This is what I know after existing in France for a week.

I know I felt light there — in my bones, in my breath, in the way I moved through the world. Life felt easy.
Yes, I was there on vacation. I didn’t have to plan meals or manage my family’s routines. That’s an obvious reason why vacation feels better. But this was something deeper.

I know I woke up eager. I walked for miles. I ate food that didn’t hurt me. I felt safe. Unbothered. Free.

I didn’t worry about what I looked like to some imaginary audience of critics that, let’s be honest, doesn’t even exist.
I wore clothes that bared my belly. I left my makeup off — not out of laziness, but because it felt right. I tried on endless French outfits in sizes I assumed wouldn’t fit… but did.

I even learned that France has its own bra sizing system — and once I figured that out (a dumb story with roots 20 years deep), I discovered that French lingerie really is as magical as it sounds.

I know I remembered a version of myself that’s gone quiet back home.
She’s curious. She’s playful. She wears linen and doesn’t count steps (or calories).
She laughs loudly with her kids. She stays up til 1 a.m. drinking wine and eating cheese with her husband.
She doesn’t calculate the emotional cost of bread.
She just exists.

And that’s what makes it so hard to be back.

I know coming home felt like putting on a costume that no longer fits — itchy, rigid, too tight in the chest.
Like a cheap, ill-fitting bra that reminds you all day that you’re wearing the wrong thing for who you are now.

I feel heavier — not in my body, but in my spirit. It’s like my soul gained weight, and now my body is carrying that burden.

I know that living in a world void of walkable cities, communal daily life, and food that actually nourishes me is no longer manageable.

I know the systems here don’t support the version of me that came alive in France.

And I know — I know — there has to be a better way.

I know I showed up. Loudly. Boldly. I spoke my dreams into rooms and rituals. I spent money, took trainings, achieved certifications. I tried every angle.
I know I wanted it so badly to work—the hustle, the magic, the manifesting.
I know I did the vision boards and the moon circles and the candles. I did the gritty work, too—emails, contracts, networking, small business fairs, long nights, endless giving.
I know I believed in what I was doing. But it just didn’t happen the way I hoped.

I know that makes me feel silly sometimes. Small. Like I got fooled.
I know it stings that the rituals didn’t save me from the grind. That the big dreams didn’t catch fire in the way I was promised they would.
I know it hurts to stand here and say, “It didn’t work out.” I know it feels like quitting just because it got a little hard.
And yet—

I know staying because I “should” is worse.
I know staying because I “promised” is poison if my soul has moved on.
I know that sometimes, things are just hard and that they just don’t work out and that beating a dead horse is only going to make me sad and angry.
I know I don’t want to be my own cruel boss. Not anymore.

I know maybe this is the old programming still whispering: “You’re a failure if you don’t do something big, important, obituary-worthy.”
I know that voice is loud, but it isn’t the whole truth.

I know maybe the magic was never about making the hustle work—maybe the magic is that I finally know when to walk away.
I know I can choose softer. Quieter. Realer.
I know I can build small safe rooms instead of chasing big hollow stages. (Isn’t that what I’ve always wanted to do anyway? Create safe spaces?)
I know my worth isn’t measured in followers, bookings, or bright headlines.

I know I am allowed to rest now (even if that shitty programming tells me I’m wasting time or being lazy).
I know the magic is still mine—just different. Just enough.

That’s what I know right now.