What I Thought Success Was — and What It Actually Is Now

When I was a teenager, I had a crystal-clear image of what success looked like.
To me, it meant being rich — in the material, shiny, show-it-off kind of way.
I dreamed of the corner office, power suits, sleek cars, and luxury vacations.
I wanted a high-rise life: five-star dinners, first-class flights, and a business card with an impressive title.

Success was hustle. Success was status. Success was proving myself.

I chased that vision for years — working longer hours, taking on more projects, constantly climbing toward more. I thought the finish line would feel like arrival. I thought once I had it, I’d feel fulfilled.

But life, as it does, had a different plan.
It stripped things away. It slowed me down.
It brought loss, grief, and perspective — and with it, a new definition of success I could’ve never imagined back then.

Today, rich looks completely different.

Rich is evenings around the table with people I love — simple meals, full hearts, deep laughter.
It’s slow mornings, the kind where you actually taste your coffee.
It’s running into an old friend in town and picking up right where you left off.
It’s spontaneous road trips to familiar places that hold your memories.
It’s a local restaurant with unforgettable taquitos, served with passion by the owner who knows your name.
It’s long walks at dusk, watching the sun kiss the mountains goodnight.

Success now isn’t about the corner office — it’s about creating a life that feels like home.
It’s balance. It’s presence.
It’s the ability to work with purpose, but also know when to shut it down and truly live.

It’s making an impact — not for applause, but because it matters.
It’s inspiring, empowering, and lifting others up.
It’s mentoring, volunteering, and showing up for people the way others once showed up for me.

Some of the most powerful role models in my life weren’t the loudest or the wealthiest — they were the ones who gave their time, their wisdom, and their presence. They were community builders, patient encouragers, and steady voices in seasons of growth and becoming.
They didn’t chase spotlight — they built legacy.
And that’s what I want too.

So no — I didn’t end up in a high-rise office.
I ended up in something better.
I ended up grounded.
Connected.
Rich, in every way that matters.

Success now is alignment. It’s peace. It’s integrity.
And it’s showing up for this life — not to impress, but to fully live it.

The True Flex: Choosing Connection Over Busy

There is so much power in being surrounded by people you truly love — and who love you back. Friendship and family are two-way streets, and the people who show up, pour into you, and allow you to do the same for them? They matter. Deeply.

But somewhere along the way, we get lost.
The calendar fills up. The meetings stack. The schedule gets tighter. And slowly, without realizing it, we start skipping Sunday family dinners. We cancel the coffee date with our best friend. We say no to the event we were genuinely looking forward to. Not because we don’t care — but because we’re too busy.

And yet, when I reflect on what really matters, the answer is always simple:
People.

Because without connection, life is just motion.
We move through the day, but we don’t feel rooted in it. We check the boxes, but our hearts stay empty.

When we choose to prioritize the people we love — to truly see them, spend time with them, and be present with them — everything shifts. When we view life through the lens of love, we fill our cups. And from that overflow, we’re able to pour into our families, our communities, and our work with far more intention and joy.

So let me say this clearly:
Stop wearing “I’m too busy to connect” as a badge of honor.
It’s not a flex. It’s not something to brag about.
Being busy isn’t the goal. Being present is.

I used to tell myself I couldn’t take a weekend to visit my hometown because “I had too much going on.” But if I could go back and speak to that version of me, I’d say:
Your job? It will survive without you.
Your company? Still thriving.
But your parents?
They’re gone.

I would give anything to sit at that table again. To say yes to dinner. To take the trip. To show up.

So today, I’m reminding you — and myself — to choose connection.
Text the friend. Drive to see your family. Put your phone away. Be there.
Listen. Love. Show up.
Because tomorrow isn’t promised.

Chasing Roots: A Reflection on Grief, Growth, and Coming Home to Myself

I was 29 when my mom passed away, and 30 when I lost my dad. The past three years have been a journey through deep grief - a season of feeling, healing, and reflecting.

When I look back on my life, it’s clear: my parents made me who I am. They believed in me endlessly. They never told me a dream was too big, too wild, or too far away. Their belief became my foundation.

One of my earliest memories is from a camping trip in Arizona when I was four or five. We had just left Las Vegas, and back in the '90s, the best souvenir a kid could collect from casinos were those plastic coin buckets. When we got to our campsite, I got to work. I filled those buckets with “premium” Arizona dirt, topped them with the finest sticks I could find, and dragged a camp table around to the back of our RV. I made a sign: “For Sale: $20.”
I sold out in 20 minutes.
That was my first business. And looking back, I think it taught me something I’ve carried ever since — anything is possible when you believe in it.

Growing up, I was deeply involved in 4-H. I spent over a decade raising animals, competing in cooking contests, learning to speak in public, and gaining life skills that school couldn’t teach. I eventually earned the highest rank: All Star.

In high school, I joined the City of Redding’s Youth Action Council — a program that gave me leadership opportunities most adults don’t get. I thrived. I learned to lead, collaborate, and contribute to my community in meaningful ways.

And at the heart of all this was our home — always full, always open.
Literally, our front door was rarely closed. Friends, neighbors, and family came and went. We hosted parties, shared meals, and made room for everyone. My childhood bestie, Lacy (shoutout to my forever sister), became family. Mashed potatoes for all.

Now, as I continue to walk through grief, I find myself returning to what mattered most:
I want to make Little Me proud.
I want to give back the way I was poured into.
I want to empower others the way I was empowered.
I want to open my home the way mine was always open.
I want to be surrounded by good people — people who lift each other up.
I want to hobby the way I used to when I was a kid.
I want to grow tomatoes because that’s what my grandpa taught me.
I want to bake because that’s what my mom loved to do.
I want to host gatherings, laugh loud, and love big — because that’s how I was raised.
I want to show up for my town the way my hometown showed up for me.

For so long, I chased the next big thing — the title, the new city, the fresh start. But now, all I really want are my roots.
To shape the world the way it shaped me.
To come home — not just in location, but in purpose.

Why Slowing Down Was the Hardest (and Best) Thing I’ve Ever Done

I grew up in a small town in Northern California. My whole childhood, I couldn’t wait to leave. I’d talk constantly about getting out and moving to a new, different city. And just two months after I turned 18, I did exactly that.

I chased bigger, faster, louder.
First stop: Bend, Oregon. Then Eugene. Then Reno, Nevada.
After six years in Reno, we made our biggest move yet, Phoenix, Arizona.
The big city dream.

I was addicted to the fast pace.
I said yes to every opportunity, side hustles, promotions, new projects, networking events. I craved growth, movement, and momentum. The bigger the city, the more chances to succeed... or so I thought.

And in many ways, it was everything I imagined.
Phoenix had the energy, the opportunity, the hustle.
But it also had something I didn’t expect:
Speed limits that matched the lifestyle — 100mph, all the time.
Quick dinners. Short conversations. Constant motion.
So many people, and yet... so little connection.

Eventually, I realized I wasn’t living — I was racing.
Everything I did felt rushed. Even the things I loved lost their joy in the chaos.

So we made a decision:
Let’s go back to our roots.
We moved back to Northern Nevada: slower, smaller, quieter.
And almost immediately, life shifted.

The literal speed limits dropped.
Strangers waved. Neighbors said hello.
Dinner lasted longer. Coffee dates happened in mugs instead of to-go cups.
We took walks. We chatted with people on the sidewalk. We ate meals outside, without screens.
It felt like a dream. And, honestly, it is the dream.
But embracing it hasn’t been easy.

Sometimes I still ask myself:
Am I doing enough?
Am I falling behind?
Should I be pushing harder?

Here’s what I’ve come to know:
Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up.
It means choosing alignment over urgency.
It means trading burnout for peace.
It means finally hearing yourself again.

And here’s what’s changed since I slowed down:

• My anxiety has quieted.

• I’m sleeping through the night.

• My headaches are gone.

• My soul feels lighter.

• I feel connected — to myself, to others, to life.

For the first time in years, I’m not rushing.
I’m rooted.
I’m fulfilled.
And I’m finally, truly, happy.

Grief Changed Me, And It Made Me a Better Leader

I never expected to find value in my grief. Honestly, during that first year, I woke up every day wishing I could just go back to how things were before I lost my parents. I told myself, “I just want to feel like me again.”

But the truth is, I’ll never be that same person.
Losing my parents changed everything. It cracked something open in me. It reshaped how I think, how I lead, how I live. And it’s still shaping who I’m becoming.

Before grief entered my life, I lived by a pretty unforgiving motto:
“No one cares. Work harder.”

In 2018, I launched a nutrition coaching business and a podcast. My goal was simple: help people feel better. But looking back, I can clearly see that my approach lacked compassion. I was quick to label anything that slowed someone down as an excuse.
Couldn’t work out twice a day? Excuse.
Couldn’t meal prep or eat 100% clean? Excuse.
Struggled to find motivation? Must be lazy.

I didn’t understand why people couldn’t push harder.
Because my own standard was simple: Just do more. Cry if you need to, but don’t stop. Keep moving.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that mindset was rooted in avoidance, in a fear of stillness, in a belief that vulnerability was weakness. That all changed when I lost the two people who had always been my foundation.

Grief gave me a different lens.
Once you’ve experienced real loss, you begin to see the world in a new shade. It’s like putting on glasses you can’t take off. Everything looks different, especially the people around you. Especially how they move through their own hard things.

The empathy I carry now is something I didn’t have before. And it’s fundamentally changed how I show up as a leader.

Now, let me be clear, this isn’t about lowering standards or avoiding accountability.
You can be a strong, results-driven leader and lead with empathy.
In fact, I believe you’ll be more effective when you do.

Empathetic leadership looks like:

• Listening — not to respond, but to truly understand
  
  

• Being present — especially when your team is overwhelmed
  
  

• Holding space — without judgment or shame
  
  

• Recognizing humanity — even when the pressure is on
  
  

People don’t stop being human when they walk into a meeting, log into a Zoom call, or miss a deadline. The old version of me would’ve said, “Buck up. Keep moving.”
Now, I pause. I ask questions. I help them re-prioritize.
Because that’s what I wish someone would’ve done for me when the weight of life was too heavy to carry alone.

Grief softened me. It humbled me.
And most of all, it reminded me that we lead people — not machines.

For a long time, I thought I had to hide my grief to be seen as strong.
I believed that if I showed up with red eyes or a heavy heart, it would make people uncomfortable. That if I let my pain be visible, I’d lose credibility, or worse, respect. Until I started grieving out loud.  Here’s what I know now:

Grief doesn’t make you weak. Hiding it does.
There is immense power in showing up as your full self, even when your heart is cracked wide open.

As leaders, we often feel pressure to keep it all together, to present as polished, steady, and unshakable. But people don’t connect with perfection.
They connect with real.
And there is nothing more real than walking through grief and still showing up, leading with integrity, compassion, and heart.

Being a leader with grief doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’ve lived. It means you understand loss, and with that comes a deeper understanding of what matters — connection, presence, empathy, and truth.

Authentic leadership means letting people see you, really see you, even when you’re still healing.
Especially then.

So no, I don’t hide my grief anymore.
I carry it. I lead with it. I let it soften my edges without stealing my strength.
Because the most powerful leaders I know aren’t the ones who pretend they’re invincible, they’re the ones who show up with courage, even when it hurts.

And that’s the kind of leader I’m becoming.
Grief and all.

So if you’re leading anyone, a team, a business, a community, even yourself, I encourage you to lean into the kind of leadership that listens, supports, and sees the whole human. You don’t lose your edge by being empathetic.
You earn trust.
You create safety.
You lead in a way that lasts.

And that, to me, is what real leadership looks like.