The Moment You Finally Say the Truth Out Loud | Bonus
This episode is part of The Things We Carry, a solo series shaped by the themes that stay with me after the conversations on The Life Shift.
Today I am talking about the moment you finally say the thing you have been holding in. It is rarely dramatic. It is rarely loud. Most of the time it is a quiet shift in the air. A small release. A truth that has been waiting for you to stop hiding.
In this reflection, I talk about the fear that comes before speaking the truth, the relief that follows, and the slow, steady undoing of shame that happens when you let yourself be seen. Many of us carry invisible weight. We carry the stories we were told to keep quiet. We carry the parts of ourselves we were sure would make people run. But the moment you let someone see the real you, everything changes. Even if it is small. Even if it is messy. Even if your voice shakes.
If you feel yourself inching toward your own line in the sand, I hope this episode helps you feel less alone. You do not have to shout your truth. You do not have to reveal everything at once. You can take one small step. You can whisper the part of your story that wants to be heard. And when you do, you become a little more you.
This is the mini solo series, The Things We Carry. Small moments and themes that keep me thinking way after the conversations on the Life Shift podcast. Over the years, I've heard so many moments and seen lots of patterns in these conversations. And so these solo episodes just kind of give me a chance to sit with the themes and share what maybe they mean. I want to talk about the quiet ways that people rebuild after loss. It's one of those things that we don't really hear about enough, the slow, invisible work of putting life back together when everything feels broken. Jonathan, Sylvia, and upcoming guest Day and their journeys have been echoing kind of in my mind. Jonathan shared how in the weeks after his brother died, he was just trying to survive. And he was barely holding it together, crying in client meetings, asking his family to check on him, knowing the world around him was moving on while he was still sort of suspended in that pain. It hit me how real that is. and how he had to learn to seek out the support that he needed because no one could give it to him by default. The loneliness is heavy. The messiness of grief is constant. Sylvia's story was different, but very connected. She talked about the scars that we carry, the things that change us forever. She lost her son in a way that no parent should have to face. And then she endured trauma that rewired her brain. She described how the grief mended her. instead of it healing her, how she carries strength, courage, adaptability, and resilience inside her. And it was a humbling story to hear. It reminded me that recovery doesn't mean going back to who we were before. It means becoming something new, even if that new self is fragile and a little bit broken. The path is messy, sometimes confusing, and often not a straight line. And that's okay. And Day's way of rebuilding was through art. In the middle of ordinary days making small offerings for friends, a leaf arrangement here, a photo and a note there, it was quiet, personal and gentle. And it reminded me that rebuilding doesn't have to be monumental all the time. Sometimes it's just a small act that we can repeat, a ritual that helps hold the pieces together. The ritual itself can be a form of healing, a way to reclaim some order and meaning when life feels unmoored. All these stories together remind me that grief is not a task that we complete or a mountain to conquer in a beautiful way. It's just a vast landscape that we wander and sometimes we're lost and sometimes we're finding a new path. And I will say I'm still in that landscape myself. Oftentimes, still finding what it means to rebuild over and over. I still don't have the answers. I only know that it takes time and patience and the willingness to be kind to yourself. Sometimes rebuilding means asking for help. Sometimes it means creating new rituals that feel right to you. Sometimes it means letting go of who you thought you'd be and opening up to who you are now. And sometimes it means sitting quietly with your pain, knowing that being present with it is itself an act of courage. So if you're walking through loss right now, notice the quiet ways that you're starting to rebuild. Maybe it's in the small moments you didn't expect, the first time you laugh after a long time, or the way you reach out to a friend even when it's hard. Maybe it's in the routines you set, the self-compassion you show, or just simply giving yourself permission to just be. No timeline, no right way. There's only your way. and it unfolds just as it needs to. And I think that's enough. So notice where your life has shifted, where your line in the sand has been drawn. What does rebuilding look like for you right now in this moment? So thanks for being here, for listening, and truly allowing yourself to be exactly where you are. I think it's the beginning of something new.
