It has been a while since I’ve written here.

And honestly, I’ve started this post in my head about a hundred different ways.

Because how do you summarize a year that somehow feels like it’s lasted five years and five minutes at the same time?

The last time I really shared where I was, I knew something in my life was changing. I could feel that I was being pulled toward something different. I had spent years healing, getting sober, leaving my marriage, rebuilding myself, spiritually awakening, writing a book and trying to understand who the hell I was underneath all of the roles I had spent my life playing.

But I was still tied to Corporate America.

I still had the title.

The paycheck.

The career.

The security.

And even though I kept talking about “The Next Chapter,” I hadn’t actually stepped fully into mine yet.

Well…

Be careful what you ask for.

Because 2026 apparently said, okay, let’s go.

I Thought I Was Going Back

At the beginning of this year, I was still doing what I had always known how to do.

Finance.

I’ve spent more than 20 years in this world. I’ve built teams, fixed broken processes, managed accounting departments, worked through acquisitions, created systems, solved problems and spent a ridiculous amount of my life inside spreadsheets.

And I’m really fucking good at it.

That’s important to say.

Because for a while, I think I needed Corporate America to be the villain in order to justify wanting something different.

It wasn’t.

Corporate America gave me a career. It gave me skills. It taught me leadership. It taught me how businesses actually work behind the scenes. It taught me how to walk into chaos, figure out what was happening and create structure.

It also taught me what I didn’t want anymore.

In April, I stepped into a Finance Director position making the coveted 6 figures a year.

On paper, this was success.

This was what more than two decades of climbing was supposed to look like.

And maybe there was a part of me that thought, Okay. Maybe this is it. Maybe I don’t have to blow up my entire professional life. Maybe I can be this new version of myself and still exist inside the old structure.

So I tried.

Then life did what life seems to do when I’m getting a little too comfortable.

It changed the plan.

The contract associated with my position was lost.

Within a matter of months, this big new chapter I thought I had just started was ending.

And eventually I was given a choice.

I could stay.

There was another position available. Less responsibility. A significant reduction in salary. Back in an office.

But it was a job.

It was security.

And I have a daughter. A mortgage. Bills. Responsibilities. I’m not a 22-year-old deciding to backpack across Europe and “find myself.”

Saying no wasn’t some carefree, inspirational leap into entrepreneurship.

It was fucking terrifying.

But I said no.

And Then the Paychecks Stopped

This is the part of following your dreams that doesn’t photograph particularly well for Instagram.

My final severance check came in August.

And suddenly all of those things I had been talking about—trust, surrender, purpose, alignment—had to exist alongside mortgage payments, credit cards, groceries and the very real responsibility of supporting my daughter.

That’ll test your spirituality real quick.

I’ve opened job postings.

I’ve questioned myself.

I’ve looked at my bank account and wondered whether I have completely lost my mind.

I’ve researched mortgage options. I’ve cut expenses. I’ve thought about part-time work. I’ve considered contract work. I’ve had to remind myself that being practical doesn’t mean I’m giving up on what I’m building.

And I think that’s one of the biggest things I’m learning.

I used to think trust meant not being afraid.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes trust is being scared as hell and still taking the next step.

Sometimes surrender still needs a spreadsheet.

Apparently mine does.

Meanwhile, Something Else Had Been Happening

While my corporate career was unraveling, another part of my life had quietly been growing.

Recovery.

This year marked seven years without alcohol and two years without narcotics.

Even writing that feels surreal sometimes.

Because recovery used to be something I was desperately trying to survive.

Then somewhere along the way, it became something I could use to serve.

I started teaching financial education in recovery spaces.

Then I started teaching about awakening through recovery.

Boundaries.

Mindset.

Nervous-system regulation.

The uncomfortable reality of rebuilding your life when the coping mechanisms you used to survive aren’t available anymore.

And I realized I wasn’t teaching these things because I had mastered life.

I was teaching them because I had lived them.

There is a difference.

Then in August, I went to a SMART Recovery meeting and the facilitator didn’t show up.

So I stepped in.

And afterward, something clicked.

St. Pete needs this.

So now I’m working toward becoming a certified SMART Recovery facilitator and bringing a meeting here.

Because apparently starting a business while having no predictable income wasn’t enough excitement for me.

But that’s the thing.

It feels important.

For a While, I Thought I Had Two Businesses

This has probably been the most confusing part.

Because when people would ask me what I do, I wanted to hand them a flowchart.

On one side:

Finance.

Business strategy.

Systems.

Processes.

Cash flow.

Leadership.

Helping small businesses understand what is actually happening behind their numbers.

And on the other:

Recovery.

Reiki.

Spiritual awakening.

Personal transformation.

Helping people rebuild after divorce, addiction, abuse, career changes and the moments when life completely blows up the identity you thought you had.

What the hell do those things have to do with each other?

Turns out…

Everything.

Because I don’t think I actually work in finance.

And I don’t think I actually work in healing.

I work in change.

I meet people in the messy middle between what was and what comes next.

Sometimes that’s a business owner who knows their company can grow but doesn’t have the systems, financial clarity or structure to get there.

Sometimes it’s a person staring at the pieces of their life thinking, Okay…now what?

Different tools.

Same work.

Where are you now?

Where are you trying to go?

What’s keeping you here?

And what do we need to build to get you there?

That’s The Next Chapter.

And ironically, I had to live it before I could understand what I was actually creating.

So I Started Building It

Not beautifully.

Not strategically mapped twelve months in advance.

I just started.

I built a website.

I changed my LinkedIn (which was another identity crisis all on its own).

I started calling businesses.

I walked into businesses with flyers.

I went to networking events where I knew no one.

I drank a ridiculous amount of tea having one-on-one conversations with strangers.

I tried BNI.

I realized BNI probably wasn’t my thing.

I joined conversations in recovery communities.

I met healers, entrepreneurs, nonprofit founders, contractors, business owners and people who are also trying to figure out what the hell they’re doing next.

I sent messages that didn’t get answered.

I made offers that didn’t turn into anything.

I had conversations that led somewhere completely unexpected.

I had days where I thought, holy shit, this is working.

And days where I thought, holy shit, I need a job.

Sometimes those were the same day.

That’s what building The Next Chapter has actually looked like.

Then I Did Something That Scared the Shit Out of Me

I decided to host a workshop.

Not online.

Not someday.

A real room.

With real people.

The Next Chapter for Your Small Business.

I rented a little space at Wonder Works in Gulfport.

I created the content.

I built a workbook.

I made signs.

I created QR codes.

I printed twenty copies before I had twenty people registered because apparently this version of me is learning optimism.

And then I promoted the hell out of it.

Facebook.

Meetup.

Instagram.

Networking events.

Direct messages.

Emails.

Anyone who would listen to me talk about this damn workshop heard about it.

And underneath all of that action was fear.

What if nobody comes?

Not metaphorical fear.

Actual, pit-in-my-stomach, maybe-I-should-cancel-this-shit fear.

Because this wasn’t a corporate presentation where someone else hired me and handed me an audience.

This was mine.

If nobody showed up, they weren’t rejecting a company I worked for.

It felt like they were rejecting me.

But on August 20th, I opened the doors anyway.

And people came.

Standing in That Room Felt Different

I wasn’t standing there as someone’s Finance Director.

I wasn’t representing somebody else’s company.

I wasn’t trying to squeeze myself into a corporate version of professionalism.

I was just me.

The finance leader was there.

The woman in recovery was there.

The teacher was there.

The spiritual weirdo was absolutely there.

The mother who is still figuring out how she’s going to pay for all of this was there too.

All of her.

And for the first time, I wasn’t trying to decide which version of myself belonged in the room.

I taught business owners about their numbers.

Processes.

Cash.

Energy leaks.

Systems.

Accountability.

All of the things I’ve spent my career doing.

But I got to do it my way.

And that little workshop didn’t suddenly solve my financial problems.

It didn’t magically create a fully booked business.

I didn’t walk out with some movie-ending moment where everything made sense and inspirational music started playing.

I still woke up the next morning with bills.

I still had to figure out what came next.

But something had changed.

Because I had evidence.

I did it.

Not thought about it.

Not journaled about it.

Not talked about what I was going to do “one day.”

I fucking did it.

And Now Something Else Is Happening

I’m beginning to work with my first real business client in the way I’ve been imagining.

Not as an accountant who comes in and keeps the books.

As a partner.

Someone who can step into a business, understand the numbers, understand the owner, understand the operations and help connect the pieces.

We’re still at the beginning.

I don’t know exactly what this becomes yet.

But that’s almost the point.

Because I’m starting to see that this isn’t just about landing a client.

I’m building a process.

Something I can test.

Refine.

Repeat.

Scale.

For the first time, the thing that has lived mostly inside my head is beginning to exist outside of me.

And that feels huge.

I Wish I Could End This With “And Then I Figured It All Out”

I haven’t.

It’s August 2026.

I don’t know what my income looks like six months from now.

I don’t know exactly what happens with my house.

I don’t know whether The Next Chapter eventually becomes the sanctuary I’ve envisioned, a consulting company, a community, a recovery space, workshops, retreats, education—or some combination of all of it.

I don’t know.

And if you’ve read anything I’ve written before, you know how fucking uncomfortable that sentence is for me.

I like plans.

I like numbers.

I like knowing what’s coming.

I built an entire career around creating predictability out of uncertainty.

And now life seems determined to teach me how to live without it.

Maybe that’s my next chapter.

Not knowing exactly where I’m going.

But finally trusting the woman who’s driving.

Because when I look at everything that’s happened—not just this year, but everything that brought me here—I don’t see separate chapters anymore.

Corporate finance wasn’t wasted time.

Recovery wasn’t a detour.

Divorce wasn’t the end of my story.

My awakening wasn’t me losing my mind.

The failures weren’t evidence that I was doing life wrong.

The things I survived gave me empathy.

The career gave me strategy.

Recovery gave me tools.

Leadership gave me structure.

Motherhood gave me a reason to make all of this real.

And every single time life forced me to start over, I learned a little more about how to help someone else do the same.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been building this entire time.

The Next Chapter isn’t something I created because I figured out how to change your life.

I created it because I know what it feels like to stand in the middle of your life, look around and realize the old version doesn’t fit anymore.

And then have absolutely no fucking idea what comes next.

I’m still there in some ways.

The difference is…

I’m not afraid of the blank page like I used to be.

I’ve started writing.

And this time, I’m writing it myself.