April Garcia 12/23/25 April Garcia 12/23/25

The Rooms We Learn to Avoid

We don't avoid rooms because we're weak. We avoid them because, once upon a time, being in that room hurt too much.

The room where something ended. The room where we were misunderstood. The room where we learned to stay quiet, agreeable, or invisible in order to survive.

Avoidance is often framed as a flaw—something to "push through" or "get over." But avoidance is usually the very thing that has protected us for years. It keeps us functioning when feeling would be too overwhelming.

The problem is that avoidance doesn't know when to stop. And it's impossible to settle in and build a new home around locked doors.

What once protected us eventually becomes a barrier we don't remember choosing. And over time, the cost of not going back grows heavier than the pain we were trying to escape.

Avoided rooms don't disappear. They wait.

They show up as exhaustion we can't explain. As relationships that feel shallow or tense. As a sense that we're living smaller than we're capable of without knowing why.

They show up as behaviors we can't seem to understand. We're overreactive or underreactive. We allow people to treat us in ways we know are wrong because at our core we hold a smaller value for ourselves than we deserve. We don't let people in because of the fear that letting down our guard, even for a moment, could mean more hurt. Then we miss out on true connection and beautiful relationships that could build us up and fulfill us.

There are so many ways these rooms show up in disguise. Where we once needed to protect ourselves, we now limit ourselves and miss the big life we are supposed to be living.

In The Room to Be Brave, I use rooms as a metaphor because memories live somewhere. Experiences shape us somewhere. And healing, I've learned, doesn't come from bulldozing the house or pretending those spaces never existed.

It comes from walking back slowly. With compassion. With curiosity. With a willingness to sit down and look around.

You don't have to redecorate every room. You don't have to stay long. You don't even have to open every door today.

But noticing which rooms you avoid—and asking yourself why—is often the beginning of something honest.

And honesty, gentle as it is, is where bravery starts.

Want more stories about finding joy, breaking cycles, and choosing courage? Sign up here to get updates about the book launch, and you’ll receive a downloadable guide to finding your own rooms that may be holding you in place.

April Garcia 12/20/25 April Garcia 12/20/25

How a Little Hobby Changed My Perspective

Finding My Room

The years following the pandemic left me feeling like everything was out of control. And for me, what kept me sane was finding one small place where I was in control.

In my workshop, I personally wash, press, measure, cut, and pin every piece of fabric I use. My hands and my heart are all over my work. And while the world can be loud, chaotic, and unpredictable, in that space I get to decide everything.

The project.
The fabric.
Each stitch.
Even when to tear it apart and start over.

I get to create something that never existed before. And that brings me so much joy.

That workshop became my room—not just a physical space, but a room in my life where I decide what comes in and what stays out.

The Room the Pandemic Couldn’t Touch

When the world shut down in March of 2020, there seemed to be nowhere to breathe. The internet was overwhelming. The television was somber. We watched numbers and maps like the danger was inching closer to our doors.

But I had something that surprised me.

I had a room.

A room filled with creativity and calm at a time when fear and grief felt unavoidable everywhere else. That feeling wasn’t allowed in my room. The outside world stayed outside.

I had bought my sewing machine just three months before the pandemic thinking it would be fun to learn. Maybe even a small side business. I had no idea it would save my sanity.

With a few weeks of learning—and some bleeding fingertips—I figured out how to thread the machine, read a pattern, cut fabric, and sew a mostly straight line. I didn’t realize I was building myself a room to survive in.

Building Rooms for Joy

I believe everyone has this kind of fire inside them—a spark waiting to be lit if we’re willing to try something new.

Why are we so afraid to fail at things we’ve never done before?

Kids aren’t. They try everything. They’re terrible at most of it. And we cheer anyway. We hang scribbled art on refrigerators. We clap at talent shows where “talent” is more tradition than truth. They fall off bikes a hundred times before riding away grinning.

Somewhere along the way, we lost the joy in learning.

When did we decide that if we aren’t immediately good at something, it isn’t worth doing?

The last few years shook everything loose. Priorities shifted. People stopped chasing only money and started chasing joy. I’ve watched people leave careers to open cupcake shops, create art spaces, practice energy healing, or simply do something that makes them feel alive—with no intention of monetizing it.

People are claiming rooms for themselves in the houses they built for everyone else.

What My Room Taught Me

When I started sewing, I didn’t realize I was waking up a part of myself that had been quiet for decades. I was ridiculously proud of my crooked zippers, tiny pillows, and lopsided blankets. I would have hung them on the refrigerator if I could have.

Sewing taught me things that spilled into the rest of my life:

Problems are solvable—sometimes you just need to rethread the bobbin
Mistakes aren’t failures; they show you how to slow down and try again
Even the “ugliest” fabric belongs somewhere
When your hands, heart, and mind are fully engaged, there’s no room left for fear

When I sew, my focus narrows to the fabric moving under the presser foot. Not what came before. Not what comes next. Just the present moment.

I believe every one of us has something that can do that for us if we’re willing to look for it.

Find Your Room

Your room doesn’t have to be a sewing workshop.

It might be a garage where you restore old cars.
A kitchen where you bake sourdough.
A corner of your living room where you practice guitar.
A trail where you run.
A notebook where you write.

It’s not about the physical space. It’s about creating a room in your life where joy lives. Where mistakes are expected. Where perfection isn’t required. Where the chaos of the world has to wait outside.

What room are you going to build for yourself?

April Garcia 12/20/25 April Garcia 12/20/25

Who Do You Want to Be?

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Nurse. Teacher. Doctor. Firefighter. Superhero.

I wanted to be famous.

Over the past few weeks, I asked many of my elderly patients what they had wanted to be when they grew up. The answers were varied: nurse, teacher, police officer, Coast Guard, neurologist. But when I followed up with why they chose those paths, the answers were almost identical.

They wanted to help people.

Suddenly, my childhood dream of fame felt a little… shallow.

Rethinking the Question

I started thinking more deeply about why I wanted to be famous.

I grew up poor, moved often, and felt like I didn’t have much of a voice. Famous people seemed to have everything I didn’t—security, belonging, and a way to be heard.

Did I think all of that consciously at twelve years old? Of course not.

But now I wonder if “What do you want to be when you grow up?” is really a proxy for a deeper question:

Who do you want to become?

The Rooms That Shape Us

Let’s pause and think about how many of us landed in our careers.

Teachers often want to share what they’ve learned.
Nurses may want to comfort and heal because they’ve seen how powerful that care can be.
Police officers may want to protect because they once felt unsafe.

If you think back to what you wanted to be when you grew up, can you see why you were drawn to it?

Did a lack of financial security lead you toward stability?
Did witnessing illness pull you toward healthcare?
Did feeling unseen create a desire to advocate or lead?

Our careers don’t come out of nowhere. They’re often born in rooms we don’t realize we’re still carrying with us.

Finding My Own Room

I spent most of my twenties searching.

I moved through restaurant kitchens, sales floors, bank lobbies, office cubicles—trying to find the room that felt like home. But the room that changed everything wasn’t one I chose.

It was a hospital room in Des Moines in 2001.

I was a waitress when I contracted meningitis. I lost several fingers and spent nearly a year recovering. Those hospital and recovery rooms were some of the hardest spaces I’ve ever been in. They were rooms where I lost parts of myself—literally—but they were also where something else quietly took shape.

After I recovered, I returned to waitressing to prove I could. And I did. But it wasn’t my dream. Neither were the many other roles I tried—bartender, furniture salesperson, receptionist, corporate trainer, graphic artist, loan officer, bank teller, car salesperson, restaurant manager.

I had been in so many rooms. None of them fit.

Years later, after many conversations with my husband about finding my “career,” occupational therapy came up. From the moment he said it, I knew.

Why wouldn’t I do that?

I could help people recovering from illness, injury, amputation. I could use my own experience—not as a liability, but as a bridge. Helping others gave meaning to what I had been through. It gave me a sense of power over something that once felt completely out of my control.

I had to go back to those hospital rooms to understand that they weren’t just places where bad things happened. They were rooms that shaped who I was becoming.

Ten years later, I still love my work. Some days are emotionally exhausting. But the work itself brings me real joy.

Finding Your Room

So why am I sharing all of this?

Because purpose and joy are deeply connected—and sometimes we lose one without realizing it.

If you’re working in a field you once felt excited about, ask yourself:

Do I still feel connected to why I chose this?
Can I go back to the room where that spark first appeared?

Sometimes joy fades not because the work is wrong, but because we’ve forgotten what pulled us to it.

If your work allows you to serve your purpose but the environment is toxic, that’s different. Some rooms are beautifully decorated but still wrong for us.

And if you aren’t working in your field at all—but you feel a pull toward something—start small. Take a class. Talk to someone who’s doing what you want to do. Find a mentor. Step onto the path, even if you can’t see the whole road yet.

Asking Better Questions

We often ask young people, “What are you going to school for?” or “What do you want to be?”

Maybe a better question is:
What purpose do you want to serve?

Providing financial stability and finding joy in your work are not mutually exclusive goals. If you’re struggling to find both, it may be time to do some soul-searching. Look honestly at your values. Listen to your heart. Pay attention to the rooms that shaped you.

They’re trying to tell you something.

Going Back to Move Forward

In my memoir, The Room to Be Brave: Sometimes the Way Forward Begins with Going Back (January 27, 2026), I explore how the rooms from our past—the painful ones, the shameful ones, the avoided ones—often hold the keys to understanding who we’re meant to become.

Sometimes we can’t find our purpose until we go back and heal the moments that taught us we weren’t worthy of having one.

Whether you’re feeling burned out, lost, or simply restless, it might be time to pause. Step outside. Put your feet in the sand or grass. Soak in the tub. Have dinner with a friend. Let your nervous system settle.

Then take a deep breath and ask yourself again:

What room do you want to be in? Who do you want to be?

April Garcia 12/20/25 April Garcia 12/20/25

The Fear of Change

What are we so afraid of?

I have no research to back this up, but I’m pretty sure fear of change has to be right up there with public speaking and death. Change is terrifying. Even good change. Getting married. Having a baby. Getting a new haircut. Why does all of it feel so scary?

What the heck are we actually afraid of?

So let’s try this: I’ll show you my fear, if you show me yours.

The Room Where It Started

I’m mostly afraid of two things: failure and judgment. And I know exactly where both of those fears were born.

I’m twelve years old, standing in our kitchen in 1990, holding a cordless phone. A group of girls had invited me to a sleepover—or so I thought. When I called to say I could come, they laughed. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a joke.

I wasn’t wanted in that room.

That kitchen—with its marble-brown carpet and Formica countertops—became the room where I learned I wasn’t enough. Not cool enough. Not pretty enough. Not wanted. And I carried that belief out of that kitchen and into every room I entered after it.

Thirty-five years later, I was still standing outside of rooms, afraid to go in.

Fear of Failure

Who actually likes to fail? Certainly not me.

But here’s something interesting: if you asked me to list my biggest failures—ten of them, five of them, even two—I’d struggle. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because the things I once thought would ruin me forever barely register now.

At the time, they felt catastrophic. Looking back from my cozy home, with my beautiful family, I don’t see them as failures at all. Every choice I made—good, bad, and questionable—brought me here. And I’m grateful to be here.

My divorce. The drunken nights in my twenties. Even the time I got arrested. Were they my proudest moments? No. But without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

What I’ve noticed is that we use fear of failure as an excuse not to try new things, while completely ignoring a lifetime of successes that prove we’re capable. Why do we cling so tightly to the worst moments of our past, instead of standing on everything we’ve survived?

I have far more moments of success than failure. And I’m willing to bet you do too.

Fear of Judgment

This one’s a doozy.

For years, I avoided trying new things because I was afraid of being judged. And if I’m honest, most of that judgment wasn’t coming from other people—it was coming from my own insecurities.

I’d assume the thing I wanted to try was stupid. And somehow, I also assumed I’d surrounded myself with people who would agree.

Usually, neither of those things was true.

Not every interest will be shared or understood by the people around you. That doesn’t make it stupid. Sometimes the uncommon things are the most interesting. And while there are judgmental people in the world, you usually know who they are—and those aren’t the people you need to be sharing your heart with anyway.

When I started sewing, no one in my immediate circle was particularly interested. So I found my sewing people—online, in fabric stores, on YouTube. And those people were kind. They remembered being beginners. They celebrated my first crooked tote bag like it was a masterpiece.

Sometimes you don’t need permission from your current circle—you just need to find the people who are already doing the thing you want to try.

Ways I Work Through the Fear of Change

These are some of the strategies we use in my house—and the ones that have helped me the most.

1. Set reasonable expectations

You will probably not be good at something the first time you try it. Or the tenth. And that’s okay.

Beginner-level expectations take the pressure off. Being new at something is freeing. You’re allowed to scribble before you paint masterpieces.

2. Ask, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

This is a game we play often. The more ridiculous the answer, the better. Shark attack. Covered in honey while bears are released. Will that happen at the dentist? Probably not.

The point isn’t realism—it’s perspective.

3. Find your community

When I learned to sew, my family was politely supportive. My sewing community? They got it. They celebrated the wins and helped me through the disasters.

Find the people who understand the thing you’re trying to do. They’ll bring you along.

4. Journal it out

Journaling has helped me untangle more anxious thoughts than almost anything else. Writing takes the power away from fear. You don’t have to journal every day—but when you’re stuck, it can shake things loose.

5. Go back to the room

This one changed everything.

I went back to that kitchen—not physically, but in my mind. I sat with twelve-year-old April and told her the truth: that those girls’ cruelty had nothing to do with her worth.

When we’re afraid of change, it’s often because we’re still living in an old room. A room where someone made us feel small. A room where we learned a belief that no longer fits.

When you heal what happened there, you stop carrying it into every new room you enter.

A Final Thought

Your life is built on survival, resilience, and quiet victories. Every hard day you got through. Every time you tried again. Every moment you didn’t give up.

Fear doesn’t disappear when you find joy—but it does lose its grip.

And when you go back to the rooms that taught you to be afraid, you often discover something surprising: you were always brave enough to walk through the door.

You just needed to stop listening to the voice that learned fear too early.

So try the thing. Step into the room. Find your joy.

You’re allowed to be here.

If this post resonated with you, my memoir The Room to Be Brave explores this same theme on a deeper level—the courage it takes to try, to fail, to keep going, and to finally face the rooms we've been afraid to enter. The book releases January 27, 2026.