This week hit different—between piecing together Chapter 6, my daughter's first heartbreak, and a devotional that asked: What's your Babylon? What season are you trying to survive?

Why I got a stomach tattoo on the abs I earned after cancer reconstruction—and what that has to do with keeping my manuscript unapologetically raw.

Some weeks you sprint. Some weeks you float. A raw look at sustainable pace, new client chaos, and trusting the process when your brain checks out.

Writing Chapter 14 about cancer forced me to name the moments that changed everything. Thinking vs. documenting—why writing makes transformation tangible.

This week I let AI edit a chapter of my book. It was efficient, polished, and completely lifeless. Here's what happened when I fired Bot Becca and took my voice back.

This week, I had to face something I’ve been avoiding. I didn’t escape the trap. I just rebuilt it with better lighting.

Two chapters forced the truth out of me: one about starting a business out of fear and necessity, and one about realizing I’d turned that business into another cage. I left corporate for freedom, said yes to everything, and ended up working for seven bosses instead of one.

Because competence isn’t the same as fulfillment.
And freedom isn’t about doing your own thing, it’s about finally building something that feels like you.

I finished my manuscript — 58,000 words, 28 chapters, five years of thinking, six weeks of writing. But when I sat down to edit, I realized I hadn’t written one book. I’d written two.

There was the version of me trying to sound profound: the one who wanted to teach people how to “find their voice.”
And then there was the version that actually had one: raw, honest, figuring it out in real time.

So, 30% of it’s getting cut. The rest is being rebuilt from the ground up.
Because finishing isn’t the same as being done, it’s just the beginning of telling the truth

This week’s entry is about the quiet side of growth—the part that happens when you’re showing up, doing the work, and wondering if anyone even notices. From teenage chaos and tight deadlines to Mel Robbins’ “Let Them” moment, I realized that consistency isn’t about perfect execution—it’s about being real enough to still be here when people finally start paying attention.

Two viral posts in two weeks—and both were about medical sales disasters, not polished business advice. The lesson? People don’t connect with perfection; they connect with humanity. Showing up messy built more trust, more subscribers, and more traction than waiting until I had it all figured out ever could.

This week, 202 people confessed their own filter failures after I shared mine—and it proved the stories that make you cringe are often the ones that resonate most. A viral post reminded me that raw truth outperforms polish every time, and that authenticity isn’t a strategy—it’s permission. Sometimes the cage we build looks prettier than the one we left.

This week proved that the stories you most want to hide are the ones people connect with most. From a cringeworthy colonoscopy compliment to launching my first newsletter, I learned that vulnerability beats polish every time. Authenticity doesn’t kill credibility—it builds it.

This week brought a collision of self-doubt and resilience. I caught myself trying to undervalue my work—only to have a client refuse to let me. Writing about rejection, from losing a million-dollar RFP to being fired before major surgery, reminded me that resilience looks different when it’s your own name on the line. The mess isn’t just the story—it’s the teacher

This week wasn’t about strategy—it was about admitting the messy parts. From workspace anxiety to parenting guilt to the fear of failing at everything, I learned that authenticity isn’t a tactic, it’s the work itself. Sharing the raw truth connected more than any polished advice ever could.

This week was a reminder that nobody celebrates the unsexy foundation work—but it’s the only thing that keeps a dream from collapsing. From client processes to construction delays, I learned that building anything meaningful always takes longer than planned. The lesson? Progress isn’t about speed or polish, it’s about putting in the boring work that makes everything else possible.

After five months of paralysis, I finally reopened my manuscript. The breakthrough wasn’t in perfect outlines or expert advice—it was in ignoring the rules, starting messy, and rediscovering my own voice. Fifty-two minutes of raw, honest writing beat five months of overthinking.