Here’s Where I Am

Journal Entry – May 22, 2025

I’ve always prided myself on being articulate. I know how to say what I need. I know how to be clear, when I’m clear.

But today, I wasn’t. I didn’t know what I needed.

And for the first time, instead of spiraling or shutting down—I just said it:

“I don’t know what I need right now. But here’s where I am.”

That one sentence felt like both a confession and a breakthrough.

It didn’t mean I wasn’t trying. It didn’t mean I wasn’t wise or thoughtful or committed. It meant I was in the middle of something. It meant I was human. It meant I was honest.

I showed up for myself today—not with answers, but with awareness. I named my rhythms and the ways they’ve unraveled. I named the things I’ve done well and the things I’ve abandoned. I named my body, my hormones, my fears around being misunderstood—and I resisted the urge to collapse under the weight of it all.

There is something so mature, so sacred, about not pretending to have a plan when you’re still in the fog.

It doesn’t make me unprepared.

It makes me present.

If someone else is reading this someday—someone who also doesn’t know what they need, someone who also feels like they’re fumbling for words—I hope they know they’re not lost. They’re arriving.

Sometimes, clarity isn’t about knowing the destination.

It’s about being willing to be seen in the wilderness.

Today, I let myself be seen.

I’m not writing this as a subject-matter expert. I’m writing this as someone who’s in it. As someone learning—again and again—that not knowing isn’t failure. It’s part of the cycle.

The problem is, we’ve been taught otherwise.

The world teaches us that clarity only counts when it’s tied to a decision or an outcome.

That unless we have a plan, a goal, or an answer, we must be lost. But that’s not true.

Some of the most sacred clarity comes before the outcome. It lives in the pause, in the noticing, in the honest naming of where we are.

If you find yourself in a season like this—where things feel delayed, unclear, or simply in flux—know that it doesn’t mean you’ve lost your way. It may simply mean you’re in a transition. And transitions are sacred.

Spring isn’t just a season of blooming—it’s a season of becoming. Things shift beneath the surface long before they’re visible. And when clarity hasn’t yet arrived, the best gift you can offer yourself is presence, not pressure.

There’s no shame in not having the answer.

There’s no punishment for needing time.

There is only the invitation to meet yourself right where you are.

This too will shift. This too shall pass.

And when it does, you’ll be stronger for having stayed.

I am a Nourished Leader