The year was 1996.

I was on a plane leaving my hometown of Oslo, Norway, for college in the U.S., with a single blue suitcase that contained everything I thought I needed to start my new life.

I remember journaling on that long plane ride – what I noticed, what I was excited about. This was in the age of analog before smartphones and connected devices. I didn’t have a computer or a tablet, no cellphone. I didn’t even have an email address yet.

As I wrote in my large-format notebook with a pencil, I knew I was leaving home. I was crossing an ocean to another continent.

What I didn’t know yet was what that crossing signified. I was crossing a threshold into a whole new identity.

Over time, I built a full life in the States: new people, new work, new family.

And still, Oslo never stopped being the place my heart returns to.

For a long time, I felt split. One foot in each country, one identity here, one there.

Every departure felt like low tide. Part of me exposed. Part of me missing.

Every time I went “home” to Norway and then back “home” to the U.S., I felt like I left a part of me behind. It felt as if I was losing pieces of myself.

What didn’t occur to me then is that tides don’t lose water. They move it.

What I experienced as fragmentation was actually polarity – two truths existing at once. Two shores, both holding my life.

Norway was home.
America was home.

These are both true. And both are incomplete without the other.

For years, I treated that tension like a problem to be solved.
Where is really home? Which version of me is the “real” one?

But some things aren’t problems to solve. They’re polarities to manage.

The breath isn’t just exhale or inhale. It lives in the movement between.

The tide doesn’t choose one shore. It trusts the gravity that pulls, and holds both.

In Oslo, I was deeply connected to land and place, but guarded with people.

In Oklahoma, I learned how to connect with people, but not with the place.

And then, eventually, I came to Montana. It was the first time I felt truly at home – connected to both the land and the people.

In Montana, I found rivers instead of oceans; I found water that moves, silently, rapidly, sometimes calmly, sometimes violently. Water that carves character into stone.

In the lands near the headwaters of the Missouri, by the Gallatin river, I found a basin to hold my whole self.

Water doesn’t fragment when it moves. It expands to fill the container it’s given.

That first voyage across the Atlantic hadn’t divided me. It had widened me. My heart had stretched, not split. My definition of “home” had grown and evolved.

A month ago, after learning my father had passed, I found myself sitting on a rock on the Atlantic shore.

Looking out across the ocean – toward the other half of my life.

Listening to the waves, feeling connection across the water, I realized something.

The ocean has been holding my story for a very long time.

What felt like distance was also connection. What felt like loss was also continuity.

That understanding shapes everything I do now – how I think about home, leadership, place, and the rooms we choose to gather in.

Who I Am

I have lived between shorelines, between countries, cultures, and identities.

I’m deeply place-oriented. Land, space, and environment matter to me, not just where we live, but how we feel inside the spaces that hold our lives.

I’m drawn to people and communities at moments of transition.

When something old no longer fits and something new hasn’t fully formed, we get to move like water, inhabiting the space in between.

I don’t believe we’re meant to choose one version of ourselves. I believe we’re meant to integrate all the parts of us.

What I Do

Today, I lead and guide through presence, clarity, and deep listening.

I pay close attention to what’s already there – the strengths, the wisdom, the light people often underestimate in themselves.

My work is about creating the conditions where people feel seen enough, safe enough, and grounded enough to step into who they already are.

Whether it’s a home, a leadership role, or a life shift – how it feels matters just as much as what it looks like.

My work moves between two connected shores.

In Real Estate, I help people choose places that support who they’re becoming.

In Leadership Consulting, I help leaders and organizations align people, purpose, and performance.

Different contexts. But really, to me, it’s the same work.

In both, I’m working with threshold moments – moving, growing, letting go, stepping into something new.

The Space Between Shores

Homes shape how we live. The spaces we’re in shape how we feel. Leadership shapes how we relate – to ourselves and to others.

I help people choose and create environments, both physical and relational, that allow them to feel at home in their lives.

If you’ve ever felt like you belong to more than one place, like your heart returns somewhere your body doesn’t always reside, you are not broken.

You might just have the heart of an ocean.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re standing at more than one intersection, with one foot on more than one shore, you’re not alone.

This is an invitation to notice what – and who – helps you feel most at home right now. Allow your basin to expand,to hold all that you are. Allow yourself to move like the tide between shores, rather than trying to be everything all at once.

You don’t have to be one thing to belong. Oceans don’t choose one shore. You get to be all of you.

You are water in the vast space between your shores.

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I clung to the invitation like a lifeline.

I knew nothing about Latin music and didn’t really know what “salsa” was, other than a delicious sauce you put on tacos. I’d certainly never heard salsa music performed live before. I accepted because I love live music and thought it would be fun to experience something new.

More importantly, I accepted because I was desperately lonely. The fact that a friend saw me and reached out meant the world in that moment.

My marriage was unraveling. My husband had moved out for the second time in two years. He was a musician, and music had been central to our life together. When he left, the music I once loved felt unreachable.

That night, I found myself mesmerized. It was completely new to me – music with nothing to do with my past and everything to do with my present. It pulled me in and made me want to move my feet, my hips, my entire body.

Suddenly, people began stepping out onto the dance floor. Slack-jawed, I watched salsa dancers move in a way I’d never experienced before. Staring transfixed, I started taking tentative steps and soon found myself dancing in the back of the room, longingly wishing I knew how to move like that.

So after the concert, when my friends mentioned they had signed up for a beginner salsa dance class at the community college starting the following Friday, I immediately committed to joining in.

I was terrible. I mean, I was really bad at it. I could memorize steps, but the moment music entered the equation, I was lost – confused, offbeat, flailing. The beginner class lasted six weeks, and when it ended, I signed up again for another six-week series.

One instructor told me I moved like a horse. It wasn’t kind and didn’t help my confidence. And… he wasn’t wrong.

Eventually, I ventured out to a couple of social dances and tentatively tried dancing in public. It took a while (read: a couple of years), but gradually I stopped thinking the steps and began feeling the music, allowing my body to move as a response, rather than a forced or controlled action. That’s when I began dancing.

And my life transformed.

I danced in restaurants, bars, and basements, in living rooms, on patios, rooftops, and in city squares. I danced all night into the wee hours of the morning. The more I danced, the more energy I generated. The more I moved and got lost in the music and the rhythms and the beats, the more I found my way back to joy, to confidence, to life.

I danced the night away. I danced the darkness and sadness away. I danced into the light, into the day. I danced myself free. I danced into a new and expanded life.

A white, awkwardly tall Scandinavian girl who grew up in a conservative Christian household where dancing was frowned upon at best, forbidden at times... was transformed by the warmth, generosity, and welcoming spirit of the Latin community.

Salsa, bachata, merengue, cumbia, reggaeton... I danced to it all. To some beats, better than others but all of them moved me.

Over time, I began learning tango, and for nearly a decade, I ventured deep into this expression. I danced tango in Denver, in Portland, in San Francisco, in San Diego. I danced in Oslo, in Warsaw, in Seoul.

All dance is communication. If tango is a series of serious, intimate conversations, salsa is joyful, outward expression.

Latin music and dance changed my life at a transitional time. And this month, it showed up again, in the most unlikely of places: the Super Bowl.

I’ve lived in the U.S. for three decades, and despite many patient explanations over the years, football has never stuck. If and when I watch the Super Bowl, it’s for the halftime show and the commercials.

Undoubtedly, I had heard his music before, but I’d only recently become consciously aware of Bad Bunny. His Grammy acceptance speech with the impactful message: “the only thing more powerful than hate is love” resonated deeply, and I immediately knew he was my kind of people.

Yes, that’s right. A Latin trap & urban music artist from Puerto Rico with lyrics that would make my more conservative family members blush or possibly pale, who talks about love and rising above hatred... is exactly my kind of person.

So when I heard that Bad Bunny was performing at Super Bowl LX, there was no way I was going to miss the show.

And boy, did he deliver.

“Joyful and infectious” is how Jon Stewart described it on The Daily Show the next day.

From Puerto Rican cane fields and barrios to New York City, with guest appearances by Lady Gaga, Ricky Martin, and other all-stars, a real-life wedding, and a symbolic handoff of his Grammy award to a young boy with the encouragement to always believe in yourself. The performance delivered not only powerful storytelling, history lessons, and a call to unity – but also, once again, that compelling message: “the only thing more powerful than hate is love.”

Say what you will about explicit lyrics – popular music across genres has always pushed boundaries – but the leadership Bad Bunny demonstrated deserves to stand on its own.

In the Super Bowl halftime show, Bad Bunny reminded me of a transformational time in my life. He reminded me of the power of joy to bridge divides. He reminded all of us of our shared humanity.

“No, no te puedo olvidar” → No, I can’t forget you.

“No, no te puedo borrar” → No, I can’t erase you.

“Tú me enseñaste a querer” → You taught me how to love.

“Me enseñaste a bailar” → You taught me how to dance.

In learning how to dance, I found connection, community, and clarity. I found my way home – to myself.

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free."
– From Lee Greenwood’s patriotic anthem “God Bless the U.S.A.” (1984)

This lyric, so often quoted around July 4th, hits differently when you’ve spent your life exploring what “freedom” really means – especially as someone raised in a country that also values freedom, but defines and expresses it in profoundly different ways.

In early 2025 – after living in the U.S. for nearly 30 years – I finally submitted my application for U.S. citizenship.

It’s a peculiar time in history to make that kind of choice. A time of tension, division, and decline. And still, I am consciously choosing. Partly, because I have the freedom to do so.

Entering America (Again)

Coming back through U.S. customs this June after my 50th birthday odyssey abroad – Greece, then Norway – was jarring. Not because of the lines or the agents, but because of what was in the news:

• National Guard deployments in California marked a dramatic domestic use of military force.

• A $45 million military parade that just happened to coincide with Donald Trump’s birthday – the largest peacetime display of military force in U.S. history. All while cutting 80,000 Veterans Affairs jobs.

• “No Kings” protests across the country on June 14th, the day of the parade and the President’s birthday.

• The growing normalization of authoritarian rhetoric and nationalist spectacle.

This wasn’t just a spectacle – it was a statement. Experts see this as part of a broader authoritarian playbook – one that normalizes the blurring of military and civilian life.

The juxtaposition, fresh from the relatively quiet streets and egalitarian culture of Norway, was disorienting. It felt like watching a country drift toward something unrecognizable. Something that, historically, we’ve promised ourselves we would never become.

Norway: My First Home, My First Freedom

I didn’t flee war, poverty, or persecution. I left Norway in my early 20s for adventure, following in my Dad’s footsteps, fueled by my own curiosity – and I stayed for love. I came here because I could.

Norway is a peaceful constitutional monarchy built on values of cooperation, mutual respect, and the public good. Yes, we do have a king, who is widely regarded as a “moral authority” rather than a political one. Norway's monarchy has limited power and is quite a contrast to the U.S. president who wields vastly more real power and symbolic military presence.

Growing up in Norway, we had a strong welfare state, public healthcare, and access to world-class education – all free. We had allemannsretten, the right to roam: public access to nature, no matter who owns the land. And no waterfronts walled off by private ownership.

I grew up watching Gro Harlem Brundtland lead our country as the first female Prime Minister, renowned for her leadership in health, environmental protection, and gender equity. I never once thought I couldn’t do or be something because I was a girl.

These were quiet freedoms – foundational, assumed – woven into the fabric of daily life. In many ways, they were invisible to me until I left.

Privilege is Contextual

We weren’t wealthy. In Norway, I was a kid in a big, chaotic family where money was tight, and everyone worked young. I got my first summer job at 11. If I wanted anything beyond the basics, I earned it.

But in hindsight, I was deeply privileged. Just by being born where and to whom I was, I had things that many natural-born Americans don’t:

• I had stable housing.

• I had unconditional love.

• I had unlimited access to nature.

• I had high-quality, free education.

• I had an assumed sense of belonging.

I didn’t know these were privileges until I lived in the U.S. long enough to see how unequally such things are distributed here.

As Gro Harlem Brundtland once said:

“Economies are stalling. Ecosystems are under siege. Inequality – within and between countries – is soaring. These afflictions are clearly rooted in political short-sightedness, where narrow interests triumph over common interests, common responsibilities and common sense."

Why Now?

For many years, I didn’t apply for U.S. citizenship even though I could. Norway didn’t allow dual citizenship – and giving up my Norwegian identity wasn’t on the table.

That changed in 2020, when Norway quietly shifted to allow de facto dual citizenship. The U.S. has always permitted it. As a green card holder, a “legal alien” who had met the requirements, I was eligible to obtain U.S. Citizenship and now could do so without losing my status as a Norwegian. And yet, I still didn’t apply. Life was busy, the process daunting.

But 2025 felt different. With growing anti-immigrant sentiment, new restrictions, and increasing stories of green card holders being denied reentry or renewal, I felt urgency. Not fear exactly – but a need to secure my place in the home I’ve built here.

Since April 17, my online application has the following status:

“Case Is Being Actively Reviewed By USCIS.”

And so, I wait – with time to reflect.

(Since initially drafting this essay, I received notice my citizenship interview is scheduled this August  in Helena, Montana, and suddenly the journey ahead is vivid, no longer theoretical.)

What Does It Mean to Be “American”?

This country has been my home longer than Norway. But that word – American – is complex.

Am I American because I pay taxes here? If I own property here? If I vote (which I’ve never been able to do as a non-citizen permanent resident)?

Am I American because I’ve built a business here, struggled, healed, and rebuilt here?

Or is it something else – a belief, a hope, a commitment?

America has always been a paradox:

• A country founded on freedom, built through genocide and slavery.

• A beacon of opportunity, riddled with inequality.

• A place that makes room for reinvention, and often punishes those who dare to dream and be “different.”

I’ve spent nearly 30 years watching this modern empire evolve – and, in some ways, unravel.

I’ve seen grace, generosity, innovation, and strength. I’ve also seen cruelty, complacency, and fear.

And yet, I’m still here. Still choosing to belong. Still building a life – and still finding home.

Independence Day: What Are We Celebrating?

So here we are: July 4th.

A holiday meant to celebrate independence, liberty, and the founding of a nation.
But maybe this year, it’s worth asking:

• Who gets to be free?

• What are we truly independent from?

• What kind of nation are we building now?

For me, this year is not just about fireworks and hot dogs. It’s about reckoning. About choosing. About belonging, with eyes wide open.

I’m Norwegian. I’m American (official status still TBD). I’m human.

And I’m choosing both identities. I’m choosing to claim the fullness of my experience – to keep showing up, speaking up, and staying rooted in curiosity, even when the ground feels shaky.

Because home isn’t just where you’re from. It’s where you’re becoming.

Reflections – Your Turn

• What does freedom mean to you today?

• Where are you choosing to belong, even when it’s complicated?

• What privileges have you only recognized in hindsight?

• In this country of mythic freedom, do we recognize when spectacle becomes statement?

The next chapter began with a breath. A step. And then, I started running…

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was beginning something that would change me from the inside out.

It was a gray December afternoon in Oslo. Cold, damp, quiet. One of those winter days when the sky presses low and everything feels muffled, as if the city itself is asking you to move slower, speak softer.

I was sitting in the living room of my temporary flat, scrolling through Audible in search of a new book. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for exactly.

Comfort? Clarity? Distraction? I tend to devour audiobooks for all those reasons and more.

And then I saw it: a free half-marathon training program. I went ahead and downloaded it. I had never even run a 5K.

I didn’t download it because I was planning to run a race. I downloaded it because, just days earlier, while reflecting on the year that was ending and the new decade on the horizon (I had no idea what 2020 would actually bring!), an absurd thought had popped into my head:

“I want to become the kind of person who runs marathons.”

Absurd, because I had spent most of my life actively avoiding running. During my time in Colorado, I’d flirted with it; occasional short jogs around the block, nothing serious. I was surrounded by ultra-runners: my roommate, a coworker, the mountain community around me.

Those long trail runs seemed impressive, admirable... and completely unattainable – or even desirable.

At the time, I struggled to run two miles, let alone thirteen. I wasn’t even remotely interested in running that kind of distance. To me, running was painful and something to be avoided.

But somehow, in the quiet of that Oslo winter, as I envisioned my second act – the next half of my life – I begun to believe it was possible.

That I could become the kind of person who could, and would.

That single decision, tapping Download on a whim, marked the beginning of a quiet revolution.

It wasn’t about fitness. Not really – although a growing desire for health and longevity was certainly part of it. It was about protecting my heart and my brain. After my dad’s heart attack a few years earlier and more recent symptoms of dementia, I knew I needed to pay attention to my cardiovascular health.

It was also about grounding. About reclaiming something steady when everything else felt uncertain. In a way, it was about coming home to myself.

With coach Katie on Audible in my ears and cold air in my lungs, I headed out for my first training run. I ran (slowly) for 25 minutes without stopping. The next run was 30 minutes. My only goal was to keep a running stride, however slow, without stopping to walk. I completed that one too.

Something was stirring beneath my ribs that felt a lot like hope… maybe even a smidge of triumph?

I wasn’t training for a race. I was training for my life.

Running returned me. To breath. To rhythm. To myself.

The Old Story

To understand why those first few training runs seemed so revolutionary, you should probably know the story I’d been telling myself for decades.

It started when I was seven.

I was sitting at my desk in my first-grade classroom at Fossumberget Skole in Stovner, Oslo, listening to my classmates talk about the sports leagues they were part of; soccer and team handball for the most part. One of the prettiest girls in class was a competitive ballroom dancer who performed for us at class functions in glittering shoes and satin gowns.

And I remember thinking, with the quiet logic only a first-grader can summon:

“It’s too late for me.”

They’d all started at five. I was seven. How could I ever catch up?

So I stuck to what I was already good at: reading, writing, spelling. I was the academic kid. That’s where I excelled and received positive attention. That’s where I felt safe.

And, quietly and without drama, I decided: running just wasn’t for me.

Years later, in high school, I tried again. There were moments of magic – misty morning runs, discovering new neighborhoods. But then came the shin splints. The pain was unbearable and my legs were swollen for weeks. I took the message my body sent as a sign and put running back on the shelf.

In college, I gave it another go, briefly. But again, it was hard and painful. So instead of running, I power walked the school’s “fun run” with no training, and I even passed a few runners with my furious long-legged walking pace. I crossed the finish line flushed and purple-faced, gasping for air. Someone asked if I was okay.

Once again, I decided running just wasn’t for me.

So yes, when I hit Download on that training program at the end of 2019 in Oslo, it wasn’t just about fitness.

It was a quiet revolution. A dismantling of a decades-old belief.

I wasn’t just starting a new habit.
I was rewriting an identity I’d held since I was seven years old.

I was becoming someone I never thought I could be.

Someone who ran.
Someone who didn’t quit.
Someone who believed it wasn’t too late.

Coming Home, One Step at a Time

I didn’t become a runner when I crossed a finish line.

I started becoming a runner the day I stopped believing it was too late.
The day I chose to begin again– for no one but myself.
The day I recognized that breathless steps, aching legs, and the quiet thrill of showing up for yourself, beating your own expectations, could feel a lot like coming home.

And maybe that’s what home really is.

Not a place.
Not a finish line.
But a return. A remembering. A rhythm that says: this is who I’m becoming.

I’m in it for the long run.

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💭 Reflection Prompt:

What story about yourself are you ready to rewrite or revisit – for the long run?

I had almost forgotten this feeling. The smell of woodsmoke and wet earth, the sounds of buses stopping, depositing people headed home for the evening. The way the city glows under streetlights in the early darkness. The knotted trees that have stood here longer than I’ve been alive. I ride my bike through city streets, seeing it all again with older eyes. The rhythm of people moving – walking, biking, always outside, no matter the weather – pulls me back into something I didn’t know I’d lost.

After decades of only visiting for a few hurried days at a time, I came back for a few months. Long enough to settle in, long enough to remember. And in that remembering, something shifted. The city of my youth welcomed me like an old friend – not unchanged, but somehow still mine. Still home.

A Season of In-Between

I didn’t return to Oslo with a grand plan. I returned because I needed a pause, and I needed a place.

After the breakup, I felt uprooted, unmoored, adrift. I felt like I’d been holding my breath for too long. I didn’t know what I wanted next, only that I needed space. Space to think, to feel, to remember who I was outside of that relationship. So I returned to the city and settled into a sublet apartment in a neighborhood close to family.

It wasn’t permanent, just a season. But what I didn’t realize then was how deeply I needed that in-between, to belong to no one except my closest family for a while. It was time to shed a version of myself I had outgrown.

Those months in Oslo became their own kind of cocoon. I walked. I biked. I wandered the city without expectation, letting memory and present moment fade into one another. Some days I cried. Some days I felt more alive than I had in years. Most days were quiet. And in that quiet, something softened.

I meandered along the Akerselva river. I went to the gym. Indoor cycling and hot yoga classes filled my mornings. Work filled my afternoons and evenings. I filled notebooks with journal reflections. I read old books I found in the place I was staying. I sipped tea and ate knekkebrød. There was no one watching, no one to perform for. Just me, the city, and whatever was coming next.

It’s strange, in hindsight, how we can be most ourselves in the places we least expected to grow. That season didn’t have big breakthroughs or dramatic revelations. But it held something sacred: the slow, steady work of becoming. The quiet work of building capacity to be fully at home with myself.

The Geography of Belonging

Oslo held me in just the way I needed to be held. Not with fanfare or flash, but with familiarity. The streets remembered me, even if I had changed. The smell of rain on asphalt, the whirr of trams, the way the light slanted in the early afternoon. It all rooted me in a kind of cellular memory.

I had grown up here, but I was no longer trying to reclaim the version of me who once lived in this city. I wasn’t even trying to belong to it again. I was simply being, and that turned out to be enough. Oslo didn’t ask anything of me. It just let me exist.

I noticed how much the city invites movement. Everyone walking, biking, scootering, pushing strollers. People getting where they need to go, self-powered. That rhythm sank into me. I walked along the river without needing a destination. I moved through streets that once shaped my adolescence and let them now witness this in-between version of me: not who I had been, not yet who I was becoming.

And I found, strangely, a kind of peace in that liminality.

I think certain places give us permission. Permission to slow down. To listen. To not know. Oslo gave me that. It became a mirror for the version of me I was learning to trust again, the version who didn’t need to prove anything, who was allowed to be undone and unfinished.

It turns out that belonging isn’t always about people or permanence. Sometimes it’s about finding a place that lets you return to yourself. Sometimes it’s a geography that holds the map of your becoming.

Quiet Preparation

Looking back, I didn’t know I was preparing for anything. I was just trying to heal. To reorient. To breathe.

But now I see that those months in Oslo became a kind of training ground – for solitude, for self-trust, for the kind of quiet endurance I would soon need more than I could imagine.

When the world shut down in early 2020, I had already been practicing the art of being alone. I had already learned how to build a day from simple rituals: a slow breakfast, a walk in the cold, a chapter of a book, a yoga class in the dark. I had already learned to be at home with myself. Not perfectly, but enough to weather the coming storm.

I wouldn’t have chosen that preparation, not consciously. And I certainly didn’t feel strong or resilient at the time. I just kept going. Kept breathing. Kept showing up for my own life in the smallest, most ordinary ways. It turns out, that’s what resilience often looks like.

I think we underestimate how profoundly those liminal seasons shape us. The ones that feel temporary. The ones we dismiss as detours. But sometimes, the most important groundwork happens when no one is watching, when we’re not even sure who we’re becoming yet.

Oslo gave me what I needed to move forward: a sense of grounding, a sense of rhythm, and a growing capacity to be fully at home with myself. And that turned out to be the foundation for everything that came next.

The Path Forward

That season in Oslo didn’t give me all the answers. But it gave me a beginning. A rhythm. A practice of listening inward, moving slowly, trusting the next step even when I couldn’t see the path.

Some chapters of life don’t announce themselves with grand beginnings. They whisper. They unfurl slowly. Oslo was one of those chapters. A place where I learned to pause. To heal. To belong to myself again.

The next chapter began with a breath.

A step.

And then, I started running.

I was headed the long way home.

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And the loss of home is heartbreaking.

Whether you’ve lost your work home due to layoffs, your physical home to a wildfire or financial hardship, or your heart’s home due to a breakup or the death of a loved one – you know this kind of heartbreak. You’ve felt the grief, fear, frustration, and uncertainty that come in the aftermath of a loss. Perhaps you are feeling it right now.

When the Ground Shifts Beneath Us

There I was, on a regular midweek afternoon, suddenly without a home.

The breakup I never saw coming blindsided me. In a single afternoon several years ago, I went from having a home and a relationship I loved to being homeless, both physically and emotionally.

Reeling, I reached out to my network of friends and acquaintances. To my amazement, my community rallied. I had only been in Montana for a couple of years, but the relationships I had invested in showed up in a big way. I slept on friends’ couches and in their guest rooms for a few weeks before making my way back to Oslo, where I created a temporary home in a relative’s empty flat.

Deep Loss

A couple of months later, during a particularly emotional conversation, all the grief, anger, and sadness overflowed like the Yellowstone River in spring melt. I was coming to terms with a loss that struck at the core of my being: the loss of home.

Yes, I mourned the relationship and the future I had imagined. But the deeper grief was tied to losing the home I had built – the place where I had begun to root myself as soon as I arrived in Montana.

I had put down roots quite literally, spending endless hours transforming the overgrown backyard into a flowering garden. Digging in the dirt, tending to plants, watching new life take shape; it made me feel grounded, like I was growing into the place alongside the plants I was nurturing. 🌱

Ownership Beyond the Deed

A home isn't just a physical space, it’s where our hearts anchor, where our identities flourish.

For the first time in over a decade, I had felt truly at home. After years of feeling transient and untethered, I had found a place where my soul felt at peace – only to have it suddenly taken away.

Someone else may have held the title to the house, but my sense of ownership was woven into every corner, every wall, every quiet moment spent there. Creating a home is an investment of time, heart, passion, and creativity. The loss wasn’t just of property. It felt like losing a part of myself.

I am not alone in this.

Across America, people are grappling with profound loss – political uncertainty, economic instability, social division. The landscape is shifting, and many feel adrift, uprooted, unmoored.

Moving Forward

Change – especially the kind we don’t choose – can break us. But it can also rebuild us.

I learned that resilience is not about avoiding pain, it’s about moving through it. It’s about allowing ourselves to feel deeply, to express honestly, and to confront rather than avoid the realities of transition.

Finding Stability in the Chaos

Times of upheaval can feel like a force beyond our control, sweeping away everything we cherish. When we lose our sense of stability, we crave control. We want to believe that if we hold on tightly enough, we can make things feel safe again.

But the truth is, there isn’t much we can control.

We can’t control outcomes. We can’t control other people, their actions, or their reactions. We can’t even control our own emotions all the time.

But we can influence them.

As my first leadership coach, Steve Laswell, would say:

"Leadership is letting go of control in order to gain influence."

When we release the illusion of control over things beyond our reach, we actually become more effective in shaping outcomes. Instead of expending energy trying to control circumstances, we can focus on what we can influence: our mindset, our response, and how we show up for others.

Building Resilience: Three Steps Forward

1. Ground Yourself.

Reconnect with your values and what remains steady. When everything around you feels uncertain, your values, your inner strength, and the things that truly matter; these are your anchors.

2. Find Your Circle.

Lean into trusted relationships, community, and support. We are not meant to navigate hardship alone. Whether it’s a friend, a mentor, or a shared community, finding your circle creates stability when everything else feels shaky.

3. Take Small Actions.

Move forward, even when the path isn’t clear. The smallest steps create momentum. Even when you don’t know exactly where you’re going, movement itself is an act of hope.

Dropping Anchor: Leadership, Community & Home

🌱 Leadership isn’t just about running organizations, it is about guiding others through uncertainty. The best leaders don’t have all the answers, but they offer something even more important: reassurance, direction, and hope.

🌱 Community is a stabilizer in chaotic times. We find strength together. Resilience is not built in isolation. In times of uncertainty, investing in relationships, whether that means asking for help or offering it, creates a foundation of stability.

🌱 Home is more than a place. It is a feeling of belonging, of safety, of being rooted in something lasting. When everything feels in flux, home can be the thing that reminds us we still have somewhere to land.

A Call to Action & Hope

In times of upheaval, it’s easy to feel powerless, to believe that change is something that happens to us, rather than something we can influence. But even in the most uncertain moments, we still have choices. We can choose how we respond. We can choose where we direct our energy. We can choose to cultivate resilience, to create stability where we can, and to hold onto hope, even when the path forward is unclear.

Dr. Chan Hellman, founding director of the University of Oklahoma Hope Research Center, and a leading researcher on the science of hope, defines hope as:

"The belief that the future will be better than today, and that we have the power to make it so."

Hope is not blind optimism or naïve positivity. It is a cognitive process, a way of seeing the world that helps us persist through adversity. Hope reminds us that we are not stuck.

You are not powerless.

Even in the most difficult transitions, you have choices. You can lead. You can build community. You can create a sense of home – within yourself, in your connections, and in the spaces you create.

A Moment of Reflection

As you think about your own journey through change, consider:

• What’s one thing that grounds you when things feel unstable?

• How can you show up as a leader, even in small ways, during uncertain times?

• What does home mean to you right now? Has it changed?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Comment below or share your reflections with me. Let’s create a conversation about resilience, transition, and the search for home – because no one should have to navigate change alone.

Your words may be the light someone else needs to find their way.