A Year of Wins and Waves

The hardest person for me to coach has always been myself. As a coach, I spend a lot of time helping people slow down, zoom out, reflect, and reconnect with themselves. I help people untangle their thoughts, name what feels heavy, and figure out what direction feels most aligned next. And yet — if I’m being fully transparent — the hardest person for me to coach has always been myself.

That feels important to say out loud.

There’s an assumption that coaches must have everything figured out. That because we know the tools, the questions, the frameworks, the science behind behavior and mindset, we must be immune to doubt, fear, or uncertainty. But knowing something intellectually and living it emotionally are two very different experiences. I can’t count how many times I’ve been mid-session with a client, listening to myself reflect something back to them, and thought, Huh… why am I not taking my own advice right now? Those moments are humbling. Eye-opening. Sometimes even a little funny. They’re also reminders of something essential and grounding: coaches are human too.

2025 was a full year—full in the way the ocean is full. Some days were calm and expansive, where the horizon felt wide open and everything seemed to make sense. Other days were restless and unpredictable, with undercurrents I didn’t see coming and waves that knocked the wind out of me. Professionally, I poured myself into my work with intention, creativity, and heart. There were moments of pride in what I helped build and contribute. There were also moments of deep fatigue, frustration, and questioning. Growth rarely comes without friction. Careers, like tides, move in cycles. Highs and lows aren’t signs that something is wrong—they’re signs that something is alive.

What coaching has taught me, again and again, is that emotions aren’t obstacles. They’re information. We live in a world that encourages us to suppress, manage, or intellectualize how we feel, as if emotions are something to control rather than listen to. But emotions are often the clearest signals we have. They tell us when something is misaligned. They tell us when we’re exhausted, uninspired, scared, or ready. Coaching isn’t about fixing yourself. It’s about understanding yourself—your patterns, your nervous system, your needs, your story. Sometimes the most powerful part of coaching is simply having a place where you don’t have to be strong, productive, or certain. You just get to be human.

That longing for space, reflection, and creative freedom is what eventually gave birth to Sunny Seas Coaching.

And “eventually” is doing a lot of work in that sentence.

The idea had been living inside me since 2022. Quietly at first. Then persistently. Then loudly. I knew I wanted to build something that felt like me—not just in what I offered, but in how it felt to experience it. I wanted to create a space where people could become the version of themselves they already sense living inside them. The one that feels capable, grounded, and whole. The one that isn’t broken, just ready for a new direction. I wanted to give people permission to pause, to think out loud, to feel deeply, and to grow without shame.

But knowing what you want and believing you’re allowed to want it are two very different things.

Self-doubt is real, and it’s sneaky. It doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers. It convinces you that you need just one more certification, one more course, one more year of preparation. It tells you that other people are doing it better, louder, faster. It tells you that now isn’t the right time, that the timing isn’t perfect, that you should wait until you feel more confident. It dresses itself up as logic and responsibility, when really it’s fear wearing a very convincing disguise.

For three years, I sat with the idea of Sunny Seas Coaching. I refined it. I imagined it. I planned it. And I hesitated. Over and over again.

Then something shifted.

I was in a conversation with someone during a coaching experiment—a mentor of sorts. Their intentions were good. They were explaining things, guiding, offering insight. But as they spoke, something unexpected happened in my head. I had this sudden, crystal-clear moment that reminded me of that scene in Mean Girls—you know the one—where Regina asks the cute guy to tutor her in math, and while he’s explaining, you hear her internal dialogue: Wrong. Wrong again. Wrong.

That was my brain.

As this person spoke, I realized I wasn’t absorbing new information. I was quietly correcting it. Internally. Instinctively. Not out of arrogance, but out of knowing. And that’s when it hit me: I do know what I’m talking about. I do know how to coach. I do understand people, patterns, emotions, and growth. That moment wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was subtle. But it was powerful. It was the kind of realization that rearranges something deep inside you.

Sometimes it takes a real-life experience—a conversation, an interaction, a single thought—to knock us into motion. Sometimes it’s not about preparation at all. Sometimes it’s about leaping.

Sunny Seas Coaching didn’t start because I suddenly felt fearless. It started because I decided I wasn’t willing to let fear make my decisions anymore. I took the plunge knowing I might stumble. Knowing I might doubt myself again. Knowing I might have days where I wondered if anyone would show up. I put myself out there because something inside me finally ignited, and I trusted it enough to follow.

Limited beliefs are sneaky like that. They create a safety ceiling. They convince your brain that right here—where it’s familiar, warm, and predictable—is where you should stay. They tell you that out there is dangerous. That you might fail. You might get hurt. You might drown. You might lose control. So they say, Let’s stay here. This is comfortable. What they don’t tell you is that comfort can slowly become confinement.

The shift happens quietly at first. One day. That day. The day something finally clicks. A conversation. A realization. A light-bulb moment where you think, Wait. I know what I’m doing. The day you realize you’re not afraid to fall—not because you won’t—but because you trust yourself to get back up. You know what to do when you fail. You learn. You adjust. You grow. And suddenly failure doesn’t feel like death. It feels like data.

That’s when you tell your brain, gently but firmly: I’ve got this. I’m in control.

In December, I turned 48.

That number still catches me off guard. My heart feels young—curious, playful, deeply alive. My mind feels wiser now, more grounded and compassionate, more aware of nuance, while somehow still convinced that my twenties weren’t that long ago. The idea that I’m two years away from 50 feels surreal. And then there’s my body, gently but persistently reminding me that time has been moving whether I noticed it or not. My body asks for rest now. For listening. For patience. It speaks in sensations I can’t ignore anymore. This stage of life feels like an invitation to honor all three—heart, mind, and body—instead of expecting one to carry everything alone.

As the year comes to a close, I find myself thinking about New Year’s resolutions. Some people love them. Some people reject them entirely. I understand both sides. Change doesn’t need permission from a calendar. But there is something deeply human about marking time. About pausing collectively as one year ends and another begins. For centuries, people have used this moment to reflect, release, and recommit. Maybe resolutions aren’t about pressure or perfection. Maybe they’re about intention.

When I think about 2026, I don’t just think in terms of goals. I think about how I want to feel. I want to continue growing Sunny Seas Coaching with integrity, creativity, and heart. I want to finish and publish the leadership book I’ve carried inside me for nearly a decade—for the people stepping into responsibility without a map, wondering if anyone else feels as overwhelmed as they do. I want to spend more time with the people who ground me. I want to travel more, even if it means stepping outside my comfort zone, because freedom means being able to move through the world while my body still allows me to do so. I don’t want to wait for someday. I want to live now—intentionally, thoughtfully, honestly.

As I wrap up 2025, what I feel most is gratitude. Gratitude for lessons learned the hard way. Gratitude for clarity that came after confusion. Gratitude for the waves that tested me and the calm waters that held me steady. And gratitude for the reminder that even when I struggle to coach myself, I’m still allowed to pause, reflect, and begin again.

If there’s one thing I hope you carry with you into the new year, it’s this: you don’t have to have everything figured out to be moving forward. Sometimes progress looks like rest. Sometimes strength looks like softness. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is listen to what your emotions are trying to tell you.

Here’s to closing this year with honesty, opening the next with intention, and honoring every version of ourselves along the way.

🌊☀️