Finding the Daylight
Sometimes a song has a way of stopping you in your tracks—of quietly asking you to look back and notice just how far you’ve come.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting alone in a hotel room, working on pieces for the Dream Big Conference. Even as I write that, there’s still a part of me that feels awe—this is really happening. I was in the middle of notes and ideas when “Daylight” by Shinedown began playing in my earbuds.
Almost simultaneously, I opened my Timehop.
There was a photo waiting for me, simple and powerful, that read:
2020 changed me
2021 broke me
2022 opened my eyes
2023 I’m coming back
I just stared at it.
Because wow—did that hit home. Hard.
Tears came quickly, the kind that rise up when truth lands in your body before your mind can catch up. And as I sat there, I realized I could now add two more lines to that story:
2024 — I believed in myself
2025 — my launch pad
The end of 2021 still lives in my body. To this day, it remains the worst December of my life. That season broke me in ways I never expected, in ways I’ll never fully forget. I will always grieve who we lost. I will always remember that version of myself who was just trying to survive.
And yet—this is the part I’ve learned to hold alongside the grief—that breaking also shaped me.
It softened places that had been hardened by expectation. It taught me how to listen to myself more honestly. It changed how I define strength, success, and trust. It molded me into the woman who now gets to sit in hotel rooms preparing keynote talks—something past versions of me couldn’t even imagine.
I didn’t walk through that season alone.
I had beautiful humans. I had Spirit. I had God. And when I couldn’t see the light for myself, they helped me keep looking for it. They helped me believe that daylight still existed—even when everything felt dark.
Without them, and without the experiences I endured, I don’t think I would be where I am today.
And while I’ll never be grateful for the pain itself, I am deeply grateful for who I’ve become because I kept going.
Sometimes daylight doesn’t come all at once.
Sometimes it arrives as a song.
Or a memory.
Or a quiet realization that you’re standing in a moment you once prayed to survive.
And sometimes, that’s enough to remind you—you’re still here. And you’re still becoming.