A personal reflection on alignment, survival, and coming home
It’s time to pivot.
Not because I’m weak. Not because I’m giving up. But because I’m finally listening—to the universe, to my body, to the message that’s been repeating itself again and again: This isn’t sustainable.
For the past year and a half, I’ve been living what some might call the dream: roadtripping, building courses, living out of a van, chasing a vision that once felt completely aligned. But lately, everything has started to feel like a fight. Not the kind of challenge that strengthens you—but the kind that slowly drains your will to keep going.
The Basics Shouldn’t Be This Hard
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs puts things like air, water, food, shelter, and sleep at the very base of the pyramid. Nothing else—self-expression, meaningful work, even love—is possible if those fundamental needs aren’t met. And for too long, I’ve been skimming by on empty.
Breathing in humid East Coast air that feels heavy in my lungs. Chasing clean water from gyms and after hours resort fill-ups. Cooking on a propane stove that’s a pain to set up—and even more so when it rains (which, let’s be real, it’s Vermont. It is always about to rain). The van is technically a shelter, but it’s small and impossible to move freely in or air out when the weather turns. Sleep is shallow because of the hot humid nights. My dog Wolf E curls up in the front seat, and my knees hit the edges of a bed that’s a bit narrow for my body.
And still, I pushed. Because I believed I was supposed to. Because I thought it was what resilience looked like.
Survival Mode Isn’t a Lifestyle
Tim always says you should lower your baseline at least once a year—take a hard trip, go solo in the woods, do something that strips life down to the essentials so you can rebuild your appreciation for the basics. I believe in that. I’ve done that. And I’ll keep doing that year after year moving forward.
But here’s the truth: you don’t get to appreciate the comfort of home if you never allow yourself to have one.
When you stay in survival mode for too long, your nervous system never gets to reset. You can’t create, connect, or contribute from that place. I’ve been in this mode for a year and a half. And it’s time to stop.
I Want More Than This
I want to lift heavy things in the gym and push my body because I choose to, not because I have to. I want to pour my energy into building something—maybe a business of my own—but from a place of strength and vision, not desperation.
I’ve proven I’m tough. I’ve shown myself I can survive discomfort. But I don’t need to keep proving that by making every day harder than it has to be.
Yes, I could keep going. I could force these courses to happen in Vermont—and I believe they would, and they’d be wonderful. But I’m done pouring my energy into something just because I can endure it. I want to give my mind, body, and soul the space to figure out what’s going to make me come so fucking alive I can’t help but build something incredible from it.
Coming Home to Myself
I miss my people. I have a thirteen-year-old sister I haven’t seen since she was eleven. A best friend whose toddler I barely know. My road trip started with a six-month training program and got extended by car troubles, a job, and a relationship. But that road trip has run its course. It’s time to go home.
I’ve been reading Let Your Life Speak by Parker J. Palmer, and one idea struck a chord so deeply I can’t stop thinking about it: that our life’s path often reveals itself early, if we’re paying attention. Even as children, we have a sense of what lights us up and what drains us. And when I look back, the through-line in my life has always been clear: I love movement.
Sports, running, martial arts, coaching, lifting—these have always been my place of clarity and purpose. The field, the track, and the gym have never stopped being my sanctuary. It’s not just physical. It’s emotional. It’s spiritual. It’s how I grow.
But lately, I’ve been too drained just trying to cover the basics. Even getting to the gym is a very long drive, and once I’m there, I have to squeeze in my workouts at 5 a.m.—the only time it’s cool enough to leave Wolf E in the van without risking her safety. I’m hiding from bugs, dodging the weather, and juggling survival logistics that make every effort feel heavier than it should. The time and energy I want to spend becoming the strongest, most vibrant version of myself is being swallowed up by the effort it takes just to survive and show up for the bare minimum.
A New Direction
So I’m going home. Back to the West Coast. Back to my family, my friends, my community.
I’m going to find a job as a coach—where I’ll thrive. I’m going to go back to school, close enough to visit the people I love, far enough to keep growing my own life. I’m heading to a place where I believe I’ll find deeper connection and more community than I’ve had in years.
And finally—after moving again and again for the past six years—I believe I’ll fit in. Really fit in.
I’ll have a fridge. Running water. Air conditioning. All the everyday luxuries that come with a stable, middle-class life—and I won’t take a single one of them for granted. I still plan to lower my baseline regularly. I’m not walking away from the adventurous version of myself—I’m creating a solid foundation so I can go even bigger, even deeper, in the future.
Maybe I’ll return to entrepreneurship with fresh eyes and renewed energy. Maybe not. I just know I don’t want to build something that requires me to be lonely to succeed.
I’m not giving up. I’m pivoting.
Because strength isn’t just about pushing through discomfort. It’s about knowing when your push is coming from alignment—and when it’s coming from imbalance.
And as for this blog? I don’t know exactly what it will become. I don’t know where this next chapter will lead. But I hope you’ll stick around. There are more stories to tell—and many more adventures ahead.