July 25: The Day Out of Time

Today is my first full day as the Founder of Thrivewell Estate. Let me just say that again, my first full day as the Founder. Not in the margins. Not squeezed into weekends. But fully. In title, in time, and in heart.

And would you believe…the universe timed it for today, July 25, the Day Out of Time in the Mayan calendar. A sacred pause between years. A moment that doesn’t belong to the old or the new. A portal. I didn’t plan that. But somehow… my soul must have.

The past few days leading up to this moment have been… a lot. Emotionally, spiritually, even physically, I’ve felt the weight of this shift in ways I didn’t expect. I imagined this week would feel spacious. Peaceful. Like an exhale after holding my breath for too long.

But instead?

I’ve felt anxious. Untethered. Tender in places I didn’t realize were still healing. Not because I regret the decision, I don’t. I’ve never been more sure that I’m on the path I was meant for. But going from a life that was tightly structured, full of deadlines, meetings, and someone always needing something from me… to suddenly waking up in a life that is entirely my own?

It was jarring.

You’d think I’d rest. That I’d revel in the spaciousness. But instead, I found myself pacing. Reorganizing. Questioning if I was doing “enough” by 9am. Feeling a strange mix of guilt and restlessness just for having time to myself.

I realized this week that the rhythm I’ve been dreaming about… still requires re-learning how to be in my own presence. Without productivity as a safety blanket. Without urgency to keep me distracted. And let me be honest: it’s deeply uncomfortable.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned, especially through sobriety:

Discomfort is not the enemy. It’s the invitation.

I used to think anxiety meant something was wrong. Now, I know it often means something is changing.

That ache in my chest?
That tightness in my throat?
That desire to “fix it” or “figure it out” right away?

Those are the symptoms of growth trying to move through me. In recovery, they say: You’ve got to get comfortable doing the uncomfortable work. Because that’s where the transformation happens.

This week hasn’t been glamorous. It’s been slow, strange, and at times, overwhelming. But I’ve sat in it. I haven’t numbed or rushed or tried to bypass it. I’ve let the feelings come. I’ve cried. I’ve stared at old writing. I’ve pulled out forgotten dreams and asked them if they’re still alive. (They are.)

I’m not afraid of the anxiety anymore. Because I know what’s on the other side of it: becoming.

So if you’re in a season where you’ve stepped into something beautiful but feel like you’re unraveling a little, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re probably doing it exactly right.

This is the sacred edge. And I’m standing on it, too.

I haven’t felt this kind of anxiety in a long time. If I’m being honest, not since early recovery. That same buzzing under the skin. That unsettled ache that doesn’t quite have words. But this time, I knew what to do with it. I knew I had to sit through it, not numb it, not run from it. So I turned back to what I turned to all those years ago: my writing. That sacred practice that steadied my hands when everything else felt too loud. And once again, it brought me home to myself.

A few nights ago, I returned to a fiction novel I started back in 2022. It was during my second bout of COVID, I was sick, staying in the loft bedroom of my mother’s condo, surrounded by almost nothing that felt like mine. I didn’t want to read any of my books, so I started my own.

I wrote 14 chapters. And then life, work, picked back up. I never returned to it. Until now.

Let me tell you… to read those 14 chapters, nearly three years later, as the woman I’ve become?

It cracked something open.

Because what I found in those pages was a blueprint. A mirror. A deep knowing that Thrivewell has been living in my soul for years. I just didn’t have the name for it yet. But the story knew. You’ll have to wait for me to finish it, but trust me when I say: it’s coming. The writing. The remembering. The work. The healing.

So today, I’m taking it slow. I’m not pushing. I’m not proving. I’m catching up on emails. I’m organizing my space. I’m listening. I’m honoring this moment for what it is: a beginning. A return. A homecoming. I am here. Fully. Authentically. From this day forward, there’s no turning back.

Thank you for being part of this unfolding. For witnessing the in-between. For walking with me through the fog, and into this first clear step.

Let this be a reminder: Becoming takes time. And sometimes, it takes stepping outside of time to begin again.

With trust in the pause,

Kelley