What a Starbucks drink, some sidewalk chalk, and a shame spiral taught me about coming home to myself.

On Monday, I wrote about the morning I found myself frozen in a hotel room in Albany—paralyzed by indecision, flooded with shame, overstimulated by choice. Nothing felt good. Nothing felt right.

I shared how a simple act—running to Starbucks for an iced horchata espresso—became a sacred shift. Not because I figured it all out, but because I stopped trying to fix myself long enough to just be with myself. Gently. Honestly. With breath.

That post ended with a sidewalk chalk message:
Look within.
And I’ve been doing that ever since.

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about that drink.
About the part of me that wanted the joy.
And the part that wanted control.
The one who felt free.
And the one who felt ashamed.

Here’s what I’ve come to:
It was never about the drink.

It was about the way I related to myself in that moment.
It was about how I parented myself when I wanted two conflicting things at once: pleasure and discipline. Ease and order. Sweetness and structure.

For most of my life, I’ve tried to avoid shame by “doing better.” Eat less. Spend less. Hustle harder.
But I’ve realized: that’s just another attempt at control.
It’s fear, dressed up as self-improvement.

And here’s what landed this week, maybe for the first time:

Shame isn’t bad.
It’s not something to escape.
It’s a signal. A data point.
Like cold air on your skin or a bike leaning slightly to one side.

When I’m riding my Vespa and I wobble, I don’t hate the bike. I don’t scream at it. I don’t decide I’m broken.
I adjust. I lean in. I keep riding.

But when I wobble with food, or spending, or parenting?
I tend to attack.
I say cruel things to myself.
I question my worth.
I act like I’ve failed, when really—I just needed to course correct.

And the big truth underneath it all?

I’ve been measuring my worth by how “balanced” I feel.

If I’m doing well with food, money, movement—then I’m good. Safe. Lovable.
If I’m not—I’m lazy, broken, irresponsible.

But that’s a misunderstanding.
I am not my balance.
I am not my behavior.
I am not my calorie count, my bank statement, or my ability to parent perfectly.
I am the one riding the ride.

And all of these emotions—shame, guilt, joy, pride—aren’t moral verdicts. They’re information. They are my internal guidance system. They’re how I learn. How I adjust. How I come back home.

So now, I’m trying something new:

When shame shows up, I don’t ask:
How do I get rid of this?
I ask:
What is this telling me?
How can I listen without losing myself?
How can I stay in relationship with all the parts of me—especially the messy ones?

Because balance isn’t perfection.
Balance isn’t the absence of tension.
Balance is a living relationship with myself—one that allows for motion, feedback, and grace.

So here’s what I’m holding this week:

• I don’t need to spend less just to avoid guilt.

• I don’t need to eat less just to feel worthy.

• I don’t need to parent with rigid control just to feel “good enough.”

What I need is to keep coming home.

To remember: shame is a signal, not a sentence.
To trust that the goal isn’t stillness, it’s presence.
And to know that every emotion is a gift if I’m willing to listen.

The ride goes on.
I’m still adjusting.
Still leading myself with love.
Still learning what it means to be both the rider and the one being ridden.

And when the noise gets loud again—and it will—I’ll remember:
Look within.
Then move.
One true thing at a time.