You’re getting through the days.
You’re doing what needs to be done.
People probably think you’re fine — maybe even thriving.

But underneath, something feels off.

Before I started coaching alongside animals, I thought “holding space” meant having the right words. Reassurance. Tools. Fixes.

But the animals taught me something different.
They taught me that presence — real presence — doesn’t speak. It doesn’t advise. It doesn’t interrupt.

It stays.

I used to believe that keeping everything going was the safest option.. That if I could just keep going — keep working, keep showing up, keep fixing — nothing would fall apart.

But the truth is, I was falling apart quietly while doing everything “right.” And no one saw it, because I didn’t let them.
Because stillness, to me, felt like failure.

It took burnout, grief, and the silence of a field to teach me otherwise.

It didn’t start with a vision. It started with ashes.

I was in a season where everything felt like it had fallen apart — slowly, then all at once.

Grief piled on grief.