The Night I Walked Into the Room: My Path Forward

There’s something sacred about moments that ask you to show up fully as yourself, no mask, just presence.

I sat in my boyfriend’s car for a few minutes before walking in. Not because I was stalling. But because I knew the weight of what I was carrying. I needed to ground myself. To breathe. To remember why I was there. The night air was thick with anticipation, and I sat quietly, my hands on my lap, just breathing in what I hoped to bring into that room: calm, clarity, and care.

Before I stepped inside, I paused to take a picture of the moment outside the building. I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to stand there, not as a guest or observer, but as someone asking for something that mattered. Not a transaction. A transformation. Not just a property. A purpose.

The architecture of the town hall met me with its quiet authority, heavy doors, old moldings, and echoes of decisions made long before I was born. As I walked in, I scanned the room and let the history settle around me. I realized I was standing in a space commissioned by the Whitin brothers, ordered just 14 years before the very manor I’m trying to bring back to life was built. The same lineage. The same legacy. And somehow, I’m standing in the middle of it all, carrying it forward.

I looked around at the arches, the plaster, the symmetry. The kind of design we don’t rush anymore. The kind that holds time instead of outrunning it. And I let myself feel it: I am trying to breathe life back into something that belongs here. Not impose. Not disrupt. But remember.

I sat down with my speech in hand, not rehearsing, but just holding it. Staring at the words I’d written. Letting their weight settle into me. I thought about what it took to get here, not just the logistics and the planning, but the becoming. The undoing. The shedding. All the ways I had to unlearn what wasn’t mine, just to find my way back to what was.

It’s no small thing to walk into a room like that fully as yourself. To say, “This is my vision,” when so much of the world teaches us to shrink, to shape-shift, to soften the edges of our dreams. But I knew, even if my voice shook, I would speak. I would say every word I had poured my heart and soul into. And I would say it with strength, with grace, and with vision. Because it mattered. Because I mattered.

And I did shake. My knees trembled. My voice caught at the vulnerable parts. I felt the emotion rise and crest, and I let it. I didn’t try to hide it. I continued on anyway, authentically, wholeheartedly.

And as I spoke, I could feel my support system all around me. In that room. Beyond that room. In spirit, behind me. I wasn’t alone. I was rooted in something far deeper than approval. I was rooted in truth.

When the questions came, from board members and town residents alike, it was more than I had expected. But I met them honestly. I answered with what I knew, and I showed the education I’ve been working hard to absorb. And when something was still a work in progress, I didn’t pretend. I honored it with humility. I said, “I’m still figuring that part out.” And I meant it. Because this process is not about having every answer, it’s about building something real.

The feedback afterward was overwhelmingly positive. From board members. From town residents. From family members who’ve walked this journey with me. I had blown them away, not just with my words, but with the inner blueprint behind them. The way I told the story. The way I showed the healing that’s possible. The way I made them feel it too.

And here’s the best part: The planning board voted to push the vision forward. They’ve invited me to move into the next phase, submitting a full special permit application. I put everything into that room, and they loved it all. The care, the vision, the integrity, the depth. We’re not across the finish line yet, but in terms of zoning, we are heading toward it with real momentum.

Since then, I met with Gary, the town planner, and learned that the special permit process is more involved than I originally thought. But the support and guidance I’m receiving from the town has been incredible and I know I can walk this path with them beside me. I now have the full list of what I need to submit, and while I’ll double-check to ensure nothing is missing, I know time is of the essence. Once submitted, the application is reviewed by the planning board, who will schedule a special public hearing. All abutters within 300 feet are notified and invited to attend, bringing any questions, concerns, or feedback. From there, the board must reach a super majority vote, four out of five, in favor for it to pass. Even then, there’s a 20-day appeal period afterward before it's finalized.

It’s a roughly two-month journey from submission to decision. But I’m ready. I’m steady. And I believe in this vision more than ever. There are many more steps to come. But tonight, I am anchoring in this:

I walked into the room as myself. And I walked out with the door open wide.

If you’ve ever carried a vision in your bones before it had a place to belong, before it was given a “yes” or a form or a foundation, then you know this feeling. The ache of devotion. The quiet, defiant trust. The choosing to keep going even when it’s unclear how it will all unfold. I invite you to reflect on what it means to hold something so sacred that you’ll protect its integrity through every phase, even the invisible ones.

And here’s something else I’ve learned: Along the way, you’ll hear the “You know what you should do?” voices. Some come from naysayers who don’t mean well, and they don’t matter. But many come from people who do love us, even if their words land as doubt. Often, they’re still carrying fears of their own. When someone hasn’t yet felt safe enough to dream, or soften, or trust the unknown, it can feel easier, for just a moment, to try and contain someone else’s becoming.

Thrivewell is for them, too.

It’s a space of permission. Of tenderness. Of truth-telling. A space that says healing doesn’t have to look like a straight line, and that wholeness is something we return to, not something we chase.

And maybe, just maybe, if they keep watching me rise, if they see me keep building, if they witness me trusting the unknown and finding that it was worth the leap…

Then maybe they’ll begin to believe it’s possible for them too. Maybe that becomes the gentle spark, the shift they need to step onto their own healing path. Maybe my courage becomes their mirror. Not to do what I’m doing, but to become more of who they truly are.

And that? That changes everything.

With heart wide open,
Kelley