Life, intentionally

Closing the gap between knowing and being

It’s the start of the year (and yes, the end of February is still the start of the year), which means my feed is full of people who’ve suddenly discovered meditation, green smoothies, and the revolutionary concept of drinking water. Meanwhile, I’m over here wondering if we’re still baking banana bread.

I love the optimism that comes with a new year. The clean slate energy. The belief that this time will be different.

There’s something truly hopeful about the new year - the way we collectively decide that a date on a calendar gives us permission to reinvent ourselves. So we set our intentions, buy new planners, and sign up for classes we’re convinced will change everything. We curate vision boards and commit to morning routines and promise ourselves that this is the year we finally become the person we’ve been trying to be.

Because there’s real power in a fresh start, in drawing a line and deciding who you want to be on the other side of it.

But this year I’m not starting fresh. This year there is no line being drawn, no past me I am leaving behind. This year, I am continuing. Continuing the lessons, the healing, the truths, and ultimately, the becoming.

But honestly, before I got here, I was “there”. And there was a place of darkness, doubt, and defaulting to old patterns I thought I’d left behind.

The drift

To say last year was tough would be the understatement of the century. I’d faced tough before. I’d overcome tough.

But this was something else.

And the thing is, it wasn’t constant. I think that’s what made it so disorienting. One day I’d wake up full of optimism and hope, convinced I was exactly where I needed to be. The next day I’d be certain I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

Working for myself meant losing everything I’d built my sense of security around. The certainty of my former life. The stability. The community. I’d never felt more alone. And what used to inspire me - seeing others thrive, build, succeed - was suddenly crushing me under the weight of comparison and expectation.

And then my body gave out on me. The body I’d made all these changes for. The body I was trying desperately to protect, stopped cooperating. Or rather, I saw my body as having let me down, when in reality, I was the one who let her down.

Because I stopped believing we could figure it out together. I stopped trusting that I had the answers within me. I started looking outside myself for solutions, for someone to fix what felt broken, for external validation that I was doing enough, being enough, becoming enough.

I outsourced my power.

And my mind, left unattended while I battled everything else, quietly slipped back into old patterns. The patterns I thought I’d left behind after five years of doing the work - of understanding myself, finding my voice, and learning to take up space.

Suddenly I was thinking “I’m not enough” again. “I have nothing worth saying.” I was making myself invisible, shrinking back into the shape I used to fold myself into.

And it’s because I’d made the mistake of thinking I was done. That growth had a finish line and I’d crossed it.

Last year reminded me otherwise. There were still lessons to learn, still demons to shake off.

“And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back so shake him off…” - Florence & The Machine

And I realised these things weren’t happening TO me. They were happening FOR me. For me to learn. For me to lean in. For me to remember that the power was never in someone else’s hands.

The power was in the becoming itself.

But becoming doesn’t just happen to you. It requires choosing. Consciously. Repeatedly. So I had to choose to stop drifting, and start deciding.

The practice

When life gets hard, it’s easy to slip into autopilot. To react instead of respond. To let circumstances dictate how you show up, instead of making conscious choices about who you want to be.

I’d spent years doing the work to live more intentionally - understanding what actually matters to me, and learning to trust my own compass instead of constantly looking outside myself for direction. But last year showed me that intentionality isn’t something you achieve once and tick off the list. It’s a practice. And when I stopped practicing, I started drifting.

Living by design is about staying rooted in what matters to you, even when everything around you is shifting. It’s about getting clear on who you want to be, not just what you want to do, and then making choices - small, daily choices - that align with that.

And it starts with mindset. That is, where you choose to stand. Above the line or below it. Above the line is about ownership: speaking from ‘I,’ taking responsibility, choosing how you respond. Below the line, on the other hand, is about blame: speaking from ‘you,’ making excuses, sitting back and waiting for things to change.

Last year, I spent a lot of time below the line. Blaming my body. Waiting for someone to come to my rescue. Letting fear guide my decisions. But the shift back above the line started with one question: What if I took ownership of this?

And once I started asking that question, I realised I needed to get clear on something else: how did I actually want to show up? Because goals tell you what you want to achieve, but intentions tell you how you want to show up while you’re achieving them. My intention last year should have been to approach my health with compassion, instead of punishment. To trust my body, not betray her. But I’d lost sight of that.

But knowing how you want to show up is just one piece of the puzzle. Actually showing up that way requires something more: habits. Not grand gestures, but small, daily choices that are the bridge between who you want to be and who you’re actually being.

Some days I honoured my intentions - I wrote, I moved my body with kindness, I spoke up. Other days I didn’t. I let fear take the wheel. So I stayed quiet. I made myself small again. But the beautiful thing about habits is that they’re not about being perfect. They’re about showing up more often than you don’t.

And when I couldn’t show up? When I was tired or discouraged or ready to give up? That’s when gratitude, empathy, and mindfulness mattered most. Because these are the things that shift perspective when nothing else is changing. Gratitude for my body, especially when she was struggling. Empathy for myself when all I wanted to do was judge. And the mindfulness to notice when I was slipping below the line, before I disappeared completely.

So these weren’t just concepts I studied anymore. They’d become the foundation I lived on. And last year reminded me what happens when you stop building that foundation intentionally.

You drift. You default. You outsource your power.

But when you choose to live by design - when you practice these things consciously and repeatedly - something shifts. You stop reacting to life, and start creating it.

The word

So this year, I’m not setting goals. Instead, I’m taking a page out of one of my very favourite human’s books - the wonderful Jules Fedele, aka the brilliant mind behind rawmaterials.

This year I’m choosing one word to guide how I show up. One word that captures everything I learnt last year, and everything I’m carrying forward.

And that word is: Embody.

Last year taught me that I can know all the right things - what I should do, how I should show up, who I want to be - but that knowing isn’t enough.

Because even though I’d done years of work to get to know myself, to figure out what actually mattered, when things got hard, I watched myself abandon all of it.

There’s a difference between knowing something and living it. Between understanding a concept, and becoming it.

To embody means to close that gap.

It means embodying abundance instead of just thinking about it. Not letting scarcity drive my decisions, even when fear is screaming at me to play small.

It means embodying my voice, the one I’ve spent years finding and honing. Using it, not hiding it.

It means embodying presence in my actual body. Listening to her. Connecting with her. Moving with intention instead of punishment. Trusting that we can, and will, figure it out together.

It means embodying the stories I tell, and help others tell. Not just writing about authenticity and vulnerability, but living it.

So this year, I’m saying no to invisibility. To thoughts of not being good enough. To the belief that I’m behind.

And I’m saying yes to telling my stories. To writing without expectation. To mindful movement and intentional connection.

Because embodying isn’t just about knowing who I want to be. It’s about becoming her. Daily. Imperfectly. Consciously.

This year, I’m not just thinking about who I want to be.

I’m being her.

Until the next tale unfolds…