In October 2025, I had my first workshop. I had taught workshops before at the rock club that my husband and I belonged to when we were newly married, but this one was all me. Organized at our house, I led a small group of 8 women through an exercise of foraging for herbs in our garden and around the wild parts of our property and then making a botanical face cream from the herbs that we had collected. I had meant it to be a test of my ability to organize the activities in my own space and to see how well I could manage the flow of the workshop and how many people I could comfortably teach at one time. It was much more than that in practice. I cried twice that day, not because I was anxious, or because things didn’t go well. I cried because it was a dream come true to start something completely new for myself.
Reflecting on it several days later, one of the things that struck me was that not everyone is going to get it. Or get me. As I shared some of my longer-term goals—a life centered on community, purpose, and a slower rhythm rather than financial gain—I received some well-meaning comments. People spoke about idealism versus practicality, how the world is changing for the worse, and hinted that there probably wasn’t much we could do about it. In the past, those kinds of comments would have been enough to make this a one-and-done thing. I would have said, “Well, I tried. They didn’t see what I saw,” and quietly moved on to the next idea. That pattern served me for a long time—it allowed me to explore, to learn, to keep reinventing myself.
But this time feels different. This work, this space, this vision—it feels essential. It feels like my next evolution, not just another phase or experiment. Of course, evolution for me will always include a dose of experimentation—that’s just who I am. But the workshop, the building, the future I’m building around it… that part feels like me. My latest and most evolved self. A kind of soul-deep change.
After the workshop, I realized the biggest lesson wasn’t about logistics—how many people I could comfortably teach in the space, or how to keep everyone engaged. The real lesson was something quieter, but far more important:
How will I stay devoted to my vision when others don’t quite see it? How do I move patiently along until they catch up, or until they don’t? How do I move, without attachment to a specific end and without concern for the external validation that has driven me forward in the past? How do I sit comfortably with my full authentic self, and let others do the same?
These are the questions that I’m carrying forward now—the ones that feel like the heart of this whole journey.
