The Day Before I Tell the Truth

I haven’t written an article for myself in a while.

But today feels like the right day to begin writing my life story honestly.
Partially because I’m procrastinating.
Partially because I’m thinking. A lot.

I leave tomorrow for a writing retreat.

My suitcase is open on the floor. Partially packed. Not because I do not know what to bring, but because I am aware that what I am really carrying cannot be folded neatly into a bag.

Today is quiet. I worked last weekend to complete about 90% of my work for the week. I intentionally planned for a day that is mostly about preparation. Reflective. Tender.

I keep thinking about the fact that I am not just traveling somewhere. I am preparing to sit down and begin writing my life story. Fully. Intentionally.

I have tried to do this before. This is the second book I have started. I hate to quit, but I knew the first book was not right for me. Not at that time.

This book, Dear Daughter, my love letter to the next generation of women in business, is the right story. The story I have been wanting to tell.

I have started. I have stopped. I have made progress. But with my coach, I am going to finish. Without rushing past the hard parts. Without polishing the truth into something more comfortable.

There is something sacred about the day before a beginning. Again.

For years, this book has lived inside of me. In fragments. In podcast episodes. In keynotes. In conversations with women who leaned in and whispered, “How did you get through that?” In quiet moments when I thought about the girl I used to be and the woman I have become.

Tomorrow, I begin the process of turning those fragments into something whole. This is the moment I finally commit to writing my life story in full, not in fragments.

And if I am honest, that feels overwhelming. I am giddy and scared.

On Writing My Life Story Honestly

It is one thing to have lived a life. It is another to examine it. To sit with memories you have moved beyond but not fully revisited. To trace the lines between survival and strength. To look at younger versions of yourself and say, I see you now.

I know there will be moments when I will have to pause and breathe. Moments when I realize I have told certain stories in ways that made them easier for me to re-digest.

Moments when I will have to choose honesty over comfort.

That is the part that will stretch me. The moments I hope I can be proud of when this is done.

As I prepare to continue writing Dear Daughter, I keep asking myself a simple question:
What does it mean to tell the truth of my life unapologetically?

Not the polished version.
Not the convenient version.
Not the version shaped to protect everyone else’s feelings.

The honest one.
The one that holds complexity. Growth. Pain. Joy. Power.

I have often written letters to the 16 or 17-year-old version of myself. The version who was pregnant and scared. The version who decided to keep my son. But that girl had seen a lot before those moments, and a lot since. Those stories I do not usually share.

Those stories I do not usually speak out loud.

This book is not about perfection. Not the version I like to present to the world. This book is about reclamation.

About speaking to the girl who felt invisible.

The young woman who was figuring it out in real time and wearing masks to fit in and excel.

The young mother who was becoming, even when it was suggested she take her son’s picture off her desk and stop bringing baked goods into the office so people would not think of her as a “mom” and block her advancement.

The leader who had to unlearn survival and learn how to lead with heart. To step into wholeness.

I am not walking into this retreat with certainty. I am walking in with willingness.

Willingness to listen to what surfaces.
Willingness to extend compassion to former versions of myself.
Willingness to let the story unfold without forcing it into something tidy.

There is fear, yes. But there is also excitement. A quiet knowing that something meaningful is waiting on the other side of this work. And it will be work.

Tomorrow, I will board a plane. I will hug my writing coach, who I trust to go on this journey with me. I will open my laptop. I will begin.

Not with all the answers.
But with courage. And support.

This retreat is not just about finishing a manuscript. It is about writing my life story with honesty and courage. And right now, on the eve of this unknown journey, both figuratively and literally, that feels like enough.

If you would like to follow along as Dear Daughter takes shape, I will be sharing occasional updates and reflections along the way.

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This book is deeply connected to the work we do through Legacy Rising and the stories women are reclaiming every day.