The Unfinished Work of Me

Every leader has a story that changed them.
Mine begins here —

in the pause, the grief, and the courage to start again.
🩶 The Practice of Being Real — a prelude to what’s coming

Authenticity gets talked about a lot — especially in leadership and personal growth circles.
But somewhere along the way, it became tangled up with being liked.

We hear “be authentic,” and what we often translate it to is:
be relatable, be accepted, be understood.

But that’s not what authenticity really is.

Authenticity isn’t about how you’re seen.
It’s about how you live.
It’s not the performance of honesty — it’s the practice of alignment.
It’s the quiet, often trembling choice to show up as yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or misunderstood.

It’s choosing your heart over someone else’s eyes.

The truth is, living authentically isn’t pretty.
It’s raw, uncertain, emotional — especially when you’re committed to showing up as the real you, not the version that makes people comfortable.

When I began building Leaders on Edge, I didn’t realize how much of me it would ask for.
It’s not just a brand or a framework — it’s a mirror.
Every story I write, every lesson I unpack, reflects a piece of my own evolution.
And sometimes, those reflections sting.

Because the truth is, I’m still learning how to hold the complicated parts of my own story.
The seasons that changed me for the better — but also left behind a kind of grief I’m still learning to name.
Growth doesn’t always come with clean edges. Sometimes it comes wrapped in loss, confusion, and gratitude all at once.

That’s a story I’ll tell soon — the one that shaped Leaders on Edge more than any other.

There are still parts of me I’m learning to face — weaknesses I recognize but haven’t fully made peace with.
Failures that shaped me but still ache when I touch them.
Flaws I’ve carried for years — some I’ve learned to share openly, others still too tender to name.

That’s the thing about authenticity: it’s not a destination.
It’s a continual return to who you really are — even when parts of that person still scare you.

When I write, I often pause — not because I’ve run out of words, but because the words have landed somewhere deeper than intellect.
Somewhere I haven’t fully healed.

Those are the moments I stop. Breathe.
And let the silence do its work.

Sometimes that silence lasts minutes. Sometimes days.
It’s the kind of pause that feels like standing in front of a mirror you’re not ready to look into yet.

Because writing — the kind that comes from the soul — isn’t just reflection. It’s excavation.
It asks me to unearth the pieces I’ve tucked away: the grief I thought I’d processed, the insecurities I thought I’d outgrown, the leadership moments that still sting when replayed.

Those pauses aren’t empty — they’re sacred.
They’re where I sit with my flaws, not to fix them, but to understand them.
Where I grieve the versions of myself that existed before I knew better.
Where I sift through guilt, regret, and growth — and remind myself that awareness itself is healing.

It’s slow work.
And it’s holy work.

Sometimes I step away from the keyboard feeling cracked open — unsure whether to keep writing or retreat.
But over time, I’ve realized that this is where Leaders on Edge truly lives:
in the space between what I’ve healed and what I’m still learning to.

Because leadership, like life, isn’t about mastering every emotion.
It’s about standing in the middle of them — the grief, the doubt, the tenderness — and still choosing honesty.

That pause isn’t weakness.
It’s strength — quiet, sacred strength — the kind that lets me return to the page again and again, a little more open, a little more real, a little closer to the woman and leader I’m still becoming.

Because that pause is authenticity — knowing when to stop performing strength and instead feel the truth of your own edges.

Leaders on Edge was born from that place — the edge where vulnerability meets growth, where courage meets discomfort, where leadership isn’t about being the strongest in the room, but the most honest.

I’ve worked hard to own my flaws — not just acknowledge them privately, but live with them openly.
Some I still guard. Others I share freely — in my work, in my relationships, in those conversations that start out light and end up soul-deep.

Because if my imperfections help someone else stop, reflect, and grow — then they’ve served their purpose.

Authenticity isn’t about proving you’re real.
It’s about living in a way that is real — even when that means showing the cracks instead of covering them.

The kind of leadership, writing, and connection I strive for isn’t polished.
It’s human.

And if that means being misunderstood sometimes — so be it.
Because I’d rather live raw, imperfect, and real
than spend one more moment being someone else’s version of who I should be.

Coming soon:
There’s a story behind these words — one I’ve avoided, one that changed everything.
It’s a story of love and loss, of purpose and betrayal, of the quiet unraveling that comes when your values no longer fit the walls you’re standing in.
It’s a story of the edge — the moment I broke, and the moment I began to rebuild.
And when it’s time, I’ll tell it.
Because healing deserves to be witnessed.