Over the past week, I’ve been living inside a kind of shock I didn’t see coming.

The sudden death of a close friend has shaken me deeply. There have been moments of grief that caught me off guard—raw, uncontainable, and very human. It’s also brought a layer of uncertainty I wasn’t planning for, including some practical questions about the future of my work that simply don’t have answers yet. The waiting itself has been hard.

Before this, I was standing at the edge of an exciting expansion. Big creative plans. A long runway of books, workshops, collaborations, and community-building ahead. I still hold that vision—but now I’m holding it while grieving, and while navigating uncertainty I didn’t choose.

I’m aware—painfully and clearly—that I don’t get to step out of integrity just because life is demanding more of me. Whether I like it or not, I’m modeling something for the people who find their way here. And if I’m honest, part of me wishes I could do this part privately, regroup quietly, and return only when I feel fully steady again.

That isn’t the season I’m in.

So instead, I’m doing what I actually teach.

I take what space I need—sometimes just minutes at a time—to feel what’s real. I ground. I breathe. And then I return to the work in front of me. Not heroically. Not perfectly. But honestly.

Some of this processing happens below the surface. My dreams have been vivid—images of losing my cane, of trying to move without support, of not quite knowing how to function in familiar terrain. I don’t think those symbols need much interpretation. They’re simply telling the truth.

All of this is happening inside a larger context we’re all living in. Collective instability. Old systems failing. Power being contested. People trying to build something more humane while still surviving what exists. None of this is abstract to me. It’s personal. And it’s shared.

One of my core commitments—long before this moment—has been to serve as an island of coherence during times of upheaval. A place where growth doesn’t require collapse, and truth doesn’t require cruelty. Right now, I’ll be honest: I don’t always feel up to that task. And that realization has its own weight.

So I’m not doing this alone.

I’m beginning to reach out to a small circle of trusted allies—people who are seasoned, steady, and deeply familiar with navigating change while still tending to their own healing. In time, some of those voices may become part of how I share and serve going forward. I’ll say more when that picture is clearer.

For now, I simply wanted to name where I am.

If you’re walking through your own version of grief, uncertainty, or reorientation, you’re not doing it wrong. This is what it looks like to keep choosing coherence when conditions aren’t kind.

And if you feel called to support this work—energetically, materially, or simply by staying present—I receive that with gratitude. This is how we get through storms like these.

Together.

If my writing has helped steady you before, Lessons From the Edge remains an open door.

It’s for those moments when you know you need clarity, agency, and compassion—without judgement.

Some seasons ask us to walk without clear sight—and to keep going anyway.