Which surprises people.

Because I’m a warrior.
Because I lead.
Because I show up in rooms where things are loud and urgent and necessary.

So people assume I must be loud too.

But I’m not.

I’m an introvert.

I love to sit in silence
to think
to daydream
to read
to let my mind wander without interruption.

Silence, for me, has never been empty.
It has always been full.

Full of ideas.
Full of reflection.
Full of truth that only shows up when everything else quiets down.

But there was a time when I stopped honoring that.

When my life became about being everywhere for everyone.

Every meeting.
Every call.
Every moment that needed a voice, I offered mine.

And slowly
without saying it out loud
I stopped making space for myself.

I told myself it was necessary.
That the work required it.
That people needed me.

And maybe they did.

But I needed me too.

I just wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t until my friend Clay Mason was murdered
that everything shifted.

Not in a clean, organized way.
But in a way that made it impossible to keep moving the same.

Grief has a way of interrupting you.

It doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
It doesn’t wait for your schedule to clear.

It forces you to stop.

And in that stopping
I realized how far I had drifted from myself.

I was exhausted.
Not just physically
but emotionally, spiritually.

I had been pouring into everyone else
while denying myself the space to recharge
to reflect
to heal.

That’s when meditation became something different.

Not abstract.
Not optional.

Necessary.

Not as a performance
not as a trend
but as a return.

A return to silence.
A return to breath.
A return to myself.

And I had to learn it intentionally.

To sit still
even when my mind was racing.
To stay
even when it felt easier to reach for distraction.
To allow whatever was there
to just be

.I’ve been thinking about how many of us are living like I was.

Spread thin.
Overextended.
Constantly responding.

Giving our energy to everything and everyone
while quietly running on empty.

We call it responsibility.
We call it commitment.
We call it showing up.

But sometimes
it’s also avoidance.

Avoiding the silence.
Avoiding the stillness.
Avoiding what might come up if we finally stop moving.

Because stillness can feel confronting.

It can surface grief.
It can reveal exhaustion.
It can show us where we’ve been neglecting ourselves.

But it can also do something else.

It can restore you.

It can ground you.
It can give you clarity that movement never will.

Meditation isn’t about escaping your life.

It’s about being present enough to actually live it.

To notice your breath.
To notice your thoughts.
To notice where you are carrying more than you were meant to hold alone.

I’m still learning this.

Still practicing.

Still reminding myself that I don’t have to earn rest.
I don’t have to justify stillness.
I don’t have to wait until I’m burned out to pause.

So this week, I’m choosing one word

Quiet.

Not absent.
Not withdrawn.
Not disconnected.

Just quiet enough to hear myself again.
Quiet enough to feel what I’ve been pushing past.
Quiet enough to remember that I am allowed to take up space in my own life too.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Silence is not where you disappear. It is where you return.

Sit with this over this week.

Not how much more you can give
but how much you’ve been holding without pause.

Not what needs your attention next
but what in you has been waiting for it.

Not how to keep up
but how to come back.

And if everything has been asking something from you lately

this is a moment that doesn’t.

A moment to sit.
A moment to breathe.
A moment to be without expectation.

You don’t have to solve anything here.
You don’t have to prove anything here.

Just sit long enough
to remember

you are here too.

JOIN US FOR A PRIVATE MEDITATION

Meditation with YZ — A Loved Somebodies Recharge 🧘🏾‍♂️

🗓️ April 18th, 2026
⏰ 10:00 AM
📍 Studio34 Chattanooga, TN
💵 $10 per person, supporting YZ’s teaching and creative practice

Led by YZ Bridges of YziN Meditation 🌞
A slow, intentional meditation with gentle movement and steady breath
No experience needed. All bodies welcome

Part of our quarterly rhythm of gathering and exploration
A room designed for presence, not performance. All bodies are welcome.

Spots are limited to keep the space intentional.

If you feel called to be there, you can reserve your spot through the link above.

I didn’t go to school for it.
I wasn’t “technical.”
And the idea that I could sit with something like ChatGPT and learn it step by step

I had already placed that outside of my life.

So I left it there.

I’ve been thinking about how often we do that.

Not because something is unavailable
but because it doesn’t align with who we’ve decided we are.

And right now, that decision is being challenged everywhere.

People are losing jobs they built stability around.
Plans are shifting without warning.
What once felt dependable is proving conditional.

It forces a different kind of question

If what you built your identity on changes, what remains?

Alvin Toffler wrote,
“The illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and relearn.”

Learning is visible.
It is easy to track.

Unlearning is quieter.

It shows up in the sentences we stop repeating.

“I don’t do that.”
“That’s not for me.”
“I’ve never been that kind of person.”

Most limits aren’t real.
They’re limitations we inherited without question.

I’m learning things I once ruled out.
And it’s forcing me to question what else I’ve already decided about myself.

Because if I can learn this
then I have to reconsider what else I’ve ruled out.

Relearning is not about starting over.

It is about staying open long enough for something new to take shape
even if it does not match what you planned.

So this week, I’m choosing one word

Open.

Not certain.
Not fixed.
Not finished.

Just open enough to question what I have assumed.
Open enough to try what I once dismissed.
Open enough to become something I did not plan for.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Unlearning begins the moment you loosen your grip on what you once called the only way.

Sit with this over this week.

Not what you need to add
but what you might be ready to release.

Not who you are trying to become
but what version of you is ready to loosen its hold.

And if everything has been moving too fast lately

this is a moment to slow it down.

To step out of problem solving.
To step out of pressure.
To sit in a room where nothing is being asked of you except to be present.

I wanted to create something simple

A moment to breathe.
A moment to be still.
A moment to be in community without needing to perform or figure anything out.

That is what this is.

Meditation with YZ — A Loved Somebodies Recharge 🧘🏾‍♂️

🗓️ April 18th, 2026
⏰ 10:00 AM
📍 Studio34 Chattanooga, TN
💵 $10 per person, supporting YZ’s teaching and creative practice

Led by YZ Bridges of YziN Meditation 🌞
A slow, intentional meditation with gentle movement and steady breath
No experience needed. All bodies welcome

Part of our quarterly rhythm of gathering and exploration
A room designed for presence, not performance. All bodies are welcome.

Spots are limited to keep the space intentional.

If you feel called to be there, you can reserve your spot through the link above.

Just like that, it was done.

Ownership transferred. A local media company, now mine.

No big moment. No music playing in the background. Just emails flooding in. Logins. Software transfers. Access requests. People reaching out to hand things over.

It was almost jarring how quickly it moved from idea to responsibility. From vision to reality. From “one day” to now.

And sitting there watching it all come in, I had a realization:

This is what it feels like when you stop waiting.

But this didn’t start on Sunday.

It started in rooms I’ve been sitting in for years, having the same conversations about Chattanooga, about media, about the silence.

The stories that never make it. The truth that gets softened. The communities that are talked about but not actually heard.

Years on the radio learning how to use my voice. Over a decade organizing, advocating, loving people enough to show up again and again.

And still, there was always this quiet tension.

Knowing what was missing. And feeling, deep down, that I had outgrown just talking about it.

Sometimes the signs don’t come as disruption. Sometimes they come as discomfort.

The feeling that the space you’re in has gotten too small. That you’re stretching inside something that used to fit. That you’re being asked to play in a place you’ve already mastered.

Cramped.

And if you’re honest, it’s not confusion anymore. It’s clarity you keep postponing.

Because once you see it, you have to decide:

Are you going to move, or are you going to stay somewhere you’ve already outgrown?

Months ago, my mom shared a story with me that hasn’t left me alone.

Tamron Hall talked about being in a dark place after being fired. Publicly. After working since she was 14. After building a career, only to have it taken in a way that felt embarrassing and destabilizing.

And in the middle of that season, she found an email she had missed from a friend. A year old. Marked VIP.

From the legendary artist Prince.

He had already passed.

And the message said:

“Why are you waiting on them, you can do it yourself,”

And if I’m honest, that didn’t feel inspirational to me.

It felt exposing.

Because how many of us are waiting on “them”?

Waiting on approval. Waiting to be chosen. Waiting for someone else to build the thing we already see clearly.

Waiting for the right timing. The right conditions. The right invitation.

When in reality, the signs have already been showing up.

In the frustration. In the restlessness. In the repeated conversations. In the ideas that won’t leave you alone.

All pointing to the same thing:

You already know what you’re supposed to do.

This past week, I moved.

Not loudly. Not with some big announcement planned.

Quietly.

I had been watching a group of people building in media.

Then I stopped watching.

I joined. I introduced myself.

That was it.

And almost immediately, someone reached out to me about something they had built here in Chattanooga.

That wasn’t random.

That was what happens when you finally put yourself in position to be found.

That conversation turned into a deal.

That deal turned into Sunday and all in less than 1 week.

People love to talk about opportunity like it’s something that arrives fully formed.

But that’s not how this worked.

This came from movement.

From deciding to step into a room instead of watching it from the outside.

From putting skin in the game, not just belief.

For years, I’ve invested in my community for free. My time. My energy. My strategy. My heart.

And I don’t regret that. That foundation matters.

But this time, I invested differently.

I put money behind what I believe.

I put ownership behind what I know is needed.

And something shifted.

Because the truth is, some opportunities will not reveal themselves until you participate.

Until you move. Until you risk. Until you make it real.

There is a cost to betting on yourself.

Let’s be clear about that.

It will cost you comfort. It will cost you the ability to explain your decisions to people who aren’t ready to see what you see. It will cost you the illusion that someone else is coming to make it easier.

It will require you to move without applause.

But what you gain is something you cannot access any other way.

Alignment. Ownership. Momentum.

And the kind of clarity that only shows up after you move.

There’s a reason this keeps proving true:

“Opportunities multiply as they are seized.”
— Sun Tzu

Not when they are discussed. Not when they are admired.

When they are seized.

Sunday wasn’t random.

It was years of showing up meeting one moment of decision.

And now, it’s not just about me anymore.

It’s about the people.

The locals who rely on this platform to know what’s happening in Chattanooga. The stories that deserve to be told fully and honestly. The information that should be accessible, not gatekept.

This is about expanding what already exists and building something that actually reflects and serves the community.

This is about responsibility.

And I’m ready for it.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
At some point, waiting becomes the risk and betting on yourself becomes the only way forward.

I’ll be here next Sunday, to keep you encouraged.

P.S.

If you’ve been rocking with this work, I want to invite you deeper into it.

Join the 6,878 locals already tapped in to what’s happening in Chattanooga. Be part of what we’re building as we update and expand this media platform into something even more powerful and accessible.

This is just the beginning. We’re building something Chattanooga deserves.

And I want you in it with me. 🫶🏽

Not the kind that collapses all at once. Those endings are clear. A door closes. A relationship breaks. A job disappears. Everyone can point to the moment and agree that something has changed.

The harder endings are the quiet ones.

Life keeps moving. The routines remain. Conversations happen. Work gets done. From the outside, everything looks mostly the same.

But inside, something has already shifted.

You begin to feel it in ordinary moments. A strange distance between who you are and the life you are moving through each day. The same environments that once felt natural now leave you unsettled.

Nothing has exploded.

But something has expired.

I remember when that realization found me.

I was standing in my home one afternoon doing something ordinary, folding laundry and moving through the quiet rhythm of the day. And suddenly I had the strange sensation that I had stepped into someone else’s life.

The room was familiar. The responsibilities were familiar. The routines were ones I had built.

But I didn’t recognize who I was inside any of it.

For a long time the only language I had for that experience was this: I felt like a ghost in my own story.

Not invisible exactly. I was still showing up, still carrying the responsibilities of my life. But there was a distance between my body and my sense of belonging inside it.

I could see the shape of the life around me. I just couldn’t feel myself fully living inside it.

My life had slowly become a quilt stitched together from other people’s expectations. Their ideas about who I should be. Their hopes for what my life should look like. Their fears, their assumptions.

None of those pieces arrived maliciously. Most came through love, through culture, through the quiet pressure that accumulates when you grow up learning how to hold things together for everyone else.

But over time that quilt became heavy.

And one day I realized I had been carrying it so long that I could barely remember what it felt like to move without it.

There had been real beauty in those years. I don’t deny that. There were prayers that were answered, opportunities that appeared, moments that once felt like grace.

But beneath those moments there was also a quiet ache that refused to leave me alone.

It was the feeling of being out of orbit with myself.

Looking back now, I understand something I could not see clearly then.

The life I had been living had already reached its edge.

The structures were still there, but the energy inside them had changed. What once felt stable had started to feel thin, like something held together by habit more than truth.

And the hardest part of that realization is this:

you often recognize the ending long before anyone else does.

That moment can feel isolating. You’re still moving through the same routines everyone expects from you, while internally you are standing at the edge of a life that no longer fits.

For a while I wondered if that distance meant something had gone wrong.

There was even a season when I quietly wondered if I had drifted so far from myself that I might never fully find my way back.

But time has a way of clarifying things.

The more honestly I acknowledged what was ending, the more clearly I could feel the life that wanted to replace it. Not all at once. Not through some dramatic revelation. Just small recognitions that something truer was trying to take shape.

The earlier version of my life had not been a mistake.

It had been a stage.

And the person standing in the middle of that unraveling was not lost.

She was the bridge.

She was the version of me steady enough to admit that a chapter had ended, even before anyone else could see it.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Honor the ending, even if you are the only one who can see it.

Some endings do not arrive with witnesses.

They happen quietly, inside ordinary afternoons, while the rest of the world continues moving as if nothing has changed.

Recognizing that moment can feel lonely at first.

But it is also the beginning of something honest.

Because the person who notices the ending is the same person who will shape what comes next.

If you are standing inside a season like that right now, you are not strange for feeling it.

You are paying attention.

And sometimes attention is the first step toward a life that fits again.

I’m glad you’re here.

I’ll see you next Sunday.

Sunday Meditation

Before you close this letter tonight, give yourself a few quiet minutes.

Set your phone down. Let your shoulders soften. Take one slow breath, and then another.

There is nothing you need to solve right now.

Just sit with this question for a moment:

What in my life have I already outgrown, even if I haven’t said it out loud yet?

You don’t have to answer it tonight.

You don’t have to make a decision.

Just notice what rises.

Sometimes the truth arrives as a feeling before it arrives as language. A subtle recognition. A quiet knowing that something has already reached its natural edge.

If that awareness appears, sit with it gently.

You are not required to rush forward.

For now, it is enough to acknowledge what your life is already showing you.

Take one more slow breath.

Sunday is a good day for honesty.

Books for This Season

Vibrate Higher Daily — Lalah Delia

Becoming Supernatural — Dr. Joe Dispenza

The Four Agreements — Don Miguel Ruiz

I did not see it coming.

It arrived at the close of Black History Month. A month that reminds us how much we have built without being named. How much we have carried without being thanked.

Standing there, I felt proud.
And unsettled in a way I did not expect.

Because the work did not begin with recognition in mind.
It began with responsibility.
It began with refusing to quit when quitting would have been easier.

There were years when no one was watching.

Years when the rooms I served did not fully see me.

Years when I quietly wondered if the effort was dissolving into air.

And here is the quiet risk I will admit to you:

There were seasons I did not believe my name would be spoken with honor in the very spaces I poured myself into.

It is uncomfortable to confess that.

But it was true.

If you have ever stretched yourself inside a place that did not stretch back, you understand.

Recognition is a strange thing.

It does not create the work.
It exposes what has already taken root.

Most of our lives are grown this way.

Out of sight.

Not just mine.

Ours.

Formed in kitchens with bills spread across the table.
In classrooms where we overprepared.
In offices where we learned to measure our tone.
In sanctuaries where we prayed for strength and then went back out and found it.

We come from people who built foundations they were not allowed to stand on.

Who kept institutions running that would not fully claim them.

Who mastered restraint because survival required it.

So when something finally turns toward you.

When your name is called clearly.
When something solid is placed in your hands instead of another expectation.

It lands in the body differently.

There is a silence after the ceremony.

The drive home.
The unpinning of the corsage.
The setting down of the award on a table that has seen ordinary Tuesdays.

That is the moment that matters.

Not the applause.

The after.

The question becomes quieter then.

Can you let this be yours?

Can you receive without softening it?
Without rushing to earn the next thing?

Some of us have trained our nervous systems to expect strain.

Ease can feel unfamiliar.

Stillness can feel like a trick.

But I am learning that deserving is not dramatic. It is accumulated.

It is the thousands of decisions no one clapped for. The emails rewritten. The boundaries held. The times you kept your voice steady when you could have burned the whole thing down.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Let yourself receive what your quiet years have prepared you for.

Deserving has weight.

Yesterday, I felt it in my hands.

Not because I chased it.

But because I remained intact long enough to meet it.

Black History Month closed yesterday.

I brought the award home and set it down.

The house was quiet.

And there I was just standing, looking at something that once felt impossibly far away.

And what moved me most was not the honor itself.

It was the evidence.

That the unseen years were not empty.

That the staying left a mark.

That work done in the dark does not disappear.

If you are in your own quiet season right now, I hope you understand something without me needing to persuade you.

Nothing faithful evaporates.

Some things are simply gathering substance.

And when they reach you, they feel less like surprise.

More like a reward.

The moment when the day slows down and you’re still holding your phone, but there’s no one you’re sure to text.

You scroll. You pause. You open a thread and close it again.

Not because you don’t want connection.
But because you don’t know how to reach for it without making it feel heavier than it needs to be.

You’re not busy the way you used to be. Not rushing from one thing to the next. And somehow, that’s when it shows up.

The wanting.

It tends to surface in the quieter pockets. Sundays. Evenings. The in-between moments when nothing is demanding your attention and there’s room to notice what’s missing.

A lot of us are carrying this quietly.

We want closeness, but not the kind that feels like another responsibility.
We want to be known without having to catch someone up on who we’ve become.
We want softness that doesn’t require us to be impressive or “on.”

And still, when the moment comes to reach for it, we hesitate.

Have you noticed that?

How reaching out can feel heavier than it used to.
How initiating feels awkward now, like you missed a step somewhere.
How you can miss people you haven’t fallen out with, just drifted from.

I’m in this too.

I want connection, and I find myself stalled at the edge of it. Drafting messages I don’t send. Telling myself it’s too late in the day, too random, too much. Convincing myself I’ll try another time.

Sometimes it’s easier to care for people than to ask them to care for me.
And sometimes I worry that if I stop being useful, I’ll disappear.

That’s uncomfortable to name.
But it’s true.

When I was younger, connection felt built in. Sundays were full by default. You showed up and people were there. Conversation happened around you. You didn’t have to orchestrate closeness. It met you where you were.

Now, it takes intention. And intention can feel vulnerable.

Some Sundays, the quiet feels like relief.
Other Sundays, it feels like absence.

I’m learning that softness isn’t just about rest. It’s about risk. About letting yourself want something before you know how to get there. About acknowledging that community doesn’t always arrive just because you’re finally ready for it.

And there’s no clean answer for that.

So maybe this week isn’t about fixing the distance or figuring out the right way to reach across it.

Maybe it’s just about noticing where you pause.
Where you hesitate.
What you wish felt easier than it does right now.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Wanting doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re still here.

I don’t have a resolution for this one.

Just the sense that something honest is being held between us.

We can sit with this a little longer.

One of those quiet moments where nothing feels urgent yet.

My phone buzzed.

A simple line across the screen.

“There’s been an update to your credit score.”

I had ended 2025 with meticulous planning and execution.
I had followed the playbook I wrote.
I had done the waiting part.

I clicked expecting what we are taught to expect at the top of a new year.

Forward movement.
Confirmation.
A clean upswing.

Instead, my score had dropped.

Twelve points.

It wasn’t catastrophic.
But my heart sank anyway.

My body reacted before my logic could catch up.
That tight feeling in the chest.
That quick mental inventory.

The truth was, I had done nothing wrong.

I had added a new card.
Opened a self funded loan.
Let an inquiry land.

All planned.
All intentional.

And still, the number told a different story.

So I did what many of us do when something doesn’t make sense.

I put the situation into ChatGPT lol.

It told me to take a deep breath.
Which made me chuckle because how does this software know me like that?

Then it explained that this kind of dip is normal.
That when multiple changes land at once, the system pulls back before it recalibrates.

This wasn’t punishment.

It was physics.

That word stayed with me.

Pullback.

Because what I was experiencing wasn’t failure or bad luck.

It was tension.

The kind of tension that shows up when something is being aimed.

It reminded me of a story my mother told me a few months ago.

Midway through her career, after years of managing labs across multiple states, she was invited to lunch by a vice president at her company.

He offered her a new role.
One that would take her off the road.
One that would finally use the graduate degree she earned while working full time and raising me as a teenager.

There was one catch.

It came with a pay cut.

I imagine that moment often.

The calculation.
The responsibility.
A husband.
Three kids.
A household that needed stability, not promises.

The vice president named what the offer really was.

This role would place her in proximity to decision makers.
It would change her environment.
It would slow her down in the short term and expand her reach in the long term.

She took it.

That decision eventually led to the most money she ever made.
New skillsets.
And building the company’s first innovation lab.

None of that happened without the pay cut.

None of it happened without the pullback.

There’s a concept Seth Godin writes about called The Dip.

That place in the middle where progress feels uncomfortable.
Where the early excitement has worn off, but the payoff hasn’t arrived yet.

Where many people quit, not because they chose wrong, but because they misunderstand what the tension means.

We are rarely taught that the dip is not a sign to stop.

It is a sign to aim.

This is the part I’m still sitting with.

There was a moment after seeing that score drop where I wanted to fix it.
Adjust something.
Add something.
Prove something.

Instead, I waited.

And over the next few weeks, the numbers climbed back.

Past where they were before.

Steadier.
Quieter.
Less reactive.

Not because I forced them.

Because I stayed.

I don’t know where you are noticing a pullback right now.

Maybe it’s in your finances.
Maybe it’s in your body.
Maybe it’s in a relationship or a season of rest that feels unfamiliar.

Maybe it’s in the frustration of doing things carefully and not seeing an immediate reward.

Maybe your version doesn’t look dramatic at all.

Maybe it looks like staying.
Like choosing not to abandon what’s working.
Like trusting that quiet does not mean stuck.

What’s being practiced here is patience over panic.

Not everything that pulls back is falling apart.

Some things are being aimed.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Not every step backward is a mistake.

What if this is the invitation.

To embrace the boredom of consistency.
To let the quiet days count.
To enjoy the process even when nothing feels exciting yet.

To resist abandoning where you are just because you no longer feel the rush.

To trust that staying is doing something, even when it doesn’t look like it.

That we learn to honor the pullback.
That we stay long enough for the release.

I pray we all become patient in our becoming.

Not the finished version.
Not the thing people eventually praise.
But the early, uncertain beginning that still requires imagination and trust.

Years ago, Silas reached out and asked if I could come see something he was working on.
No flyer. No announcement. Just an address on Glass Street and an invitation to walk through it with him.

When he unlocked the door, we stepped into what was, at the time, nothing more than an open space. Concrete floors. Bare walls. A building that needed serious renovation.

As we walked, he started pointing things out.

This is where the bar will be.
This is where people will sit.
This will be a place where folks can feel safe.

He talked about fresh pressed juices and smoothies.
About herbs and teas.
About creating somewhere people could come and take care of themselves in small, everyday ways.

To this day, I don’t know why Silas decided to trust me with that vision. Why he took the time to walk me through something unfinished. Why he shared it before it had proof.

What I do know is that it took years for that vision to come together.

The first time I walked into the Bohemian after it opened, I knew immediately that he had built exactly what he said he would.

The live edge wood bar stretching across the room.
A couch tucked beside the front window, snug enough to disappear into, with a bookshelf full of good reads within arm’s reach.
Small tables scattered throughout, chairs pulled close.

Silas behind the bar, working his magic 🪄

I ordered the avocado toast. When I couldn’t decide on a juice, he smiled and said, “Trust me,” and handed me a Rebel With A Cause.

Everything was fresh. Thoughtful. Made with care.

Since then, the Bohemian Village has grown into exactly what Silas imagined. A place that holds many things at once. Good food. Chill energy. Healthy options made with intention. A “farmacy” of fresh herbs and teas. Artistic showcases. Neighborhood events.

It’s always alive with conversation and movement, and still manages to feel like somewhere you can linger without rushing yourself.

Experiences like that changed how I think about joy, rest, and community.

I’ve learned that these things don’t just happen. They need space. They need cultivation. If we don’t make room for them on purpose, they get crowded out by schedules, obligations, and the quiet belief that slowing down can wait.

So over time, I started doing something different.

I began designing small moments of exploration and gathering into my life. Nothing extreme. Nothing expensive. Just ways to reconnect with my body, my city, and the people around me.

A walk without a destination.
A meal eaten slowly.
Music that fits the moment.
Sitting somewhere familiar with people who don’t need anything from you.

This is the rhythm I want for Loved Somebodies too.

Once a quarter, I want us to do two things.

One is exploration. A small adventure, loosely defined. Sometimes that looks like nature. Sometimes it looks like water, movement, or discovering a corner of the city together.

The other is gathering. A reason to be in the same place at the same time. To sit. To eat. To talk. To laugh. To be human together without an agenda.

Sometimes those moments will be separate.
And sometimes, if the stars align, they’ll overlap.

Always chill.
Always designed to fit real life.
Always rooted in care.

Even when we’re having fun, I want the way we come together to make a positive impact right where we live. Supporting small businesses and creators isn’t extra to me. It’s part of the point.

That’s why it feels right that our first gathering happens at the Bohemian.

So we’re going to try something simple.

Saturday, February 21
10:00 AM
📍 The Bohemian | 2511 N Chamberlain Avenue, Chattanooga, TN 37406

Planning to join us?
Please RSVP here so I can give the space a heads up and send you a reminder as we get closer.
👉🏽 RSVP for February 21

We’ll gather in the morning, grab juice, tea, smoothies, or breakfast, and sit together for a while.

If you plan to come, I’m asking that you sign up here. And when you’re there, I encourage you to purchase something from the Bohemian to support this beautiful institution and an ally to the Loved Somebodies community.

There’s no program.
No schedule to follow.
No expectation to stay the whole time.

You can come for twenty minutes or two hours.
You can arrive alone or bring someone with you (kids included).
You don’t need to know anyone already.

This is simply our first chance to put faces to a feeling.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Some things don’t need momentum. They need a place to begin.

If you’re here again or for the very first time this Sunday, welcome to the soft side.

Thank you for being here.
This is just the beginning and the best is yet to come ✨

—

If you’re planning to join us at the Bohemian, you can RSVP here:
👉🏽 RSVP for February 21

Saturday, February 21, 2026
10:00 AM
📍 The Bohemian | 2511 N Chamberlain Avenue, Chattanooga, TN 37406

We’re meeting in the morning for juice, tea, smoothies, or breakfast and an easy sit-together.

There’s no program. No pressure. No expectation to stay the whole time.
Come solo or bring someone (kids included). If you’re able, please plan to purchase something from the Bohemian to support this beautiful local spot.

If you think you might come, please RSVP below so I can:

• let the Bohemian know how many to expect, and

• email you a quick reminder as we get closer.

RSVP for Feb 21

I’ll share more about why this place matters to me in tomorrow’s letter.

With care,

It is the first day of Black History Month.
It is close enough to Valentine’s Day that love is already in the air, even if we pretend not to notice.
And it is a Sunday, which means we are gathered again. Not loudly. Not all at once. But on purpose.

I have been feeling the weight of that convergence.

History.
Love.
Community.
Memory.
Becoming.

They are not separate things. They never were.

Over the past few weeks, something quiet has been forming here. But the truth is, it did not start here.

For years now, I have ended conversations, live streams, and moments the same way. With words I did not realize would outgrow me.

“If nobody has taken any time today to let you know that you’re a loved somebody, I love you. And it’s nothing you can do about it.”

People have been repeating that phrase back to me for years.

In passing conversations.
In grocery store aisles.
In that half-smile way that lets you know the words landed somewhere real.

Every time it happens, I feel it in my body.

Not as pride.
As responsibility.

Because what I have come to understand is this: I did not invent a phrase. I named a truth people were already carrying.

An invisible community of people who wanted to be spoken to with care.
Who were hungry for affirmation that wasn’t fake.
Who believed in growth, but not at the cost of their nervous systems.
Who wanted love that did not come with conditions.

People trusted me with those words long before I was ready to hold the container they were asking for.

And that matters.

There were seasons when I could offer love in passing, but I was not yet in a safe enough place to gather others. I could speak the truth, but I could not yet steward the space.

Now, something has shifted.

Not because I am finished becoming.
But because I am finally steady enough to tend what has been forming all along.

So today, I want to name it.

Not as a brand.
Not as an announcement.
But as recognition.

We Are Loved Somebodies.

We are not an audience.
We are not a fan base.
We are not here to perform.

We are a chosen circle of adults who believe becoming does not end at 30. It deepens.

We believe:
care is a practice
consistency is more attractive than intensity
culture deserves stewardship, not shortcuts
softness and strength belong together
belonging heals what achievement never could

We are late bloomers, homebodies, thinkers, builders, recovering perfectionists, burnt out high achievers, and people who still believe in becoming something better without betraying ourselves or hardening in the process.

There are standards here, even when they are unspoken.

We show up with intention.
We respect privacy and boundaries.
We do not posture, compete, or extract.
We celebrate progress, not perfection.
We honor the table, the body, and the work.
We speak to one another with dignity.

This community feels different because it is different.

Warmth is designed, not accidental.
Ritual replaces motivation.
Culture is preserved, not aestheticized.
Accountability is gentle, but real.
Leadership is protective, not performative.

This community moves slowly on purpose.
Because what lasts is built with care.

I want to be clear about something.

These reflections are not about me.

I am not writing from a place of arrival or authority. I am writing from inside the work, alongside you.

This space exists because people keep showing up honestly. Because you keep reading, responding, remembering, and staying.

Without the people, there are no lessons to learn.
No stories to hold.
No wisdom to pass on.

Loved Somebodies is powered by the people.

My role is stewardship.
To listen closely.
To protect the tone.
To design spaces where people can gather, reflect, laugh, eat, learn, and become together.

In the months ahead, this will look like:

Chances to gather with intention and ease
Moments of joy that do not require explanation
Guest reflections from people I love and trust
Quarterly playlists that sound like where we are
Feedback loops that help me honor what the community actually needs

This is not about content.

It is about rhythm.
Safety.
Care without shame.
Proximity to a life lived with love and consistency.

Loved Somebodies exists because many of us are navigating loneliness, inconsistency, cultural disconnection, and meaning fatigue. And we do not want to do it alone anymore.

If something stirred while you were reading this, it is not an accident.

You are not late.
You are not behind.
You are not imagining the pull.

You were always part of this.

Today is not about asking you to do anything.

It is about naming what is already alive.
And letting it breathe.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Belonging is not something you earn. It is something you choose, again and again.

If you are here this Sunday, at the start of this month, at the edge of love and memory, I am really glad you are.

We will keep becoming together.

Not the kind that makes headlines.
The kind that settles into homes, calendars, and conversations.
The kind that shows up when people hesitate before committing to things they want—because the ground under them no longer feels stable.

It’s one thing to read about layoffs online.
It’s another thing to live in a region where companies are cutting people loose and choosing not to report it.

Not because it isn’t happening.
But because silence is easier than accountability.

People went to work one day and left without a job, without warning, without explanation, without dignity.
Families were forced into financial tailspins through no failure of their own.
And the systems meant to protect people chose optics over honesty.

That betrayal lingers.

You feel it in how people pull back.
In how plans shrink.
In how trust erodes—not just in companies, but in the idea that effort guarantees safety.

I felt it this week sitting with an open invoice.

Not dramatic.
Just unresolved.

Work completed.
Care given.
No clarity on when—or if—it would be paid.

That moment wasn’t only about money.
It was about how exposed so many of us are right now.
How fragile the agreements we thought were solid have become.
How many people are being asked to absorb shock with grace they didn’t consent to give.

Over the last couple of months, I’ve lost clients.
Not because the work lost value.
Not because commitment disappeared.
But because layoffs, stalled paychecks, and economic whiplash force people to make impossible choices.

That’s the reality.

Loss doesn’t always arrive as collapse.
Sometimes it arrives as contraction.
Shorter runways.
Tighter margins.
Decisions pushed forward before you’re ready to make them.

And suddenly the plan you were holding starts to feel heavier than the faith you were carrying it with.

January tells us to move faster.
To prove resilience.
To sprint as if speed alone can restore control.

But urgency doesn’t return dignity.
And it doesn’t make injustice easier to carry.

Becoming asks for something else.

It asks for pace.

Not the kind that looks impressive.
The kind that keeps you intact when systems fail.
When promises break.
When stability turns conditional.

If you’re worried about your job right now, I see you.
If you’re rebuilding after being let go without warning, I see you.
If you’re an entrepreneur absorbing the aftershocks of decisions you didn’t make—I see you.

You don’t need to perform strength here.
You don’t need to pretend this is normal.
And you don’t need to rush yourself into optimism.

This year doesn’t need your urgency.
It needs your steadiness.

Your willingness to stay grounded.
To keep choosing what matters even as trust is tested.
To let becoming unfold inside a world that feels less predictable than it used to.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Your worth was not diminished by decisions you did not make.

I’ll be here next Sunday in the trenches with you.

P.S.

This wasn’t the letter I originally planned to write for this Sunday.

But as the week unfolded, it became clear that I needed to process my own feelings while also holding space for the immediate needs of those closest to me and for my Loved Somebodies.

This letter exists to honor the current state so many people are carrying. Anxieties that aren’t always visible. Questions that don’t always have language yet. Emotions that haven’t found a safe place to land.

My hope is that this piece feels like a small balm. Not a solution. Not a silver lining. Just a moment of being seen.

If you need to share something privately, you’re welcome to reply directly to this email. I will read every message and respond as I’m able.

If you’d rather comment publicly, you’re welcome to do that too.

You are not required to share personal details of any kind.
What matters more is how you are feeling and whether there is anything you would like: prayer, encouragement, or support around right now.

Thank you for being here 🫶🏽

I’ve been thinking about the people who make this space feel the way it does.

The ones who read slowly.
The ones who feel seen here.
The ones who are rebuilding, becoming, or simply trying to stay.

That’s who The Becoming Letter is for.

If someone came to mind as you read that, I want to invite you to bring them in.

This isn’t about growing a list.
It’s about growing a room where people are helped, served, and heard.

When you use the referral link below, it opens a simple invitation for you. All you have to do is enter the email, or emails 👀, of the people you think would feel at home here. I’ve already written the note for you, so there’s nothing to explain or sell.

Refer a Friend

The people who arrive because of you help shape what this community becomes. I read every comment. I respond. What people share here influences what I write and inspires what grows from this space over time.

As a thank you, I’ve set up a few ways to give back to those who help grow our community with care.

🥘 1 referral
A secret dessert recipe from my kitchen. It’s an extension of a dessert my grandmother made, passed down and reimagined. This isn’t shared publicly.

🫖 10 referrals
An invitation to Kitchen Table Tea with me, a small, intentional gathering where we slow down and sit in conversation together.

🐔 20 referrals
A $10 Chick-fil-A gift card as a thank you for really showing up and helping steward this space.

These aren’t incentives. They’re gestures of gratitude.

If there’s someone in your life who’s longing for a safe and supportive place where they don’t have to perform, where everyone is seen and heard, I’d love for you to invite them in.

This isn’t about me.

It’s about the people we gather.

With appreciation,

Christmas passed and the cold loosened its grip just enough to confuse us. A few warm days and we were back in T-shirts. Flip flops in the middle of winter. Windows cracked open like this was normal now. Like we hadn’t learned better.

Global warming or not, our bodies believed it.

And then the temperature dropped again.

Not gradually. Not politely. Just a snap back to reality. Back to adjusting the thermostat. Back to letting the faucets drip overnight so a pipe wouldn’t burst. Back to remembering how quickly comfort can disappear.

We do this kind of adjusting all the time.

One minute relaxed. The next bracing. Expected to pivot without warning. To keep up even when the conditions change underneath us.

For a lot of us, Sunday is the only place where that pressure eases.

Or at least where we hope it will.

Growing up, Sunday Service wasn’t confined to a church building for me. Church mattered, yes. But it wasn’t the whole thing. What shaped me just as much happened after.

Sunday continued at my grandmother’s house.

Food already going. Some things started days ahead. Beans soaking. Greens cleaned and waiting. Flavors given time to deepen before anyone sat down to eat.

We helped where we could. Or we sat at the kitchen table and talked.

Picking beans meant conversation. Pulling collard leaves from thick stems meant listening. Rolling them tight before cutting meant slowing down enough for stories to finish themselves. No one rushed us. No one rushed the food.

Sunday dinner was never efficient. It was intentional.
It was filling in ways that had nothing to do with being full.

My grandmother is gone now. And still, Sundays ask something different of me than the rest of the week.

Sunday is my rest day. The day I cook. The day I move slower on purpose. The day I let my body come back to itself before Monday shows up early and loud.

No pews. No program. Just care practiced in real time.
This is what Sunday Service looks like for me now.

Sometimes I worry that choosing this kind of slowness will cost me something. That rest will make me fall behind. That not rushing will read as not trying hard enough.

I don’t have that resolved.

What I do know is this: her hands didn’t disappear. They became mine. And I’m using them now to steer my life toward health without trading in my Southern roots. Without sanding down the flavor. Without pretending nourishment ever had to be detached from memory or love.

This letter stands for presence over urgency.
For devotion that lives in the body, not just belief.

Maybe your Sunday Service doesn’t look like mine.

Maybe it’s cooking something that takes time.
Maybe it’s sitting at a table longer than planned.
Maybe it’s calling someone over instead of doing everything alone.
Maybe it’s letting one day a week belong to you before it belongs to anyone else.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
Some things come together slowly on purpose.

I’m glad you’re here this Sunday.

Until next Sunday.

Sunday Chili

This is one of the ways I practice Sunday Service.

Below is how I make it. You’re welcome to cook along, or just read and keep it.

This is what I make when the weather snaps back and my body wants something steady.

I start the way my grandmother did. With patience.

I bloom the spices early. That part matters to me.
It’s how the kitchen starts to smell like intention.

This is a lighter, healthier chili the way I make it. If you use regular ground beef instead of lean meat, be sure to drain it well. The same goes for bacon. Regular or thick cut both work, just drain the excess fat before moving on.

What I Use

• 5 strips center-cut bacon, chopped

• 1 large yellow onion, diced (about 1 cup)

• 1 red bell pepper, diced

• 3 cloves garlic, minced (about 1 tablespoon)

• 1 lb ground meat (I usually use 96% ground turkey, but beef or a meat alternative works)

• 1 tablespoon brown sugar

• 2 tablespoons chili powder

• 1½ teaspoons smoked paprika

• 1 teaspoon cumin

• 1 teaspoon onion powder

• ¾ teaspoon ground black pepper

• ½ teaspoon salt

• ⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper

• 1¼ cups low-sodium beef broth

• 1 (15 oz) can dark red kidney beans, rinsed and drained

• 1 (15 oz) can black beans, rinsed and drained

• 1 (14.5 oz) can fire-roasted diced tomatoes, undrained

• 1 (7 oz) can fire-roasted green chiles

• ¼ cup tomato paste

How It Comes Together

I start with the bacon in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat and let it cook until crisp. I remove it and set it aside, leaving about a tablespoon and a half of the grease in the pot.

The onion and bell pepper go in next. I let them soften for a few minutes, until the kitchen starts to smell like something’s happening.

Then the garlic. Just long enough to wake it up.

I add the ground meat and break it up as it cooks. When it’s about halfway browned, I add the brown sugar and all the spices. I stir and let them bloom right there with the onions, garlic, and meat. I don’t rush this part.

Once everything smells right, I add the broth, beans, fire-roasted tomatoes, green chiles, tomato paste, and the cooked bacon. I stir it all together and bring it to a brief boil.

After that, I lower the heat and let it simmer, uncovered, for about an hour. I check on it now and then, but mostly I let it be. This is the kind of food that knows what to do if you give it time.

I serve it warm, usually with sour cream, shredded cheddar, and corn chips.

This is the kind of dish that makes you think about people.
Who taught you how to cook.
Who you talked to while your hands were busy.

If you decide to make it, you’re welcome to reply and tell me how it went. What it reminded you of. Who came to mind while it simmered.

And if today isn’t the day, that’s okay too.

Some things are worth letting simmer.

The ball drops. The calendar turns. And suddenly it’s as if we’re all standing at the same starting line, surrounded by millions of people, bracing ourselves to run.

Run toward goals.
Run toward progress.
Run toward proof that we’re doing something with our lives.

There’s a quiet panic in it, even when it’s dressed up as motivation. A sense that if you don’t move fast enough, you’ll fall behind. That if you don’t commit loudly enough, you won’t count.

I’ve felt that pressure for as long as I can remember.

For a long time, I responded the way a lot of us do. I jumped. I overextended. I made big, impulsive moves because slowing down felt like failure. Because checking in with myself felt risky. Because pausing might mean I’d hear something I wasn’t ready to admit.

Have you ever done that?
Told yourself you had to go all in or not at all?
Moved quickly so you wouldn’t have to sit with uncertainty?

Looking back, I can see how often my urgency was actually anxiety. Not excitement. Not clarity. Just fear wearing the costume of ambition.

I didn’t stop to ask what I really wanted, or what I needed in that season, or whether the way I was moving was actually aligned with the life I was trying to build.

That’s something I’m noticing more now.

Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between patience and fear, and I’m learning in real time.

At the beginning of the year, so many of us feel that internal countdown. The pressure to fix things. To get serious. To finally deal with the parts of life we’ve been avoiding, especially the ones that don’t come with instant validation.

Money.
Skills.
Credit.
Learning something new and realizing just how much you don’t know yet.

It can feel exposed to admit you’re starting from scratch, or starting again. It can feel humbling to take on a beginner mindset when the world expects you to be further along by now.

This year, instead of sprinting, I’m trying to start gently.

I’m learning how to build my credit slowly and intentionally instead of avoiding it or pretending it will sort itself out.
I’m learning day trading from my baby brother Joe, letting go of pride and allowing myself not to be the expert in the room.
I’m working on my 1976 C10 Silverado, Sexy Red, piece by piece, respecting that some things can’t be rushed if you want them to last.
And I’m here, writing this newsletter, knowing that community doesn’t happen all at once. It happens one honest Sunday at a time.

None of this feels dramatic.
But it feels steady.

What I’m learning is that a gentle start doesn’t mean a lack of ambition. It means I’m finally listening. Choosing integration over impulse. Restraint over urgency.

Maybe your gentle start looks different.

Maybe it’s opening a bank account for the first time.
Maybe it’s asking for help instead of pretending you’ve got it handled.
Maybe it’s admitting you don’t actually want to run the race everyone else signed up for.

Wherever you’re beginning this year, you don’t have to trample yourself to prove you’re moving forward.

If you want to respond
As I was writing this, I kept wondering where you’re beginning this year and what kind of start you’re trying to give yourself.

If it feels right, you can hit reply and tell me:
What does a gentle start look like for you right now?

There’s no pressure to respond. Reading quietly counts too. I just wanted to open the door.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
You don’t have to rush to start building something real.

If you’re here this Sunday, I’m glad you’re here.
We can start this year together, without rushing past what actually matters.

P.S.

I want to say thank you.

I asked about tempo last Sunday, and so many of you answered with honesty and care. Reading your comments and responses reminded me that this isn’t just my reflection. It’s ours.

A majority of you shared that you’re choosing an intentional pace this year. Others named a desire to move slower, but steadier. A few are still listening, and that matters too.

What stood out most wasn’t the answers themselves, but the way you shared them. Thoughtfully. Personally. Without posturing.

I’m paying attention. I’m learning from you. And I’m grateful for the trust it takes to show up here the way you have.

Thank you for letting me listen.

Machines are taken. Mirrors are crowded. Everyone looks like they’re trying to become someone quickly.

Just a few weeks ago, that same room felt completely different. It was quiet in a way that felt honest. The people who were there weren’t trying to prove anything. They were just there, moving through their routines.

January always does this to us.

We treat transformation like something you can sign up for, then quietly cancel when it gets uncomfortable. New year, new body, new mindset, new life. All urgency. Very little listening.

Before the year started, how much time did you spend asking yourself what you actually wanted to work on?

Not what sounded like the right answer.
Not what everyone else was sharing.
But what you genuinely care about, even if no one ever noticed.

How often do we tell ourselves this year will be different without first asking what kind of pace we can live with? Or what we’ve been avoiding because it can’t be rushed?

You don’t have to fix anything here. Just notice what comes up.

If we’re going to talk about becoming, we have to talk about tempo.

Becoming isn’t something you rush through. It’s something you return to.

It doesn’t require making an announcement.
It doesn’t need urgency to prove you’re committed.

Most of the time, it asks for something quieter.

It asks you to pay attention
when your body wants to slow down
when something feels off, even if you can’t explain why
when discipline has lived outside of you for so long that you’re not sure how to offer it inward anymore

At the start of the year, I’m not interested in reinvention that ignores context. I’m interested in integration.

Who are you becoming inside the life you’re already living?
What does your body need that has nothing to do with how it looks?
What would it feel like to choose consistency without punishment?

For me, this year is starting with restraint, not ambition. Listening, not urgency. A pace I can keep even when the room empties again in February.

That’s the tempo I’m choosing.

And if you’re here reading this, maybe you’re choosing it too, even if you haven’t named it yet.

This letter isn’t here to tell you who to be. It’s here to sit with you while you decide.

Over time, we’ll talk about bodies. Strength. Food. Ritual. Home. Desire. Rest. And what it means to stay when things get quiet.

But we won’t rush you into a version of yourself you don’t recognize.

That’s what Sundays are for now.

🕯️ The Becoming Line
You don’t have to hurry to be worthy of your own life.

Poll

If you want to respond to this, you can. Or you can just keep it with you and see what unfolds.

I’ll be here next Sunday.

Wherever you’re joining from this Sunday, welcome.

That smile below?
That’s me, waving you in and meaning it.

This isn’t a space where you’re expected to keep up.

Learning here is slow.
Relational.
It happens through noticing, not mastering.

You don’t need to be certain.
You don’t need to apply every idea immediately.

Some weeks will land softly.
Some will challenge you in quiet ways.

You’re allowed to want more —
more ease, more strength, more room to breathe —
without turning desire into another demand.

That’s why this letter lives on Sundays.

Every Sunday, you’ll receive one note.
It’s reflective.
Grounded in the body, the home, and the life you’re actually living.
It takes about five minutes to read.

Inside each letter, there will be one sentence set apart.

I call it The Becoming Line 🕯️
It’s not advice.
It’s something to carry — or not — into the week.

Nothing else is required of you between now and then.

Our first Sunday together is January 4, 2026.

Until then, let yourself arrive slowly.

I’ll see you on Sunday.

In this space, we don’t treat the body like a problem to solve.

Most of us were taught to relate to our bodies through pressure —
fixing, forcing, optimizing —
as if becoming only happens when you push hard enough.

That’s not how we move here.

In The Becoming Letter, the body is a place to listen from.
Your pace matters.
Your resistance is information.
Rest is not failure.

When we talk about change, strength, food, movement, or discipline,
we’re not chasing a better version of you.

We’re practicing staying.

Nothing in this space will ask you to override yourself to belong.
You don’t have to earn your way in.

Let this be a place where your body doesn’t need defending.

That’s all for now.

I’ll see you again soon.

If you’re new here, I want to help you land gently.

This is The Becoming Letter, a slow Sunday note about building a life that can actually hold you.

Not a brand.
Not a hustle.
Not a highlight reel.

This isn’t a place for productivity hacks or personal optimization.

Just a place to return to once a week.

If you join today, your first letter will arrive this Sunday.

What this is

Every Sunday, I send one letter.

I write it from the middle of my own becoming. Not the other side of it.

It’s reflective.
It’s grounded in the body, the home, and the life we’re living.
It usually takes about five minutes to read.

Inside each letter, you’ll find:

One honest reflection
One grounding ritual (food, movement, or home)
One cultural thread (music, memory, or meaning)
One line to carry with you into the week

No pressure to keep up.
No urgency to optimize yourself.

Just something steady.

How we move here

Becoming, in this space, is not about fixing yourself.

It’s about:

listening instead of forcing
learning without shame
building capacity instead of chasing perfection
remembering who you are, slowly

We don’t rush bodies here.
We don’t edit ourselves to belong.
We don’t pretend we’re finished.

We call ourselves Loved Somebodies here.

You’re allowed to arrive exactly as you are.

The Becoming Principles

At the heart of this space is a short creed called The Becoming Principles.

They’re not rules. They’re reminders.
A way of naming how we move, learn, rest, and return to ourselves here.

They live visually here as something you can read slowly, pass by, or return to when you need grounding.

There’s no need to memorize these.
They’re not something to keep up with.

You’ll see these principles woven through the letters, again and again —
a shared language we return to.

One thing you’ll see every Sunday

Each week, the letter closes with what I call The Becoming Line 🕯️

A single sentence — set apart — meant to stay with you.

You don’t need to be more healed to deserve a softer life.

Some people screenshot it.
Some write it on a sticky note.
Some just sit with it quietly.

It’s there to remind you how you want to move.

Where to begin

If you’re brand new:

• Read the welcome letter when it arrives
• Open the Sunday note when you’re ready
• Let yourself go slowly

There’s no “right” order.
Just return when you can.

One last thing

We call ourselves Loved Somebodies here.

Not because we’re special.
but because we choose to treat ourselves, and each other, with care.

If this feels like your kind of place, you’re welcome to stay.

I’m glad you found your way here.

With love,
Marie 💛