lori Rogers 📣 We are so happy you are here. 🪴 We are a growing community of ambitious women. 🙉 We welcome your input and suggestions. 🔎 Take a look around and introduce yourself, if you haven't already. 💕 We look forward to getting to know you.