A Room with a View

How looking to the past helps me stay present

For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept a journal. I come to this practice when I need to process and get out of my own head, to see more clearly.

Since leaving my executive role and having a baby, building whats next can feel like I’m floating out into the abyss of nothingness—a little hopeless, lonely, and a bit of a scary place. But this is not a fear-mongering note about the state of the economy or the job market.

Call me naive, but outside of the moments where things can get murky, I actually have a lot of hope for what’s on the horizon. In my heart of hearts, I trust that something beautifully aligned is coming.

Here’s why (and where this connects to the journaling piece): I can transport back to myself in another time, and she wanted nothing more than to be where I am today. A note from her on March 27th 2024 written in a hotel room in Paris:

Its funny how much I now long for home - its where I most want to be. Even in a city of infinite possibilities, there is nothing I would rather do more than wake up, kiss B, take Haze for a walk on the beach, make oatmeal and get back in bed with them.

This romantic city helps me to romanticize my own life. To step away and see clearly - our patterns, our wounding, and our history. I am so lucky. I sometimes miss this, and I think that illusion is a part of the tide, swelling up to show me the parts that are unhealed, to heal, reintegrate, make stronger. What’s beneath it all is the ocean; deep, ancient, mother, creator.

I want to remember the light here — glowing & ethereal. The way women’s hair becomes wild and natural with so much wind. The quiet in such a busy, full room.

I want to remember myself here, too. Whole, even in my imperfectness. The love I feel in my bones. How it fills me up so much that I could cry. The determined knowing I feel about motherhood.

My hotel room in Paris

Looking back allows me to hold the vision for myself. Not because I have all the answers now, but because I remember how far I’ve come.

There’s a kind of intuition that lives in these old pages. A quiet knowing beneath the surface, and I find myself so capable of sending love to who I’ve been.

All this is to say that, if you’re in the messy, murky middle too, I’m with you. Something to try: look for the bright spots of progress you’ve made towards the you you once wanted to become — even if they’re tiny. They’re proof you’re still in motion. And that maybe you’re closer than you think to that next chapter.

The only photo I took of myself on that work trip to Paris!