(something new…article voice over…if you’d rather listen than read…this is for you).

Yesterday, a team of strangers packed up my entire house.

It’s the first time I’ve ever paid someone to pack for me, and even as I write that, I feel a flicker of shame. Shouldn’t I have done it myself? I’m capable. What kind of privilege is this?

But also—what kind of healing?

Let me back up.

I woke up early, brain already buzzing with tasks. I ran the dishwasher, started a load of laundry, and blew through all the New York Times games. (I crushed Connections, thank you very much.) My chest was tight. My thoughts raced like a freight train of to-dos. And at 6:30am, I texted our assistant to see if she could pick up coffee. The moment I hit send, I turned to Kelly and asked, “Oh God, have I become the Devil Wears Prada boss?”
You know the one. The ice-cold executive who weaponizes perfectionism while pretending she’s just “detail-oriented.”

I laughed it off. But something deeper was stirring.

The movers were scheduled to arrive sometime between 7 and 9. I was convinced they’d show up at 10. Nope. 7:00am. Sharp.

I opened the door—and my judgment followed.

A young man stood in front of me, nervously stroking his long goatee. His mom stood beside him, both holding coffees. No boxes. No tools. Just two people and the promise that their friend would show up soon. This is it? my inner critic sneered. Where’s all your gear? Are you just going to Mary Poppins this thing?

I hate admitting this, but here it is: my first instinct was annoyance. Doubt. Control. I didn’t want them touching my things. My ego stepped in. I should’ve done this myself.

And then—something shifted.

I told them the truth.

I said, “I’m nervous. I’m stressed. I’m scared. But I’m so relieved you’re here.”
And in saying it, something loosened.

My breath deepened. My shoulders dropped. That tight ball of urgency inside me started to unravel. And this 20-something kid—with his goatee and his kind eyes—looked at me and smiled. “That’s what we’re here for,” he said. It wasn’t just a line. It was an offering. And I received it.

In that moment, I felt the return of something holy. Not performative peace or forced gratitude. But something softer. Something true. I moved from separation into connection. From stress into surrender. From judgment into presence.

We gave them a tour—talked about Legos, plants, toys—and then they got to work.

And Kelly and I did something I never would’ve done in a previous version of myself.
We hid out in the bedroom… and we joined a Zoom workshop.

Not just any workshop. A heart-opening, soul-cracking, spirit-drenched session led by my latest creative crush,

, and the luminous author . A workshop about Mary Magdalene. About the seven powers she named—powers the early church twisted into the seven deadly sins. About reclaiming the feminine, the sacred, the heart.

It felt like divine rebellion. Sacred selfishness.
And it changed me.

I took notes. But not like I used to. Not bullet points or outlines or perfect quotes.
I drew cartoons.
I doodled Jake’s hair, Meggan’s smile, the other participants on screen.
I picked up my markers like some holy third grader channeling spirit through stick figures.

And the whole time… the house was being packed. I wasn’t overseeing it. I wasn’t micromanaging. I wasn’t performing competence. I was letting go.

Who was this person?

Who was this version of me—coloring and breathing and learning—while strangers wrapped my dishes in paper and boxed up my books?
Who was this woman who didn’t power through the stress, but instead paused, opened, received?

I’ve spent thousands on coaching. Hundreds of thousands on education and therapy. All in pursuit of this: knowing myself. Trusting life. Coming back to the Divine.
And here it was. On Zoom. On moving day.

The learning wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was simple.
How I related to the stress was the difference.
That was the issue. Not the moving. Not the uncertainty.
The issue was how I held it in my body. How I met it—with constriction, or with care.

This time, I didn’t hustle. I didn’t armor up. I didn’t turn to toughness.

This time, I met the moment with reverence.
I chose presence over panic.
I chose curiosity over control.
I chose to see the sacred in a stranger’s smile and the holy in my own healing.

By the end of the day, the house was packed.
Every cabinet emptied. Every memory wrapped in paper. Every fear—proven wrong.

I had done something radical. I had let people help me.
Not just any help—paid help. Which still scrapes at some part of my shame story. The old voice says, You’re capable. You should do it yourself. You’re not that kind of person.
But what kind of person am I?

The truth is, privilege is part of this story. I had the resources to hire help. That matters. But I’m learning to hold both things at once:
Gratitude without guilt.
Honesty without self-erasure.
Awareness without collapsing into shame.

Because the deepest shift wasn’t in the cost.
It was in the cost I didn’t pay this time—the toll of stress on my body, my marriage, my mind.
The way I used to white-knuckle my way through life to prove I was worthy of ease.

This time, I didn’t power through.
I paused.
I listened.
I allowed.

And what I found was this:
The issue was never the packing, the movers, the mess.
The issue was always how I related to it.

I showed up for myself with care. I showed up for others with honesty.
And life met me with connection, clarity, and a fully packed house.

But more than that—life handed me a teacher.

The kid I silently judged—the one with the goatee, the one whose teeth and hair and nervous mannerisms I criticized in my mind—he was the one who brought me home to myself.

He didn’t correct me. He didn’t call me out.
He just smiled.
He said, “That’s what we’re here for.”
And he meant it.

He offered me presence.
I had labeled him sloppy, unprepared, too young. And he met me with Yoda-level grace.
He was my spiritual teacher that day.

So maybe the question isn’t, “How can I stay in control during stress?”
Maybe the question is, “How quickly can I notice when I’m not in my heart?”
Because when I’m in my ego, I judge. I separate. I armor up.
But when I’m in my heart—I connect. I breathe. I let myself be humbled.

Turns out, the divine shows up on moving day too.
Sometimes, in a goatee.