Redefining Success (in the middle of a mess)

Starting your own business — especially one rooted in purpose, intuition, and service — is not a clean or linear process. It’s not inspiring quotes and tidy milestones. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s full of moments where you wonder if you’ve completely lost your mind for trying.

It’s waking up some days feeling deeply aligned… and other days feeling terrified you’ve made a mistake.
It’s hope and fear blending together so tightly you can’t always tell which one is driving.
It’s trusting a calling while simultaneously questioning whether trusting yourself is irresponsible.

This work has asked more of me than I expected — emotionally, spiritually, financially. It has asked me to sit with uncertainty longer than I’d like, to stay present when there are no guarantees, and to keep showing up even when confidence feels fragile or absent altogether.

Confidence, I’ve learned, doesn’t arrive boldly. It builds quietly — through perseverance, discomfort, and the willingness to stay in the arena when it would be easier to retreat. It’s not about having answers. It’s about continuing anyway.

And then, just before Christmas, everything shifted.

We lost Sara — our oldest dog — just shy of her 13th birthday.

She had survived cancer twice before. A major liver lobectomy nearly two years ago gave us what felt like borrowed time — two more beautiful years we never expected. When another tumor appeared in her mouth, we scheduled surgery with cautious hope. But within days, it spread aggressively to her nasal cavity and then returned again in her mouth. This time, it wasn’t operable.

For the first time, I found myself preparing to transition one of my own animals while also being an animal communicator.

Nothing about that was easy.

And yet — it was one of the most sacred experiences of my life.

We were given two weeks of hospice care with Sara at home. During that time, I was able to check in with her daily — about her pain, her comfort, her wishes. She told us what foods she wanted to enjoy one more time. She chose the day she was ready. She chose where in the house she wanted to transition. She shared what transitioning meant to her — not as an ending, but as a return.

She spoke of a reflection period. Of rest. Of when she would be available to visit us again in Spirit. Of how connection doesn’t disappear — it simply changes form. She reminded us that we could always check in, say hello, tell her we love her, tell her we miss her.

That didn’t make the grief easier — but it made it gentler.

It changed how our family walked through loss. It changed how I understand death. And it changed how deeply I trust this work.

Being an animal communicator did not spare me from heartbreak. But it gave us clarity, peace, and agency in a moment that could have been chaotic and traumatic. It allowed Sara’s transition to be intentional, loving, and deeply hers.

After she passed, I felt an undeniable pull to write.

Not polished lessons. Not tidy takeaways. But the real moments — the ones that crack you open, humble you, and quietly change you forever. The moments in animal communication that don’t always fit into a session recap or social media post, but linger in your body and your heart long after.

This blog is a space for those moments.

It’s not about having it figured out. It’s about staying present in the mess. About honoring the fear and the beauty. About sharing what feels too real to keep silent.

Growth isn’t clean. Purpose isn’t tidy. Love doesn’t end neatly.

But it is meaningful.

And I’m grateful you’re here.