“There’s nothing more daring than showing up, putting ourselves out there and letting ourselves be seen.”
— Brené Brown
In 2013, I had a moment that cracked my heart wide open. Not the kind of moment that whispers gently, but the kind that grabs you by the shoulders, looks you straight in the eyes, and says, “You’re not going back to who you were.”
That moment began with a choice to raise my hand.
I was at a conference in Pasadena called I Can Do It—a weekend packed with talks on personal growth, soul work, and courage. During one workshop, a speaker stood on stage and asked a question that froze the room still:
“Who here has really been through something?”
And then, with a half-smile, he added, “I need to find the most messed up person in this room.”
Something about the way he said it made me laugh. Not because it was funny—but because it hit too close. In a sea of hands, I raised mine… and he picked me.
I guess he found her.
I stepped to the front of the room with trembling hands and a pounding heart. But this wasn’t a performance. This was real. Years earlier, while studying acting, I’d learned that true connection—the kind that brings people to tears and cracks their souls open—comes not from pretending, but from being fully seen. That was the only reason I said yes. I believed in that kind of honesty. I still do.
And so, for thirty long, tender minutes… I laid myself bare.
I talked about the day I jumped—50 feet down into a storm drain. About the suicide attempt that shattered my spine and both my ankles. I had never told a group of strangers any of this before. As the words left my lips, I felt like I was undressing my soul in front of them. By the time I was done, the only thing left on me was skin.
And yet… I stayed. I stayed there in the rawness. Not because I wasn’t afraid, but because I knew someone else in that room needed to see what healing looked like when it was still messy, still tender, still unfolding.
I spoke about why I’m still here.
How pain has shaped me—but never defined me.
How I believe my mission is to help others make something beautiful out of their broken pieces.
How I hope that if I have the courage to speak my truth… maybe, just maybe, someone else will too.
There was silence when I finished. And then came the music.
Alicia Keys’ “This Girl Is on Fire” began playing through the speakers as tears welled in my eyes. The room stood. People clapped. And I—this fragile, open, still-healing version of me—received a standing ovation.
But the applause wasn’t the real healing.
That came after.
People came up to me one by one. They hugged me tightly, told me I was a “soul retriever,” someone who awakens others and brings them back to life. They told me I was brave. That I was meant to coach. That I had to write. That my story changed something in them.
It was overwhelming… but more than that, it was affirming.
I remembered another moment—this time, in a rehab center, learning how to walk again. One afternoon, I joined a few other patients on a visit to the children’s ward. We had jellybeans to give out, little things to spark joy. That’s when we met Kevin.
He was just a boy—four or five years old. Burned in a car fire. We later learned his parents had started the fire intentionally.
We weren’t allowed to give him the jellybeans, so we gave him something else. We told him stories. Encouraged him. Told him about all the things he could grow up to be.
And then, without a word, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
In that moment, I knew we’d touched something far deeper than candy ever could. I often wonder about Kevin. I hope life was kind to him after that. I hope he’s found his fire too.
That day in Pasadena—sharing my story—was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. But it also healed something inside me.
Before I spoke, I braced myself for judgment. I expected the sting of rejection. But instead, I was met with warmth. Understanding. Acceptance.
It made me realize something important:
We’re all just trying to love and be loved.
We all carry stories that weigh heavy on our hearts.
And sometimes, people will surprise you with just how much grace they can give—if you give them the chance.
So here I am. Still scared sometimes. Still uncertain. But braver than I’ve ever been.
This girl is truly on fire. 🔥
✨ Action Nibbles: A Gentle Dare
Want to try a small act of bravery today?
- Think of one part of your story—something personal, honest, maybe a little scary.
- Choose someone safe. Someone who’s earned the right to hear your truth.
- Tell them, “I’d love to share something personal. Would you be open to hearing it?”
- Speak. Breathe. Feel.
- Let the moment unfold.
You don’t have to light up a stage to light up someone’s heart.
Sometimes, just showing up is more than enough.
Clarity Cookies 
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