The Glow, the Drift, and the Real Work
The After-Glow (and the Drift)
The other night, during yoga, the instructor cued us to gaze toward our belly buttons. In doing so, I found myself studying my body, not just its shape, but its story. And right there on the mat, I started tracing the arc of the last five years.
At the start of the pandemic, I went hard in the opposite direction of collapse. I refused to be dragged under. I was moving my body daily, eating with intention, sleeping better, practicing gratitude. I felt strong, healthy, whole. I was doing it right.
But now, five years later, I’ve gained much of that weight back. And as I looked at myself last night, a familiar question crept in:
Am I doing the thing again?
Am I justifying my current reality to avoid discomfort? Am I mistaking surrender for alignment?
It’s an uncomfortable question. But I realized, if I were truly avoiding something, I wouldn’t be asking the question at all.
Or, maybe more importantly, asking it is exactly what I teach.
That moment of doubt wasn’t regression. It was alignment calling.
This is Bridgework.
Not perfection. Not control. Not the curated version of healing where the house is spotless, the body tight, the feelings linear. No, this is the gritty, integrated, alive work of becoming.
Authenticity isn’t a destination. It’s a way of being. And sometimes, that being gets messy.
Here’s what’s real: I’m experiencing a lot of change. I'm undoing. Redoing. Discerning. My life has become something unrecognizable from the one I lived five years ago. And that dissonance can feel... disorienting.
Because we’re taught that consistency is stability. That if something feels “off,” we must be off track.
But that’s not always true.
Sometimes the “off” is actually realignment. Sometimes “uncertain” is a sign you’re actually asking better questions.
And I am.
I ended a ten-year relationship with the father of my kids. I’ve moved four times. I sold my home. I left a twenty-year career. I ended another long-term relationship because I was still abandoning parts of myself in it. I realized I am far more queer than I had allowed myself to know.
If my body hadn’t changed through all of this, I’d honestly be more concerned.
The truth is, my priorities have shifted. I used to associate tidiness with safety. I used to think control equaled well-being. But I’ve started seeing those behaviors for what they often were: attempts to manage internal discomfort with external order.
My obsession with keeping the house tidy? It created stress when the kids were just being kids.
My fixation on tracking food? It fed anxiety more than nourishment.
Now? Now I write when I feel pulled to. I do yoga. I listen to my body instead of managing it. I let the apartment be a little messy if that means I’m giving my energy to something more meaningful.
I don’t say this to justify or defend anything. I say it because this is what it looks like to actually live the work I share.
This is the after-glow. When the high of initial clarity fades and you’re left to live your truth on ordinary days.
This is the drift. When you wonder if maybe you’ve lost the thread, but you check in and realize you are the thread.
And I’ve had plenty of those moments.
One of the more formative was around gratitude. For a long time, it was central to my personal growth, I practiced it daily, taught workshops on it, and truly believed in its power. I still do.
But I’ve since realized that I misunderstood one of its core teachings: the difference between seeing things as they are and accepting things that violate your boundaries just to keep the peace.
During my marriage, there were things I accepted under the banner of gratitude, differences in parenting, in domestic responsibilities, in values around structure and care. I told myself I was seeing the reality and choosing peace. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had quietly stepped out of my own authority, convincing myself that letting go of my needs was the same as evolving past them.
That was a banana peel moment. And it hurt.
But slips like that don’t erase the growth that came before them. They show you where the practice still needs work. They remind you that peace at the cost of selfhood isn’t peace, it’s a pause button on your becoming.
Boundaries, Again…
What I didn’t see at the time was that I was violating my own boundaries and thinking that was the same as respecting his. But the reality is, boundaries are not an either or kind of thing.
Maybe I could have expressed my concerns differently. Maybe I could have shared my feelings more truthfully.
You will remember, if you read The Boundary Series, that boundaries are not about controlling another person’s behavior, they are about what you will do when your boundaries are crossed. I could not control his feelings or actions. And that’s the crux of boundary work, knowing where your responsibility ends and where your agency begins. The hard truth of it was that I had a boundary that I did not even realize was there and rather than figuring out how to repair it, I took it upon myself to bear a burden (real or imagined) and, likely, grew resentful because of it.
But when that happens (because it will happen), you have not failed at this work. Recognizing, noticing, is part of the work. And repairing it is too.
Boundaries are not about keeping people out. They are about creating conditions where the right ones feel safe to come closer.
And boundaries are the foundation on which authenticity is built.
Redefining the Journey to Real
Authenticity makes joy possible. Connection possible. Alignment possible.
New systems possible.
I used to think I had to earn my right to be seen. Now, I’m building a life where being seen is the beginning, not the reward.
What if being yourself is the most catalytic thing you can do for the world?
My hope, my deep, almost aching hope, is that with The Bridgework Project, we start to build systems, communities, and relationships where authenticity doesn’t have to be a thing our children claw their way back to.
That instead, authenticity becomes something they’ve always known. Something they’ve felt reflected in their environments, modeled in their homes, supported in their schools, and welcomed in their work.
That becoming Real isn’t something they must suffer into, but something they get to grow into.
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll never have to unbuild themselves to find themselves.
Reflection prompts:
What version of me am I practicing now?
What kind of environment helps me stay honest?
Who helps me stay close to my real self—and how can I thank them?