The Last Time I Straddled Two Lives

Today, I submitted my letter of resignation. And as I write this, I can feel two versions of myself standing in the room. The woman I’ve been, and the one I’m stepping into.

This moment feels familiar in a way I didn’t expect. Not because I’ve ever left a job quite like this before, but because I’ve felt this before. I’ve lived in this kind of split before. I know what it feels like to straddle two lives.

Years ago, before sobriety, I was doing the same thing, but in a very different way. I was trying so hard to be one version of myself out in the world: the polished one, the productive one, the woman who had it all together. And then there was the other version of me, the one behind closed doors. The one who was unraveling. Numbing. Drinking. Surviving. I lived in that tension for years. Pretending. Performing. Hoping no one would see the cracks.

Until one day, I surrendered.

I stopped trying to manage the image and started telling the truth. I got honest about my drinking. I asked for help. I started the work. And in doing so, I chose one life over the other. I chose me. That decision changed everything.

When all of my energy turned inward, toward healing, honesty, and growth, my life took off in a direction I couldn’t have dreamed. A life I didn’t think I deserved became mine, because I finally believed I was worth showing up for.

And here I am again. Straddling two lives.

One where I show up for a job that no longer aligns with my values or the person I’ve become. A job that once served a purpose but now feels like a costume I’m constantly adjusting to keep from slipping.

And another life, quietly, powerfully, has been growing beside it. A life built around purpose. A life where I’m not performing, I’m living. A life where I get to be the Founder and Visionary Steward of Thrivewell Estate.

But what happened in the week leading up to the Summer Solstice made it undeniable: I can no longer split my energy. Each day of that week brought a ritual, a message, a mirror. On Root Day, I stood barefoot in the moss, grounding into something ancient and unshakable. On Release Day, I faced deep discomfort and let go of what no longer belonged, both within me and around me. I cried driving through Dorchester, knowing something sacred was closing.

But I want to tell you about that night.

The night I drove into Dorchester knowing it would be the last time I’d step foot in that showroom as an employee. Pride night. A full-circle moment cloaked in laughter, color, and something unspoken in my chest. I had been there before, of course, dozens of times, hundreds maybe, but that night was different. I showed up as me. Not the version of me I had to shrink or polish. Just me. Unfiltered. Steady. Soft and powerful at once.

I parked in my old spot and took a minute to look up at the big building I once managed. It hit different that night, like the structure itself knew I was saying goodbye. I sat for a moment, just breathing, watching the light spill out onto the sidewalk. And yet… I knew. This was the last time. I walked up the stairs slowly, feeling every step like a goodbye. My body knew what my mind hadn’t quite said out loud yet: I was crossing a threshold.

Inside, my crew was waiting. The people who’d seen me through some of the hardest and most formative years of my life. I danced with them, laughed until my ribs ached, but something deeper held me grounded beneath the joy. I could feel my soul beginning to release its grip. I wasn’t clinging to the version of me who needed this place to validate her anymore.

Later that night, I went upstairs into my old office one last time. That office had seen me through more than any of them knew. When I first stepped into that space two years earlier, I was still building the scaffolding of the woman I wanted to become. Young in spirit, aching for clarity, doing what I thought I had to do to be taken seriously. But that night? I walked in whole.

I stood there for a moment, hands on the window ledge that was once filled with my collection of plants. The window I used to stare out of when I felt small now reflected back to me something solid. Grown. Grateful. A woman who no longer needed to armor up to feel worthy.

That photo I chose for this letter, the one from that night, captures more than a moment. It marks a crossing. I wasn’t just closing a chapter in my career. I was releasing a former version of myself. One I loved. One who helped me survive. But one I was finally ready to let go.

Then the Solstice arrived.

Friday night’s breathwork cracked something open. We stayed after, talking for hours, not because we had to but because something was still moving through us. On Saturday, I offered a devotion to Gaia. And on Sunday, I sat in the stillness and knew, I had arrived at a threshold. And beyond it, my next chapter was waiting.

But here's what may surprise you: I didn’t turn in my letter of resignation then.

This post is being published almost exactly one month after the Solstice. I chose to stay that extra month, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I knew the decision was right, but I wanted to sit with it in truth. To live with it. To make sure my future self would have no regrets. And that liminal space, that in-between, served a purpose. Every day for the past month, the universe confirmed my choice in a thousand subtle ways. A conversation, a misalignment, a moment of clarity. Over and over, I was shown: you are ready. You have outgrown this. It’s time.

But I won’t pretend this past month was easy. Even with all the signs and inner knowing, living in the in-between tested me in ways I didn’t expect. It was a strange ache, to be so sure of where I was going, while still waking up each day inside a version of life I had already outgrown. What hurt the most were the conversations with colleagues I genuinely cared about, while knowing I couldn’t yet tell them the truth. I’m learning to live an honest, aligned life and yet I was still walking into work wearing the old costume. That tension took a toll. It eventually built into a full panic attack. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do was show up for the final act of my then career, knowing I no longer belonged there. But even in that discomfort, I found clarity: the place I was in no longer mirrored the values I hold at my core. And perhaps even more important, I realized I had already begun building something where I do belong. A space that reflects who I am and what I believe in, fully. That realization was tender and hard-earned. As my eyes opened wider, I began to see that I had simply outgrown the space I was in. My gifts were asking to be used in new ways, ways that felt more honoring, more true. Recognizing that was one of the most honest and emotional turning points of my life.

I had to shield up, hard. I kept showing up, but I did it with new boundaries and fierce intention. What made it harder was that, for the first time, I was living in alignment with my truth, yet I couldn’t fully share it. I was quietly building something sacred, something real, while still existing in a space that didn’t yet know the full story. I reminded myself constantly: your future self will thank you for this. I knew I had to finish what I started, not for anyone else's approval, but for my own. For closure. For validation. For truth. I was determined to leave with integrity, on my terms. And I did. Even when it was hard to get out of bed. Even when doubt crept in. I kept showing up, for me, and for the version of myself I’ve worked so hard to become.

What hit me the hardest was the quiet realization that I had been giving so much of myself, for so long, without always feeling truly seen in return. Over time, our values simply began to drift apart, not wrong, just different. If our goals had stayed aligned, it might have continued to feel like mentorship. But as I grew, I started to see those moments not as a reflection of recognition, but more as a deep reliance on my strengths. That was a hard truth to name. And yet, it didn’t come with blame, it came with clarity. That clarity gave me permission to let go. And more importantly, it gave me permission to heal.

And through it all, every breakdown, every late-night spiral, every moment of doubt, my partner held me steady. He reminded me again and again: you are supported. You are doing the right thing. You are going to land on your feet. Without him, I don’t know that I would’ve had the courage to make the leap. But with him by my side, I didn’t just jump, I soared. And now, as I close this chapter, I’m carrying that love, that strength, and that unshakable knowing with me into whatever comes next.

And in those final days leading up to this moment, the ones where the finish line was in sight, I was surprised to find myself triggered in ways I didn’t expect. Not by my current reality, but by echoes of my past self. The version of me who, for most of her adult life, was not just co-dependent, but fully dependent. On men. On money. On external permission to make bold moves.

There were moments this week when fear crept in. That old voice. That old panic. What if I don’t land this time? What if I’m making a mistake? But my partner, this incredibly grounded, supportive, different kind of partner, gently reminded me: this is not then, and you are not her anymore.

This situation is different. The reason to leave is different. He is different. My bank account is different. But most of all…I am different.

I am no longer the woman who needs someone else to catch her. I am the woman who built wings. And even when I’m scared, even when the old wounds whisper, you’re not ready, I know better now.

Yesterday marked my last official day before handing in my resignation. And even in the quiet of wrapping things up, the universe gave me one final nudge. I opened my inbox and saw the signs, accounts assigned, the grunt work quietly shifting in my direction, decisions made without me. It was subtle, but it was clear. Whether I liked it or not, my time had already ended. And strangely… that realization brought comfort. It affirmed what my soul had already known: I don’t belong there anymore. Somewhere deep down, both leadership and I knew I was meant for something different. We just didn’t have the language for it, until now. In subtle, quiet ways, they had been showing me that truth all along. And instead of resisting it, I chose to receive it as release. As affirmation. As grace. If I ever questioned whether this was the right path, I don’t anymore. Every sign is pointing forward.

I don’t walk away with any ill feelings toward the company or my time there. It was a meaningful part of my growth, and a significant push in becoming the woman I am today. For that, I’m grateful. I also recognize that the structure and pace of that environment genuinely works for many people, and it's working for them. But it’s not where I thrive best. Our values are simply different. And that’s okay. That’s clarity. That’s peace.

I walk away from my former employer with genuine gratitude and respect. The skills I gained there, the experiences I earned, and the opportunities I poured myself into all helped shape the woman I am today. The foundation I built during those years gave me the strength and capability to now hold Thrivewell with both grace and strategy. I wouldn’t have been able to design this vision, let alone bring it to life, without the lessons I learned there. And there’s one more piece I haven’t shared yet: if it weren’t for my time at that company, I would have never met my partner. He was a third-party collaborator I was asked to work more closely with, and over time, that collaboration shifted our paths into alignment. When the universe finally brought us together romantically, my employer supported that, too. For all of that, I’m deeply thankful.

Just this morning, I spoke with my boss, and I was overwhelmed, in the best way, by how beautiful the conversation was. He didn’t just respect my decision; he saw me. He acknowledged that Thrivewell is exactly the kind of work I’m meant to do, and he was genuinely impressed by how quickly and clearly I’ve pulled it all together. The support I received on that call brought me to tears. In that moment, I knew, I had done it. I had honored myself, my vision, and my path forward. And I hadn’t burned a single bridge doing it. I was free to be my authentic, true self.

And just like before, I’ve reached the point where I can’t do both anymore. Something had to give. Something has given. So today, I chose. I let go of the version of me that stayed small to stay safe.

I don’t have a guarantee waiting on the other side of this decision. No signed check. No formal deal. No roadmap with all the pieces figured out. But I do have experience. I do have trust. And I do have proof, from my own life, that when I stop pretending and start choosing alignment, everything changes.

Thrivewell is not just a dream I’m chasing. It’s a truth I’m answering. And I refuse to show up to it halfway. So I’m walking forward, again, with my palms open and my heart pounding. Not because it’s easy. Because it’s time.

To anyone else standing in that in-between, torn between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming, let this be your reminder: The life that’s waiting for you doesn’t require you to be fearless. It only asks that you be honest. And brave enough to leap, even when your knees are shaking.

I’ve done it before.
And I’m doing it again.

This time, with the fire of the Solstice behind me, the whisper of Gaia in my bones, and the full truth of who I am, finally, fully leading the way.

With trust in the becoming,
Kelley