Self-care doesn’t come with a manual. Here’s how I navigated overwhelm, shame spirals, and a Starbucks meltdown — and found my way back home.

This morning, I stood in a hotel room in Albany, paralyzed by indecision.
Legos? Read? Finish The Stand? Watch something? Draw? Write?
Nothing felt right, and nothing felt fun. I was frozen. Again.

I’ve been feeling off lately. A little adrift. My mind does this Olympic-level gymnastics routine where every option gets evaluated for points:

• Working out? Good for health, body, pride.

• Reading? Smart, productive, supports my writing.

• Drawing? Creative, but I can’t find my pencil.

• TV? But nothing’s good.

• Snack? Wait, why am I always eating?

It sounds silly, I know. But when the noise gets loud, I get stuck trying to earn rest, perform joy, or optimize play. I’m spinning out in a thousand directions, but I’m not really going anywhere.

At the Golden Crown Literary Conference, I didn’t push. I tried to go slow, to not effort or strive or hustle. I skipped sessions, walked to comic shops, fed my inner child McDonald’s and candy and toys. I walked five miles. And I spent $200.
Progress and shame. Both.

Kelly called this morning. She offered a truth I didn’t want to hear:
“I don’t think these conferences are serving you the way you think they are.”

Ouch.
And… maybe right.

I could feel the shame rising — the urge to spiral, to punish, to lock it down. Throw out the sugar. Start a new system. Be better. Fix it.
But I didn’t want to do that.
Not this time.

The truth is: I don’t have all the answers.
I’m new here — new at practicing grace instead of control, new at leading myself with love instead of punishment.

So I asked:
What do I know?

And one answer came: Movement helps. Always.

Movement doesn’t judge me. It doesn’t tally points. It just softens the noise.
So I laced up. I grabbed postcards to mail. I left the mess in the room and walked into the sun.

Just one thing. The next right thing.

I ran by The Egg. Climbed museum steps like I used to at Red Rocks with Stephen. I felt strong, alive. Then I made a deal with myself: run to Starbucks. Get the iced horchata espresso I love.

But the noise returned.
Should I get water instead? A bottled smoothie? A banana from the grocery store? Save money? Eat cleaner? Skip it altogether?

I stood in Starbucks like a malfunctioning robot. Picking up drinks. Putting them back. Calculating calories, cost, worth.
What are people thinking about me right now?
What am I doing?

I finally bought the drink I actually wanted. And I ran back, horchata sloshing in my new mug.

Three miles.
This was different.
This was not punishment. It was love.

The School of Remembering call from the night before came back to me.
Come back home to yourself, Molly.
That’s the invitation. That’s always the invitation.

A few blocks later, sidewalk chalk spelled it out:
Look within.
Message received.

All those versions of me — the one that wants discipline, the one that wants freedom, the one that wants sugar, the one that wants to be good — they all showed up today. And I led them gently.

I’m not saying I have it all figured out.
But I do know this:

• When I feel lost, movement helps.

• When the shame spiral starts, I can still choose grace.

• When I don’t know what to do, I can start with one true thing.

• When I’m torn, I can ask myself what will feel good after, not just during.

I ran back to the hotel. I packed up slowly. Found a free shuttle to the airport. Talked about football the whole ride. Grace. Flow.

And now I’m here, second coffee in hand, writing this to you.

Because I remembered something.
Because they reminded me:

• My dear friend Stephen McGhee, and the School of Remembering, with its gentle nudge: come back home to yourself.

• Kelly, my wife, who told me the truth I didn’t want to hear — and held space for me to hear it.

• And

  , whose presence on Substack and quiet brilliance whispered a reminder I really needed: sometimes the next right thing is the next write thing.

So that’s what this is.
Not a perfect post.
Not a polished life.
But a practice — of showing up, of listening in, of gently leading myself back home.

The next write thing.
The next right thing.
One true step at a time.