Thrivewell Estate

02/01/2026

Five years sober.

Tomorrow, under the Snow Full Moon, on 2/1, I quietly mark five years of sobriety.

I’ve been sitting with how to write this, because five years doesn’t feel like a single achievement. It feels like thousands of ordinary, unseen decisions stacked on top of each other. Some brave. Many messy. A lot of them made when no one was watching.

Five years ago, I wasn’t trying to reinvent my life. I was trying to survive it.

I didn’t get sober because I had clarity. I got sober because something inside me was tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Tired of negotiating with myself. Tired of numbing what needed to be felt. Tired of shrinking and pretending I was fine when I wasn’t.

Sobriety didn’t arrive as relief. It arrived as exposure.

Suddenly there was no buffer between me and my emotions. No escape hatch for fear. No shortcut around grief, anxiety, loneliness, or uncertainty. I had to learn how to stay in my body. How to sit through discomfort. How to let feelings crest and pass without reaching for something to make them disappear.

Some days, staying sober looked like strength.
Other days, it looked like doing the bare minimum and calling that enough.

The Snow Full Moon feels like the right backdrop for this milestone. There’s nothing flashy about it. It’s a moon associated with endurance. With surviving the coldest stretch. With conserving energy when resources are thin. With continuing on even when the landscape feels quiet, frozen, or unforgiving.

That’s what sobriety has been for me.

Not a constant upward climb. Not a transformation montage. But a long winter where I learned how to keep showing up anyway. How to build warmth slowly. How to trust that even when nothing looked like it was changing, something was.

Five years in, sobriety hasn’t made my life smaller. It’s made it honest.

I feel things more deeply now. I notice patterns I used to outrun. I recognize fear without letting it drive. I’ve learned that faith isn’t the absence of doubt, it’s moving forward without guarantees.

This year especially, the timing feels tender. I’m standing in a season of real uncertainty. Real faith. Real vulnerability. And I’m doing it without the old coping mechanisms I once relied on.

That matters to me.

If you’re early in recovery, or quietly questioning your relationship with alcohol, or just carrying more than you let on, I want you to know this: you don’t have to have it all figured out to choose yourself. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need the willingness to stay.

Tonight, I’m not celebrating loudly. I’m acknowledging something sacred and hard-earned.

Five years ago, I chose to stay.

Five years later, I’m still choosing it, under a winter moon that reminds me that survival itself is a kind of light.

🤍

01/31/2026

Has this been the longest, most January-est January for anyone else too?

The kind that stretches on. Presses in. Asks more of you than you expected.

Tomorrow, 2/1, something quiet and meaningful arrives.
The Snow Full Moon and Imbolc land together.

The Snow Moon carries themes of endurance and survival, of moving through the hardest stretch of winter when resources feel thin and faith is tested. It reminds us that sometimes simply staying with the process is the work.

Imbolc marks the midpoint between winter and spring. Not the bloom yet, but the inner shift. The moment when the light begins its return, even if the world still looks frozen on the surface.

Together, they offer a shared message: This is a threshold.

Not a rush forward.
Not a demand to be “better” yet.
But an invitation to acknowledge what you’ve already carried, and to gently tend the flame that never went out.

If this month has felt heavy, constricting, or uncertain, you’re not behind. You’re moving through a season that asks for patience, trust, and quiet resilience.

The light is turning.
What you’ve protected through winter matters.
And something steady is preparing to grow.

🌕🔥❄️

01/30/2026

Over the past few weeks, a number of friends, family members, and longtime supporters have reached out asking the same question:

“How can we support Thrivewell if we can’t be there for the opening?”

This is my answer.

As Thrivewell Hub opens its doors, I’m also stepping into my very first year as a brick-and-mortar business owner, learning, adjusting, and building something meant to last. Several of you have asked for a way to be part of that beginning from afar, and I wanted to offer something intentional and aligned.

I’ve added a support-the-vision item to the online shop for those who feel called to participate in the opening in this way.

This isn’t charity.
It’s not an ask.
It’s an option, for those who’ve already expressed a desire to stand behind the vision, even if they can’t be here in person.

Think of it as a quiet vote of confidence.
A way to say, “I believe in what you’re building,” and to help create steadiness as Thrivewell finds its rhythm in year one.

Whether you support through presence, encouragement, sharing the work, or this offering, please know how deeply it’s felt. This space has been shaped by community from the very beginning.

Thank you for walking alongside me, near or far.
I’m so grateful to be opening these doors with you in mind.

🤍

This offering was created in response to the many friends, family members, and supporters who have asked how they can support Thrivewell if they can’t be present for the opening.The Opening Circle is a way to stand behind the vision as Thrivewell Hub steps into its first year, quietly, intentional...

01/29/2026

I’m still letting this sink in.

I was invited to write an article on holistic health, and it was selected for publication in Spirit of Change Magazine. 🤍

This one feels especially meaningful because it came from a place I used to doubt so deeply, my own voice.

For a long time, insecurity told me I wasn’t “qualified enough,” “polished enough,” or “ready enough” to say yes to opportunities like this. But here’s the quiet truth I keep learning:
growth doesn’t come from waiting until fear disappears. It comes from moving with it.

Writing, like healing, like intuition, like anything worth doing, is a practice.
A willingness.
A choice to show up imperfectly and trust that clarity comes through repetition, not perfection.

This is work any of us can do if we’re willing to listen inward, stay curious, and keep saying yes, even when our old patterns try to keep us small.

I’m so grateful for the invitation, the trust, and the reminder that our stories matter.

If this resonates, I’d love for you to read the piece 🤍

Here’s to choosing courage over comfort and letting our voices grow stronger with use. ✨

If intuition feels unreliable, it’s not because it failed you. It’s because the relationship hasn’t been given space to grow in a world that rarely slows down.

01/28/2026

Imbolc arrives quietly.
Not with fireworks or grand declarations, but with a soft inner knowing that something is stirring beneath the surface.

It marks the midpoint between winter and spring. The place where the dark loosens its grip just enough for light to whisper, I’m coming back.

On February 1, Imbolc invites us to notice what is beginning, not what is finished.
The ideas that won’t leave you alone.
The desires that feel fragile but persistent.
The parts of you that are thawing, even if the world still looks cold.

In the days leading up to Imbolc, preparation matters more than performance.

This is a time to:
• Gently clear, your space, your schedule, your inner clutter
• Tend to the body with warmth, rest, and nourishment
• Name what you are ready to nurture without forcing it to bloom yet
• Create a small ritual of light, candles, intention, quiet reflection

Imbolc isn’t about rushing spring.
It’s about honoring the moment you decide to believe in it again.

So over the next few days, ask yourself:
What am I warming back to life?
What deserves care, not pressure?
What light am I willing to tend daily?

February 1 is the spark.
The days before are where you make room for it.

🤍

01/28/2026

I’ve spent a long time watching the New England fan base.

Not just during winning seasons, and not just when things are exciting, but in the quieter stretches, the rebuilding years, the uncertain years, the years that ask for patience instead of celebration. There is something distinct about how New England shows up. We are loyal without being performative. Analytical without being cold. Willing to hold high standards while still understanding the long view.

New England fans don’t just watch outcomes. We watch process.

We pay attention to systems. To discipline. To whether something is being built with intention or simply assembled for effect. We know the difference between momentum and foundation, between flash and sustainability.

And I understand that football isn’t for everyone. Not everyone connects with the sport or the culture around it, and that’s okay. What interests me has never been football alone. It’s what leadership inside high-pressure environments reveals about human behavior, trust, and integrity. You don’t have to love the game to recognize when something is being built well.

Over time, I began to recognize a familiar pattern in Mike Vrabel.

Even when he was a player, there was nothing theatrical about him. No unnecessary noise. What stood out was consistency. Accountability. Presence. He understood the system, but more importantly, he understood people. He showed up in the moments that mattered, often without needing recognition for it.

Watching him now as a coach doesn’t feel like a reinvention. It feels like the same pattern expressed in a different role.

What makes his leadership stand out, and what defines him as a true leader, is that he doesn’t demand people rise to meet him. He meets people where they are. He understands that leadership isn’t about forcing uniformity or control, but about creating the conditions where each individual can perform, grow, and take ownership in a way that’s authentic to them.

That distinction matters.

What feels different about this team right now isn’t just strategy or play calling. It’s authenticity. Vrabel doesn’t perform leadership. He doesn’t borrow an identity or try to recreate something from the past. He leads with clarity, steadiness, and respect, and that kind of leadership changes the energy of an entire organization.

He builds teams the way durable leaders always do, from the inside out.

Before there is trust in the playbook, there is trust in the locker room. Before there is belief in the system, there is belief in one another. He understands that culture isn’t a slogan or a speech. It’s how standards are held when no one is watching. It’s accountability without humiliation. Discipline without fear. Expectations without ego.

That kind of leadership creates something rare. People don’t just comply, they commit.

As someone who spends a lot of time studying systems and human dynamics, I see the parallels clearly. Sustainable success doesn’t come from control. It comes from trust. From leaders who know who they are and don’t need to perform. From building the foundation before asking for results.

This version of the team feels grounded again. Human again. Purpose driven again.

And maybe that’s why it resonates so strongly with New England fans in particular. We value substance over spectacle. We respect patience. We recognize when something is being built with care rather than urgency.

I’m less interested in predicting outcomes than I am in noticing patterns. And the pattern here is clear: when leadership meets people where they are, when culture is prioritized, and when trust is built before performance is demanded, everything else has a chance to follow.

And that, to me, is what makes this moment worth paying attention to.

01/25/2026

There’s something quietly magical about a nor’easter.

The world slows without asking permission.
Appointments get canceled. Roads empty.
We’re reminded that no matter how busy or important we think we are… nature still sets the pace.

Today is about hunkering down.
Charging the lanterns.
Filling the kettle.
Stocking the essentials.
Checking on neighbors.
Letting the quiet do some of the work for us.

Storm prep isn’t just about flashlights and bread.
It’s about choosing presence over panic.
Preparation over reaction.
Trust over control.

Because life works the same way.

The moments that feel like everything is closing in often carry an invitation to slow, ground, and tend to what actually matters. When we prepare thoughtfully, rather than rush fearfully, we move through storms with steadier hands and clearer hearts.

So if you’re snowed in today, let it be a pause.
A breath.
A reminder that rest is productive, stillness is powerful, and sometimes the safest thing you can do is stay exactly where you are.

Stay warm. Stay grounded. Let the storm pass. 🤍

01/23/2026

The crescent moon has been holding Saturn and Neptune close these nights.
A quiet prelude. A soft gathering.

And as we move forward, we are also preparing for something much larger.

On February 20, Saturn and Neptune meet at 0° Aries, the very first degree of the zodiac. The Aries Point. The place of beginnings.

This is not just another transit.
This is the start of an entirely new cycle.

Saturn brings structure, responsibility, and reality.
Neptune brings intuition, dreams, and the dissolving of old illusions.
Aries brings courage, initiation, and the spark to begin.

Together, they ask a collective question:
What dreams are we finally ready to take responsibility for?

What has been fascinating to notice, and worth sharing, is how timing often speaks in patterns before it speaks in words.

2•15 Doors open, a beginning.
2•17 Day one of the Year of the Horse, movement and momentum.
2•20 Saturn and Neptune meet at the zero point, initiating something entirely new.

Pattern recognition is not about predicting the future.
It is about learning to see when multiple systems, astrology, cycles, intuition, and lived experience, begin to echo one another.

And when they do, it often feels heavy before it feels clear.

If you have been feeling pressure, anxiety, or a quiet seriousness beneath the surface lately, it does not mean something is wrong. It may mean you are standing at the edge of a threshold, where dreams stop being abstract and start asking for form.

The waxing crescent reminds us beginnings do not arrive complete.
They arrive tender, uncertain, and asking for presence.

As we move toward this rare conjunction, the invitation is not to rush or force meaning, but to notice what is already stirring.

Sometimes awareness is the initiation.

🌙✨

01/22/2026

Valentine’s Day celebrates love outward.
Opening the day after is a quiet invitation to turn that love inward too.

We’re still becoming.
Walls are being painted.
Details are taking shape.
And what once lived only in my head is slowly arriving in real form.

When the time comes… choose yourself. 🤍

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01/21/2026

Sometimes we move so fast that we forget to look up and realize our dreams are already happening.

Tonight, after everyone left, the electricians, carpenters, HVAC, it was just me, this space, and the one wall I’ve painted so far. The noise was gone. The pace finally slowed. And that’s when it hit me.

So much of this journey has been behind-the-scenes work. Infrastructure. Systems. The unglamorous parts that have to happen before anything starts to look like what you imagined. But standing here tonight, looking at an actual painted wall, I felt the shift.

We’re entering the cosmetic phase now.
And what’s been living in my head is starting to step into the physical world.

These last couple of weeks have been heavy. The kind of heavy where it feels like the walls are closing in, pressure, responsibility, second-guessing, all of it. But in this quiet moment, beneath the weight, there was something steady and undeniable.

I am living my dream.
Not the finished version. Not the perfect reveal.
This one. In progress. In motion. In truth.

This is the feeling I will come back to when it gets hard again.
Because this moment is real. And it’s mine.

Never miss the moment when you realize you’re already standing inside what you once only hoped for.

01/20/2026

Painting has a funny way of reflecting life.

No one sees the hours of prep, the patching, sanding, taping, moving things inch by inch. But that’s where the foundation is laid. The smoother the prep, the steadier the work when it’s finally time to paint.

This space is a big project. And instead of waiting for the “right” moment, I’m using every spare hour I have in the Hub to prep these walls, one small step at a time.

Life works the same way.
The unseen work matters.
The quiet effort compounds.
And when the time comes to move boldly, you’re ready because you honored the process.

More behind the scenes. More foundation being built.

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