Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting applause.
I stopped expecting that doing the right thing would be rewarded, that advocating for others would earn loyalty, or that holding people accountable would inspire change. I learned that showing up with clarity, consistency, and compassion can make you a target just as quickly as it makes you a leader.
So now, I find myself mid-career—battle-tested, a little weathered, and maybe a little wiser—asking a deceptively simple question: What has it all amounted to?
The truth is, I’ve been carrying that question longer than I realized.
Both of my parents died young—too young. I wasn’t a child when it happened, but losing them cracked something open in me. It’s a strange thing, to step fully into adulthood not because of age or career milestones, but because life forced your hand. That kind of loss taught me to move forward quickly, to stabilize when others wavered, to find safety in self-reliance. But it also left me craving something quieter, more human: to be chosen. To be seen. To be safe in someone else’s arms, just once without conditions.
So I chased that. I built a life around it. I married, committed, poured myself into a 16-year relationship that held both love and quiet erosion. When it ended, it didn’t just mark the close of a marriage. It marked the end of a version of myself I had been holding together out of habit, fear, and a deeply embedded belief that love must be earned by endurance. Divorce, for all its pain, brought clarity: I had spent years holding space for someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do the same for me.
The years that followed were full of unexpected lessons.
There was someone who reawakened a sense of desire in me, but only on his terms—affection that pulled away when it got too close. Another offered a heady kind of emotional intimacy that never quite translated to presence; he’d light up a room and then disappear just as fast. And one gave me warmth, kindness, and laughter—but always within the safe bounds of his own ambition. When I wanted more, he quietly asked for less.
Each of these connections taught me something I didn’t want to learn:
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That chemistry is not commitment.
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That closeness can still carry distance.
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That sometimes, people enter our lives not to stay, but to remind us what we truly want—and what we no longer need to chase.
And still—I remain. Bruised but not bitter. Softer in places, sharper in others. Wanting more, but no longer willing to beg for it.
Which brings me to a question I didn’t expect to ask:
Do I have high vibration?
Not the curated, sun-drenched version. Not the kind that thrives in yoga retreats or silence bowls.
I mean the kind that hums beneath the surface when you’ve lived through loss, disappointment, and disillusionment—and still choose to care. Still choose to show up.
And the answer is: Yes. I do. But it’s not always graceful.
High vibration, for me, looks like this:
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Holding high standards in a world that too often shrinks from them.
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Expecting accountability when everyone else says, “just let it go.”
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Feeling deeply and loving fully—even when those things aren’t reciprocated.
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Staying in the room when it would be easier to ghost.
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Speaking up when silence would feel safer, but wouldn’t sit right.
It looks like protecting your team from emotional labor no one wants to acknowledge. It looks like calling out dysfunction that others tolerate because it’s more convenient. It looks like staying curious about systems and leadership—not just how we operate, but why we operate that way in the first place.
I’ve spent much of my professional life studying leadership theory, culture-building, and the mechanics of change. I’ve had the honor of building award-winning teams, leading institutional transformation, and mentoring others into their own sense of purpose. But none of that matters if I can’t bring my full, human self to the work.
I’ve been told to pick my battles. To use more honey. To “just let them.” And yes, sometimes I do let them. But not because I’ve given up. I’ve simply learned to conserve my energy for the things—and people—that are worth it.
This is my version of high vibration: earned, messy, deeply human.
It is the vibration of someone who has seen the worst of systems, the limitations of love, and the fragility of control—and still chooses to create, to build, to believe.
And if there’s one thing I know now, it’s this:
I’d rather vibrate with purpose than perform for applause.
That’s what keeps me in the room. That’s what carries me forward. And that’s what I’ll keep choosing, no matter who chooses me back.