What They Didn't Tell Me About Surgical Menopause

I had a CT scan recently that showed a complex cyst on my only remaining ovary. I call her Bertha. The ovary, not the cyst. The cyst doesn't deserve a name.

Bertha had been causing me pain for a few months, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with ultrasounds and conversations about surgery, so I mostly ignored it — or complained loudly to anyone who would listen. Same thing, really.

Once we had images showing Bertha was hosting not one but two cysts — one large simple cyst and one small complex cyst with some solid features — my doctor ordered bloodwork to check tumor markers. Just to be safe.

A bunch of them came back elevated.

Ugh. F*cking Bertha.

That kicked off a follow-up MRI and a meeting with an oncologist. She decided that even though the MRI looked okay, there was enough risk that Bertha needed to go. We agreed, we scheduled the surgery, and just like that, Bertha got her walking papers.

Here's the thing nobody fully prepared me for: removing Bertha was kind of a big deal. Not just medically emotionally, physically, hormonally — because she was my only remaining ovary abd my only source for hormones Taking her out meant I would no longer produce estrogen or progesterone, and I would be launched — at 100 miles per hour — directly into menopause. Not easing into it. Not a gradual transition. Just... menopause. Now. Go.

Cool.

I already knew enough about menopause to be terrified of it: night sweats, sleep problems, brittle hair, dry skin, dry everything, osteoporosis, heart disease, mood swings, anxiety, depression. Menopause has the energy of the end of a medication commercial. The one where they spend 45 seconds listing everything that might go wrong.

I was scared.

So when my oncologist confirmed we were firing Bertha from her hormone-making duties, I asked about HRT — hormone replacement therapy.

She said, "Oh, we don't really prescribe HRT prophylactically for heart disease or bone health. If it becomes a real problem, maybe your gynecologist will prescribe something."

Okay, LADY. (And I say it exactly like that — because menopause is coming for her too someday, and I highly doubt she's planning to white-knuckle it. But I know when to argue and when to smile and say "Oh, interesting, okay" and move on.)

So I did.

And then I texted my gyno and asked for HRT. Which I'm starting in a few days.

Anyway — I had the surgery at the hospital because I have a lot going on health-wise and this was a "let's rule out cancer" situation, so we brought in the big team. I was in the women's surgical center — a place that performs surgery on women, all day, every day.

So I asked the nurse who was giving me discharge instructions: "Is there anything I should know about what happens now that I have no lady parts left and am in menopause as of 20 minutes ago?"

She said, "No, not really. You'll just take it as it comes."

I mean. What?

Okay. So here's what the doctor and the nurse failed to mention — what I wish someone had handed me in a pamphlet while I was still in my hospital gown:

(Actually, quick note before we get into it: I am not a doctor. I am a woman who just had her ovary removed and got very little guidance on her way out the door. What follows is a combination of research I did on my own, conversations with women who've been through it, and information I pulled together because nobody handed it to me when I needed it. Talk to your doctor — ideally one who actually wants to talk about this stuff. This is my notes, not a prescription.)

Surgical menopause is not the same as regular menopause. Not even close.

Natural menopause is a transition. It unfolds over years — hormones fluctuate, symptoms come and go, your body gets a slow, annoying heads-up that things are changing. It can take anywhere from four to ten years just to move through perimenopause.

Surgical menopause is none of that. When your ovaries are removed, your estrogen and progesterone don't gradually decline — they disappear. Immediately. It's not a transition. It's a hard stop. Going cold turkey from hormones your body has been making your entire life.

That means the symptoms hit harder and faster than they would in natural menopause. We're talking hot flashes, night sweats, insomnia, mood swings, and low libido — potentially all at once, on top of recovering from actual surgery. Fun! Great! Love that for us!

And the effects go beyond feeling terrible in the short term. Long-term, the sudden loss of estrogen increases the risk of:

Osteoporosis. Estrogen protects your bones. Without it, bone density loss accelerates. The earlier you go into menopause, the more years your bones are at risk. A bone density scan (DEXA scan) is something you should be asking about.

Heart disease. Estrogen also has a protective effect on your cardiovascular system. Losing it abruptly, especially before the natural age of menopause (around 51), increases your risk of heart disease down the road.

Cognitive changes. Brain fog is real, and research suggests that earlier menopause — especially surgical — may be linked to increased risk of cognitive decline and dementia later in life.

Mood disorders. Anxiety and depression are more common after surgical menopause than after natural menopause. The drop in hormones affects the brain's chemistry, and when it happens suddenly, your nervous system doesn't exactly take it gracefully.

Sexual dysfunction. Vaginal dryness, discomfort, and low libido are common — and undertreated. There are options, including vaginal estrogen, that can help specifically with this even if you're not using systemic HRT.

Weight changes. Oophorectomy is associated with more rapid weight gain than either natural menopause or hysterectomy alone. Just so you know.

So what actually helps?

HRT — hormone replacement therapy — is the most effective treatment for surgical menopause, and according to current guidelines, it's recommended for most women who go through surgical menopause before the age of natural menopause. Not as a "let's see if it gets bad enough" afterthought — proactively, because your body lost hormones it wasn't supposed to lose yet.

This is why I made the follow up with my gyno on the day I realized I needed surgery.

Beyond HRT, the basics matter too: weight-bearing exercise for bone health, adequate calcium and vitamin D, monitoring your blood pressure and cholesterol, and not smoking.

Here's my point: I was in a facility that operates on women every single day, surrounded by medical professionals, and I walked out of surgery without a single person handing me a roadmap for what was about to happen to my body. No pamphlet. No conversation. Just "take it as it comes."

We deserve better than that.

So consider this my pamphlet.

You're welcome.

When You're Standing in All the Rooms at Once

"It was like all the rooms that carried the disappointment I felt from her, I was in all of those rooms all at once." — The Room to Be Brave

Sometimes I am thrown back into rooms I thought I healed from. These are rooms that held significant trauma. Where I woke up from my coma on a ventilator, having no idea that I was fighting for my life from meningitis. The delivery room where I had my daughter and was bleeding out while they worked to save both of our lives. The room where my foot was gray and a limb preservation specialist told me she would do whatever she could to save my foot.

Hospital rooms are rooms of trauma for a lot of people, so I am no different in that way. I wonder how many people feel the weight of those rooms when they are facing a new medical diagnosis, a new, unexplained symptom, a feeling like something is wrong.

I know the weight of that feeling. I've sat in that room many times.

This is a room I am healing in layers. I have worked through what I think is the worst of it and in the day to day I'm good. Until I'm not.

As soon as there is a lab value that's red, or an impression on imaging that recommends further imaging… I am standing in all of the rooms I have been in. I'm 19 again, laying on my stomach on a table while the doctor takes samples from my kidney to run a biopsy and confirm my chronic kidney disease. I'm 22 again, looking at my hand for the first time after my fingers were amputated. I am in every room where uncertainty, my mortality, and almost always pain are overwhelming.

So, what do I do when that overwhelm hits? How do I handle the weight of all of those rooms?

I come back to the room I'm in.

I journal my thoughts to get the fears out of my system, reminding myself on the page that I am not in any of those rooms because I already survived those moments.

I meditate to clear the rapid onslaught of thoughts, the what ifs, the oh my gods.

I call a friend. I am between therapists at the moment so I let someone in and let the words fall on understanding ears.

I find my joy. Rather than look into my own thoughts, I look outward and find somewhere to put my hands. I write, I hug my daughter, husband or cats, I go outside and feel the air on my skin and take joy in each breath.

I do for someone else. I send a text to a friend telling them I love them, I buy my daughter a treat. Doing for someone else takes me out of the panic and stress of my own thoughts.

I don't do all of these every time. I'm not insane, I couldn't keep up with all of them. But I use the most accessible at the time. And they work. These tools pull me out of the layers of rooms that I have already survived and put me into my body, and into the current moment.

Heavy moments carry enough weight without piling the ones you've already survived on top of them.

Whatever rooms you're carrying right now, I hope something here helps you find your way back to where you are.

The Room to Be Brave: Sometimes the Way Forward Begins with Going Back is available now. Order your copy here

What rooms do you keep returning to? I'd love to hear from you in the comments below.

The Day the Door Opens

Today, The Room to Be Brave enters the world.

That sentence feels both simple and enormous.

This book was written quietly. Slowly. In stolen moments and long pauses. It was written in the spaces between everyday life—between work and parenting and healing and doubt.

It was written without certainty that anyone would ever read it.

What I knew, even before I knew how to say it, was this: We all carry a house inside us.

Rooms filled with memories that shaped us. Rooms we return to often. Rooms we avoid at all costs. Rooms we didn't choose, but learned how to survive inside anyway.

For a long time, I believed bravery meant never going back. Closing doors. Locking them tight. Declaring myself "over it."

But that isn't what healed me.

What healed me was learning how to return—slowly, honestly, with compassion—and letting in just enough light to see what was actually there.

This book isn't a how-to. It isn't a redemption arc. It isn't a promise that everything gets better if you try hard enough.

It's an invitation.

An invitation to notice the rooms that shaped you. To sit down instead of running through them. To understand what you carried—and decide, gently, what you no longer need to.

If you choose to read this book, I hope you feel less alone in your story. I hope you recognize parts of yourself in the rooms I share. And I hope you feel permission—not pressure—to move at your own pace.

You don't have to open every door. You don't have to finish in one sitting. You don't have to be brave every day.

Today, the door opens.

You're welcome whenever you're ready.

Letting the Light In

There's a misconception that healing is about fixing what's broken.

I don't think that's true. Mostly because I don't think any of us are actually broken.

I think healing is about letting in light—just enough to see what's actually there.

For years, I kept certain rooms dark on purpose. Not because I was in denial, but because I genuinely believed that looking too closely would undo me. That opening those doors would mean falling apart, and I'd worked too hard to hold myself together to risk that.

What I didn't understand then is that those dark rooms were already affecting everything. The way I showed up in relationships. The limits I placed on my own joy. The exhaustion I couldn't explain. The patterns I kept repeating without knowing why.

Letting light in didn't mean flooding the space all at once. It meant cracking the door. Sitting on the threshold. Letting my eyes adjust.

Not all rooms need renovation. Some just need acknowledgment. Some need grief. Some need compassion. Some need a chair and a moment of rest.

Some rooms, I discovered, just needed to be seen for what they were—not monsters in the dark, but spaces that held younger versions of me who were doing the best they could with what they knew.

When I wrote The Room to Be Brave, I wasn't trying to offer answers. I was offering permission—for us to return, to reflect, to tell the truth about what shaped us without turning it into a life sentence.

Because here's what I've learned: healing isn't a dramatic transformation where you emerge completely different. It's a series of small, honest moments where you choose to see yourself clearly. Where you stop running. Where you sit down in a room you've avoided and realize you're still standing when you leave.

Healing doesn't require bravery every day. It requires honesty, practiced gently.

If you've been walking through these rooms with me—in the book, in these posts, or quietly on your own—I hope you feel less alone in the process.

And if you're not ready yet, that's okay too.

The doors don't disappear. They wait patiently.

And when you're ready, even a crack of light is enough to begin.

New Year, New You Doesn’t Work (And Here’s Why)

Every January, we’re sold the same idea.

New year.
New you.
New habits. New goals. New energy.

And while I love a fresh start as much as the next guy, I’ve learned something the hard way:

You don’t become new by layering change on top of what you’ve never healed.

Because we are not blank slates on January 1st.
We walk into the new year carrying old rooms.

Rooms where we learned who we had to be to be loved.
Rooms where we learned what was safe.
Rooms where we learned what made us valuable.
Rooms where we learned what to hide.

Our behaviors don’t come out of nowhere.
Our reactions don’t either.

They usually come from beliefs we formed about ourselves, or from how we thought other people saw us.

And those beliefs came from somewhere.

For decades, I carried a belief I didn’t even know I had:
I am only worthy of love if I am useful.

So I was useful.

I volunteered for everything.
I overextended.
I fixed things that were never mine to fix.
I stayed longer than I should have.
I took on more than was healthy.
I made myself indispensable.

You may have seen my life and thought, “She’s so involved. She’s so driven. She’s everywhere.”

And I was.

But underneath that “extra” was fear.

Fear that if I wasn’t helpful, needed, or producing something… I would be rejected.

Over the last year or so, I finally slowed down enough to look at that behavior and ask a braver question:

Where did this come from?

And the answer lived in a room I had avoided.

As a child, I lived with a lot of different family members when my mother, for reasons that were not in my control, couldn’t care for my brother and me.

We would stay for weeks. Sometimes months.
Then my mom would be able to take us back.
And we would move again.

There was no stable foundation.

So my nervous system built one.

Be good.
Be helpful.
Don’t be a burden.
Make people want to keep you.

That belief didn’t stay in childhood.

It followed me into relationships, where I tried to save what wasn’t mine to heal.

It followed me into work, where I took on too much so I would be valued.

It followed me into adulthood, where usefulness quietly became my worth.

Nothing changed until I went back.

Until I returned to the rooms where my mother had left.

And this time, I didn’t go back as the child.

I went back as the adult.

I sat with her.
I comforted her.
I told her the truth she never got to hear:

This wasn’t about you.
You were never unworthy.
You never had to earn being kept.

And that is how the belief started to loosen.

Not through resolutions.
Not through productivity.
Not through becoming “new.”

But through returning.

Through witnessing.
Through grieving.
Through offering the support that was missing.

That is how rooms release us.

So when I hear “new year, new you,” I gently push back.

Because the work is rarely about becoming someone else.

It’s about meeting the parts of us that were never given a choice.

The parts that were groomed by circumstance to believe something about themselves before they were old enough to question it.

So I’ll ask you what I now ask myself:

What belief system have you been carrying for too many years?

What behavior are you exhausted from repeating?

What belief and behavior never really belonged to you anyway…
but were handed to you in a room you didn’t get to choose?

Because that room might not be behind you.

It might be waiting for you.

And going back doesn’t make you weak.

It makes you free.

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.

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?

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.

Are You on the List?

Do you spend most of your day—your week, your month, maybe your whole life—making sure everyone else is taken care of and worrying about yourself last?

When did we stop including ourselves in our own lives?

The Rooms We Clean (And the One We Ignore)

I love a to-do list. I have lists for chores, errands, projects for when I magically have “free time,” and—of course—a list just for me.

That list is always the one I look at last.

Like Cinderella, I can’t get to the things for me until everything else is done.

Think about it this way: I clean every room in my house. I organize everyone else’s spaces. My daughter’s room is functional. My husband’s office is tidy. The living room is guest-ready. The kitchen is spotless.

But my room—the space that’s supposed to be mine—it’s on the list I never quite get to.

Do you have the same kind of list? Even if it’s not written down, it’s probably running on a loop in your head.

Where are you on that list?
Are you even on it?

Making Room for Everyone Else

Most of the people I know who seem like they “have it together” are really just taking care of everyone else. They’re working full-time jobs (sometimes two), managing households, raising kids, scheduling appointments, handling paperwork, remembering birthdays, and making sure there’s always toilet paper.

They’re available all the time. For all the people. For all the things.

We spend our lives making sure everyone else has a room to thrive in—while quietly giving up our own.

But do we really need to disappear completely for other people to be okay?

Can’t we make room for both?

Finding Your Room in the House You Built

Take a look at your to-do list—real or imagined. How many items are actually for you?

And if the answer is “none,” ask yourself this:
Is there anything you could leave for later? Or let someone else handle?

I know—it won’t be done the way you would do it. And that’s okay.

Here are a few shifts that helped me:

Delegate

The people around you are capable—even if they do things differently. Everyone deserves responsibility for their own room.

Lower your standards (just a little)

The world will not end if the bed isn’t made perfectly or the lawn isn’t mowed in straight lines. Perfection steals time from joy.

Stop being a martyr

Doing everything, asking for nothing, and then resenting everyone is not a sustainable plan. Ask for help. Let people show up.

Make a list just for you

Not chores. Not projects. A joy list. Things that light you up. Keep it handy so when you have time, you don’t default to more work or mindless scrolling.

Claim Your Room

Here’s what I’ve learned: if you don’t claim a room for yourself in the house of your life, no one else will.

Not because they’re selfish—but because you’ve taught them that your room doesn’t exist.

It does exist. You just have to stop letting everyone else use it for storage.

Lock the door for an hour. Or an afternoon. Do something that pulls you out of obligation and back into yourself.

Let’s make a commitment to put joy on the list—our list.

And in case you haven’t heard it lately:

You are important.
You are valuable.
You deserve joy.

You deserve a room of your own.

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.

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?

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.

I QUIT!!

I'm a quitter.

My entire vibe is about how much I'm okay with being terrible at something. The Find Your Joy Project, at its core, is about trying new things and probably not being good at them right away. Then I found something that I had hoped I'd be good at, and I failed at it. It was the most epic of failures. So, I quit everything.

What's really bogging me down is that it took months of holding this quittery in the pit of my stomach. I hoped and prayed that nobody would ask me how the Find Your Joy Project was going, because I didn't want to admit out loud that I gave up, and I really didn't feel good about it. I get so much happiness out of this project that admitting I wasn't doing it, was making me sad, but I couldn't put my finger on why I quit! I wanted to know what my stumbling block was, but instead of seeking out the answers, I threw all my energies into every single distraction that I could find. I even went to the gym for crap's sake! I was really avoiding my quitting, sharing my joy, and my feelings.

But why?!

Why would I quit finding joy, and sharing finding joy, and talking to people about finding joy, and beating my family over the head with all of the joy??? Because I had a vision of something I could do, and be, and it turns out that I couldn't, and I wasn't. And my fragile, flower petal of an ego couldn't stand up against the crushing, debilitating feeling of not being good at something immediately, or not having something go the way I dreamed it would.

Here's the kicker, I would have known what to say to any of you if this happened to you… imagine this scenario…

You come to me and tell me, and all of your closest friends, that you would like to start painting landscapes. You want to Bob Ross the hell out of some canvas! You are excited, the joy is contagious and the people you love are excited for you! You buy paint, brushes, an easel, canvas, a palette, a smock, and a fluffy wig to get you in the spirit. You go out to a beautiful nature scene and you start mixing paint, checking the lighting, taking pictures of your set-up for Instagram and then you start to paint. And you're not just terrible, you're cold, your allergies kick up, your wig is itchy, the "blended colors" come out looking like something you'd see with a stomach virus. This sucks and you hate it!

At this point I would tell you that you have a couple of options:

Start over! Watch some videos on painting, or take a class. You can start smaller, like learning how to mix paints, or learning basic brush techniques. Even if you never become a world renowned public broadcasting painter, you can still paint (even poorly) and have fun with it. With practice, you may even get better.

OR (and this is a big one)

Painting might not be for you! You can totally sell or donate your easel and paints and walk away knowing that AT LEAST YOU TRIED!!

There is no shame in trying and not liking something. Even if you REALLY thought it was going to be your thing. Even if you told everyone how much it was going to be your thing. EVEN IF you bragged about your vision of becoming a painter.

I told a lot of people how I would like to make YouTube videos showcasing other folks who have found their joy. I even had two generous and joyful people share their joy with me, on camera (!!) so that I could get the ball rolling on what I fully thought would be an incredible experience. We would have so much fun sharing in their joy that the videos would practically make themselves!

Man, if you could see how it looked in my head? As far as I was concerned, Netflix was about to pick up my videos for multiple seasons. I wouldn't say I was delusional, because in real life I can have a conversation with anyone I meet and have so much fun doing it, but as it happens, I am zero fun in front of a camera. Where I thought I could bring the best out of people who already had joy; I made finding joy look like an insurance seminar.

That was a hard pill for me to swallow. And instead of trying to address what had stopped me from enjoying the work for The Find Your Joy Project, I just avoided it all together. Until now.

Now I pivot. PIVOT!

I don't quit the parts of this project that I love. I don't beat myself up for not being good at making videos. I don't quit the joy. I do quit the guilt, I quit the negative self-talk, and I quit judging myself on one activity that I didn't take to right away. And I move forward towards the joy.

I will continue to try new ways to bring the joy to you. I will continue to talk to people and encourage them to share their joy. And I will continue to share these adventures with you in whatever form brings me the most joy. At this point, it won't be via YouTube, and I'm finding a way to be 100% ok with that.

Wherever this project takes us, I want you to be there for all of the ups and downs. And please feel free to tell me the things that you tried and loved, or hated! Because we are more than likely not going to find our joy in the first thing we try, but we are absolutely not going to find it by giving up.

So let's find our joy, change our life, and inspire others.

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.

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.