Four hours before I opened the doors of Life Cycles Counseling to a roomful of business owners, I was in Virginia Beach singing along to Tim McGraw.
This was perhaps not my finest event-planning decision.
But there I was, racing back to Richmond to host a Coffee & Connect in my newly refreshed office space. And when I say refreshed, I mean clean carpets, a rad rainbow basket, a crushed-mint candle that smells amazing, and a working (mostly) aquarium. Honestly, I'm not sure the place has ever looked this organized.
I had spent money on food, drinks, and all the little things that make a space feel welcoming. I wanted people to walk in and think, I like it here.
I also apparently wanted them to experience the morning exactly the way I had imagined they would.
Enter: my Manager Part.
A friend had graciously offered to come early and help. It turns out her definition of "early" and mine are…different. The Panera order arrived. The linens had not. I was running back and forth trying to get everything together while my friend surveyed the scene and announced that it felt a little like a tailgate.
Shortly thereafter, we discovered that the stand for the water dispenser was inside the water dispenser. Filled with water.
Things were going beautifully.
Then people started arriving.
Look at this perfect semicircle. Only professionals here :)
Some people were perfectly happy hanging around outside with the food.
But what about the tour? Don't they know how good it smells in there?!
My Manager Part had thoughts.
Not everyone wanted a tour. And that was okay.
Because the people who were genuinely curious found me. They stayed and asked questions about altered states of consciousness. One woman actually took the tour twice because she had so many questions.
And when a group of us walked into my therapy room, sans therapist, what happened?
They started sharing.
Of course they did.
I also hadn't really invited friends because this was a networking event, but two people I've grown close to through the gym—the people I lift crazy amounts of weight with—showed up anyway. One took pictures. They didn't have to be there; they simply came to support me.
At one point, someone I've worked with for years gave a shout-out during her introduction to me and my water-dispenser-challenged friend and told the room how awesome we were.
Which was funny, because while she was seeing awesome, I had spent part of the morning seeing missing linens, Panera, a submerged water-dispenser stand, and people who weren't taking my tour.
I was so busy comparing the morning to the version in my head that I almost missed the version that was actually happening.
Maybe that's the thing about creating something and inviting other people into it.
You can make it beautiful, fuss over every detail, light the crushed-mint candle, and imagine exactly how people are supposed to experience it.
But eventually, you have to open the damn door.
And once you do, you don't get to control what happens next. Some people won't come inside. Some will wander through and move on.
And somebody might take the tour twice.
I've been thinking about that as the next round of Writing Bravely approaches, because writing asks us to do much the same thing. At some point, we have to stop arranging the linens, stop wondering whether it's good enough, and let somebody see what we've created.
That's a big part of what we're practicing in Writing Bravely: noticing what shows up when you stop managing the page, writing from somewhere a little less polished and a little more honest, and becoming more willing to let yourself be seen.
If you've been standing outside wondering whether you should come in, consider this your invitation to take the tour.
Maybe even twice.
Join us September 19 for four hours of writing, reflection, IFS-inspired exploration, and the opportunity to put something real on the page—without needing to make it perfect first.
📝 Your Writing Bravely™ Prompt
Where in your life are you still arranging the linens instead of opening the door?
Write about something you've been preparing, perfecting, researching, reorganizing, or waiting to feel “ready” for. What are you afraid might happen once you actually open the door and let other people—or even yourself—see it?
What might become possible if you let it be imperfect and opened the door anyway?
P.S. For everyone who keeps asking about Therapuss (my betta fish): she's coming. Apparently she has therapist training to complete before reporting for duty. Standards are standards.
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