April Garcia 1/13/26 April Garcia 1/13/26

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.

April Garcia 1/6/26 April Garcia 1/6/26

Why I Had to Go Back

For a long time, I believed healing meant moving on.

Closing chapters. Locking doors. Declaring myself "over it."

I thought that surviving those moments was enough. That I had "overcome" by simply making it through.

And to be fair—that worked, until it didn't.

What I eventually learned is that closing a door doesn't mean a room disappears. It just means you stop visiting it. And rooms we stop visiting don't stop shaping us.

They shape how we love. How we parent. How we rest. How we speak to ourselves when no one else is listening.

They shape how we allow others to treat us and the value we place on our own ability to take up space.

But going back didn't mean I had to relive everything the same way I lived it the first time. That's the fear I felt before I went back. What it actually meant was revisiting the rooms with context I didn't have before.

Adult eyes. Language. Boundaries. Choice.

The bravest thing I did wasn't confronting the past head-on. It was allowing myself to enter slowly—to sit down instead of sprinting through, to notice instead of judge.

Most rooms softened once I saw them clearly. Some needed grieving. Some needed forgiveness. And some just needed to be acknowledged for the role they played.

Every room needed the perspective that I not only survived what happened there, but that I have the power and knowledge to understand it's over. That I am safe. That it is not happening now. And that I won't let it happen again.

I didn't go back to punish myself. I went back to reclaim parts of me that had been left behind.

If you're avoiding a room right now, I want you to know this: You don't go back because you're stuck. You go back because you're ready to live forward with less weight.

April Garcia 12/30/25 April Garcia 12/30/25

What Avoidance Quietly Costs Us

Avoidance doesn't announce its price upfront.

It doesn't say, "If you choose not to feel this now, you'll pay for it later." It just offers relief. Distance. Space to breathe.

And for a while, that feels good enough.

But avoidance is not neutral. It trades short-term comfort for long-term disconnection—from ourselves, from others, from the truth of what we carry.

What does avoidance cost us?

It costs connection. We can't be fully known if parts of us are permanently locked away. We can't build beautiful relationships if we don't actually believe we deserve them.

It costs rest. Because what we refuse to feel doesn't go away—it works overtime in the background. I recently spoke to a woman who processes her rooms as night terrors. The emotion—the fear or grief or hopelessness—is still living in her, and when her mind and heart are quiet, that's when it demands to be heard.

It costs clarity. We sense something is off, but we can't name it because naming it would require going back. We live a life of unease, always on alert, waiting for something new to happen or for the old familiar feelings we've hidden to creep back up. That takes away our presence, our ability to be fully here.

And maybe most quietly, it costs choice. We keep reacting to old rooms without realizing they're the ones directing us.

None of this makes us broken. It makes us human.

In my own life, avoidance looked like productivity. Like humor. Like moving forward quickly and never looking back. It looked successful from the outside—but inside, certain rooms were still running the house.

Healing didn't arrive with a dramatic breakthrough. It arrived with honesty.

With the realization that if I didn't go back—carefully, supported, on my own terms—I would keep paying for rooms I was pretending were closed.

If you notice yourself tired in ways sleep doesn't fix, guarded in places you want to be open, or frustrated by patterns that keep repeating—it may not be because you're failing.

It may be because something important is still waiting behind a door.

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.

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

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.

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.