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.
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.
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?
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