I was sitting on my floor, surrounded by winter jackets and boots. Parka, fleece, insulated puffers, short boots, tall boots, waterproof and insulated, waterproof and not insulated—all staring back at me like a test I hadn't studied for. I was failing!

What kind of jacket did I actually need? What length? Hood or no hood? I loved jackets, but this wasn't fun anymore. This was overwhelm dressed up as a shopping trip.

I'd just moved to Bend, Oregon, from the Bay Area. After 27 years of mild winters and a life built around work and productivity, I'd chosen something different: a place with real seasons, slower rhythms, and—I was quickly learning—a lot I didn't know.

That moment on the floor, drowning in Gore-Tex options, was about more than jackets. It was about realizing I'd spent decades living in a comfort zone my soul had outgrown.

The Wake-Up Call I Didn't Ask For

Years before winter shopping overwhelm, my body staged an intervention.

For months, I barely slept. Two, maybe three hours a night. Then came the exhaustion—the kind where walking to the mailbox felt impossible. I spent entire days on the couch, a shell of myself. It took two to three years to find my way back to solid ground.

The doctors labeled it adrenal dysfunction. My body called it something else: a referendum on how I was living.

I thought I'd been taking care of myself. I worked out, watched my diet, tried to sleep—all under the guise of health, but really it was perpetual dissatisfaction with my weight and body. Underneath all that supposed self-care, I was running on empty. Working too much. Working out in high-cortisol states stressed my body further. Isolating instead of connecting. Moving forward in my career while moving away from myself.

Then came the losses that changed everything. Nicole first—a friend I'd lost touch with, gone too soon to cancer. Then Trista, my dearest friend. We'd texted almost daily, hung out every week. Suddenly, she was gone too. In a daring turn, I left my corporate job, determined to be an independent coach. I was lost and unhappy.

Life, it turned out, was short. And I was living mine in regret.

What Living Out of Season Looked Like

Before the breakdown and the grief rewired me, I was doing what I was supposed to do. Progressing. Learning. Growing. I'd even done the therapy work, made big shifts, and worked to forgive my parents. From the outside, it probably looked like I had it together.

But inside, I was coping. Surviving. Living in a constant state of low-level malaise that I escaped with Netflix binges and late-night sweet treats. Working for hours with no breaks, not listening when my nervous system begged for rest. Staying home instead of connecting with people. Pushing through workouts while fasting, adding stress to an already maxed-out system.

None of it was bad, exactly. I didn't feel alive.

I'd finished a month-long coach training, ready and scared to pursue new interests, and then my body said: No. Not like this. Not anymore.

The Shift: Learning What My Body Already Knew

So I listened.

Recovery wasn't linear. It was slow, uncertain, and often frustrating. But somewhere in those long months, I started paying attention differently.

I noticed the seasons—not just outside my window, but inside my life. My monthly cycle as a woman. The rhythms of a single day. The way some seasons asked me to push forward and others asked me to rest.

I realized that being healthy and practicing self-care was something completely different than I'd thought. It wasn't about optimization or doing more. It was about being present to life. About aligning with what was actually true, not what I thought should be true.

I looked back at all my journeys to find myself, to find purpose, to listen to my intuition. And I saw clearly: they'd been leading me here. To this moment. To this choice. To Bend.

What Living in Season Looks Like Now

After the move to Bend, after letting go of the fears—that I couldn't start again at my age and single, that I wouldn't find work or friends or figure out how to live in snow—I made a different kind of commitment.

I chose courage. I leaped. And I showed up.

Now, living in season means I pay attention to where I am in my cycle and match my work to my energy. After two hours of focused work, I raise my desk, move around, and drink water. I end my workdays before dinner, leaving evenings open to dream, create, and connect.

I'm in bed by 8:30 and asleep by 9 because my body loves mornings. I still work out, but now I do it in connection with what my nervous system can handle. On hard days—the ones that leave me rattled or raw—I know what I need to digest it all, let it go, and move forward.

I listen to my body when it asks me to move, stretch, stand, or rest. I take a day of silence each month to reset. I have weekly and monthly reflection rituals that help me stay attuned to my own internal weather.

When I'm angry, I dance or sit in my car and scream. When I'm sad, I walk. I give my emotions room to move through me instead of stuffing them down with distractions.

This isn't about perfection. It's about presence. About knowing where I am and what I need, and giving myself permission to honor both.

Why Living in Season—Both Kinds

That evening taught me something important: there are two kinds of seasons we need to prepare for.

There's the literal kind—the weather, the climate, the shift from mild Bay Area winters to snow and ice and single-digit temperatures. That kind of season requires practical knowledge: what jacket to buy, how to layer clothes, how to drive on ice without skidding.

And then there's the other kind—the season of your life. The transitions. The changes. The moments when everything shifts and you're sitting on the floor, surrounded by choices, trying to find yourself, unsure which way is forward.

Both kinds need preparation. Both require us to show up with curiosity instead of fear. And both offer gifts when we learn to move with them instead of against them.

The dream of Living in Season was born. An offering to help navigate both.

The Invitation

Maybe you're preparing for your first real winter. Maybe you're facing a different kind of transition—a move, a career shift, a life change that's left you feeling underprepared and overwhelmed.

Maybe you've been coping and numbing out for years, and something inside you is whispering that there's another way.

If something's bothering you, that's your soul trying to get your attention. That discomfort, that restlessness, that sense that you're living out of sync with yourself—it's not a flaw. It's information.

You don't have to figure it out alone. You don't have to keep surviving when you could be thriving.

I've been where you are—overwhelmed, underprepared, wondering if I was too old or too late to start again. And I've learned that the seasons—both the literal and the metaphorical ones—are some of our greatest teachers.

They show us when to grow and when to rest. When to prepare and when to surrender. When to push forward and when to pull inward.

Living in Season is about learning to move with grace through all of it.

What's Next

This is just the beginning. Each season has something to teach us, something to offer us, if we're willing to pay attention.

I'll be sharing both the practical wisdom—the how-tos, the checklists, the gear guides—and the reflective questions that help you navigate the inner landscape of transition.

My first offering, Thriving Through Winter: Seasonal Guide, is a comprehensive guide to preparing for cold, dark months with both practical skills and emotional resilience. It's everything I wish I'd known that night in my living room, and everything I've learned since about not just surviving winter, but welcoming it.

But this work extends beyond winter. It's about learning to live in rhythm with your own seasons. About finding your way home to yourself, one transition at a time.

I invite you to join me on this journey. Subscribe to The Season You're In newsletter, where I share seasonal reflections, practical guidance, and the permission-giving wisdom we all need to hear.

And if you're preparing for winter—your first one, or your next one—I'd be honored to walk alongside you.

Because here's what I've learned: Life is short. The seasons will come whether we're ready or not. And somewhere between the practical preparation and the soul work, there's a beautiful way to meet each one.

Not just to survive it.

But to thrive.

Welcome to Living in Season! I'm so glad you're here.