Where Real Growth Begins | The High Cost of Skipping the Dark—and Why Depth Is the New Power

I've been working in my garden. It's a terraced garden held by ancient rocks, the kind that have accumulated massive wisdom. When I first moved here, it was early autumn. The herbs were still wild and fragrant, the flowers hanging on. Then winter came, and everything died back. Stalks went dry, petals crisped. The whole thing turned a brittle brown. I waited.

I thought the beginning of spring meant time to clear. I was ready to strip away the mess. But not being a gardener (yet!), I called my sister. She told me to wait. "The bees are still sleeping under there," she said. "Some of those plants might return. The decay is protecting and nourishing them." She told me to give it at least another month. Let the rot stay awhile longer.

So, I waited.

This past weekend, I tended the garden. I removed enough of the old decay to make room for new growth, but left what still served a purpose. I moved through slowly and carefully. I noticed how the green was coming up through the brown. How life doesn't replace death—it emerges through it.

Drawf Crested Iris. © 2025 Carla Royal.

We're so quick to clean everything up. To get rid of what we think is ugly or awkward. We want things neat and tidy, even when we're falling apart inside. We don't trust decay. We forget that decay feeds the soil.

Real growth isn't neat and clean. It's tangled, dark, and slow. It happens underground. In the unseen. Roots deepen in the decay long before the crown appears.

This is the part most people avoid. I see it in high-achieving entrepreneurs and leaders, the kind I work with every day. They spend most of their energy on the crown of their achievements—visible, brilliant, impressive—and they attempt to avoid the decay and the roots that need that decay. They neglect them. Because roots aren't sexy. They're gnarly, twisted, covered in the old stories we'd rather not tell. But without them, everything topples.

When these leaders finally come to me, it's often because something has begun to shake. The crown has grown too heavy for shallow roots. Or life has handed them a storm that exposed what lies beneath. They're ready, finally, to tend to what they've avoided.

Quick-starts can build fast, but if they don't build deep, they don't last. One of my clients built an eight-figure coaching brand in under two years. Sleek brand. Endless content. Then the stress and overwhelm cracked him. He crumbled. Everything he hadn’t tended underground came calling. It wasn’t failure—it was a reckoning. In our sessions, he did the courageous work to attend to the decay. From the roots up.

Roots and Decay. Douglas Lake, Tennessee. © 2015 Carla Royal.

Everyone wants to be an expert now. A thought leader. Everyone wants the mic. But no one wants to sit in the dark long enough to know what they really think. Everything's speeding up. There's pressure to speak before you've listened. To share before you've integrated. To teach before you've learned.

So, we get hollow authority. Half-digested insight. Shiny strategies with little soul behind them.

Even my new washing machine is falling apart. It's four months old. The repair tech has come out four times already. She’s been doing this for twenty years. "They're not built to last anymore," she said. "It's all plastic and speed now." I could hear the frustration in her voice. Things used to be built differently. Built for care. Built to endure.

And it's not just machines. Our relationships, our businesses, our bodies—we've absorbed this rush. We've learned to optimize instead of metabolize.

The Hunger for Depth

But under the speed and urgency, I see people starving for depth.

They want something that holds. Something that doesn't break when the winds come. Something that doesn't collapse when no one's watching. They may not know how to name it, but they want roots. Real roots. Not a curated persona of wisdom, but the kind that comes from sitting with your own dark mess until it reveals its medicine.

This hunger isn't just a personal longing; it's a collective ache. I see it in my clients' eyes when they finally slow down enough to feel what's been calling to them. I hear it in private conversations, beneath the polished social media profiles and carefully curated articles and essays, where people confess to being exhausted by the endless, draining performance. The constant pressure to be visible, to be relevant, to be ahead.

And some are afraid to speak at all. They’ve been told not to share until it's perfect. So, they stall. They stay in the cave, not from a genuine commitment to mastery, but from raw fear of being seen mid-process. We forget there’s a sacred middle: not performance, not hiding, but honest, in-process offering. Contribution that’s still forming. Wisdom that still smells like soil.

What we're really longing for is substance. The kind that can only come through allowing ourselves to be humbled, broken open, and transformed. The kind that Francis Weller calls the "fertile dark." He writes about grief work as a necessary composting of our experience, a transformation that can't be rushed or optimized. He tells us, “Our task is to enter the ground of our grief and trust that something will emerge."

That something is substance. And it doesn't come quickly.

Our emotions need time to metabolize, just as our gardens need seasons to cycle through growth and decay. Lisa Feldman Barrett's research shows us that our emotions aren't just automatic reactions; they're intricate constructions our brains create from bodily sensations, past experiences, and cultural context. Integration takes time. That takes compost. We must give ourselves back to the earth of our own lives if we want to lead with anything that lasts.

Potentilla Canadensis. © 2025 Carla Royal.

The Balance of Speed and Depth

Of course, not all speed is hollow. Sometimes urgency is real. There are bills to pay, launches to meet, people depending on us. The world doesn't always pause so we can compost our pain. Sometimes we have to build while grieving, lead while unraveling, but perhaps not as often as we think.

But that's exactly why roots matter.

Because when the storm hits—and it will—it's not your polish that holds you steady. It's the unseen depth you build when no one is clapping. It's the inner scaffolding you grow in the quiet, in the mess, in the wait.

We live in a world that worships the visible: the metrics, the followers, the outward signs of success. But there's a wisdom in what lies beneath, in developing what Stephen Porges might describe as a well-regulated nervous system that can stay grounded even when external conditions signal threat. A sense of safety that comes from knowing who you are beyond the metrics. Something that can't be taken away by a bad review, a failed launch, or a shifting market.

Slowness isn't a luxury. It's a strategy for resilience.

You don't have to choose between motion and meaning. But if you're not careful, speed will steal your depth. And you won't even notice until the whole thing breaks.

This is the wisdom my garden is teaching me. That life emerges through death, not despite it. It is decay, essential decay, creating protection and nourishment for what is trying to be born. That patience—that much maligned virtue in our accelerated world—is the soil from which real strength grows.

The Leaders Who Last

The leaders who endure are not the ones who sanitize their struggles. They're the ones who sit with discomfort. Who let it teach them. Who let the grief have its full cycle. Who tend to their roots when no one is looking.

In a culture that prizes confidence over competence, that rewards the appearance of wisdom over its embodiment, simply admitting that growth takes time becomes a radical act. The bravest voices today aren't the ones with ready answers, but those who say, "I don't know yet" or "This is still forming."

So I'll ask you:

• What challenges in your life might be serving as protection for something that's not yet ready to emerge?

• What deserves your patient attention rather than your immediate action?

• What are you trying to clean up too quickly that might actually need more time?

• What would change if you invested as much energy in your roots as you do in what's visible?

The ones who journey through the depths and don't hurry toward the surface—they're the ones who develop true wisdom. The ones who don't just shine but stay. The ones who aren't afraid of their own dark places.

That's where genuine wisdom lives. Not in quick answers, but in patient questions. Not in rapid growth, but in what emerges after necessary decay. In the crown that rises only because the roots run deep.

Holding Time: What Ancient Stones Remind Us About Ourselves

Reclaiming A Deeper Perspective In A World That Feels Like It's Falling Apart

Today, while wandering in the forest behind my home, I was drawn to some stones on the trail. I picked up a couple of sparkling flecks and a small rock to bring home. When I researched them, I discovered something that blew my mind: these small fragments I held between my fingers were 300-500 million years old! Mica and quartz. Metamorphic rock that formed when tectonic plates collided to create these ancient Appalachian Mountains.

Metamorphic means changed by heat, pressure, and mineral-rich fluids deep within the Earth. These mountains have slowly worn down over hundreds of millions of years, revealing these small treasures that have endured unimaginable forces.

500 Million Years in My Palm

I sat with one of these stones in my palm, trying to comprehend its journey. What does it mean to exist for 500 million years? To endure such pressure and heat, to be compressed and transformed deep in darkness, to eventually be revealed by time and the slow erosion of everything around you? The stone felt both unremarkable and extraordinary – a small piece of eternity I could hold in my hand.

Holding this stone somehow relaxed and reassured me. I suddenly felt firmly planted on this beautiful earth. My perspective shifted, and the anxieties of all that is happening in our world began to drain away. I recalibrated to a vastly different timescale.

Mica flakes and quartz-rich metamorphic rock. © 2025 Carla Royal.

Metamorphic Pressure, Human Transformation

I've known these mountains are ancient, but holding this small piece of metamorphic rock—such a perfect word for what happens when we undergo pressure and heat—I feel it deep in my soul. Five hundred million years. This small stone has witnessed it all and still exists. My current anxieties—even the deep ones about where we're heading as a society—suddenly appear as just one brief moment in an unimaginably long story. These small stones offer wisdom that our bodies can feel… if we allow it.

How many of us move through life taking everything so seriously? We spend so much of our time this way, giving enormous weight to our thoughts, our wounds, our fears about the future. We move through the world as if everything depends on us, as if our worries are the center of the universe. But holding a small ancient stone offers a shift in perspective we all sometimes need. I know I do.

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The Eternal Thread Within Us

Most wisdom traditions point to something within us that endures beyond our physical form. The Upanishads speak of Atman, the eternal self. Christians talk of the soul that transcends death. Indigenous traditions often speak of a spirit that continues beyond our brief time in these bodies.

I don't know exactly what all this means, but I've learned to be comfortable with mystery, with not knowing. The older I get, the more I recognize how little I understand about the vastness of existence. And there's a relief and freedom in that admission.

What I felt in the forest today, stone in hand, wasn't a theological certainty but rather a visceral recognition that whatever I am, at my core, is connected to something much larger and more enduring than my individual worries and struggles. Perhaps you've felt this, too, in moments of quiet connection with something ancient or vast.

This body that houses me is temporary, yes. But there's something here that participates in the same timelessness as these ancient stones. Something that knows what it means to undergo pressure and heat, to be transformed, to endure.

The mountains themselves are a testament to this paradox. From our limited human perspective, they appear solid and unchanging, but they flow like water in geological time. They rise and fall. They are both eternal and constantly changing.

Aren't we the same?

The Long View

Something shifts when we remember this longer view and feel it in our bones. The foundations of our world may be shaking. The news may be full of crisis and collapse. Our personal challenges may feel overwhelming on any given day. But the small stone in my palm reminds me that there is something in each of us that knows how to witness change without being destroyed by it. Something that can hold the paradox of impermanence and continuity.

I wonder if this forgetting, this disconnection from our deeper, more enduring nature, lies at the heart of our collective struggles today. When we forget who we are beyond our separate selves, we grasp and cling. We fight against change rather than moving with it. We treat the Earth as a resource to be used rather than a living system we belong to.

We forget that, like these mountains, we are both ancient and new in each moment.

Remembering Our Place in Deep Time

There's a humility that comes with touching something 500 million years old. We are so small. Our concerns, while real and valid, are just a tiny part of what's unfolding. The divides that seem so insurmountable all exist within a much larger context.

The challenges we face are real and require our attention and action. But maybe we can meet them differently when we remember the deeper currents that run through all things, including ourselves. Holding the perspective of the stone could help us act with less desperation and more wisdom. With less fear and more trust in the resilience of life itself.

The next time you feel overwhelmed by the news or your personal struggles, I invite you to find something ancient to hold – a stone, a shell, even the soil beneath your feet. Let it remind you of the longer story you're part of.

My view of the ancient mountains. @ 2025 Carla Royal.

The Stone on My Porch, and What Endures

The small metamorphic stone and mica flecks now sit on my porch, where I see them every time I step outside. They remind me that pressure and heat don't destroy everything. Sometimes, they create something that endures, and sometimes, they reveal hidden beauty.

I don't know exactly what it means that we are eternal beings. I don't claim to understand the mystery at the heart of existence. But I know that when I touch something that has witnessed 500 million years of Earth's story, I remember that I belong to something vast and ancient. We all do.

In that remembering, we can breathe more deeply, hold our concerns more lightly, and trust the wisdom that runs through all things, including us.

Maybe that's enough for today: to hold a small piece of mountain in your palm and remember your place in this grand, mysterious unfolding. To feel both your insignificance and your belonging. To know that whatever happens, something endures.

In the Midst of the Unraveling | An Invitation To Return To What Steadies, What Heals, And What Makes Us Whole

We are living through challenging times. There is much at stake. Uncertainty reigns. It's difficult to find anything stable to grab hold of. Our moorings seem to be giving way. What we trusted and believed in are fraying at the seams. Many don't know where to turn or what to do. Confusion and overwhelm are rampant.

While I don't have the answers, I can offer a kind of balm. It may seem superficial or too little. It may seem unimportant in the face of the unraveling. But this balm is powerful. I know because I return to it again and again, and I experience its magic. And it's not just me; studies have repeatedly shown this balm's power.

This balm is available to everyone, despite your situation. It's always on hand. The problem is that we can easily miss it. Our brains don't naturally orient toward it. We must intentionally turn toward it, but the moment we do, the balm goes to work.

We may believe that we don't have time for it. It may feel unimportant in light of what's happening in our world, yet the balm is a gift from the world itself. A gift we often take for granted. A gift we often reject. We suffer as a result.

Beauty, Presence, and Awe: A Revolutionary Practice

What is this gift? Beauty, presence, and awe. A bundle of goodness offering healing properties that can transform your life. I mean it. Please don't brush this off. I understand it would be easy to do. It can feel so trite and even out of touch, but I promise you, it's not.

Bloodroot Bloom. Early spring wildflowers in WNC. © 2025 Carla Royal.

Studies show the power of this bundle of beauty, awe, and presence. Neuroscientists have discovered that when we experience beauty, it activates the same reward centers in our brain as love. Experiencing wonder has even been shown to reduce inflammation in our bodies, the very inflammation I wrote about in "When Everything Burns."

This is far more than just science; it’s about our survival.

Taking time to seek out beauty and awe can feel self-indulgent when the world is rocking beneath us. I understand, but I realize that noticing beauty and seeking out awe isn't frivolous; it's revolutionary. It's not a distraction from the work; it's part of the work.

Nelson Mandela said that moments of beauty helped him maintain his conviction and compassion. He wrote, "A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom."

Maya Angelou, who survived childhood trauma, racism, and poverty, wrote about beauty and wonder as forms of resistance. "If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that's often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb."

When systems of power want us numb, exhausted, and despairing, accessing joy and beauty becomes an act of resistance. Beauty and awe awaken us, sustain us, and remind us of our humanity when everything around us conspires to make us forget. It’s a fundamental way of resourcing ourselves when so much is trying to drain us.

A Ritual of Remembering

I have a practice that helps. I read the news in the morning, and then I step out on my porch to shake off the doom. The ancient Appalachian Mountains loom in front of me, steady, almost eternal, having survived centuries of storms. The bright green of spring growth greets me as trees shake off winter. I watch for a moment, soaking the beauty and reassurance into my bones. I feel my body begin to relax and my breath deepen. I recognize, even if only for a moment, that I am part of these ancient mountains and that there is something eternal and untouchable in me, too.

This isn't spiritual bypassing. I don't pretend the problems aren't real or that beauty would magically solve them. But in those moments of presence, I remember that what we're fighting for is not abstract. It's this very capacity to be present, to experience wonder, to belong to each other and this earth. It's the right of all beings to flourish.

The Courage to See the Good, True, and Beautiful

Beauty doesn't negate our pain; it gives us the strength to bear it. Awe doesn't solve our problems; it reminds us why they're worth solving. Beauty isn't just in sunsets and mountain views. It can be found everywhere, even in unexpected places.

I watched our community here in western North Carolina come together after Hurricane Helene, neighbor helping neighbor regardless of politics or various worldviews. I saw the same thing when I lived in Florida. Neighbors helping neighbors through the storms. There is beauty in the human capacity to come together in our darkest moments. It’s in our DNA.

There's beauty in the grief that shows us what we love, in the rage that shows us what matters, and in the vulnerability that connects us even across our differences.

What Might Emerge From These Flames

Even as systems crumble, even as we face the consequences of collective blindness, seeds are waiting to sprout through the ashes. Remember the Table Mountain pine I wrote about? Its seeds need intense heat to release. What if our most beautiful possibilities are like this, waiting for the very fires we fear?

Noticing beauty and seeking out awe isn’t meant to be a one-time event or occasional luxury. It's an essential practice. And like any practice, it requires intention and commitment.

When I wake in the morning, I step out on my porch and welcome the morning, mountains, trees, birds, and Greta groundhog. Throughout the day, I take small moments to touch into the good, true, and beautiful, what poet Mary Oliver calls "the endless opportunities to be astonished."

Beauty Is How We Stay Human

This isn't about toxic positivity or forced gratitude. It's about developing the capacity to hold the beauty and the brokenness, the wonder and the worry, the pain and the possibility. When we’re burned out and despairing, our capacity to help a world in need diminishes. When we’re connected to beauty, to purpose, to the miracle of existence, we find reserves of energy we didn't know we had.

This isn't about hope in the conventional sense—the expectation that things will necessarily get better. It's about being present to what is, including the wonder that persists alongside the heartbreak. As Francis Weller writes, "The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them."

When we can hold both grief and gratitude, we develop what Stephen Jenkinson calls "a love of what is" that requires neither optimism nor pessimism. We act not because we're certain of outcomes but because action rooted in beauty and presence heals and restores.

Here is my invitation to you amidst all that is uncertain and unraveling: Notice one beautiful thing today. Really notice it. Let yourself receive it fully, if only for a moment. Tomorrow, notice another. And the next day, another.

In times like these, beauty isn't a luxury. It's an essential balm. It’s evidence that we belong to a world of astonishing wonder despite everything.

That belonging cannot be taken from us unless we forget it. And as long as we remember to look up, to notice, to receive the gift that is always being offered, we carry with us the seeds of what might yet emerge from these flames.

The Trap of Becoming Better | When Personal Growth Becomes Just Another Performance

Lately, I've been feeling uneasy about so much of the personal development world. It's the world that saved my life and gave me my career—work I believe in deeply. But something about the way it's unfolding doesn't sit quite right with me.

We live in a time of mounting pressure. Underneath the headlines and noise and algorithms, many of us feel a subtle, persistent ache… or maybe not so subtle these days. A knowing that something is off. We can feel it in our bones. In the first moments we wake each morning, a sense of dread often creeps in. In the loneliness that somehow lingers, even in a crowded room or a successful life. This dread and disconnection drive us to reach for ways to feel better and regain a sense of agency amidst the chaos.

St. Joseph’s Sound, FL. © 2017 Carla Royal.

When Tools Become Traps: The Shadow of Optimization Culture

Many have learned all the tools and techniques, especially my high-performance clients: the mantras, the mindset hacks, the productivity systems, the breathwork routines, the rewiring strategies. There are countless ways to optimize our lives these days. When practices like meditation, mindfulness, yoga, and journaling get repackaged as productivity hacks, we lose sight of their original purpose, depth, and richness. Rather than tools for liberation and self-understanding, they become just another way to hustle harder, to tolerate circumstances that maybe shouldn't be tolerated.

The writer Denis Bischof put it plainly: much of what passes for personal growth today has little to do with becoming more fully human and more to do with becoming more marketable. I see this play out with many of my clients who are driven entrepreneurs. They come to me burnt out, anxious, and disconnected from themselves after years of chasing external success. The practices they thought would bring them freedom have instead become just another box to check, another way to grind themselves into exhaustion. It's a trap. It’s a troubling pattern I see everywhere: the hijacking of personal development by a culture obsessed with performance, grind, and external validation.

From Authenticity to Branding: A Crisis of Depth

We meditate to get more done. We regulate our nervous systems not to rest but to tolerate more pressure. We curate our emotional lives into something clean and palatable enough to post online. Authenticity goes out the window. Self-knowledge is unimportant. We become a well-coiffed but superficial version of ourselves.

There's a difference between doing the work to be seen and doing the work to see ourselves more clearly. There's a difference between genuine spiritual development and the spiritual branding that often masquerades as growth while actually enabling us to bypass the real work. Much of what I see today isn't people going too deep into their inner world; it's people staying just deep enough to function, to manage, and to make it all look okay from the outside.

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Coping Is Not Living: Why We Need to Go Deeper

But we weren't meant to simply manage. We weren't built to cope our way through life. As I wrote in my last essay, we're in the middle of a global storm. Everything around us feels chaotic and unmoored. Turning inward can seem like a luxury we can't afford. But what if it's the very thing that will help us move through these chaotic times, come together, and thrive again? The anxiety, numbness, and fragmentation so many are experiencing aren't just personal problems; they're appropriate responses to a world out of balance. They're showing us what isn't working, not just inside us but around us.

You Are Not Broken—You're Responding to a Broken System

We've been taught to internalize dysfunction as personal failure. But as Krishnamurti said, "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." So no, it's not all your fault. And no, you're not broken. But if you've been living inside systems that reward disconnection, grind, and the kind of self-sacrifice that leaves you depleted rather than fulfilled, then of course you're going to feel off. Of course, you're going to reach for ways to feel better.

And yet, amidst all this dysfunction, there's a quiet wisdom whispering in our discomfort, inviting us to see it not as a problem to be solved but as a path to be walked.

The Wisdom of Discomfort: An Invitation to Remember Who You Are

What if the discomfort is here to wake you up? Not to punish you but to invite you to slow down. To turn inward and begin the difficult and rewarding journey of remembering who you are at your essence before this culture covered you with all its corrosive crud. And as you do this deep inner work, you simultaneously turn toward the world with greater wholeness, wisdom, and compassion to serve a world in need.

If something inside you is tired of just managing, tired of curating a version of yourself that looks like it has it all together, and if you long for something more honest, more alive, more meaningful, then maybe you are at a turning point.

The world we're living in is unsustainable, but there is a different way to live, love, and lead. It starts by being willing to turn toward what's been buried rather than polishing what shows on the surface. It's slower. And harder. And far more beautiful.

This is the excavation work I wrote about in “When Everything Burns”, the sometimes painful but ultimately liberating process of facing our shadows, feeling our grief, and letting the flames of transformation burn away what's no longer serving us. It's the deep transformation of my other essay, “Every Storm Runs Out of Rain,” which invites us to trust and come home to ourselves, not by resisting discomfort but by allowing it to move through and teach us.

Healing Is Leadership: A New Way to Live, Love, and Lead

When we commit to this inner transformation, we begin to heal ourselves, and we also begin to heal the collective. The two are woven together, inseparable. We remember we belong to each other and the earth. We start to embody a different way of being in the world. One rooted in wholeness, compassion, and connection. This is the kind of leadership our times are calling for. Not leadership that comes from a place of grind and performance but leadership that flows from an integrated heart. Leadership in how we live, how we love, and how we create community in a world of polarization and fragmentation.

This isn't just a personal invitation, it's a cultural necessity. The more of us who are willing to slow down, feel deeply, and show up fully and authentically, the better chance we have of ushering in a world where our institutions and societies reflect the depth of our humanity, not just the surface.

This Is the Great Work of Our Time

Change starts within, but it can't stop there. How we unburden and transform ourselves ripples out in ways seen and unseen.

If enough of us are willing to walk that path, we may just find ourselves ushering in a more grounded, wholehearted way of being, not only for ourselves but for a world hungry for realness and connection amidst the noise and chaos.

May we all find the courage to go beneath the surface and listen to the wisdom of our unease. May we do the slow, unglamorous, but utterly vital work of becoming more than optimized, but truly whole. And from that place of wholeness, may we each do our part to help heal a world in need.

Every Storm Runs Out of Rain: The Art of Allowing Difficult Emotions

How Fighting Your Feelings Keeps Them Trapped, and What Happens When You Finally Let Go

I woke up irritable today. Achy. Overwhelmed. A vague sadness settled into my bones. The collective weight of the world pressed down on me, and everything felt like too much.

There was a time when days like this would send me spiraling. I'd launch into an exhaustive investigation: What's wrong with me? Why can't I just be okay? Or I'd turn my irritation outward: Why can't they see they've got it all wrong? What’s wrong with people?!

This overanalyzing and judging would inevitably drag me deeper into the mire. A difficult moment would stretch into days, weeks, and sometimes months of struggle. I'd become tangled in my own emotions, unable to recognize they will naturally pass if I leave them alone.

When the Pain Feels Endless: How to Trust It Will Pass

I had a session with a client today who has been struggling to have difficult conversations. He had an aha moment during our session. He realized that difficult conversations become easier when he reminds himself that the pain won't last forever. We talked about Maya Angelou's wisdom: "Every storm runs out of rain."

There’s something liberating in knowing this. Storms, whether literal or metaphorical, follow natural patterns. They gather, intensify, release, and dissipate. No rainstorm in history has continued indefinitely. No emotional state, however powerful, remains permanent. Yet, how often do we treat our difficult emotions as if they're forever?

Dunedin, FL. © 2018 Carla Royal.

Emotional Healing Starts Here: How to Stop Resisting and Start Feeling

I've discovered that the less I fight against difficult emotional states, the more quickly they change and move along.

I used to treat my irritability and sadness as problems to solve, something to expel or collapse into. I assumed that something was wrong and needed to be fixed. My meddling created a paradox. The harder I tried to escape my emotions, the more persistent they became.

The Paradox of Emotional Resistance: Why Fighting Feelings Makes Them Stronger

Our bodies register our resistance as a threat. When we fight our emotions, we actually make them stronger. Our nervous system feels the struggle and responds with more protection, activation, and resistance, which fans the flames rather than resolving the distress. Stephen Porges' research on polyvagal theory confirms this. When we resist emotions, our nervous system interprets that resistance as danger, triggering additional defensive responses. Lisa Feldman Barrett's work on constructed emotion shows the same pattern: attempts to suppress feelings often intensify them, creating precisely what we're trying to avoid.

If you find this helpful, please share to support my work and someone who might need these words today.

The Neuroscience of Letting Emotions Move Through Us

Our emotions need to move freely. They go underground if we suppress them rather than letting them move through us. Eventually, they find a sideways exit that can be damaging, such as suddenly blowing up at someone we love or even manifesting as physical illness. We also don't want to wallow in them or let them dictate our behavior. There is wisdom in simply acknowledging their presence without pushing them away or becoming consumed by them.

When I feel that irritability or sadness now, I note it: I'm irritated. I'm sad. I'm overwhelmed. It's OK. It'll pass in time. Even better, I’ll say: I see that you’re irritated, Carla. I see that you’re sad, Carla. This creates a little space between me and the emotion. I don't rush to analyze or fix it. I don't judge myself for experiencing it. I don't amplify it with elaborate stories about what it means. I let it be.

Acceptance vs. Resignation: The Active Wisdom of Emotional Awareness

This isn't resignation. It's an active form of wisdom. It's recognizing the impermanent nature of all emotional states and choosing not to make things worse by resisting or fighting against them.

Acceptance simply means acknowledging what is already here.

We're not just experiencing personal storms now. We're weathering collective ones—Tsunami-sized storms! Political divides, ecological crises, and social fragmentation create cumulative stress that seeps into our individual experiences.

Collective Storms: Why Your Difficult Feelings May Be an Appropriate Response

As humans with permeable nervous systems, it would be strange if we didn't sometimes feel overwhelmed, irritable, angry, or sad. These responses aren't personal failings. They're appropriate reactions to the world we're navigating together.

Jiddu Krishnamurti reminds us, "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." His words offer a more realistic perspective that can free us from self-blame when we struggle in times such as these.

When I acknowledge this, I'm able to lighten up on myself. The question shifts from What's wrong with me? to What if my difficult emotions are a natural response to a challenging world? This wider perspective creates space for both personal responsibility and compassionate understanding.

Building Trust in Your Emotional Resilience

Over the years, I'm learning how to trust that my emotions will move through me in their own time. I've learned that when I don't amplify difficult emotions through resistance, over-analysis, or judgment, they tend to move through more quickly. Almost every time.

This trust hasn't come easily. It's the result of countless experiences observing emotions rise, peak, and pass. It's come from witnessing how my overanalysis and judgment often prolong rather than resolve emotional discomfort. And it's come from studying how our nervous systems actually work, rather than how we think they should work.

Through this process, I've come to see our challenging emotions as meaningful aspects of our shared humanity. There is a line in an Over the Rhine song I love: "Pain is our mother, she helps us recognize each other." Our vulnerability to difficult emotions is part of what connects us to each other and to life itself.

A New Relationship with Difficult Emotions

The invitation isn't to get rid of or collapse into these emotions but to develop an easier relationship with them. Can you recognize when you're adding to your suffering through resistance? Can you allow difficult emotions to be present without either suppressing or amplifying them? Can you remember, even in the midst of emotional storms, that these feelings will run their course?

This practice doesn't promise a life free from these emotions. It offers the capacity to move through them with less struggle, more grace, and deeper trust in your own resilience.

So, the next time you wake feeling irritable, achy, or sad, or the world feels too much, try letting those feelings be. Not pushing them away. Not pulling them closer. Acknowledge their presence and remember they are visitors, not permanent residents. When you do, your next right action will reveal itself.

The storm will pass. It always does. And when it does, you might find yourself standing in unexpected sunshine, willing and able to show up in the ways the world needs now.

When Everything Burns: Tending the Fires Within and Around Us

Reflections on grief, inflammation, and the courage it takes to heal in a world on fire

Wildfires are burning all around me here in the Asheville area. Smoke hangs in the air like a warning. When the wind is just right, ash swirls around my home as if the sky itself is grieving. I have no evacuation orders currently, but I'm staying vigilant. Six months ago, Hurricane Helene destroyed over 400,000 acres of forest in western NC. Millions of trees were destroyed or damaged. All the resulting debris is a tinderbox for fire. High winds and low humidity spread flames fast. All hell breaks loose.

All hell has been breaking loose, but we've turned away. We pretend it's not so. We pretend until the flames are at our own back door. It's not just the forest fires; it's the uncontrolled fires that rage within and between us. Our politics rage as we forget how to come together and work for all, tearing at the very fabric of our society. Our climate is raging in an attempt to come back into balance. Our emotions rage as we've forgotten how to regulate ourselves, resulting in an outbreak of internal and external conflict. Our bodies are full of inflammation creating all manner of illness.

One of many fires in western North Carolina. © 2025. Citizen Times.

The Inflammation Epidemic

My body has been overly inflamed for years, resulting in chronic pain and chronic itching, burning, and stinging all over my body, at times almost unbearable. I searched for a simple fix but didn't address the underlying issues for way too long. The difficulty of addressing underlying issues is that it takes time to sus out and unravel. I'm talking about years.

We live in a culture that wants relief from symptoms immediately, without dealing with the underlying issues. We come by that innocently in many ways. Think fast food chains on every corner promising meals in minutes, overnight shipping that delivers almost anything to our doorstep with a single click, and microwaveable everything. Western medicine, too, is all about treating the symptoms, but it's not so good at finding the underlying issues, often exacerbating them. If we don't get instant relief, we move on quickly to the next thing. If nothing gives us the relief we want, we turn to numbing agents such as alcohol, drugs, constant scrolling, overeating, or overwork. Anything to give us a moment of reprieve.

The fires we see raging in our forests are a visible form of something that's been building for generations. The climate crisis isn't new. It's been growing beneath the surface while we've been attempting to treat the symptoms or looking away entirely. Our social divisions didn't appear overnight. They've been smoldering, fed by unresolved historical wounds and systems designed to separate us. Our bodies aren't the only things inflamed. Our economy burns through resources faster than the earth can replenish them. Our communities have been breaking down for decades, leaving too many people isolated and alone. Our relationships with the natural world have become increasingly distant as we spend more time with screens than with trees.

All of these fires are different expressions of the same deep imbalance. We've forgotten how to live within limits, how to tend to what matters most, and how to care for the whole.

We want quick fixes. We want technology to save us from our climate crisis without changing how we live. We want political leaders to heal our divisions without doing the difficult work of facing our collective shadows. We want peace without the messy process of reconciliation. We want a pill to make our pain disappear rather than exploring what our bodies are trying to tell us. I get it. The deeper work is harder. It takes longer. It asks more of us. But in the end, it's the only thing that truly heals.

The Courage to Face What Burns

Addressing the fires and inflammation takes time, energy, focus, and deep, unwavering commitment. As a culture, we don't cultivate any of that, so our world burns. We are on the brink now. The burning will continue. We've waited too long.

I know this pattern intimately. We want to look away, to run, to find any escape from what feels too overwhelming to bear. I've done it, too—still do at times. When the inflammation in my body became unbearable, my first instinct was to find something, anything, to make it stop. I bounced from treatment to treatment, practitioner to practitioner, seeking that magical solution. But the real healing only began when I stopped running and turned to face what was happening within me. I've had to do things I wasn't so keen on doing, such as giving up alcohol, sugar, and other foods that aren't good for me, as well as dealing with old family trauma that contributes to my chronic symptoms. And, yes, I also work with excellent practitioners. It’s not either-or, but even the most excellent practitioner won’t help if we don’t do our part in facing the underlying causes.

The philosopher Bayo Akomolafe says, "The times are urgent; let us slow down." This paradox holds profound wisdom. When everything is burning, our instinct is to rush, to solve, to fix immediately. But what if the rushing itself is part of what feeds the flames?

Healing didn't begin until I stopped fighting the symptoms and started listening to the fire. That's when the real work began. And this work isn’t easy, linear, or clear much of the time. And it isn’t just about me.

In their powerful book Inflamed, Rupa Marya and Raj Patel write, "Your body is a map of your world." They draw the connection between personal inflammation and global systems of oppression and extraction, how colonialism, capitalism, and disconnection set everything ablaze: our immune systems, our ecosystems, our nervous systems. The burning in our bodies is not separate from the burning of the world.

Transformation Through Fire

Yes, the world is burning. But listen. Listen. Can you hear the call of something wanting to rise from the ashes? Be still and listen.

You may not hear it right away. You may have to move through your rage first, that fierce, protective anger that rises when you truly see what's happening to our world, to each other, to yourself. Move through it, not around it. Feel its power and let it fuel your commitment to change.

You may feel your despair, that sinking recognition that we can't go back, that some things are already lost, that the world as we knew it is passing away. This is the dark night that precedes any meaningful transformation. As Francis Weller reminds us, this despair isn't something to pathologize. It's the appropriate response to loss.

And your grief. Grief acknowledges all that we love and are losing. Your grief is evidence of your connection, caring, and deep belonging to this world. We grieve because we love.

On the other side of all that, you can hear the call—not bypassing the anger, despair, and grief, but moving through it. The call will be faint at first. If you keep listening, it will grow. It will speak to you. It will ask something of you. "Do you want to help usher in what wants to rise from the ashes?"

If you do, you'll be asked to attend to your own burning. It's not a small ask. In fact, it will likely be the most difficult thing you've ever done. It's like my friend who woke from her coma into terrible agitation and pain—the first step in her healing. It will be uncomfortable, frightening, and painful at times, but necessary to heal and help usher in something new.

What Rises from These Flames?

Fire destroys, but it also makes way for new life. I've read about how forests recover after wildfires. The ash fertilizes the soil. I was surprised to learn that some pine trees right here in the Appalachians need fire to reproduce. The Table Mountain pine, which grows on our ridgetops, has cones that stay sealed with resin until fire melts it away, releasing the seeds. Their cones won't open fully until they feel intense heat! Right in the middle of all that destruction, the seeds for what comes next are there waiting.

I've also seen images of forests after fires. The devastation is shocking. Blackened tree trunks against scorched earth. The loss is palpable. Ancient trees are gone, habitats are destroyed, and the landscape is fundamentally altered. We have to grieve what's gone, deeply grieve. And yet, given time, green shoots push through the ash. Seeds that need heat to germinate begin to sprout. Life finds its way back, not as it was before, but in a new expression. The forest doesn't simply recover; it transforms through loss. Grief and renewal are part of the same process.

Our human journey follows similar patterns. I've seen people, myself included, emerge from personal devastation, loss, illness, and profound disillusionment changed, yes, but renewed in ways they couldn't have imagined before. When the old falls away, something new has room to grow. I've watched this happen again and again. After the burning comes new life. Vicktor Frankl said,

What is to give light must endure burning.

We’re feeling the intense heat. Do we dare draw close enough to let the heat release our seeds of renewal?

Thomas Hübl's work on collective trauma suggests that healing happens not by erasing our wounds but by developing the capacity to be with them, to witness them without turning away. In that witnessing, something shifts. Integration becomes possible, and new patterns can emerge.

I don't think what's trying to emerge from all this burning is asking us to go back to how things were. I don’t believe we can; I wouldn’t want to. I believe we’re being asked to step into something we haven't fully imagined yet – a different way of living with each other and with this earth. A way that remembers we're all connected. A way that understands there are limits we need to honor. A way that helps all of us – people, trees, rivers, creatures – actually thrive together.

We’re not just experiencing collapse. We are in a rite of passage. And like all rites of passage, we must let something die. We must shed old skins, outdated myths, and the illusion that we are separate from the earth and from one another.

The world is burning. Yet, beneath the smoke, I hear a quiet voice calling us toward something new. Not as a return to "normal" (normal was never working), but as a collective remembering. As a commitment to tend this earth, these bodies, and our relationships as sacred again.

Will you answer? Will you tend your own flames, facing what burns within you, and will you help bring forth what wants to be born in the world? Will you join with others, creating pockets of possibility where new ways of being together can take root?

Let the smoke teach you. Let the grief break you open. Let the fire show you what matters. This is not the end. It is a moment of profound choice.

The fires will continue. But what rises from them is partly up to us.

Are We Blackout Drunk as a Society? A Dream That Shook Me Awake

A Raw Look at Shadow, Denial, and What It Really Takes to Wake Up—In Ourselves and Our World

I often have rich, vivid dreams at night, and they’ve proven to be informative and helpful. I pay attention to them and take them seriously. Over the years, I've even had precognitive dreams. When I was living in Vermont, I dreamed I would be taking care of my dad as he aged. I woke up from that dream mortified. I was not close to my dad, and the last thing I wanted was to care for him in that vulnerable way.

Vermont Pond Reflection. © 2009 Carla Royal.

A year and a half later, I moved to Georgia, an hour and a half from my father, not for him, but for a job. The day after I arrived, I went with my dad to a doctor's appointment and found out he had cancer. For the next two years, I stayed with him every other week until he died. It ended up being an incredibly healing time for our relationship.

The other night, I had a very disturbing dream: Apparently, I’d been doing terrible things and was discovering this. I found out that I had been blackout drunk when I was doing these things, so I had no memory of it. What I was hearing was not at all who I believed myself to be. I had done harmful things. I felt such remorse. I was trying to make sense of it all. Who is this person who would do such things when unconscious?

When I awoke from the dream, I was reminded once again that I don't know what I don't know. That there are vast parts of me that are still unconscious—maybe even doing harm. I've worked hard to become conscious. I'm proud of the work I've done and continue to do, but there is plenty more I still can't see. I trust myself to continue this work and to continue to be open to what I can't yet see.

But the dream's message seemed bigger than just personal. I felt strongly that the dream was pointing to what’s happening collectively. Huge numbers of people are walking around in what looks like a collective, drunk blackout - unable to see the harm they're doing. Unable to sober up and face what we have created.

I get it. Decades ago, when my life was falling apart, I was literally going into blackout binges because I couldn't face the despair I was feeling. It felt safer to be drunk. But slowly, my life was ebbing away. Fortunately, I was able to stop the madness before I destroyed myself.

I believe that's where we are collectively at this moment. Our life is ebbing away. We are at that moment when we better wake up, or we won't make it. Perhaps I sound melodramatic to you. So be it. I feel it in my bones. Now is the time to wake up, or we may not make it. I want us to make it!

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Why We Resist Awakening (Even When We Long for It)

Awakening is natural, but it's not easy. We resist it because it's uncomfortable and painful. We'd rather stay comfortable. I've spent decades committed to this journey and know the challenges. It's painful, but not as painful as staying stuck in a way of being that harms me or the world around me.

We also resist because it’s too hard to do without support. There was a time when cultures had elders and guides who helped people navigate the disorienting process of seeing more clearly. Today, many of us stumble through it alone or with self-proclaimed guides, gurus, influencers, and religious leaders who haven’t done the work themselves. Too many don’t have the maps or healthy mentors to help them make sense of what they're experiencing.

Yet, despite all this, we can sometimes hear the faint call. Something in us wants to wake up. Our dreams can serve as a doorway, showing us what our conscious mind works hard to avoid seeing.

When a Whole Society Operates from Shadow

It can be profoundly disorienting when we glimpse parts of ourselves we've kept carefully hidden. Carl Jung called this our "shadow", the aspects of ourselves we've disconnected from or pushed away. My dream showed me that no matter how much inner work I've done, more shadow parts are always waiting to be recognized and brought into the light.

But what happens when an entire culture operates from shadow? What happens when systems, institutions, and whole societies organize themselves around collective blindness?

We don't need to look far to see evidence of this collective trance. Our current political climate grows more destabilizing by the day. Our social fabric tears along lines of difference rather than weaving together our shared humanity. Our economic systems continue to reward extraction and exploitation while ignoring their long-term consequences.

We act as if the rules of nature that show that all living systems have limits and require balance somehow don't apply to us. We keep pushing against reality, shocked when it finally pushes back.

When Dreams Speak for the Collective

Dreams can be messengers to help us hear things our waking minds might not be willing to. The dream about my father seemed to be preparing me in some way for the role I’d have with him at the end of his life. My recent disturbing dream woke me up just a little more. And the alarm is not just for me but for all of us moving through this uncertain, chaotic time in history.

Many Indigenous peoples have always paid attention to dreams. They believe dreams aren't just personal but can warn or guide entire communities. I've been working with dreams long enough to see this truth.

The blackout drunk is a powerful metaphor for what's happening collectively right now. We keep acting in ways that harm each other and this world while pretending, or simply unable to see, that we are causing great harm.

Coming Out of the Coma: The Agony of Waking Up

I remember when someone I loved was in a car accident. She was in a coma for a while, and we didn't know if she would make it. The first time I visited her in the hospital, she looked so peaceful in that coma. I prayed hard for her to wake up. Then she did. I remember how agitated and disoriented she became. Her pain levels were sky-high. Oh, how I wished she'd go back into the coma! But I knew she had to go through all the pain and agitation if she were ever to recover. Thankfully, she did.

That's where we are as a culture. If we are to come out of our coma, we're going to feel pain, anguish, and shame for all the harm we've caused others and this beautiful planet. Maybe that’s why so many choose to stay in the blackout. I understand. I really do. But damn, we've got to wake up. The future of this planet, of our precious children, of countless marginalized people depend on it.

How to Create the Conditions to Wake Up

While awakening is natural, we need to create conditions that support it. The caterpillar knows to go into the dark cocoon. The snake, shedding its skin, knows to rub against the rocks. The seed knows to drop into the dark soil. The seed requires soil, water, and the right temperature. Our consciousness naturally expands when given a supportive environment.

Often, it begins with slowing down and getting quiet. It's hard to notice what's happening beneath the surface when we're constantly distracted and stimulated. Simple practices like mindfulness and meditation, spending time in nature, or turning off our devices can go a long way in helping us wake up to what we've been blind to.

We also need honest conversations and communities where we can speak truthfully about what we're experiencing without fear of judgment or rejection. When even one person shares their experience, it gives others permission to do the same, enabling new perspectives and understanding to spark. Little will change if we have no empathy for what our neighbor or planet is going through.

The Brave Work of Staying Awake Together

I've learned that transformation happens when we're willing to face what we've been avoiding – not to punish ourselves, but to become whole. This work isn't just about feeling what we've suppressed; it's also about unburdening parts of ourselves who are still stuck in old survival patterns and still living from outdated paradigms and belief systems.

The same is true collectively. Waking up as a group isn't about forcing ourselves to dwell on what's wrong—though we do have to look—it's about healing our capacity to respond intelligently and honestly to what's happening. We are being called to take responsibility, make amends, and reclaim our ability to face reality together, no longer numb to the consequences of our actions.

It means doing what it takes to stay present—present to the pain, beauty, fear, joy, anger, despair, and hope. Meditation, mindfully and gratefully wandering the woods, doing somatic work to ground myself in my body, and paying attention to my dreams help. These practices aren't luxuries but practical necessities for creating the conditions to keep waking up.

It involves seeking out others who are willing to see clearly with me. The work of awakening was never meant to be done alone. We need each other to help us navigate the complexity of what we're facing.

My disturbing dream left me shaken but also curious. It reminded me that staying unconscious—personally or collectively—always catches up with us. The longer we avoid waking up, the harder it becomes to face what we've been ignoring.

What might be possible if we found the courage to wake up together? What wisdom and creativity might emerge if we faced our shared reality with open eyes and hearts?

I don't have all the answers. But I know in my bones that now is the time—past time—to wake up, see clearly, and act with the full awareness of what's at stake. Though difficult and painful, our collective life depends on it.

Embracing Fear: Transforming Anxiety into Personal Empowerment

Navigating the Journey from Anxiety to Empowerment

Every morning, I step outside with little Lucy to greet the day. “Good morning, Grandmother Earth! Good morning, Tree friends! Good morning, Bird friends! Good morning, Mountains! Good morning, Greta Groundhog!” I pause, inviting in my guides and protectors, and almost always, deep gratitude fills me.

My morning view. 😍 © 2025 Carla Royal.

But this morning, my gratitude came with tears of fear and concern.

Unfortunately, I read the news before I got out of bed. I know this is a terrible idea. I know I need to get myself grounded and connected to this beautiful world before going down the rabbit hole of disturbing news. I know better. But this morning, I disregarded my own rules. I got spooked.

I believe I have reason to be afraid. Fear is not a bad emotion. Fear has saved our lives countless times. It’s why we jump back from a speeding car. It’s why we pull our hands back from the fire. It’s why I slow down when I realize I’m taking a curve too fast (though I do love going fast!). It’s why I’m always respectful when I’m on top of a horse. Fear is wired into us for a reason, and I am grateful for it.

But I also know that fear can become a trap.

Fear can guide or imprison us, depending on how we respond to it. And when the fear comes, especially the kind stirred by what’s happening in the world, it can be easy to spiral. Joanna Macy, who studies deep ecology and Buddhist philosophy, talks about active hope—the idea that we can practice hope instead of waiting for it to arrive. She reminds us that fear and grief are not signs of weakness but proof of our deep love for the world. If we feel afraid, it means we care.

But all fear is not created equal. There’s also fear that isn’t rational. Often, we feel fear when there is no danger at all.

Frozen in Fear: A Moment of Public Paralysis

When I was twelve, a friend and I were asked to sing a duet in church. Before the song, we were each supposed to share a little about our lives. My friend went first and spoke beautifully. Then it was my turn. I froze! Nothing came out of my mouth. My mind went completely blank. I was terrified. Everybody was staring at me, waiting. Finally, the piano player started playing, and my friend began singing. I somehow stumbled through the song. But the humiliation and that feeling of fear stayed with me for decades.

It was 50 years before I stood on a stage to speak again. I was invited to give a keynote talk for a company I worked with. I didn’t tell them I had never given a talk, I just said yes immediately despite being terrified. I knew I was ready to face this fear. I prepared well. I practiced. And when I stepped on that stage, I spoke with clarity and confidence. I even got a standing ovation. No one could’ve guessed I had never given a talk before. The most surprising thing was that my fear melted away the moment I took the stage. It was such an empowering experience. I still fear speaking, but the fear no longer paralyzes me.

We are at a time now when we can’t afford to collapse into fear. We must step up even when afraid. Our future depends on it.

The Hero’s Journey: Embracing Fear as a Catalyst for Growth

The hero’s journey doesn’t start with fear. It starts with a sense that something is shifting, something is being asked of us. Then fear rushes in. That’s when the hero’s journey begins. There is hesitation, doubt, and the overwhelming urge to turn back. Joseph Campbell, who studied world mythologies, called this the call to adventure. That’s the moment when the hero must decide whether they will answer the call or retreat back to safety.

The myths tell us that fear is not a sign that we’re on the wrong path. It’s often a sign that we’re standing at the edge of something important. That precipice between groundlessness and flight, as Ani DiFranco puts it.

The hero doesn’t become the hero by avoiding fear (spiritual bypassing, toxic positivity, suppression, acting out in anger) or by being consumed by it (shutting down, collapsing on the couch, hiding from life). They become heroes by facing and moving through it. And they don’t do it alone. In every great myth, the hero has a guide, a mentor, or a community. Luke Skywalker has Obi-Wan. Frodo has Gandalf. I have my friends and coach. Who are you choosing to walk with in these uncertain times? Fear is easier to move through when we have people beside us.

Ancient Wisdom: Viewing Fear as a Sacred Messenger

The ancient traditions understood that fear isn’t something to fight, but something to listen to.

Many Indigenous teachings say that fear isn’t an enemy but a spirit that comes to test our readiness. The Lakota believe fear is an invitation to deepen our wisdom. If we push it away too quickly, we miss what it has to teach us. If we collapse into it, we become stuck. The goal is to acknowledge fear, listen for its wisdom, and then move accordingly.

The samurai understood fear as something to be met with presence, not something to be conquered. Zen master Takuan Soho taught warriors that fear should not be resisted or suppressed but instead observed with a steady mind. A young samurai once asked his master how to deal with fear in battle. The master replied, “You do not fight fear; you let it pass through you, like wind through the trees. Acknowledge it, listen to it, and then act.” This teaching, rooted in Zen and Bushido, reinforced that fear itself isn’t the enemy, our reaction to it can be.

Practical Strategies: Transforming Fear into Empowerment

Often, we want to wait until we don’t feel the fear, the path is clearer, or the stakes aren’t so high. But that can be a trick the mind plays on us. The only way to deal with fear is by going straight through it.

Here are a few grounded, research-backed practices I’ve found helpful in working with fear:

• Acknowledge it – Name the fear. The moment you do, it loses some of its grip. Talk to yourself like you’d talk to a friend. Instead of “I’m so scared,” say: “I know you’re feeling scared, and that’s okay.” Or “[Your Name—I use a beloved nickname], you’ve been through hell before and found your way. We’ve got this.” That little shift creates just enough space between you and the emotion to loosen some of its grip.

• Regulate your breath – Fear tightens your body, breathing, and thinking. Slow, steady breaths tell your nervous system you’re safe. I’ve found that if I take a deep breath, hold it as long as possible, and do that a few times, my system starts to calm down. And if I hum while exhaling that breath, it’s even better. It’s like hitting reset.

• Get curious – Ask fear what it wants instead of fighting it. What is this really about? What is it trying to protect me from, Am I really in danger right this moment? Fear has a way of pointing to what matters. If you listen, it might show you something useful.

• Take a step, any step –The longer you sit in fear, the bigger it gets. That’s what my bungee jumping guide told me: “It’s not going to get any easier.” Move in some way. Even if it’s small. Send the message. Take a walk. Say the thing. Fear shrinks when you stop letting it freeze you.

• Remember, it’s temporary – Fear is like clouds in the sky. They come and go. It is not forever. When you stop treating it like something solid, it begins to lose its power—not immediately but over time. Maya Angelou, the world-renowned poet and scholar, said,

What I know is that it's going to be better. If it's bad, it might get worse, but I know that it's going to be better. And you have to know that. There's a country song out now, which I wish I'd written, that says, 'Every storm runs out of rain.' I'd make a sign of that if I were you. Put that on your writing pad. No matter how dull and seemingly unpromising life is right now, it's going to change. It's going to be better. But you have to keep working.

Recognizing When Fear Signals the Need to Pull Back

It’s important that we not ignore our fear. Sometimes, it’s asking us to pause, listen, and discern before acting. There is wisdom in knowing the difference between fear that’s truly keeping us safe and when it’s keeping us small, frozen, or over-reacting.

There are times when fear is a clear signal to stop and walk away from a harmful situation, to recognize when you’re depleted, to see that you’re about to push past your limits in a way that won’t serve you. Sometimes, what feels like resistance is actually intuition telling you not yet or even not this way. Fear is a warning and only an obstacle when we overreact to it or don’t heed it when we aren’t safe. The key is to listen deeply enough to know what the fear points to at this particular moment.

James Baldwin wrote,

Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.

It’s a powerful reminder that facing fear, whatever form it takes, is where transformation begins.

Yes, the world is uncertain. And yes, there are things to fear. But fear isn’t the enemy. In many ways, it’s a map pointing us to what matters, calling us to step forward, reminding us to care for ourselves in the process.

So, move when it’s time to move. Rest when it’s time to rest. Trust that you’ll know the difference. Because every storm runs out of rain.

Embracing Change: The Transformative Power of Shedding Old Beliefs

How Letting Go of Limiting Beliefs Leads to Personal and Collective Growth

Have you ever watched a snake shed its skin? I was curious about the process, so I watched a video. 😳 I watched the snake struggle, at least it looked like a struggle to me. It wasn’t an easy process. The snake rubbed against rocks and trees, squirming all over the ground, struggling to break free from what was once protecting but now restricting. The snake seemed agitated, but it kept working at it until it was free of the old skin.

Nietzsche, a German philosopher, said,

The snake that does not shed its skin perishes; likewise, people who do not change their thoughts perish.

© 2017 Carla Royal.

I've been thinking about this metaphor lately. About the necessity and difficulty of shedding old ideas, beliefs, and paradigms that no longer fit or that no longer serve the whole. About the discomfort that comes before renewal. About how desperately we cling to what we know, even when it constricts us or harms others.

I recognize this difficulty in myself. Even after experiencing a profound worldview shift that turned everything upside down twenty-five years ago, I still find myself resisting smaller sheddings. I get frustrated, angry, and agitated whenever something challenges my thoughts and beliefs. I dig in my heels before reluctantly moving forward. The process never gets easy, no matter how many times I've experienced its ultimate value. But I do it because I trust that the effort is worth it.

Why is it so hard? And why am I the one doing all this work? I look around and see so many people gripping tightly to certainties, refusing to question or examine their beliefs and stories even a little. Meanwhile, I'm constantly examining what I think I know, deliberately seeking out perspectives that might prove me wrong, and it's hard!

Understanding Our Brain's Resistance to Change

There's a reason this work feels so difficult. Our brains aren't designed to question our beliefs; they're designed for efficiency. Neuropsychologist Robert Burton, who studies certainty, points out that our brains reward us with a hit of dopamine when we encounter information that confirms what we already believe. And we experience discomfort, actual neural pain, he says, when confronted with evidence that challenges our worldview. Our brain treats contradictory information as a threat, filtering it out before it ever reaches our conscious awareness. It's not just stubbornness; it's biological. Our brains filter it out! We have to be intentional in overriding our biology to stay flexible.

Deb Dana, who specializes in Polyvagal Theory, says our nervous systems interpret unfamiliar ideas as potential threats. When someone challenges our core beliefs, we don't just disagree intellectually; our bodies move into protection mode. Our heart rates increase. Our muscles tense. Our thinking narrows. We are physiologically resistant to considering that we might be wrong.

No wonder it’s such a struggle! It’s the death of a particular way of making sense of the world that has kept us safe and oriented.

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The Hidden Costs of Clinging to the Past​

Resistance is exhausting. I know because I spent years doing it. I still do, at least at first. I notice how I automatically push back against ideas that challenge my comfortable beliefs. How my body tenses when someone suggests a perspective that disrupts my worldview.

This resistance isn't just happening on a personal level. It’s happening collectively. People are clinging to outdated structures and paradigms that are clearly failing. Sometimes I want to shake the person and scream, "Can't you see what's happening? Can’t you see how unsustainable and even harmful this is?"

Then, I remember my own struggle with letting go, and I find a bit of compassion. This doesn’t mean I stop standing up for what matters to me, but it does help to know that it truly is hard for people to change—even in the face of mountains of evidence.

There’s so much insecurity; people hate that feeling, believing iron-clad certainty and black-and-white thinking are the cure. I get it. I hate it, too. It freaks our brains out. But we must find a way forward in the face of it. Activist Rudolph Bahro said this:

When an old culture is dying, the new culture is created by those people who are not afraid to be insecure.

I disagree with Bahro that a new culture is created by people who aren’t afraid, but I wholeheartedly agree that the way forward is by having the courage, despite our fear, to push past our resistance, anger, and insecurity to create a new culture. It’s the vulnerability of shedding what's familiar before knowing what will replace it. That takes courage.

Navigating the Uncomfortable Middle Ground of Transformation

People are clinging to their views. It shows up in our politics, social media fights, responses to climate change, and my entrepreneurial clients who discover that what got them to success won’t get them to the next level. Some people grip old paradigms so tight their faces turn red. Have you noticed? Others try to race forward, dismissing all wisdom from the past—trying to leap over anything uncomfortable or disorienting. Almost no one seems willing to hang out in that messy middle space where real transformation happens.

There’s a line in an Ani DiFranco song I love: “The precipice between groundlessness and flight.” That’s what happens after we let go, but before we find our grip again. That uncomfortable, frightening place of teetering. That's where transformation happens. In that messy, uncomfortable middle space, where we've released what was but haven't yet grasped what's becoming. Like the trapeze artist flying untethered through the air.

It could be that nagging feeling that something doesn't make sense anymore. The explanations that once seemed right but now feel hollow. The certainties that organized your life begin to wobble. At this point, you have a choice: step back to the illusion of safety or dare to reach for something new.

If you reach, you’ll likely encounter that precipice—not grounded but not yet in flight. This is what insecurity feels like. It’s uncomfortable—terrifying even. It’s tempting to go back, but if you do, you won’t help the new culture be born. We need to usher in a new culture. We need you to weather the messy middle space until you find what’s on the other side. Please.

The Role of Vulnerability in Personal and Collective Growth​

Shedding what no longer serves us and others isn’t just about release, it’s about stepping into the unknown without guarantees. It can be terrifying and vulnerable. And I’m not talking about the superficial, influencer version of vulnerability that gets repackaged as authenticity, but the kind that admits, I don’t know for sure. The kind that stays open and curious when certainty feels safer.

It takes courage to say, "I might be wrong," in a culture that rewards certainty and judges doubt. It requires courage to remain open when shutting down feels safer. It also requires humility to recognize that our beliefs remain partial, no matter how carefully constructed they are.

I struggle with this. I still catch myself pushing my perspective, trying to force others to see what seems so obvious to me. I often bristle when someone challenges a deeply held belief. The difference now is that I notice the resistance more quickly and choose to walk through my insecurity more often.

Building Supportive Communities Amid Change

Moving through our resistance and being in the messy middle ground is easier when we are in connection with and supported by others. We aren't meant to go through these messy transformations alone. Stephen Porges's research shows that our nervous systems co-regulate with others. We find true safety in secure connection, not in rigid certainty. When we surround ourselves with people who are also willing to question, doubt, and grow, we create the conditions where transformation becomes possible.

This doesn't mean surrounding ourselves only with those who think exactly like us—too much of that is happening. It means finding people who are willing to grow and change, who love the questions as much as the answers, and who can sit with you in the confusion without going into fix-it mode. I hate fix-it mode. I bet many of you do, too.

As Joanna Macy says,

The biggest gift you can give is to be absolutely present... The main thing is that you're showing up, that you're here and that you're finding ever more capacity to love this world.

Perhaps this is what we need most. Not perfect certainty but the capacity to show up fully, to engage honestly with what is, and to remain open to what could be created, even when we feel insecure.

Identifying and Releasing Limiting Beliefs​

I think of the snake metaphor and find comfort in it. The discomfort of shedding isn’t failure but evolution. The vulnerability of the in-between state isn’t weakness but transformation in process. It’s that messy middle ground.

• What thoughts have you outgrown that still cling to you like an old skin?

• What beliefs have become constricting or harmful rather than protective?

• What certainties might you need to release to make space for something new?

I don't have the answers, but I commit to asking the questions of myself first and then of others. To keep rubbing against rough surfaces until what no longer serves is released.

Because the alternative—remaining safely encased in what we've always known—leads to a different kind of death. Not the transformative death that leads to new life, but a quiet snuffing out. The slow suffocation of what could be.

I choose the discomfort of shedding again and again, however imperfectly. Because beyond the struggle lies the capacity to hold paradox, to embrace complexity, to love this broken, beautiful world exactly as it is while working toward what it might become.

What about you? What skin are you ready to shed?

When Your Reality Shatters: What to Do When the World No Longer Makes Sense

How to Rethink, Reimagine, and Move Forward When Everything is Changing

For decades, I clung to beliefs that felt like a lifeline. Even when they didn’t fit, I assumed the fault was mine. I thought if I just tried harder and prayed more, I’d find alignment. But I didn’t. Instead, I suffered.

Letting go wasn’t an option—not for a long time. My beliefs were woven into the fabric of who I was. Questioning them felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that if I jumped, I might not survive the fall.

But the suffering became unbearable. So, eventually, I jumped.

I almost died. Some days, it felt like I was peeling my own skin off, layer by layer. I barely recognized myself and others no longer recognized me. The confusion, fear, and despair were suffocating. I wandered blindly through the dark, grasping for anything solid. No one handed me a roadmap, but a few offered a hand. Slowly, glimmers of light began to appear. Bit by bit, they grew.

Since that great unravelling of belief, I stay wary of clinging too tightly to any worldview. I hold my beliefs with open hands. Not because I don’t stand for anything—oh, I do!—but because I know how easy it is to mistake certainty for truth.

I see it everywhere. People gripping tight to ideas that can’t hold them anymore, afraid to let go.

What We Can’t See

I’m reading An Immense World by Ed Yong, a book about how animals experience reality in ways we can’t even imagine. Some creatures hear frequencies beyond our range. Others see spectrums of light we’ll never perceive. We humans like to believe we take in the world as it is, but the truth is, we are always missing something—we only ever see truth partially.

Lately, when I walk in the woods, I try to notice more. I pause, breathe deeply, and listen. I feel the sun warming my skin, the cool wind brushing against my face. I take in the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of pine. I remind myself that there is more happening than I can ever perceive. And I ask myself: How much of what I think I know is just another illusion or partial truth?

(Arboretum in Asheville, NC. ©2022 Carla Royal)

Why We Cling to Our Beliefs

Psychologist George Kelly compared beliefs to reality goggles, which we use to make sense of the world. But when those goggles crack, when something challenges what we think we know, we don’t usually take them off. Instead, we tighten them, trying to hold everything together. We twist, contort, rationalize—anything to keep our worldview intact.

It’s human nature but also dangerous because the world never stops changing. And when it changes, our old ways of seeing won’t save us.

I get why people resist change. It’s not just about the belief itself—it’s about who we are without it. If we let go, what’s left? Who’s left? That fear keeps people gripping tightly to what no longer serves them, even when everything around them is shifting.

Neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett reminds us that our brains are wired to predict what’s next based on what has already been. Letting go of an old belief isn’t just uncomfortable; it can feel unsafe. But that doesn’t mean the belief is true. It just means we’ve worn deep grooves into an old map. Maybe it’s time for a new one.

What Comes After Letting Go

At first, letting go can feel like freefall. The ground you stood on, the certainty you built your life around, vanishes beneath you. But what if it’s not falling at all? What if it’s flight?

What if, instead of gripping tighter, we trusted that something new wants to emerge? What if the space left behind by an old belief isn’t emptiness but possibility?

I’ve found that something remarkable happens when I stop fighting for control and allow myself to stand in the unknown. Clarity arrives, not all at once, but in glimpses. New ways of thinking surface, and unexpected perspectives find me. I stop seeing the world through old, cracked lenses, and instead, I catch glimpses of something new—new possibilities, new opportunities, new ways of being.

The Courage to Not-Know

What if we stopped treating uncertainty as something to fear?

Because here’s the thing: we don’t know what’s coming next. Yes, things look frightening, but we can’t know how things will go. Not with any certainty. The ground beneath us is shifting, whether we like it or not. And those who will make it through aren’t the ones gripping hardest to old paradigms.

They are the ones willing to see what wants to emerge and focus there rather than on what is crumbling.

Joan Halifax said, “All too often, we hold on to what we believe to be solid, when in truth, everything is shifting. Liberation begins the moment we recognize that groundlessness is not a curse, but a doorway.”

What if we stopped fighting the shift and started stepping through the doorway?

A Challenge for Us All

I won’t pretend I have mastered this. Even now, I catch myself tightening my grip, trying to make sense of things. But when I notice, I pause and breathe. I remind myself that clarity isn’t about having all the answers but about staying open to the questions.

Maybe it’s whispering, I don’t have to have all the answers right now, and that’s OK. Maybe it’s learning to rest in the unknown, trusting that something meaningful will arise in time.

So, I’ll keep walking. I’ll keep noticing. I’ll keep breathing in the uncertainty and trusting that something new is constantly unfolding, even if I can’t see the whole picture.

I can either help usher in the new or cling to what no longer holds, pretending I can’t feel the shift already happening.

I know which choice I want to make. What about you? Will you hold on tighter, or will you open your hands and see what wants to emerge? Maybe that’s where something new begins—when we stop gripping so tightly and allow space for what’s next.

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If this stirred something in you, share it with someone who might be standing in their own uncertainty. And if you’d like to keep exploring these ideas together, subscribe here. Your thoughts, reflections, and even a simple ‘like’ mean more than you know. Let’s keep finding our way—one step at a time. 🤗

When Nothing Feels Certain | How to Stop Bracing for the Worst and Start Living Now

Like many, I'm working on my taxes right now. And every year, I run into the same question: Do you expect a considerable change in your 2025 income?

My answer is always the same: I have no idea.

That's the nature of being an entrepreneur, but really, it's the nature of life. Things don't unfold in a straight line. Some years, my business has looked shaky early on, only for everything to turn around in the second half. And yet, even knowing this, I still feel the grip of fear when the numbers don't look good.

Because uncertainty doesn't just feel uncomfortable—it feels dangerous.

And it's not just about money.

I see this pattern in relationships, health, major life decisions, and, yes, even as we watch the world shift around us. The institutions we once trusted are crumbling, and the ground beneath our collective feet feels unsteady. We think we know how things will go. We make predictions based on the past. We cling to what feels solid, afraid of what might happen if we loosen our grip.

But what if certainty isn't the safety net we think it is?

The Stories That Shape Us

Like others in my family, I've struggled with money issues all my life. For a long time, I didn't know how to make enough to support myself. Even now that I do, there's still a part of me that doesn't fully believe I can sustain it.

That's the thing about old wounds. Even when circumstances change, the fear remains, lurking beneath the surface like a shadow following you home.

I've had to do deep emotional work to uncover the beliefs and patterns that keep me stuck. Using Internal Family Systems (IFS) and Polyvagal Theory, I've learned how to recognize the parts of me that get triggered and help them settle rather than letting them run the show.

Because when fear takes over, it doesn't just feel like fear. It feels like truth.

I see this playing out all around us now. As the new administration takes shape and familiar structures give way to uncertainty, our collective nervous system is on high alert. It's not just politics; it’s that deep, primal feeling that says something isn't right here. And when we feel that way, we grasp for control wherever we can find it.

Why Our Brains Treat Uncertainty as a Threat

Neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett explains that our brains are prediction machines. We aren't just reacting to the present—we are constantly scanning for patterns, trying to anticipate what will happen next. When things feel uncertain, the brain fills in the gaps with past experiences.

If the past involved struggle, the brain assumes struggle is coming again. If the past held loss, the brain tells us to brace for impact. Even when nothing is actually wrong, our bodies react as if danger is near.

This isn’t just in your head—it’s in your body too. The nervous system doesn’t care about logic; it cares about survival.

It’s like a tripwire in my brain snaps, launching me straight into survival mode. We either move into sympathetic activation (fight-or-flight) or dorsal shutdown (freeze, collapse). In those states, we lose access to creativity, possibility, and clear thinking—precisely when we need them most.

The good news? We can learn to interrupt the cycle.

How We Get Stuck on the Problem

In Think Again, Adam Grant explains that we can't simultaneously focus on a problem and a solution. We lose the capacity to see a way forward when we lock onto what's wrong.

I saw this with a client recently. He's a successful entrepreneur who took on a struggling business, hoping to turn it around. For months, he focused on all the reasons it couldn't work, which wasn’t like him. But underneath the business stress, there was something deeper—he had been caught in personal drama for a long time, and it was draining his energy and resilience.

I suggested he step back from the business problem and focus on resolving what was happening personally first. And the moment he did? Everything shifted. New ideas flooded in, ideas that had been there all along, but that he couldn't see while he was stuck in problem mode. The business hadn't changed overnight. His focus did.

I wonder if this is true for us collectively as well. When we fixate on everything that's wrong—and there's plenty to fixate on—we lose our ability to imagine what might emerge from this uncertainty. When we spiral in fear about the crumbling of what was, we miss the first tender shoots of what might be growing in its place, tender shoots we could nurture if only we see them.

(Asheville, NC. ©2022 Carla Royal)

Shifting Focus Without Denying Reality

None of this is about pretending problems don't exist. It's not about ignoring the very real challenges we face, personally and collectively. It's about recognizing that we don't have access to the solutions we need when we're in a fear-driven state.

I still get scared when the numbers don’t look good—my heart tightens, my mind starts spinning worst-case scenarios. It’s old wiring, hard to shake. But I've learned to catch it before it takes over—most of the time! Instead of spiraling, I come back to what I find helpful:

• Journaling – Getting the tangled thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where I can see them for what they are: thoughts, not facts.

• Walking in the woods – Where I remind myself that right now, in this moment, I am okay. The trees don't worry about tomorrow. They simply grow toward the light.

• Interrupting the spiral – When I notice my mind racing, I ask: Is this fear real or just a prediction? Am I responding to what's happening or reacting to what might happen? Then I tell myself to live it once—if it ever even happens—instead of a thousand times in my imagination.

• Regulating my nervous system – Using tools from Polyvagal Theory to shift back into a calm, grounded state. Simple practices like deep breathing, movement, or even humming can signal safety to a nervous system on high alert.

• Meeting with my coach – A weekly meeting that keeps me aligned and aware of what still needs healing. We all have blind spots. Having someone who can see what we can't is invaluable.

These practices don't remove uncertainty—nothing can do that. But they help me navigate it without letting fear drive my decisions.

Finding Strength in the Unknown

What if uncertainty isn't the enemy? What if it's simply the space where new possibilities emerge?

In times of significant change—and we are certainly living through such a time—it's natural to yearn for stability. The familiar feels safe, even when it doesn't serve us all.

I've been wondering lately: We can see the fracturing of familiar structures all around us. The discomfort is real. What if this pain isn't just about collapse, though? What if it's also the difficult birth of new possibilities struggling to emerge?

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote:

"Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final."

I often think about this in my work with clients navigating profound transitions, and I think about it now as we all navigate a world that feels increasingly uncertain. So what do we do with this? Maybe nothing at first. Maybe we sit with the discomfort and see what it has to say—to let it teach us, shape us, and reveal parts of ourselves we couldn't have discovered any other way.

I'm learning to trust this process. To hold my beliefs with open hands, as I wrote in an earlier piece. To remember that every moment of profound growth in my life has come through navigating uncertainty—not by avoiding it.

What would change for you if you saw uncertainty not as a threat but as an opening? What strength might you discover in yourself if you learned to move with it instead of bracing against the unknown?

I'm no expert at this—not yet. I'm learning as I go, stumbling, catching myself, beginning again. But I've noticed something important: A different kind of strength emerges when I release my grip on needing to know what comes next. The anxiety doesn’t vanish. Not completely. But it loosens its hold. I discover room to breathe, to think, to create again.

What emerges in that tender moment—the pause between surrendering control and taking the next uncertain step—has surprised me. It's not merely survival I've discovered there, but something more profound. I've found a wellspring of possibility that doesn't require certainty to flourish. This isn't wishful thinking that demands immediate answers. Instead, a grounded trust whispers: We have weathered storms before. We can move through this one, too.

The way forward isn't illuminated because we've figured everything out. It reveals itself because we've developed something more valuable—the capacity to find our footing on shifting ground and sense direction when familiar landmarks disappear.

I'd love to know what this stirred in you. How do you meet uncertainty in your life? What anchors you when everything feels adrift? Drop a comment below, and if these words found you at the right moment, consider subscribing or sharing with someone walking their own uncertain path.