For so long I have had fears that things would never really go well. Now I find myself in fear even when they are going well.

Of course, I’m excited by the new growth from a new book. Still another part of me is afraid and hides in the corner, sucking on a strand of her hair, whispering hoarsely, “This might all go away. Don’t get attached to good. This might just be a little bump or moment of luck. Don’t get used to it.”

There is truth to that, and of course my inner critic points to things like low numbers at one event or a bigger podcast that didn’t come through. “You’re still failing,” it says with hot pickled breath. Always this pained companion paints hideous pictures and it’s easy to start seeing life that way. There’s a well-worn groove in my brain from years of choosing this thought pattern. It feels awful and natural at the same time.

It takes work to remind myself that I can have good things and that they can lead to more good things. I am working at staying present. Staying available to every bit of my journey. Not predicting this or that. Not losing my head. Not staying in my head either. Staying present. Following the fireflies of faith that got me here.

A friend of mine reminds me, “If you try to hold on to the flow, you stop it in its tracks. Open your hands. You got here by surrendering. Keep trusting and surrendering.” I know she’s right. But I don’t want to be mature or enlightened. I want to be guaranteed. But that’s not on the menu. There is no menu.

Here’s what I do know. The good things might go away. A few already have. But I am already changed. The calla lily that has sprung from the bud won’t be a bud again.

Because some of those moments I experienced showed me, I am on my right path. I could feel it. My heart thrummed to this mantra: I know I’m on my path. I know I’m on my path. Yes, my circumstances can and will change, but I’ve already experienced the feeling of my own inner authority. I’ve teemed with the strength of a river in spring, snapping with fresh run off from the mountains. That feeling has altered me.

It takes faith to jump into your faith.
But then the jump gives you more faith. It’s a muscle that gets built.

In Learning to Trust Yourself, I talk about cultivating “a love leap,” a greater commitment to your own truth. In the book I describe taking “my casual interest in faith and self-actualization and going deeper, going truer and going all the way… second guessing myself wasn’t helping me. It was keeping me from going deeper into my best life.” I can’t think of anything more important for any of us to do right now than to listen to our own instincts…especially now, in changing times.

My love leap? I’m putting my faith in faith. Not in any one event or number of mood or situation. I’m saying yes to what feels like yes, and I am putting my faith in knowing there will always be a yes somewhere at some time. I am not looking for “the plan.” I am the plan. I am healing old patterns and arriving in a world that has always awaited me.

The days of playing it safe— might not be safe anymore. I think we are being asked, one way or another, to step into our birthright powers.

All I can say is run towards love. Write your books. Start dating again. Become a political activist. Take that trip to Thailand. This life is short. And yet it’s wide, wide, wide, open at times. I understand how out of control it can feel to follow your heart instead of old conditioning. But maybe all that “control” never really gave us the certainty we’ve craved forever.

When you find a scent with your name on it, follow it. Honor it. Treat it like a celestial ambassador because engaging with your truth will lift you out of ordinary time and understanding. Being inspired is a transformation. This is not a thinking thing. This is a faith walk. One that offers you the kind of results you’ve always ached for.

I hope to see some of you on the road. My road. And yours.