Staying soft when everything feels hard

Soft Sunset Over Warner's Bay

Life stretches you in ways you can't always measure – not just the visible accomplishments, but in the quiet, invisible shifts within.

The kind of stretch that happens when someone misunderstands you, when you’re met with silence instead of care, when the things you’re trying to hold begin to shake in your hands.

Some days, I want to harden. To guard. To fight. But my softness has carried me farther than my defenses ever did. Even on a hard week, I can see that.

Even when a client departs over scheduling. Even when the weight of three broken pairs of glasses sits heavier than expected. Even when my week unfolds with personal goodbyes and silent reflection, leaving me with nothing but the ache of it all...

Even then — I guard my brain and heart from the doubt that would steal this life I’m building. I choose softness. I choose strength.

And lately, that strength has been especially vital because I am five days away from six months Cali sober.

If you don’t know what that means: I haven’t had a drink since the day I almost gave up. Since the gas. Since the hospital. Since I decided I couldn’t go one more day like that.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming about drinking again. But when I wake up, I remember who I am now. And I stay grounded. I stay present.

Yes, I still use cannabis — intentionally, consciously, and, of course, medically. It's not about escaping; it's about staying present. It helps me regulate, to finally process what I used to run from. When I use it, my brain stops yelling, and I can finally think.

That’s what Cali sober means for me — not perfect, just present.

And now I manage homes like I’m holding hearts. I support people the way I wish someone had supported me. I walk into chaos and say:

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Because I know how lonely it is to feel like a mess. To feel like you’re too much and not enough at the same time. It's that lived experience that allows me to meet people where they are, because trauma took the life out of me for decades. It hollowed me out until I was nothing but ache and emptiness. I felt like a shell — a black hole with arms.

But even then, something in me stayed alive. And now I clean with it. I hold homes with it. I create space not just for tidiness — but for returning. That includes you.

If you’re reading this and holding more than you can name — you don’t need to be more productive. You don’t need to explain your pain. You don’t need to be anyone but exactly who you are, right now.

That is enough.

And if you’re simply looking for care in your home — without the heaviness of trauma — you’re still welcome. I bring the same grounded attention and tenderness to every space I enter. It’s not about what you’ve been through. It’s about how you want to feel.

Here’s to starting the week with slow breaths, glowing spaces, and one gentle reminder:

You’re not behind. You’re becoming.

With softness, Sarah (& Bun)

P.S. If your space is holding more than you can carry right now — I’ve got a few reset sessions open this week. No pressure. No perfection. Just care.