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.

When Different Realities Collide | Why We Can't See Eye to Eye

Have you ever had a conversation with someone and thought, "Are we even living in the same world?"

It wasn't just that they disagreed with you. It was something deeper—as if they were operating from a completely different set of assumptions about how reality itself works. As if you were speaking different languages while using the same words.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. How we can look at the same news story—whether it's about climate change, immigration, or who should lead our country—and see entirely different things. How desperately we want others to see what seems so obvious to us, and how futile those efforts usually are.

The Blind Men and the Elephant: Why We're All Seeing Differently

There's an ancient parable about blind men encountering an elephant for the first time. Each touches a different part—the trunk, the tusk, the ear, the leg—and describes the elephant completely differently. "It's like a snake," says one. "No, it's like a spear," argues another. "You're both wrong—it's like a fan," insists a third.

They argue endlessly, each convinced the others are mistaken or even lying and that their own view is the true view. Yet each speaks a partial truth based on their direct experience. None is entirely wrong, yet none possesses the complete picture.

I wonder if this is what's happening in how we talk to each other today. We're not just disagreeing about interpretations—we're literally experiencing different realities.

How Your Brain Creates Your Reality (And Why Others See Something Completely Different)

Anil Seth puts it this way: "We don't just passively perceive the world; we actively generate it. The world we experience comes as much from the inside out as from the outside in."

Our brains don't just record what happens around us like a camera. They're constantly making meaning from bits of information, filtering everything through our past experiences, values, and what we already believe. That's why two people can see the exact same thing and walk away with completely different stories about what happened.

The Biology of Perception: How Trauma Shapes What We See as Real

This perceptual divide goes beyond thought alone. Deb Dana, a trauma specialist and expert in Polyvagal Theory, shows that we make meaning from our nervous system state. If someone experienced trauma as a child, their body stores that experience, and they may perceive danger where others see none. Their reality isn't just a thought construction—it's embedded in their biology, in how their nervous system interprets the world. I know this one firsthand through my trauma recovery work.

Developmental psychologist Robert Kegan suggests that human consciousness evolves through different stages of meaning-making. We don't just gather more information as we grow—we fundamentally change how we organize our understanding of reality. Each stage is like a different world with its own logic and limitations.

Someone at a different stage isn't wrong or bad—they're experiencing reality through the lens that's currently available to them. And those who have moved through various transformations can sometimes forget how compelling and complete the world once appeared from previous perspectives.

The Hidden Cost of Worldview Change: Why We Resist Seeing Differently

When we encounter someone whose reality differs radically from our own, our instinct is to try to pull them into our world—oh, lord, how I've tried! I've found myself throwing every bit of evidence, every logical argument, and every heartfelt plea I can muster, believing that with just the right explanation, they'll suddenly see the light.

I know from my own journey what it feels like when long-held beliefs fall away. It's more than simply changing opinions on a topic or two—it's like having the foundation you've stood on for decades suddenly crack open. I wandered through months and years of confusion, no longer sure of anything I once knew without question. My community began to view me as a stranger when my beliefs changed. Everything I had counted on to make sense of the world had dissolved, and I felt utterly vulnerable.

It was a kind of death—and not everyone is ready for that journey. Not everyone needs to take it. I understand now why some fight so fiercely to avoid it.

When someone has built their entire identity and security around a particular way of seeing the world, challenging that view isn't just presenting new information—it's threatening their very sense of self and the world as they know it. No wonder the defenses rise so quickly!

Beyond Argument: The Compassionate Alternative to Endless Debate

What if there's a more compassionate and effective approach than endless debate? Instead of trying to drag others into our reality, what if we focused on living fully from the truth as we understand it? What if, instead of exhausting ourselves in futile arguments, we directed that energy toward creating the world we want to live in?

This isn't about giving up on communication or connection. It's about recognizing the profound limitations—damage even—of forced conversion. As developmental psychologist Susanne Cook-Greuter says, "Development is an emergent, self-organizing process that cannot be forced. People grow according to their own timetable and their own needs."

We can offer invitations. We can ask genuine questions. We can model a different way of being. But we can’t force someone to see what they're not ready to see any more than we can force a caterpillar to become a butterfly before its time.

©2014. Carla Royal

Standing for Truth Without Starting a Fight: Finding the Balance

Let me be clear—this perspective doesn't mean being passive in the face of harmful beliefs or actions. Understanding different realities doesn't mean we step back from standing for justice or speaking truth to power when necessary.

The reality gap isn't just about innocent differences in perception. It's also about who has the power to shape collective narratives. When those with platforms and influence promote worldviews that harm vulnerable communities, understanding their perspective doesn't mean accepting or enabling the harm they cause.

We can firmly stand for what's true and just while still recognizing that the person across from us is viewing reality through their own particular lens. This isn't about saying 'everything is relative'—it's practical wisdom. We're more effective when we understand the ground we're standing on.

The Power of Curiosity: Practices That Create Connection Across Divides

In practice, this might look like:

• Getting curious and asking questions instead of delivering lectures

• Sharing your own story rather than making sweeping claims

• Creating spaces where different perspectives can be explored without fear

• Knowing when someone just isn't ready to see what you see—and respecting where they are without abandoning your own truth

• Taking action to protect those being harmed, regardless of whether everyone agrees with your assessment

Neuropsychologist Iain McGilchrist suggests that our culture has become dominated by a fragmented, analytical way of seeing that loses sight of the interconnected whole. Maybe what we're seeing isn't just people failing to understand each other but something bigger—a shared struggle in how we all make sense of the world.

If that's true, then the most revolutionary act might not be converting others to our view but cultivating a more integrated way of seeing—one that can hold paradox, embrace complexity, and recognize that none of us has access to complete truth.

Walking Your Own Path: Holding Your Truth While Respecting Others' Journeys

I've learned to hold my beliefs more lightly. To remember there's so much I can't see. To question what I think I know while still having the courage to act from my deepest values.

I say I've "learned" these things, but the truth is I'm still learning them, still practicing them imperfectly. There are days when I fail completely—when I get so angry at those who can't see what seems obvious to me, when I feel desperate to make others understand. I'm human. I struggle—often deeply.

I keep trying. When I meet someone whose reality seems nothing like mine, I try to get curious: What might they be seeing that I'm missing? What experiences have shaped how they see the world?

This doesn't mean I abandon my own truth or my commitment to justice. It means I stay curious while standing firm. When we stop fighting so hard to prove we're right, we create space for new insights to emerge.

I'll keep walking my path, guided by the truth as I currently understand it, expecting my understanding to evolve, while extending compassion to those on different journeys. And I'll remember that none of us sees the whole elephant—we're all just doing our best to make sense of the piece we can touch.

I wonder what might change for you if you loosened your grip just a little on needing others to see what you see while still holding tight to what matters most? What might open up in your life and relationships?

When the Bridge Collapses: Embracing Uncertainty and New Beginnings

When the Old Path Disappears

It happened during a simple visualization exercise in a continuing education class I was attending. "Envision a bridge," the instructor said, "connecting what you know to what you don't yet know."

I closed my eyes, skeptical. Visualization has never been my strength. But then it came—not just an image, but a visceral knowing. The bridge behind me was crumbling, board by board. Not metaphorically. Not someday. Now.

That moment crystallized something I felt but couldn't articulate: the impossibility of going back. Not to old certainties. Not to familiar shores. The only way was forward, even if that way wasn't yet clear.

Dunedin, Fl. ©2017. Carla Royal

The Body Knows Before the Mind Does

I've been thinking about what it means to stand at the edge of transformation, watching what was once solid give way beneath you. About how the body sometimes knows what the mind refuses to accept.

There's a difference between choosing to leave something behind and realizing that what's behind you is already gone. The first carries a certain freedom. The second brings a reckoning.

Our bodies track these shifts before our minds can make sense of them. The tightness in your chest isn't just anxiety—it's recognition. The restlessness in your sleep isn't just stress—it's preparation. Your system knows: we are in motion now, whether we're ready or not.

Fighting What’s Already Gone

I see people around me trying to deny this reality. They dig in. They raise their voices. They insist that if we just try harder, we can make the old structures hold. But their exhaustion tells a different story. You can't continually push against what's already in motion without depleting yourself entirely.

In her exploration of how we navigate uncertainty, Rebecca Solnit observes that "the future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be." Not dark as in bleak, but dark as in unknown—full of possibilities we can't yet see. When we stop demanding certainty before we move, something shifts. We become explorers rather than refugees.

Meeting Transformation on Its Own Terms

Transformation doesn't ask permission. It doesn't wait for our readiness. It moves through us and through our world with or without our consent. The question isn't whether change will come. The question is how we'll meet it.

Will we exhaust ourselves trying to rebuild what was never meant to last? Or will we turn our faces forward and ask: What now? What next? What's possible that wasn't before?

We Find the Path By Walking

I don't have a map for what lies ahead. No one does. But I know this: we find our way by placing one foot in front of the other. By reaching for each other when the next step isn't clear.

That day in class, after the bridge began to crumble in my mind's eye, I didn't see what waited on the other side. But I felt something shift in me—a willingness to move without guarantees. A recognition that staying put is not an option.

The Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron speaks of "The Wisdom of No Escape"—that transformative moment when we stop running from what's uncomfortable and instead turn toward it with curiosity. "The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen," she writes. "Room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy."

The Gift in the Crumbling

That's the paradox of this moment. The path forward is unclear, but it may be our only path. And while that reality can feel terrifying, it also holds a strange liberation. When going back isn't an option, you stop wasting energy looking over your shoulder.

I don't know what form your own crumbling bridge has taken. Maybe it's a relationship that no longer serves who you're becoming. Maybe it's a belief system that can't contain your questions anymore. Maybe it's a way of working or living that's slowly breaking you down instead of lifting you up. Perhaps it's watching institutions you once trusted fracture, or witnessing the erosion of shared values you thought were foundational to our collective life.

The ground beneath us seems less solid lately; the foundations we assumed would always hold now reveal their cracks.

Whatever it is, I invite you to consider: What if this unraveling isn't the end of your story, but the beginning? What if what feels like loss is actually clearing ground for something essential to emerge?

There's wisdom in this discomfort, in the not-knowing. When certainty is stripped away, we finally have to trust something deeper—that inner compass that has always known the way but is often drowned out by the noise of shoulds and supposed-tos. This is where authentic movement begins.

I can't tell you what waits on the other side of your particular crossing. But I know this: You already possess everything you need to take the next step. And the one after that. This is how we've always moved forward—not because we can see the entire path but because something in us knows it's time to move.

And perhaps this is the gift in the crumbling: when the old ways become impossible, we are finally free to discover what's been waiting on the other side all along.

If this speaks to you, I’d love to hear what’s stirring in you. What are you noticing? What’s shifting?

Feel free to share this with someone who might need it. And if you feel inclined, leave a comment or a like—does my heart good, and helps others find this essay.

The Hidden Power of Falling Apart

I don’t know about you, but I have a good bit of cognitive dissonance going on.

I live in a place of extraordinary beauty—these ancient mountains, this lush forest that holds me in its quiet, steady presence. Every morning, I step outside into air alive with birdsong, feet meeting earth that has been here far longer than I have. I have an adorable puppy who delights me, work that fulfills me, friends who love me, and a strong, healthy body. My life is rich, peaceful, and whole.

(Evening view from my front porch. ©2025. Carla Royal)

And then—I read the news. All is not well. The world is unraveling.

I scroll, I listen, I watch—and I feel the edges of my reality tear at the seams. I see the fractures widening, the ground shifting beneath us, and I wonder: How do I hold both of these things at once? The beauty and the horror, the peace and the collapse?

A Grief That Splits the World in Two

I remember when my mother died 30 years ago. It wasn’t just her life that ended. It was the end of a world I had known. There was before my mother’s death, and after—and they feel like different lifetimes.

In the months and years that followed, I was swallowed whole by grief and confusion. I remember sitting on my couch, staring out the window, watching people move through their days as if nothing had happened. I wanted to scream: My mother is dead! How can you just go on like nothing has happened?

I meet with clients now, and they ask, How are you? I say, I’m doing well. How are you? And it’s true—I am doing well. But I’m also not doing well. I want to say, I’m doing well, considering the world as we know it is falling apart. How is it for you? But I don’t.

Not everyone sees what I see. Not everyone feels the weight of this unraveling in the same way. Maybe I see more clearly than others. Maybe I don’t. But I know this: I have been here before.

The Descent

When my mother died, I didn’t claw my way out of grief. I didn’t try to rise above it. I didn’t attempt to put myself back together too soon. People wanted to pull me out, to help me move on. But I somehow knew I had to go all the way down. And I did.

There’s a line from an Over the Rhine song I love: "I’m so far down, I’m beginning to breathe."

That’s what it felt like. I thought the depths might destroy me. They didn’t. I thought if I surrendered, I would disappear into the abyss. But what I found, in the deepest dark, was something entirely unexpected: Space. Air. The slow, steady rhythm of breath. Life. The depths were not what I had feared. They did not consume me. They remade me.

And maybe that’s why, years later, I have a client who calls me a hell-walker. I’m not afraid of the depths. I am not afraid of the darkness. My clients know this about me. They know I’ll walk through hell with them. This is my zone of genius. I have been to the bottom and learned to breathe there. And I know that for those willing to stay the course, to surrender to the transformation, something new—something stronger, freer, and truer—emerges on the other side.

What If This is a Necessary Unraveling?

These mountains I live among are hundreds of millions of years old. They have seen forests rise and fall, flooding rivers carve through rock, and fire reshape the land. They have watched entire worlds change, over and over again.

They remind me that everything changes, always. Nothing stays intact forever. Not civilizations. Not systems. Not even us. But something deeper remains.

Joanna Macy calls this time The Great Unraveling. She teaches that we are not simply witnessing destruction—we are living through the breaking apart of an old way, a necessary dissolution.

What if this isn’t just collapse? What if this is compost?

Learning to Breathe in the Freefall

Victor Frankl once wrote, "Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

We cannot always change our circumstances. But we can choose how we meet them.

Frankl also said, "When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves."

I’m not saying we can’t change this world. I’m saying that if we want to, we must first change ourselves. And if the world refuses to change, we can still change ourselves—or maybe it’s more like returning to our true selves.

The Real Meaning of Preparation

I keep coming back to this idea of preparation. What does it really mean to be prepared? For some, preparation means stockpiling, survivalism, a tight grip on control, or ignoring it completely, hoping for the best. But I don’t think that’s what we need.

I think preparation looks more like building the capacity to stay in the mess without running from it. I didn’t prepare myself to survive my mother’s death. I surrendered to it. And in doing so, I found a resilience I didn’t know I had.

Years later, I discovered Pema Chödrön, and her teachings put words to what I had already experienced: When the ground beneath us falls away, we have two choices: We can panic or learn to breathe in the freefall. Sometimes, we panic first, then surrender and breathe in the freefall.

I won’t lie—I still love my comforts. I don’t want to be uncomfortable. But I also know that comfort is not where transformation happens. And I believe with my whole heart that we are being called into transformation. Only in our transformation will we be able to usher in a new world.

I know what happens when the old world collapses. I know what happens when you let yourself go all the way down. And I know that when you finally stop resisting, you could find your breath and life force again.

Falling apart isn’t the end of the story. It’s how the next one begins.

What about you? Have you ever been undone, only to discover you were becoming something more? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Comment below and share your experience. If this resonated with you, consider subscribing so we can keep walking through the depths together. And if you know someone who might need this today, please pass it on.

The Leap You’ve Been Avoiding—And Why It’s Time to Take It

History moves in leaps—not careful steps. Will you answer the call?

Leap

That’s the word echoing through me right now. A single, insistent whisper. A knowing. Now is the time to leap toward how I am meant to show up in a crumbling world.

Leap, trusting that the wings will appear or the rope will hold.

And even if they don’t, it will have been worth knowing I didn’t stay small inside the illusion of safety, standing still while the ground gave way.

Leap—to manifest my destiny rather than letting the tide of fear and control decide for me.

Just over a decade ago, I bungee jumped for the first time. I thought it would be easy. I spent a few years in college rock climbing and rappelling. I’m not afraid of heights. But standing on that bridge in the mountains of Whistler, BC, I realized something: climbing is about control, but it’s another thing entirely to hurl yourself into the abyss 160 feet above a rocky river that will not cushion the fall.

Humans aren’t meant to hurtle through the ar! My body knew this. I froze.

The young guy coaching me told me something simple but true: It won’t get any easier.

He was right.

No amount of standing on that bridge would dissolve the fear. The only way forward was down. And so, after what felt like an eternity, I dove. I dove!

(That’s me leaping! You can’t see the terror, but it’s there.)

It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was worth it.

I won’t do it again—but I will never forget the lesson: Even in the face of paralyzing fear, I can leap. I am capable!

The Cost of Not Leaping

I have also known the opposite of leaping.

I watched my father do everything he could to stay safe and in control. He was meticulous and cautious. Yet, for all his efforts, I never found his life inspiring.

I listened to my mother tell me not to be consumed by what I loved—even as her addictions consumed her. I watched her slowly snuff out her beautiful light.

Might it be better to go out blazing?

Neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett explains that our brains aren’t wired for safety but for survival. The nervous system doesn’t distinguish between the fear of leaping and the quiet cost of holding back; it only tracks the toll. What feels like self-preservation can become self-abandonment—and when we abandon ourselves, we abandon the world.

Adrienne Maree Brown speaks of emergent strategy—the art of adapting and trusting that what we need will come as we move. She says, "How we live and grow and stay purposeful in the face of constant change" is what shapes us. The leap is not just an act of courage—it’s how we participate in our own becoming.

I decided 25 years ago that I would rather die than slowly fade away. Before that, I came close to death, but that decision pulled me forward. And yet, honestly, I haven’t been burning as brightly as I could. But over these past decades, I have built a foundation beneath me, and I have resourced myself well.

Now, it’s time to leap again. Time to blaze.

The World Is Calling Us To Leap

This is not just personal. The world is inviting you to leap, too.

We live in a time when old structures are crumbling economically, politically, socially, and environmentally. The safety nets we once trusted are faltering.

Jean Gebser wrote about mutations in consciousness—how history moves not in straight lines but in great leaps. And in every shift, some try to hold onto what was, and some surrender to what wants to emerge.

The ones who leap can help usher in a new world.

We are being called. Right now.

And yet, we hesitate.

Our nervous systems resist the unknown. We cling to what feels familiar, mistaking it for safety. Deb Dana, an expert in Polyvagal Theory, explains that safety isn’t the absence of risk; it’s the presence of connection. Read that again: Safety isn’t the absence of risk; it’s the presence of connection.

This means we don’t have to leap alone—we aren’t meant to.

We can hold each other through the freefall.

The world is in desperate need of my light. And yours.

So, I’ll ask you what Mary Oliver once asked:

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

I know what my next big leap is, and I’m scared! I’ve decided to take it before I hit publish, even though it frightens me because I’ve learned I can do brave things even when fear is present.

Trembling, I leap. Will you join me?

It will be terrifying. It will be exhilarating. It will be worth it.

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Please share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to hear what this stirs in you. If it resonates, please share it with someone who needs to hear it. If you want more conversations like this, hit the subscribe button. A “like” goes a long way. 🤗

Your Anger Is Not the Problem—Here’s How to Use It as Fuel

The Weight of Anger: Why You Feel It Everywhere

There’s so much anger in the air right now. You can feel it, can’t you? It’s in conversations, in the news, in your body. It’s in the way you clench your jaw when you hear another headline, the way your chest tightens when you see injustice playing out again and again. The world is shifting in ways that feel cruel, like a rising tide meant to drown us. Of course, you’re angry. You should be.

Anger Can Be a Trap—Or a Tool

Anger is what tells us something isn’t right. It’s the fire that keeps us from going numb. But if we’re not careful, that fire can burn us up from the inside. It can turn us reactive, exhausted, and hopeless. And we can’t afford that. Not now. Not when the world needs us awake and steady.

How Anger Affects Your Brain

Anger is powerful. Like any powerful force, it can either sharpen or distort our thinking. The research is clear: unchecked anger can make us reactive, narrowing our focus and making us more prone to snap judgments and more susceptible to misinformation. But appropriately channeled anger can do the opposite—it can cut through the noise, bring clarity, and fuel deep, decisive thinking. When we learn to work with anger rather than be consumed by it, it becomes a force that sharpens our vision instead of clouding it.

A 2005 study by Bodenhausen, Sheppard, & Kramer found that unchecked anger makes us lean on fast, surface-level thinking rather than deep, careful reasoning. But the right kind of anger—the kind that is acknowledged and directed—can do the opposite, sharpening our focus and fueling deeper thought. This is where social media traps us. It doesn’t encourage reflective, purposeful anger. It thrives on raw, unprocessed outrage, keeping us scrolling, engaging, and getting madder and madder. The angrier we are in this reactive state, the less we pause. The less we breathe. The less we think.

This is precisely why I got off most social media sites. I found myself riled up to the point of shaking at times. Between that and the addictive nature of social media, I had to go so I can remain regulated and grounded.

When anger takes over, our amygdala—our brain's fear and aggression center—kicks into high gear, flooding us with fight-or-flight energy. The prefrontal cortex, the part of us that thinks ahead, considers nuance, and makes wise decisions, gets quieter. If we don’t learn to work with this, we end up stuck in cycles of outrage, convinced we’re thinking clearly when, really, we’re being hijacked. We can see the hijack all around us.

History Shows Anger Can Be a Catalyst for Change

That doesn’t mean we need to stuff our anger down. No, no, no. Suppressing anger means it festers. A Harvard study on repressive coping found that people who suppress anger have higher stress, worse health, and a greater risk of depression. If you don’t validate your anger and give it a place to go, it’ll come out sideways through resentment, exhaustion, and explosive outbursts that leave you feeling worse than before or maybe collapsed on your sofa in despair (that one I know well).

Anger has fueled revolutions, toppled corrupt leaders, and propelled people to fight for justice when no one else would. Research by Carver and Harmon-Jones (2009) shows that anger increases persistence—it keeps people in the fight. Lerner and Tiedens (2006) found that anger can make us more optimistic and willing to take the risks needed for change.

But it has to be carefully tended. Not suppressed, not unleashed without thought. Tended. Held. Directed. Used wisely.

(Focused anger. Don’t get too close! Feral Cat in Apalachicola, FL. ©2016 Carla Royal)

How to Transform Anger Into Power

How do we work with anger instead of being consumed by it? How do we let it sharpen us without hardening us?

I’ve spent the last several months studying Polyvagal theory with Deb Dana. This work has been life-changing. It teaches that rather than trying to make anger (or any emotion) disappear, we need to learn to listen to it. What is it telling me? Where is it pointing me? How do I move from reactive to steady?

Terry Real’s work in relational healing echoes this. He says anger isn’t the problem—it’s how we engage with it. When we name our anger and give it space without letting it take over, we reclaim our power.

Understanding this can help us recognize when we’re dysregulated and help us get back to regulation more quickly. This builds resilience in us.

Three Ways to Work With Your Anger

1. Move it through your body. Exercise, breathwork, shaking, even just standing up and stretching can help. Anger gets stored in the body and stagnates if we don’t move it.

2. Acknowledge it without letting it run the show. Journaling, naming what’s happening inside you—I’m furious right now because I feel unheard because this isn’t fair—lets you work with the anger instead of just reacting.

3. Channel it into something tangible. Anger without action is just spinning wheels. Direct it toward something meaningful, whether setting a boundary, creating something, or stepping up in a way that makes an actual impact. But direct it carefully and with intention so you don’t burn the place down.

Holding Complexity: The Key to Thinking Clearly in an Outrage-Driven World

It’s often challenging to hold multiple perspectives at once. Yes, anger can distort thinking, but it can also sharpen it. Yes, anger can be destructive, but it can also be the fuel for justice. Both can be true. We must be able to hold onto that complexity if we want to navigate this world without losing ourselves.

This is hard in a world that thrives on black-and-white thinking and outrage. Social media, the news, and everything around us make it easier to react than to reflect. But we must resist that pull if we want to show up powerfully. We must stay clear-eyed. We must learn to work with our anger so it works for us, not against us.

Your Anger Is Valid

Your anger is not wrong. Your anger makes sense. This world gives you plenty of reasons to be angry. But anger, by itself, isn’t enough. If we don’t learn to work with it, it will burn us down instead of lighting the way forward.

Now more than ever, we need people who can hold their fire without letting it destroy them. We need people who can think deeply, act wisely, and channel their rage into something real. We need people who won’t collapse or explode but will show up—steady, grounded, and ready to do what needs to be done.

That’s you. You are needed. Your anger is needed. Just don’t let it burn you up. Listen to it. Work with it. Use it wisely. The world is waiting.

Stay on Course: Why Focus is the Most Powerful Act of Resistance

In a world built to scatter your attention, reclaiming your focus isn’t just self-care—it’s a revolution. Here’s how to take back your power and do what truly matters.

Everywhere I Turn, Something is Demanding my Attention

The news, the notifications, the endless stream of crises—each one urgent, each one insisting that it matters most. I want to stay informed, bear witness, and do my part. But no matter how much I try to hold, there is always more. The weight is relentless, and if I’m not careful, it leaves me scattered, depleted, and unable to focus on what truly matters.

And that’s exactly the point.

(Douglas Lake, TN. ©2015 Carla Royal)

A System Designed to Keep Us Distracted

I know I’m not alone in this. Many people I speak to feel the same pull, exhaustion, and sense of being stretched too thin. And that’s not an accident. We live in a system designed to keep us distracted. The more fragmented our attention, the harder it is to think critically, reflect deeply, and channel our energy into meaningful action.

That’s why reclaiming our focus is more than a personal choice. It’s an act of resistance. A refusal to be manipulated, depleted, and rendered ineffective. The world needs steady, intentional, intelligent action, not reaction. But that requires discipline—stepping out of the whirlwind and focusing on what’s ours to do.

A Simple Framework for Reclaiming Focus

Recently, I listened to a conversation between Priya Parker and Brené Brown on Unlocking Us. Priya, the author of The Art of Gathering, shared three guiding questions she returns to when the world feels overwhelming:

• What do I know how to do?

• Where is the need?

• How can I do what’s within my reach, with blinders on—trusting that others are doing the same?

These questions offer a way forward—a way to cut through the noise, reclaim our focus, and show up fully—not in every direction at once but in the way that matters most. We cannot do everything, but we can do what is ours to do.

Blinders Aren’t Avoidance—They’re Power

Blinders get a bad rap. People assume they mean avoidance, a refusal to acknowledge what’s happening in the world. But that’s not the kind of blinders I’m talking about. The right blinders don’t make us ignorant; they make us effective. Horses wear them not because they lack vision but because they have too much of it (hello, my highly sensitive friends!). They are easily startled, distracted, and thrown off course without them. The blinders help them stay focused on the path ahead and the work that is theirs.

We need those blinders—not to turn away from reality, but to stay committed to what is ours to carry. To recognize the difference between what calls for our attention and what is merely designed to steal it.

(Serenbe, GA. ©2015 Carla Royal)

Why We Must Protect Our Energy

We need those blinders. Not to turn away from the world, but to stay committed to what is ours to carry—and to release what is not. Neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett explains that our brains have a finite amount of energy each day. We deplete that energy whenever we shift focus, consume more information, or engage in reactive thinking. If we spend it on things we can’t control, we have nothing left for the work within our reach.

Stephen Porges, the creator of polyvagal theory, adds that when we are in a state of constant urgency, our nervous system shifts into survival mode—fight, flight, or freeze. When that happens, we lose access to the very parts of ourselves that allow for deep engagement, creativity, and meaningful change.

And that’s precisely what the world’s noise machine wants—to keep us exhausted, overwhelmed, and disconnected from our power.

Resisting the Pull of Distraction

So, I return to Priya’s questions.

• What do we know how to do?

• Where is the need?

• How can we do what’s within our reach?

The challenge isn’t knowing the answers—many of us already know or have an inkling. The challenge is choosing to focus by putting on our blinders. It’s resisting the temptation to scatter our attention, refusing to let urgency and noise dictate where our energy goes. It’s the discipline of choosing—again and again—to stay steady in what is ours to do.

Your Attention Is Power—How Will You Use It?

That choice belongs to all of us. Each of us has something to contribute, something within reach. Some will build. Some will lead. Some will heal. Some will create. Some will nourish. Some will challenge and disrupt. Some will plant. Some will make phone calls. No one can do it all, but if we each tend to our own piece, the whole is tended. The weight is distributed. Change becomes possible.

(Knoxville, TN. This blind horse knows all about focused attention. ©2006 Carla Royal)

What Is Yours to Do?

I invite you to step back and ask yourself:

What is yours to do?

Not the whole world. Not everything that needs fixing. Just your part. Just the thing that calls to you—the work that’s within your reach. The forces that thrive on our distraction want us exhausted and ineffective. But we don’t have to play by their rules. A scattered mind is easy to control. A focused one is powerful.

Make the Choice to Show Up Fully

Today, I put on my blinders. Not because I don’t care but because I care too much to waste my energy on things I cannot change. Not because I want to turn away but because I want to stay steady in the work that is mine to do. And I invite you to do the same—not in my way, but in yours. If we each focus on what is ours to do, something new becomes possible.

When the World Feels Like It’s Falling Apart: How to Move Through Uncertainty with Strength and Purpose

A World In Upheaval

I read the news this morning and wept.

The struggle is real. I want to stay informed and bear witness—but the relentless firehose of information overwhelms me. I want to hide. I want to check out. But when I take just a peek, I tumble down the rabbit hole. Fear grips me. My breath shortens. It feels like things are unraveling. Power is shifting in ways that make my stomach clench. The air is thick with uncertainty. I can’t tell if we’re on the brink of collapse or transformation—probably both.

Tears come. I feel helpless. My mind catapults into the future, constructing worst-case scenarios.

Then I remember.

At this moment, I am okay.

I remind myself that others before us have lived through times like these—times of upheaval, collapse, and uncertainty—and many have risen, shining like beacons. I remind myself that the old world was never working for all of us. What we’re witnessing may not just be destruction but the painful cracking open that precedes something new. I remind myself that we are resilient, that we were built for this, and that I was born into this moment for a reason.

Still, I grieve. I fear. And I know I’m not alone.

So, what do we do? How do we move through this without collapsing into despair?

(Phinizy Swamp Nature Park, Augusta GA. 2010)

1. Honor Your Fear and Grief: They Hold Wisdom

These emotions are not signs of weakness. They are not distractions. They are intelligent.

Fear heightens our awareness, and grief reminds us of what we love. Research confirms that so-called negative emotions—fear, anger, and grief—are essential to human survival. They help us set boundaries, take action, and adapt. The key is to sit with them long enough to hear what they tell us but not so long that they consume us.

As Rumi wrote:

“Sit with your grief. Pour it tea. Listen to it. Honor it. Let it unravel its pain so you may release yours.”

And when teatime is over, take what you’ve learned and act.

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2. Take Action: Transform Fear into Purpose

Despair calls for our attention. If we listen closely, it can reveal what we most long for. But staying in it too long can paralyze us. The way forward is action.

Decide how you want to show up in this moment. There is no one right way. But I don’t mean frenetic action. I mean intentional, meaningful action.

Some are called to protest, write, organize, build, meditate, or create sanctuaries of calm in the storm.

This moment has crystallized my purpose. I’ve spent my life walking into the dark places—my own and others'. My work is about transforming wounds into wisdom, fear into power, and pain into purpose. Now, I’m making it explicit: I want to help those ready to heal themselves and the world. I want to help people who aren’t just seeking success but who also want to make the world more just, whole, and humane.

As Lao Tzu said:

“If you want to awaken all of humanity, then awaken all of yourself. Truly, the greatest gift you have to give is that of your own self-transformation.”

3. Guard Your Energy: Protect Your Mind and Spirit

This is a marathon, not a sprint. If you burn out, you become another casualty of the system you want to change.

Be intentional. Limit your doomscrolling. Step away when needed. Be mindful of what you consume—not just food but media, conversations, and thoughts.

For me, survival means walking in the woods, meditating, writing, listening to music, and staying connected to those who ground me. It’s a balance between knowing and not knowing, between bearing witness and protecting my nervous system.

Get radically honest about what sustains you. And do more of that and less of what doesn’t serve you.

(Bard Owl outside my home in Vermont. 2009)

4. Root Yourself in Community: You Are Not Alone

Even if you tend toward solitude, like me, now is the time to name your people and bring them close.

Decades of research confirm what we already know deep in our bones: Humans are wired for connection. We survive because of each other. Friendship, community, and belonging aren’t luxuries; they’re lifelines.

Who are your people? Who sees you, gets you, and reminds you of what’s real? Reach out. Check in. Gather, even if it’s just over text. Build a web of support that holds you and that you hold in return.

We do not do this alone. We never have.

5. Seek Professional Support: You Don’t Have to Navigate This Alone

It’s okay not to know how to navigate this.

Therapists, coaches, and spiritual guides aren’t just for “fixing problems.” They are essential allies in times of transition. They help us regulate our nervous systems, reframe our fears, and find solid ground in unstable times.

I have my own guides. Without them, I’d be lost.

Who are yours?

6. Hold Space for What Wants to Emerge.

It is easy—natural—to imagine the worst. But fear is only half the story.

The other half is this:

We are standing at the edge of something unknown. And unknown does not automatically mean bad, even if it looks terrible.

History shows us that collapse is often the precursor to rebirth. In the ashes of the old, something new can rise—something more just, whole, and authentic. The systems we relied on were never built for all of us, and maybe they were never meant to last.

“When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge.” — Tuli Kupferberg

“Chaos is the raw material of creation. In times of order, transformation is resisted. But in chaos, it becomes inevitable.” — Unknown

“In the times of greatest chaos, transformation is not only possible—it is unavoidable.” — Unknown

(Dunedin FL, St. Joseph Sound. 2017)

7. Keep Going: Hope Beyond the Unknown

We must not lose hope. Not the flimsy kind of hope that clings to a particular outcome. But the deeper kind—the hope that trusts in something more significant than any single moment in history.

As Václav Havel wrote:

“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”

So we keep going.

Not because we know exactly how this will end but because who we become now matters.

Because there is work to do. Because there are fires to tend. Because something new is waiting to be born.

And we are here, now, for precisely this time.

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

These are heavy times, and no one should navigate them alone. If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts—how are you moving through uncertainty? Share in the comments, and pass this along to someone who needs it. If you want more reflections like this, consider subscribing. Let’s keep the conversation going. And a like always brings a little smile to me.