Tiny Buddha

Author: Molly Rubesh

  • To the Parent Who’s Stressing About Being Imperfect

    To the Parent Who’s Stressing About Being Imperfect

    “Your greatest contribution to the universe may not be something you do, but someone you raise.” ~Unknown

    Have you ever heard the saying, “Mama knows best” or “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Honestly, who decided that moms should know everything and that the entire emotional balance of the home rests solely on their shoulders? Isn’t Mom a human too? A beautiful soul navigating this life, trying to figure things out just like everyone else? How is it fair that we pile all the pressure onto this one person—the keeper of the schedules, the task doer, the tender space for everyone to fall?

    It’s no wonder the pressure on moms today is sky-high. We carry expectations that are impossible to meet—being nurturing yet productive, selfless yet balanced. And let’s not forget about dads, who often get a bad rap for not doing things “as well as mom.”

    We need to take a step back. Both parents are human. They come into parenting with their own limiting beliefs, inner critics, and childhood wounds. Being a parent doesn’t mean you automatically know what you’re doing.

    I’ll never forget the drive home from the hospital with my first son. I was in the backseat, staring at this tiny human, thinking, “They’re really letting us take him home?”

    It hit me, sitting in that glider in his nursery a few weeks later, that I had no idea what I was doing. I tried reading all the books, hoping the answers were tucked in there somewhere. But even after reading the same chapter of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child at least thirty times, I still felt lost.

    So, I did what felt natural—I called my mom. Surely, she had the answers. But all she said was, “This too shall pass.” At the time, her words made me angry. I didn’t have time for things to pass; I needed solutions. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to realize that she didn’t have all the answers either. None of us do.

    This journey of figuring it out—of reading books, blogs, and consulting my mom—lasted for many years. I wanted so badly to be a good mom. I was a good mom. I loved my kids deeply, left little notes in their lunch boxes, tucked them in at night, and kept them safe with helmets and seatbelts. But as he grew, so did the struggles, and often, so did my fear.

    When my son was in elementary school, he began struggling terribly. At first, I thought maybe he just needed a little extra encouragement. But when he would cry at homework or tear up on our way to school, I knew it was deeper. He would rush through his work just so he could turn in his tests at the same time as the other “smarter” kids. School was overwhelming for him, and it was crushing me to watch.

    Eventually, he was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia, and a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I was relieved to know he had support now, but the meetings, the individualized education programs, the tutoring—all of it weighed on me.

    Sitting in those meetings with teachers and specialists, I’d feel a tightness in my chest and tears spilling over. I wanted him to have an easier path, but I was realizing that I couldn’t just “fix” it. I was the mother, the one who was supposed to protect him, but I was helpless in the face of these challenges he would have to navigate on his own. My heart ached for him, and I often felt ashamed of my own emotional unraveling.

    Reflecting back, I see how much of those tears were for him—and for me. I was spread too thin. Work was overwhelming, my marriage was strained, and I had little left to give. My life felt like a juggling act, and each new challenge threatened to tip the balance. The layers of fear, responsibility, and love were always there, piling up, and I felt the weight of every single one.

    And then came the teenage years. Those years where the stakes felt higher, where choices carried more weight, and where my fear around his decisions—who he spent time with, the roads he might choose—grew even stronger.

    I remember one day, standing in the garage in an argument with him. The tension was thick, and we were both yelling—my fear bursting out as anger. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about; it’s a blur. But the shame and guilt afterward were so clear.

    The truth is, every stage of my son’s life brought forward a new version of myself—a woman, a mother, learning as she went, trying her best to balance it all. My own fear of failure, of not being enough, would surface in unexpected ways. But somewhere along the journey, I realized that my fears and my need for control were driving a wedge between us. And the more I tried to grip tightly, the more I lost sight of the tender love and wonder I wanted to bring into our relationship.

    So, I started working on myself. I went to therapy and hired a coach—not because I was broken, but because I knew I wasn’t showing up as the parent, or the person, I wanted to be.

    Through my healing journey, I learned that my desire to control was rooted in fear—a fear that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, he would somehow slip through the cracks. I feared for his future, that he’d face pain or hardship. But as I began to peel back those layers, I started to see that my fear wasn’t protecting him; it was keeping me from fully loving and trusting him.

    As I did this inner work, something shifted. My approach softened. I wasn’t as reactive or rigid. I found that I could set boundaries from a place of love instead of fear, listen without rushing to fix, and let him make his own choices.

    I became less focused on making sure everything was perfect and more focused on simply being there. I was less afraid, more open—and, truth be told, I began to enjoy life more. I found joy in the little things again, the mundane moments I used to take for granted. And he noticed.

    My children began to see me differently. They told me I was more patient, kinder, and even more fun. This loop of healing—me working on myself, allowing my own growth to ripple into how I showed up for them—created a connection that only grew stronger. The more I invested in myself, the more balanced I felt, and the deeper my love for them became.

    So, what about that old saying, “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Perhaps instead we should say, “No one is happy all the time, but if mom is struggling, she needs time and space to address her own issues, and everyone in the house will benefit.” The same goes for Dad. If he’s checked out, he needs to come back to this one life we’re given. Both parents need to heal, grow, and show up for themselves so they can be there fully for their kids.

    Just like the thermostat in your home, if things are too hot or too cold, you adjust it to find comfort. The same goes for parenting. When we take the time to work on ourselves, we create the right environment—not perfect, but balanced and loving—for our children to thrive.

    It’s never too late to start. Let’s embark on this healing journey together so we can show up as the best parents we can be—not because we have all the answers, but because we’re willing to do the work, grow, and love along the way.

  • Free to Shine: How I’m Rediscovering My Inner Light

    Free to Shine: How I’m Rediscovering My Inner Light

    “When a flower doesn’t bloom, you fix the environment it grows in, not the flower.” ~Alexander Den Heijer

    I remember the girl I used to be. Light, full of life, and constantly in motion—like a little twirl of joy spinning through the house. There was this rhythm inside me, an effortless dance between curiosity and wonder. I’d tap dance through the kitchen, counting how many twirls I could do before I lost my balance.

    The world felt vast, endless, and open. I didn’t just see beauty in big, grand things. I found it in small moments and delicate objects, like that little glass bird on the sofa table, a tiny piece of my world that always felt so fragile, so full of wonder.

    As a child, I never doubted that there was more to life than what I could see. I had this deep connection to the world, to the beauty hidden within it. I would hold that bird in my hands while doing my chores, dusting around it with care. It was simple, transparent, nothing extraordinary, but in my eyes, it shimmered with significance.

    That lightness, that sense of awe, stayed with me for a long time. But somewhere along the way, things started to shift.

    By the time I was in my thirties, I had built a life that looked perfect on the outside. I worked hard to create it. I was meticulous, structured, dedicated. I followed the steps I thought I was supposed to: high-paying corporate job, beautiful house, two kids, vacations—the kind of life people admire.

    On Facebook, we looked like the ideal family, smiling on beaches, posting about our Florida trips, standing in front of our towering house with that sparkling SUV in the driveway. But beneath the surface, I was crumbling.

    The lightness, the sense of wonder that had once danced so freely within me, was gone. I had replaced it with structure, control, and a constant need to keep everything in check.

    I would lie awake at night, my mind spinning with numbers, running the calculations over and over. The debt we had accumulated was crushing, and every bonus I earned was already spent before it even hit the account. I would total up the bills in my head, again and again, hoping that if I recalculated just one more time, the numbers would somehow change, the debt would somehow shrink, but it never did. I was suffocating under the weight of it all.

    On the outside, I kept up the facade. I went to work, managed my family, kept the smile in place. But behind closed doors, I was breaking.

    I’d cry in the shower so no one could hear me. I’d cry in the car, on my way to work, during moments where I was supposed to be “on,” a career woman with it all together. And then at night, after my husband and kids had fallen asleep, I’d lie in bed, silently crying into my pillow, overwhelmed by the crushing realization that despite everything I had built, I was miserable.

    There was a day, driving to work early one morning, when I saw the sun just beginning to rise. The sky was that deep, almost-black shade of pre-dawn, and then, there it was—the light. The same light I had seen thousands of times before, but this time, it hit me differently.

    I remember thinking, At least one day I’ll die. At least one day, I won’t have to feel like this anymore. The idea of my mortality didn’t scare me—it brought me comfort. The idea that this pain, this life that felt like a trap, wouldn’t last forever… it felt like relief.

    In that moment, a quiet truth began to take shape: something had to change. I couldn’t keep living this way, reaching for comfort in places that only deepened my pain. Somewhere, I had lost myself, drifting in an unhappy, unstable marriage, bound by a fear of judgment, a lack of self-worth, and the overwhelming weight of needing to please everyone but myself.

    The thought of leaving felt paralyzing, so I searched for solace anywhere I could find it. In moments of darkness, thoughts of my own mortality, and even fleeting thoughts about my husband’s, seemed to offer a strange sense of release. But I knew these weren’t answers—they were signals of how lost and trapped I had become, craving a way to ease the suffering but not knowing how.

    The truth was, it wasn’t freedom from my life I needed; it was freedom from the suffering within it. What I wanted wasn’t an escape but to find my light again, that part of me that once danced through life, open and filled with joy.

    She was still there, buried beneath years of silence and strain, waiting to be rediscovered. I knew that if I didn’t make a change, I risked losing her—losing myself—forever. And so, that realization became a turning point, a call to rise from within and seek out the light I thought I had lost.

    It took years—therapy, coaching calls, long coffee dates with friends, journaling, crying, and rediscovering who I am—but slowly, I started peeling back the layers. The walls I had built around my heart, the ones I thought were protecting me, were actually suffocating me. Piece by piece, I took them down, and with every wall that crumbled, more light began to shine through.

    Then, I met my now-husband. He wasn’t part of the plan. I had been so focused on fixing myself, on healing, that I didn’t expect to find someone who would see me, truly see me, in the midst of it all. But there he was, with love and patience, willing to walk alongside me on this journey. And with him, I learned to let even more light in.

    But life wasn’t done testing me. After all the healing, all the rebuilding, I lost my dad. His death was like another wall coming down, not in the way the others had fallen—this one was different. It wasn’t a wall I had built, but it was one that kept me tethered to the past, to who I was before.

    Sorting through his things, going through the house I had grown up in, I found that little glass bird. Still intact. After all these years, all the moves, all the changes, that tiny, fragile bird was still there. And I realized something: I’m still here too.

    I had been through so much—divorce, rebuilding, loss—but my light, the one that had been buried for so long, was still there. It had always been there. And now, after all the pain, after all the walls had crumbled, that light was finally free to shine again.

    I am the light. The light that had been hidden, buried under years of expectations and pain, was always within me. And now, after all the healing, all the self-work, I can see it so clearly. The light is me, and it is you. We all have that light within us, no matter how deep it’s buried, no matter how dark it feels. It’s there, waiting for us to let it shine.

    This is your moment. Your light is waiting, just like mine was. It’s always been there, and it always will be. All you have to do is let the walls come down, piece by piece, and watch as your light shines brighter than you ever imagined.

  • Love Isn’t About Being Chosen

    Love Isn’t About Being Chosen

    “Feeling safe in someone’s energy is a different kind of intimacy. That feeling of peace and protection is really underrated.” ~Vanessa Klas

    The first time I said, “I love you” to a romantic partner, I was met with silence.

    Nine months into what I believed was a deep, mutual relationship, I felt certain we were on the same page. But when the words left my mouth, he froze. No words back. No reassurance. Just silence. The next thing I knew, he disappeared for weeks, leaving me sitting in the wreckage of my own vulnerability. I was left questioning everything—why had I shared so much? Why had I opened my heart, only to have it shut down?

    In that silence, I created a story about myself that followed me for years. I convinced myself I wasn’t worthy of being loved in return, that there was something inherently wrong with me. This belief seeped into every relationship afterward. I started waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced love was something I had to earn instead of something I deserved.

    In college, the pattern continued. I dated someone who treated me like a backup plan. The days he chose me were filled with excitement, butterflies, and joy—but those days were few and far between.

    Most of the time, I was left waiting by the phone, hoping to be picked. When he didn’t, I was once again questioning my worth, wondering what I had done wrong. The cycle became so familiar, I didn’t even recognize it anymore.

    What I didn’t realize then was that by showing up in relationships this way—allowing myself to be the back-burner girlfriend, staying timid in my love, my confidence, and my desires—I was teaching others how to treat me. I was telling them, through my actions, that I didn’t expect more, that this was enough. But it wasn’t enough. Deep down, I knew I deserved more, but I didn’t yet believe it.

    I carried these same patterns into my first marriage, thinking if I just worked harder and gave more of myself, maybe, just maybe, he’d love me the way I longed for. But love isn’t about fixing someone, and it certainly isn’t about fixing yourself. Yet for so long, I believed it was. I convinced myself I’d finally be enough if I could just perfect myself, become the ideal partner.

    But after eleven years, I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my joy for a relationship that wasn’t right, so I left—not because I had all the answers, but because I knew I couldn’t stay.

    It wasn’t until I found myself in my therapist’s office after my divorce that things began to shift. I thought I needed to fix what had been broken in me by my ex-husband, that my brokenness was why love had failed.

    One day, I walked into therapy, slapped my hands on my thighs, and cheerfully exclaimed, “I just want to be happy!” Who was I kidding? I treated happiness like a box to be checked off, a goal to master. But my therapist, in her quiet wisdom, simply said, “It doesn’t work that way.”

    I was furious—triggered even. How dare she tell me it wasn’t that simple? But deep down, I knew she was right.

    You can’t force your way into happiness, and you can’t fake your way into feeling whole. I had spent so much of my life trying to fix others and mold myself into someone worthy of love that I hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe I was already enough. But I had to understand why I kept showing up in relationships with people who couldn’t love me in return.

    Why was I choosing emotionally unavailable men? Why was I so convinced that I was the problem?

    I see these patterns in myself and in many others. One of my clients once sat across from me and said, “Molly, I’m a hard woman to love.” Those words stuck with me. I could see the weight of that belief in her eyes—the years she’d spent carrying it.

    I asked her, “When did you decide that? When did you start believing you were hard to love?”

    She paused, and we began to dig into her story. There were moments when she hadn’t been chosen, when she felt she had to earn love through perfection and pleasing others. She brought that belief into her marriage, shaping how she showed up. She was defensive, always expecting rejection, and that created a wall between her and her partner.

    It was a self-fulfilling prophecy—believing she was hard to love made it so. Through her healing, she realized she wasn’t hard to love; she was lovable just as she was.

    Her story mirrored my own. I had spent so many years believing I had to earn love and prove my worth. In doing so, I allowed relationships that were far from what I truly wanted. I didn’t know it at the time, but by being the back-burner girlfriend and staying small in my desires, I was setting the standard for how I would be treated. I was telling myself and others I didn’t deserve more.

    But here’s the truth: we are all worthy of love. Not because of what we do, not because of how perfect we are, but simply because we are.

    That realization didn’t come easily for me. It took years of peeling back the layers of limiting beliefs and asking why I kept settling for less. But when I finally understood that I was worthy of deep, committed love, everything changed.

    After my divorce, I made a promise to myself. I wasn’t going to settle again. I sat down and wrote a list of twenty-two things I wanted in a partner. Not because I was trying to create an impossible checklist, but because I needed to get clear on what I truly valued. I needed to hold myself accountable so that I wouldn’t fall back into old patterns.

    That list became a reminder of my worth, a reflection of what I deserved. I had to hold myself to this to be sure that I didn’t somehow convince myself that four out of twenty-two would do.

    Then, I finally met my current husband.

    We met in our local grocery store. I kept passing him in the aisles and finally got up enough courage to stop him in the cleaning aisle, of all places. We small-talked for a few minutes, and I walked away both equally excited and embarrassed about my boldness.

    We had both been through divorce, so we cautiously entered this new relationship, but before long, we were building something real. Something grounded in truth, in mutual respect, in love that didn’t feel like work. And as we grew closer, we began to heal—both individually and together. He wasn’t perfect, and neither was I. But what we had was real, and that was deeply beautiful.

    I remember one moment in particular, early in our relationship. He suggested that I start weight training, and immediately, I felt defensive. The old story came rushing back: “He thinks I’m not enough. He doesn’t like the way I look.

    But instead of letting that story spiral, I did something different. I took a lesson from the beautiful author Brené Brown and told him, “The story I’m telling myself is that you don’t like my body.”

    His response? Pure love. He reassured me that it wasn’t about my appearance at all; he had recently listened to a podcast about women’s bone health and the benefits of weight training. He was thinking from a place of love about my long-term health and our future together.

    That conversation could have gone a completely different way if we hadn’t chosen to be vulnerable, to trust each other enough to speak our truths. It could have gone differently if I had let my narrative spiral and never opened up the discussion.

    That’s what real love is. It can be messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s also so easy—when it’s right, it doesn’t feel hard. The beauty is in the vulnerability. The beauty is in realizing that the hurt we’ve carried and the walls we’ve built weren’t ever really about us, and that journey is what brought us together.

    The back burner, the infidelity, the lies, the waiting to be chosen—that was never about me. It was about them. It was about their journey, their walls, and their fears. And once I understood that, I was free. Free to love without holding back. Free to accept the love I had always deserved.

    If you’re reading this and you’ve felt that same sting of rejection, that same pattern of being put second, I want you to know this: It’s not about something you’re lacking. It never was. The hurt you’ve experienced doesn’t define you. You are not unlovable. You are not broken. You are worthy of a love that sees you fully, that cherishes every part of you.

    But first, you must see it in yourself. You have to believe that you deserve more. You have to make that list—whether it’s twenty-two things or just one—and hold yourself to it. Not because you’re waiting for someone to complete you, but because you know you are already complete, and you want to share your amazing life with someone.

    And when that love comes, it will be everything you’ve been waiting for. Not perfect, but real. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

    Because love—real love—isn’t about being chosen. It’s about choosing yourself first. And when you do that, everything else falls into place.

  • The Truth Behind Imposter Syndrome: What It’s Really About

    The Truth Behind Imposter Syndrome: What It’s Really About

    “We are who we believe we are.” ~C.S. Lewis

    Have you ever caught yourself hiding behind the term “imposter syndrome”? I know I have—more times than I’d like to admit.

    We hear the phrase so often now, and it’s almost become a catch-all for our fears, doubts, and insecurities. But what if I told you that imposter syndrome isn’t what you think it is? What if it’s something deeper that has been with you far longer than your career or the roles you play in your life?

    Let me take you on a journey that may mirror your own. It starts in a place many of us know well: childhood.

    My first taste of feeling “less than” came early, in the first grade, at a Catholic elementary school in Lawrence, Kansas.

    I remember sitting on the gray carpet in a circle with my classmates, already feeling small and unsure. A boy named AJ, whose words still echo in my mind, said, “Take off your mask.” I was too young to understand what he meant, but my insecure little heart decided it was a comment on my appearance. Was my face not good enough? Did I need a mask to hide behind?

    I was already feeling uncertain about myself when my teacher called on me to spell the word “bowl.” Such a simple word, but in that moment, it felt like an impossible challenge.

    My heart raced as I struggled to find the letters, and as the giggles of my peers filled the air, I turned fire-engine red, shrinking into myself.

    The harder I tried to hide, the redder and more embarrassed I became. I don’t remember how long it took for the teacher to move to another student, but I do remember hearing a deep message from within. The message was clear: I was “dumb…and maybe ugly.” This moment became a cornerstone in the foundation of my self-belief.

    Years later, as a junior in high school, I moved from Kansas to Cleveland. Moving across the country in the middle of high school rocked my world.

    The new school was enormous, so vast that I felt like a speck, unseen and invisible. My insecurities, which had been nurtured since that day in first grade, came flooding back.

    Wearing cut-off jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and sandals—a perfectly acceptable Kansas high school outfit—I found myself just trying to survive in this new world, where the girls dressed like they were straight out of a scene from the nineties film Clueless. I felt like I didn’t belong.

    One day in math class, the teacher, Mr. Dillon, called on me. The question was simple, but I froze. My mind went blank, overwhelmed by the pressure to fit in, to be seen by the kids in the class, and to make friends. I couldn’t speak.

    As I sat there looking at him, his words stung: “Did you even pass the third grade?”

    I wanted to disappear, to escape the burning embarrassment that filled my cheeks and the tears that welled up in my eyes.

    The classroom fell silent as his words hung in the air, and I could feel every pair of eyes on me. In that moment, all I could feel was judgment. I wanted to be noticed, but not in this way. Once again, I was “dumb,” and once again, I shrank.

    These moments, though small in the grand narrative of life, became monumental in shaping who I believed I was. I withdrew, rarely raising my hand, counting the kids in front of me, then the paragraphs in novels so I could rehearse my lines and avoid any chance of being caught off guard.

    I wouldn’t listen to the world around me; I only practiced my own words, desperately clinging to the hope that I wouldn’t expose my perceived inadequacies.

    I learned that if I raised my hand for the thing I knew, then maybe I could stay quiet for the things I didn’t. I adapted. I stayed small, blending into the background, fearful of being noticed, fearful of being labeled “dumb” once again.

    But life has a funny way of unfolding. Despite this deeply ingrained belief that I wasn’t smart enough, I found proof that I was, in fact, not dumb.

    I ended up finding success when I least expected it. Fresh out of college, I landed a sales job and, without even realizing it, became the top sales account rep in the nation. I didn’t even know there was a ranking system!

    Then, in my next role, I was named “Rookie of the Year,” again, to my surprise. It wasn’t because I had set out with grand ambitions—far from it. I was simply doing my best, without the burden of expectations or the fear of failure weighing me down.

    If I had known about these accolades ahead of time, I’m certain I would have sabotaged myself, convinced that someone like me could never achieve such success. The labels I had adopted as a child were still there, lurking in the background, ready to pull me down.

    But what I didn’t realize then is that those labels, those beliefs, were never truly mine. They were the words of others, handed to me and accepted without question. They became part of my internal belief system, shaping how I saw myself at my core.

    Recently, I had lunch with a dear friend, a woman who has built an incredible business and dedicated her life to empowering young girls. She’s someone I deeply admire. When I asked her, “What’s next for you?” she paused and said, “I know where I want to go, but imposter syndrome is holding me back.”

    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Here was a woman who had created a thriving business and positively impacted thousands of lives, yet she was still questioning herself. I had to dig deeper. When I asked her what she felt underneath, she paused again and said, “I’m a loser.”

    There it was—the truth. It wasn’t imposter syndrome at all. It was an old belief, planted in her childhood, that had never fully healed.

    She shared how she had struggled in school, how she had been held back in third grade, and how she had defied her parents’ expectations. Despite all her success, she still believed she was a “loser.”

    And isn’t that the case for so many of us? We use the term “imposter syndrome” to describe the fear of being exposed, but we hide behind old, unhealed wounds. We’re looking for ways to stay safe and avoid stepping into our true power because, deep down, we still believe the lies we were told as children.

    It’s taken nearly a decade of healing to finally understand that the labels we place on ourselves are often the very things holding us back. It’s not the opinions of others, our circumstances, or our environment—it’s our own internal belief system. This belief system, which shapes how we see ourselves at our core, is often clouded by the layers of hurt, fear, and insecurity that we’ve accumulated over the years.

    Peeling back these layers is hard work. It requires a willingness to confront the parts of ourselves that we’ve hidden away and to question the narratives we’ve accepted as truth. But beneath those layers lies our truest self—the self that is brave, smart, strong, and so much more.

    So, I ask you: Who would you be if the world hadn’t told you who they think you are? What would you do if you let go of the labels and embraced the truth of who you are at your core?

    I’ve come to forgive those who labeled me as “dumb”—for I know now that it wasn’t their truest selves speaking. It was their own layers of pain, their own insecurities, projecting onto me. And I forgive myself for believing them and for carrying their words with me for so long.

    This is a loving call to action, a call to get curious about your true self. Your soul has a purpose, and your truest self has so much to offer the world. I know it may seem like another motivational blog, but it’s so much more than that. This is me urging you to look deeper, find your truth, and don’t believe everything you think!

    Somewhere within you are beliefs that are not true, and if you release them, you can feel lighter and more open and see the abundance waiting for you. Don’t let the labels and layers hold you back any longer. Peel them away, one by one, and step into the fullness of who you are meant to be.

    You are not the beliefs that others have placed upon you. You are so much more. It’s time to stop believing your beliefs and start believing in yourself.

  • The Dangers of Safety and How to Live Fully

    The Dangers of Safety and How to Live Fully

    “A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what a ship is built for.” ~John Augustus Shedd

    Growing up in the Midwest in a traditional family steeped in Catholic values, safety was paramount. We adhered to conventional roles: father, mother, brother, and sister, with me as the baby sister.

    My parents were loving, but my mom parented through a lens of fear, constantly worrying about potential dangers. This fierce protection was a testament to her love, yet it ingrained in me the belief that taking the safe route was the only way to navigate life.

    One day, when I didn’t get off the bus because I went to a track meet after school, I was met with a sobbing woman when I got home an hour late. Now, as a mother, I can fully understand this. It was long before cell phones, but she taught me early on that safety was my priority, and I never wanted her to be scared for me again.

    In the Midwest, the traditional path is clear: go to school, come home, play outside with friends, graduate from high school, stay close for college, meet a partner, get married, and have kids. This is the safe plan. The thought of deviating from this path—being thirty, unmarried, or childless—was paralyzing.

    What if I didn’t follow the script? What if I dared to be brave and bold and leave the familiar zip code? What if I yearned for non-traditional roles and longed to explore the world? Who could I have become if I had let my heart lead instead of my fears?

    Safety is a universal desire. We plan for financial security, choose safe neighborhoods, and follow predictable paths. As a coach, I see this pattern repeatedly. Clients stay in marriages longer than they should out of fear of the unknown. They stick with toxic friends or jobs, fearing how their lives might change if they let go.

    This fear surfaces when people want to leave their industry or start their own business, worrying they are too old or lack the skills to succeed independently. Consequently, they live quiet, safe lives, confined by a small glass box that keeps them stuck.

    What if we were taught and supported early on to stretch beyond our comfort zones? To make brave decisions? To put ourselves out there, even at the risk of failing? We could maintain the safety net of “you’re always welcome at home, and home is safe” while also encouraging bold steps—go play, go away to school, travel the world. I often wonder who I would be if I had learned this lesson earlier.

    I followed the traditional plan to a T. I did what was expected and what was safe. I attended a nearby college, graduated, got a job, met a man, got married, and had two children—a boy and a girl. I thrived in business, got promoted, bought a house, and built another. I followed the rules and fit right in. I made friends and, by all accounts, was successful, checking all the boxes.

    But I was in an unhappy marriage, and things on the inside did not reflect the outside. Divorce wasn’t part of the plan. There wasn’t a checkbox for it, so I stayed. It wasn’t until my husband said, “You won’t divorce me, hotshot,” that I decided to let go of the checkbox and let myself take the reins of my life.

    I vividly remember sitting there with a racing heart, feeling like it would beat out of my chest. Did he call me “hotshot?” about our lives?

    The thing is, he was trying to call my bluff. I told him I was unhappy that the years of pain had finally caught up with us, but he knew, or at least he thought, that I would never leave. Because I followed the rules, he felt that we could continue the same abusive path that we had been on for a decade because I would not veer from the good girl path.

    This time, I boldly made the change. I called the lawyer and started the process of filing for divorce. This started my seven-year journey of trying to come back to who I am at my core. What do I want in my life, and am I living for my heart or out of fear?

    Only when I allowed myself to step outside the lines did I truly start living. I feared what others would think, but how could I continue living based on others’ expectations and not on what I wanted for myself? I took the brave step to file for divorce.

    This fear of judgment resurfaced when I wanted to leave my high-income corporate sales job to start my own business.

    I had just started with a company a few months earlier, went through training, and knew this wasn’t going to be a long-term fit. I hated corporate culture and the made-up rules that went along with it. We were governed by rules created out of fear. I knew I wasn’t going to survive in this role. But quitting after I just started was scary, and I agonized over what others would think.

    I knew I wanted to do something so much more, with deeper meaning, with the possibility of helping others. But this, again, was not something that was on the checklist. Start a business? Become a coach? What the heck is a coach anyway? Will people make fun of me behind my back? That thought made me want to play small.

    I explored every possible way to succeed without sharing my plans with those who knew me. Again, there wasn’t a checkbox for this. But I did it anyway.

    Looking back, I realize that staying small in my life has hurt me. I got married before I was ready, remained in a marriage longer than I should have, and worked corporate jobs with chauvinistic men who I wouldn’t say I liked because that is what I was supposed to do.

    My house was pretty, my Facebook pictures looked happy, and my salary grew. By all external accounts, I was a success. But these come at their own costs. Playing safe has confined me, limited my potential, and stifled my dreams.

    I have learned that safety, while comforting, can be dangerous. It can keep us from truly living, experiencing the fullness of life, and discovering who we are meant to be.

    So, I urge you to leap. Be brave. Step out of your comfort zone. Embrace the unknown.

    We are all given one chance here on this earth, and we spend it playing safe. What a shame not to allow your beautiful visions to become a reality. Safety may protect us, but it can also hold us back.

    Let go of the fear and let your heart lead the way. You might stumble, you might fall, but you will also soar. And in the end, you will find that the dangers of safety are far greater than the risks of living boldly.