i found my people. and they found me.

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Every Saturday morning, an email goes out to my community.

More than a newsletter or a weekly update (because, let’s face it… no one needs another newsletter in their email inbox), what it is is a love letter. Storytelling mixed with soul and courage and creative expression - with a heaping scoop of honesty about the things in life that are messy and vulnerable and hard and so, so good.

I’ve had some readers describe it as the thing that they read over their morning cup of coffee, something to savor and enjoy. I’ve had others reply with little notes of gratitude, sharing that I said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, that what I wrote touched the tenderest parts of their hearts. Still others see it as a love note between friends, a moment when my heart opens to theirs and we connect, if only for the few minutes that they spend reading my words.

The ones that aren’t so into it? Well, they unsubscribe. And that’s ok.

Sometimes, I’ll share a bit about what’s coming up next in my business or about links and launches that have inspired me. Other times, there will be an invitation to join my online workshops or sign up for an upcoming course or offering.

But every single email, without fail, is soaked in love, crafted with tenderness and intentionality, and written straight from my heart.

The truth is that it hasn’t always been that way.

When I first started in the wild and wonderful world of entrepreneurship (more than three years ago - what?!), I didn’t know what to write to my email community. Having been the recipient of hundreds of thousands of marketing emails, I thought that mine had to look the same as everyone else’s, and that to show up differently meant that I would be showing up “wrong.”

So, caught up in fear and confusion, I would show up sporadically, or not at all. I would share surface level musings or only when I had something to launch. I wrote about things that didn’t really matter to me, but seemed like they mattered to everyone else.

It felt slimy, sticky, and not at all like me. I'm sure that my readers could feel it, too.

And then, there was a moment. A moment where I realized that I was building a business that didn’t have a bit of “me” in it, that the foundation that I was creating would - in five or ten years - feel like it was sinking, cracking, caving in.

I realized that, if I really wanted to build someone else’s empire (because that’s what I was doing, even if I hadn’t come to terms with it yet), it would be faster - and a hell of a lot easier - to forget this entrepreneurship thing altogether.

So, I went back to basics.

And, by back to basics, I mean back to my core desired feelings. Back to my foundational values. Back to the intangible elements and unspoken ways that I wanted to connect and communicate with my growing tribe.

Back to myself.

At the center of everything I do, there is a deep, deep desire to be... familiar.

For my readers and clients and community to feel like they’re talking to a good friend, each and every time one of my emails lands in their inbox or my name pops up in their newsfeed. A friend who cares enough to encourage wholehearted expression and courageous risk-taking and authentic curiosity. One who wants to know and love them, exactly as they are.

Because they are. Because they are.

So, instead of floating on the surface... I dove deep.

Instead of selling, I sent out invites.

I shared my mess and my message.

I used stories instead of statistics.

I used love letters instead of links.

I found my people. And they found me.

Whether you receive my emails each week without saying a word or you have signed up for one of my workshops, whether I’ve worked on your website copy or we’re working one-on-one in a mentorship, it means more than open rates and clicked links ever could. It means connection.

And that’s everything.

What I’m saying is this…

If you find yourself confused or afraid about how to show up in the world, start here.

Start with love. Begin by extending an invitation. Go back to basics, back to the heart of things, back to yourself. Write love letters and notes of gratitude. Share stories... the truer and real-er, the better. Keep reaching out, inviting in, engaging with openness and curiosity and courage.

Start with intention. Begin with connection.

You’ll find your people. And they’ll find you.


Wondering where to start? Here’s a writing prompt to inspire you:

What’s a story that you’ve inherited or claimed as your own, a “should” or “supposed-to” that’s hemmed you in, constricted your spirit, or kept you stuck? What did it look like to reveal and rewrite that story for yourself?

Don’t skip the messy middle. Share from your soul.

Get more writing prompts in Unedited: Your Guide to Effortless & Authentic Content. Click here for exclusive (and free!) access!

in honor of all that i will be.

What I am not.

In honor of all that I will be. Written as me, today.

As potential sits, waiting patiently, in every cell wall.

On this path, the discovery of yes has started at no.

What I am, revealed by what I am not.

To say “no” to every misaligned “should” and potential might-be-maybe-could-be to free me for every “hell yes!” and heartfelt click into place.

I am not a doormat or a savior or a sap.

I am not a vessel for sorrow or shame.

I am not you, I am not her, I am not them. And, yet, perhaps, I am a little of each of you.

I am not the peacekeeper. You can keep your own peace.

I am not the answer to the hole that you have in your heart. Believe me when I say that that is yours and yours alone to fill. Nothing else will do.

I am not anger or depression or anxiety. And yet, I carry them with me, one or two or three at a time. To feel, process, release and use as fuel for light and love.

I am not a writer for the hard-hearted or the phony, for the fraudulent or the ego-driven.

I am not beholden to those who would break down my boundaries for their own self-interest.

I am not yours to consume. I am mine to give.

I am not static. I am movement and change and life. Made whole by the waves of light and emotion, wholly conscious in the sea of intention and integration. What is true right now may come to pass, and my soul will evolve and expand with new wisdom and experience.

I am not filled by someone else, by something new, by theories or surface-level platitudes. I can only be filled by me. By being every inch, every scar, every hair, the fullest embodiment of myself.

I am not half-hearted. I am whole. Perhaps splintered in some places and healing in others, but whole. Not broken. Not breakable. I show up as all of me or not at all.

Standing firm in what I am not.

Opened up to what I might be.

I am.

tethered + bound to the present moment, i decided to honor it.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat down to write my weekly blog post (much like I am sitting down now to write this little love note to you). 

There at my desk, fingers hovering over the keys of my keyboard, I searched the reaches of my psyche for inspiration, that tiny nugget or story that would catapult me into a full-on writing frenzy. I tried to step into your shoes, my fierce solopreneuress. I thought to myself… Ok, Kate. What do these feminine phenoms need to hear this week? Perhaps something about authentic content strategy or the creative process? Maybe a story about comparison and expectation? Think, Kate. What little bit of creative wisdom can you cull and shape and share? 

I heard the clock on the wall tick behind me. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Nothing.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

Is that a spark of something? Ok, no… still nothing.

I tugged and tugged. Not a single thread or story to share. 

Not about business or the creative process anyway.

What poured out of me was the present.

What surfaced was a story about in-the-moment gratitude, about breathing in this small sliver of time and awakening abundant appreciation. Part-poem, part-prayer, it was the kind of post that just flowed from my fingertips. Effortless. Communing with creativity.

In my business as a content editor, copy makeover artist, and creative voice mentor, I work with soulful entrepreneurs in exploring, discovering and owning their own creative voices.

I help them give birth to and tend to their authentic and unique creativity, identifying and releasing the stories that hold them back. I help empower them in gaining clarity and confidence in how they most deeply want to show up in the world. 

Sometimes that shows up in tangible ways, as I help them polish their content and copy so that it’s ready to reveal to the world. I take the rawness of their (deeply valuable and desperately needed) message and, through the power of editing-alchemy, produce a piece of content or copy that virtually sings. Those are the moments when online content creation and authentic blogging posts are perfect. They’re hold-in-your-hand, take-action kinds of posts.

But many times, most times, it shows up as what I consider my soul’s work: to help women to explore what it looks like to own how they show up in their work and in their world, to reconnect and recommit to embodied creativity and soulful expression, and to allow the magic of the creative process to heal, ourselves and the world.

I do that by owning my own process, by communing daily, weekly, monthly with creativity and sharing with you its fruits. 

This space, the soul-space, is where much of my writing flows from. It’s personal, emotional, devotional. It’s the space where a post about comparison or shame or vulnerability can co-exist with poetry. It’s how I come to understand my past, embrace my present, and create my future... and help others to do the same. 

Most weeks, when I sit down to write my weekly post, I work to give you that perfect morsel of creative inspiration to chew on and digest. I deep dive into my past or reflect upon my relationships to share a story that connects with your current reality. It’s writing with a purpose, meant to inspire you to action or reflection or creation. It’s healing to me, and my deepest hope is that it is healing to you, as well.

But sometimes, as it did a couple of weeks ago, my creative process shifts. Something clicks deep within me and tethers me to my most present, visceral experience. It’s as if the present overwhelms all other possibilities. In that moment, this is all there is. No past or future, no story to weave or inspiring action to impart.

When I sat down a couple of weeks ago to write my weekly post, I had intended to share a story. Of comparison and enoughness. A message of you’re-exactly-where-you-need-to-be. Truthfully, I wrestled with it for a while. I tried to trick myself into jumping out of the present and journeying back to the past, into writing a story rather than writing my heart.

Fortunately, it didn’t work. (Though it did a few weeks later.)

Tethered and bound to the present moment, I decided to honor it.

From there flowed a wholehearted expression of unfiltered experience. It was magic.

When I honor wherever I am, whether I’m creating content for the digital space or writing to you, the magic tends to show up more often than not. When I listen to intuition and inspiration, what emerges is enchanted and messy and exactly what’s meant to show up.

Whatever you create, whether you are trying your hand at creative writing or are in the midst of creating your newest coaching package, whether you paint or sing or write love letters to your tribe of raving fans, honor what shows up.

So often, we float on the surface of the creative process, hustling out a product rather than sinking into the process. Resist the urge to stay there. Go deeper.

If you’re like me — if you’re going through something transformational or painful or beautiful, if your present seems to keep overwhelming all other possibilities, or if the emotion of the moment is crying out to be expressed — honor it.

Write it. Paint it. Sing it. Scream it.

Share it with a friend or your tribe or your business bestie. In prose or poetry or lyrical dance.

Whatever you do, don’t keep it inside. Honor it.

not where i'm supposed to be

When I was a junior in college, I got a job in one of the residence halls on campus, receiving and distributing packages.

Throughout the day, my co-workers and I would receive boxes and envelopes from UPS and the like, log them in the online system, notify students, and then sit behind a marble counter waiting for the residents to come pick up their packages. While most students would receive something every few months, if that, there were a few RHO (Residence Hall Office) regulars. 

One of them was a kid from California, Mike. 

Mike was a charmer. He had a broad smile and effortless style, at least for a sophomore in college. He was friendly and charismatic, quick to laugh and always ready with a heartfelt “thank you.”

But if you were to see Mike walking towards you, the first thing that you would notice — beyond his grin and California casual style — was his belt.

On his hip, Mike had clipped a cellphone and not one but two pagers (I know what you’re thinking. Pagers?! Yep. Remember, this was 2006, and the pager was still very much “in.”).

Apart from being a student in the Georgetown School of Business, Mike was a burgeoning entrepreneur. At just 20 years old, he had already owned and sold two (two!) businesses. His current business? To design and distribute t-shirts and sweatshirts to all of the California state schools. Just in case that didn’t sink in, I’ll repeat it. To all of the California state schools. His pagers were how all of his employees and distributors stayed in touch with him.

I’m not sure if it was the whisper of my inner perfectionist or some instinctive human inclination towards comparison, but all I remember thinking was… what have I been doing with my life?!

While Mike had been founding and selling his businesses, I had been trying desperately to decide on a major. While he had been establishing a distribution contract with the UC schools, I was distributing packages.

At the age of 20, I already felt behind.

The truth? A decade later and I still feel that way sometimes. I have friends and colleagues who have already lived half a dozen lives, classmates from high school who are now running multinational corporations, and college friends who own homes or have kids or got multiple degrees. 

It’s easy to get caught up the swirling vortex of my assumed inferiority. To let others' successes (and my comparison reaction) to inform my beliefs around self-worth and value and impact. To hold tight to the limiting belief that, just because I’m not where I want to (ultimately) be, haven’t mastered all of the skills, and haven’t gathered up the trappings of success… I must have squandered my talent and time. Or must not have had much to begin with. Ego and insecurity all wrapped into one.

Every once in a while, a thought floats across the forefront of my mind: I’m smart, capable, and creative. I should have already found success, achieved promotions, established myself as a well-known leader in my field (or at least have a mortgage and 2.5 kids, right?!). I’m not where I’m supposed to be. 

But here’s the thing. I’m not Mike. And, while I’m deeply proud of my friends, colleagues, and classmates who have accomplished so much, I’m also not them. And “supposed to be”? Where is that? What is that?!

I am exactly where I am supposed to be. 

Every single step has led me to where I am, and the truth is that to remove just a single one would have irreversibly changed the course of my life. Who knows, without that first data-entry job straight out of college — the one that sucked the life right out of me and showed me how deeply important human connection was to my happiness, I might not have met my husband or went to graduate school or learned that I had the potential within me to build a business that I love.

Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you too get caught up in arbitrary expectation. Maybe you feel like you should be further in your career or have the white picket fence and 2.5 kids already. Maybe you’re dissatisfied with the state of your business or can’t believe you’re still not married. Maybe you feel like you’ve squandered your talent or your time.

The truth is that I shackle myself and my potential in a box of “shoulds” and “supposed to be’s.” I create arbitrary deadlines that have less to do with potential and process and more to do with perfectionistic expectations. 

If you had asked me 10 years ago where I would be at the age of thirty, I would have answered you with a blank stare. I wasn’t ready. At the age of 20, I could never have imagined that I had the capacity and potential within me to create the life I have now.

And in another ten years? I have no idea what deep wells and opportunities are just waiting for the right time to emerge.

Life is about potential and process, love. You are not Mike, you are not me. You are not the highlight reel of Instagram posts or a list of “shoulds” and expectations. 

Repeat after me: I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

What matters now is where you take the next step. 

cardboard boxes and chaos.

I don’t tend to bounce around.

In the past five years, I’ve moved twice, each time with deep intention and purpose. 

Move #1: Flagstaff, Arizona. Moving to join my then-boyfriend and now-husband in creating our first home together. It meant the end of the long-distance romance and the beginning of a brand new adventure. Our two-bedroom townhouse was where we first learned how to live together. It was home to sing-alongs and late-night sleepovers with friends, snowed-in snuggles and misadventures in cooking. The move was everything I never knew I needed.  

Move #2: Seattle, Washington. Moving to our favorite city on earth, a place surrounded by trees and mountains and water. Our apartment, perched on the top of one of Seattle’s seven historical hills, was the place that I launched my business, celebrated our engagement, and planned our wedding. It was home to Seahawks games and late-night writing, countless conversations and joy-soaked celebration. This apartment has been more than a space... it’s been home. To laughter and tears, dance parties and intense growth. And gratitude. So much gratitude.

Today, my honey and I are saying goodbye-for-now to that space, our little home on the hill.

As we speak, our belongings are being loaded into a moving truck to make the 20-mile trip across the lake to our new home, nestled in the basement of the house that I grew up in. 

These past few weeks — from the moment that we finally decided to make the move to last night as we packed up the last of our boxes — have been witness to deep wells of emotion.

Of excitement and certainty, knowing that we’re making the right choice - for us, for now - to be closer to family.

Of grief and mourning, of temporary goodbyes whispered as we walk through our neighborhood and pack up belongings that we won’t see until we move again. 

We’ve had moments of deep anxiety, as we struggled to picture our new life, miles away from dear friends and P’s job. A new commute. A new routine. Sharing space. Making space.

At the same time, we've had moments of thrilling anticipation as we made plans for our new home. A vegetable garden. Summer nights sipping craft beer in the backyard. A hammock. Nature at our fingertips.

A home is more than just the sum of its four walls. It houses memories and moments. It makes space for community and celebration. 

The environment that you create becomes the space in which creativity is born, where moments are crafted, and where connection emerges.

Your space is a reflection of the state of your spirit.

Right now, that looks like cardboard boxes and chaos. And that’s ok.

It’s where I’m at, and I know that my spirit (and my space) will settle in time.

So...

Dear home on the hill, our little slice of paradise amongst the city lights, I’ll just say this:

Thank you.

Thank you for a million tiny moments. Thank you for bringing adventure and friendship into our orbit. Thank you for housing our laughter and love, for providing space for growth and conflict and transformation, and for witnessing the minutiae that has meant so much to us.

We love you. Goodbye for now.