Formerly Reach For The Stars Coaching

01/28/2026

Watch the world bleed and stay anyway.

That’s right, don't look away.

Yes

You

The one reading this with your jaw clenched and your soul pacing back and forth, back and forth behind your ribs.

The one who’s tired of hope because its feels like betrayal in slow motion and has for a while.

The one who rises anxious to another day of chaos.

Don’t look away from what we’ve done.

Don’t flinch from the forests we have silenced, or the children we taught to make money before we taught them how to make peace.

Don’t cover your ears when the oceans scream.

Don’t say “it’s complicated” when it’s not.

Don’t say “we tried” when we didn’t.

Look.

Look at the blood on hands
that built empires from bones.

Look at the holes in the sky where greed finally chewed right through the light.

Look at the land we gutted,
the rivers we choked,
the sacred things we branded and sold until we couldn’t even remember their real names.

Look at all of it.

Let it rot your denial.

Let it split your apathy down the middle.

Let it make you sob in places
you thought were long dead.

And then

Stay

Stay with the grief

Hold it like a mother that's screaming for a child lost too soon.

Stay in the burning house we built
not to die with it, but to pull someone else through the smoke.

Maybe even yourself.

Let the pain make you soft.

Let it rip the armor off your chest
and show the heart underneath that is still there beating, ready to finally open wide to love.

Let the final heartbreak be holy.

Let the wound teach you to touch the world with reverence instead of conquest.

And when someone tells you
“this is just how it is,”
you look them in the eyes and say,
“No. This is how we let it be.
But not anymore.”

Then build.
Not for glory.
Not for content.
Not for history books written by those who survived the plundering.

Build like you are repairing a song
that was never yours but that you were born to hold.

Build with hands that shake.
Build with no map.
Build with love so inconvenient
it ruins every agenda.
Build with tears that refill springs.

Plant trees you’ll never see.
Teach truths that won’t trend.
Feed people who won’t thank you.

And rest.
Rest like it’s rebellion.
Because it is.
Rest like a forest floor after a fire.
Rest, then rise again.

Because if the world is bleeding
(and it is)
then let us be the ones who do not run,
who do not numb, who do not pretend this wound is clean.

Let us be the hands that press the cloth and say,

We’re not done
We’re not done

While we hold love with these beating hearts wide open

We’re not done.

🫶 Trudi Jane

01/04/2026

🗣️ What are you still carrying?
We arrive as continuations of ourselves, not replacements.
By Patti Digh

It’s a New Year, and the calendar insists on its clean lines and numbered boxes, as if time itself were orderly, as if our lives move forward in tidy increments. The old year is filed away, the new one opens like a blank notebook. We are told this is the moment to begin again—to resolve, to commit, to reinvent. The language of January is full of brightness and certainty. It promises clarity.

But clarity is rarely how a year begins.

Most years begin quietly, even awkwardly, with leftovers in the refrigerator and half-undecorated thoughts still hanging in the corners of our minds. They begin with fatigue that has not yet shaken off December, with grief that did not politely conclude on December 31, with unpaid bills and hopes that feel tender and untested. The new year arrives not as a trumpet blast, but as a low knock on the door.

It asks not Who will you be now? but What are you still carrying?

We cross this threshold with bodies that remember everything. The sleepless nights. The difficult conversations. The small, luminous moments that did not make headlines but altered us anyway. Time may turn over, but we do not reset. We arrive as continuations of ourselves, not replacements.

There is something honest—relieving, even—about admitting this.

January has a reputation for ambition, but what if January is a listening month? A month that notices what remains after the noise quiets. A month that lets us take inventory without judgment. Not a list of goals, but a sense of weight: What feels heavy? What feels surprisingly light? What no longer fits the life we are living?

Here are the two questions I ask myself at the beginning of each year: What do I want to create in this new year? And what do I want to let go of? I write to those two questions until answers emerge.

We are practiced at declaring what we want to add—better habits, stronger routines, more productivity, more discipline. We are less practiced at asking what we might gently set down. The resentment we rehearse. The expectations that exhaust us. The belief that we are already behind.

A new year does not require us to sprint forward. It invites us to pause at the edge and look back with tenderness. To say: That was hard. To say: I did the best I could with what I knew then. To say: Some things ended without my consent, and I am still learning how to live with that.

This is not failure. This is being human inside of time.

If the year has a task for us, perhaps it is not transformation but attention. Attention to the small signals of our own lives: the tightness in the chest when we say yes too quickly, the relief that comes when we tell the truth, the quiet joy of doing one thing well and then stopping. Attention to the people who remain, the work that still matters, the questions that refuse to be rushed.

We do not necessarily need a vision board to know when something is alive in us. Aliveness has a texture. It pulls us forward gently. It does not shout.

There is courage in beginning a year without a script. In allowing uncertainty to sit at the table with us. In trusting that we do not need to see the whole path in order to take the next honest step.

This culture will keep urging us to optimize, to monetize, to measure. But the deeper work of a year often happens in ways that cannot be tracked. In conversations that soften us. In boundaries that protect us. In grief that teaches us what we love. In moments of play that return us to ourselves.

It’s a New Year, yes—but it is also an ordinary day. The sun rose without consulting our resolutions. The world continues to ask us for presence more than perfection.

So perhaps the invitation is simple: to enter this year awake. To move at the speed of meaning. To build a life that can hold both sorrow and delight without apology. To remember that becoming is not a race but a relationship—one we tend, day by day, with patience and care. To let go of things.

The year does not need us to be new.

It needs us to be here.

Love,
Patti

01/04/2026

01/04/2026

01/04/2026

PSA: If you hit play on “In The Air Tonight” by Phil Collins at 11:56:20PM this New Year’s Eve, the drum fill will welcome you into 2026. Start the year the right way.

📸 Terry O’Neill

09/24/2025

09/07/2025

You don't get over it. You work through it. Sift and shift it. Release what you can and savor the memories with your heart. Jody Doty
©2025 Meditations and Musings by Jody Doty
Image via DepositPhotos

07/03/2025

It’s energy....all energy.

You feel it and that’s when you notice them, they may never even notice it in themselves.

They could even think that people are looking at them for all the wrong reasons when the truth is, the light they can’t see, is helping to light the way for others.

Even in their darkest moments they are a natural lighthouse in this world.

Love always,
(we can choose it together)

Trudi Jane

07/03/2025

Transform Your Life with the 3 C's: Make bold choices and take chances to spark change.

07/02/2025