08/04/2026
A couple of months ago, I burned my career to the ground.
At least, the version of it I had built.
One morning I woke up and realized I hated it all. Over the next two weeks, I discovered something surprising…
I didn’t hate my work.
I hated what I had turned it into.
The hustle.
The constant pressure.
The endless performance of social media. (Which is probably why you’ve barely seen me here lately.)
Lately I’ve been working through a series of journaling prompts while I figure out what comes next. One question stopped me in my tracks:
What kind of impact do you want to make that can’t be measured by income, audience size, or productivity?
The answer came to me on a sunrise hike at Cloudland Canyon.
At seven in the morning, the trails are covered with spider webs. Tiny ones. Delicate ones. Webs woven by little spiders that had spent who knows how long creating something extraordinary.
Most of them were almost invisible.
Depending on the angle of the light, they disappeared completely.
And it hit me…
The most important things in life are often invisible.
The feeling of cold.
A breaking heart.
The excitement of a new beginning.
The invisible thread that connects one human being to another.
The impact I want to make is invisible too.
It’s the moment someone realizes they are no longer trapped by the story they’ve been carrying.
It’s the courage to leave a relationship that has been draining them for years.
It’s the boundary that changes a marriage.
It’s the freedom someone feels when they finally remember who they are.
None of that shows up in analytics.
The tools I teach aren’t something people hold in their hands. They’re carried in their hearts and minds. Quiet, invisible tools that ripple into trust.
Into vulnerability.
Into intimacy.
Into relationships that feel safer.
Into lives that feel freer.
You can’t measure that with followers.
Or productivity.
Or income.
You only see it reflected back in the way someone loves, speaks, forgives,
