Each of us can only do the same in our own lives, even if we might want to be a few or many steps ahead. When we deny our present, we disconnect from ourselves. We do this in behavioral ways - undereating and overeating, using substances of all kinds, scrolling through social media, over-exercising, nail biting (that one has been mine since childhood). We also do it in our relationships - beginning to construct a defense before a colleague or loved one has finished speaking, or half-listening while mentally preparing what we want to say next. In doing so, we lose the meaning and importance of what is actually being shared. Often, we escape because we are reacting to a stressor and simply want it to go away. We may not have been taught how to tolerate discomfort, so a way of coping, unconsciously, is to jump ahead. This momentary coping mechanism can become globalized over time. Sometimes a difficult or traumatic experience from when we were young, and the survival strategies that followed, begin to embed themselves into our general ways of being.

Simply put, it can be hard to stay in the present.

Recently, I listened to a wonderful talk from Thomas Hübl who shared that it’s the trauma that is in a hurry, not the person. It’s the trauma that tells someone that where they currently are is not good, not safe - so you want to speed up. Going fast creates the illusion of safety in the present moment.

When we move fast, we skip ourselves. We bypass the information that lives in our body, our instincts, our felt sense of a situation. We may appear productive, even impressive - but we are operating on the surface. Decisions get made from anxiety rather than clarity. Relationships suffer because we aren’t really there. And over time, we can lose touch with what we actually think, feel, and want.

If we can pause, even briefly, and connect to the self beneath the trauma response, something shifts. We create space. And in that space, we have access to more of ourselves and more of our resources.

This self has not been damaged by what happened to us. It has wisdom. It has clear instincts. It is creative and knows what it needs. It is, in many ways, who we were before we learned we had to move fast to feel safe.

Presence is the doorway back to that self.

Recently, two of my female clients were promoted to higher executive levels in their respective organizations. In our coaching, we haven’t focused on strategy or tactics - we’ve focused on presence. What is true and accurate right now in their current role? How can they lead through deeper listening and the quality of their questions rather than the speed of their answers?

Both are discovering that the more present they are, the more their teams trust them. Presence, it turns out, is not just a personal practice - it’s a leadership skill.

The principle I learned at 27 - start where the client is - continues to guide my life today, in my work, in my relationships and in my relationship with myself. At 54, I find myself in a paradox. There are many years of experience, habits, and patterns woven into who I am and how I show up. And yet alongside that, there is a newfound freedom - a more direct and trustworthy access to my own inner knowing.

Perhaps that is what the years give us, if we let them. Not just accumulation, but access.

Start where you are. It’s enough.

Recently, a friend shared that the Great Backyard Bird Count was happening, and I was thrilled to participate. Usually I’ll walk down my street with my app, listening for birds around me, delighted to hear the House Finches or the Northern Mockingbirds. This past weekend, I decided to venture to some wetlands near my house. It was a two-for-one: I could connect with my feathered friends AND help collect data so that scientists can better understand and protect birds around the world.

The moment I stepped away from the urban street and onto the soft path alongside the marshlands, I felt a shift. As I turned my full attention to listening for birds, my breathing slowed. I began to notice more - the wind on my bare arms, in my hair, and on my back; the warmth of the sun on my face and legs through my jeans. Every few minutes, I stopped to let the app listen without the sound of my footsteps in the background. I saw bees, small butterflies and moths - yellow and white. I started to hear various bird calls: mallard ducks, Canada geese, and others less familiar. Perhaps a frog. The rattle of a dog’s collar in the distance. The footsteps of a photographer with a long lens coming closer, then passing by me on the decomposed granite and wood-chipped path.

I was so happy to be recording and submitting my findings, and I noticed I was feeling more joyful and present with each passing moment. I took in smaller details -moss on branches lifting off in the breeze, a lizard scurrying just in front of my feet. As I became more present to the immediate world around me, I was struck by how vast it is.

What am I often walking past, too distracted to notice? What beauty am I missing?

There is always so much happening in our lives - some seasons more intense than others. These days feel especially charged for many reasons. Sometimes it’s all just too much. Our systems can only absorb so much before we go numb, dissociate, or look away. All of these are survival strategies, and they are necessary at times.

My bird count experience reminded me how slowing down and tuning in can create a sense of peace, deeper connection, and love — and how that, in turn, opens us to the wider world with more joy, curiosity, and clarity.

What assists you in slowing down? A piece of music, an activity, a particular smell - you might use your senses as a cue and let that be a doorway.

P.S. In total, I recorded 16 different birds that afternoon — including a Snowy Egret!

When Caught

When you are taken away
by the raven of your pain,
I will offer something
warm for you to hold.


When you fall into that long
river of regret, I will be there
with tokens of your kindness
to remind you of all you
have given.


And when you are caught 
in the endless whys of life,
I will cook your favorite meal,
just as you like it, so that how
can quiet why.


There is no answer to the ways
life throws us under, only the
unassuming love that softens
our return.

For me, this feels like a warm, soft and unconditional blanket reminding me that loving presence is the key.

Lately, it can be more difficult to remember that love is available, if not externally, then internally.

A pivotal moment for me occurred over 10 years ago while sitting in a classroom at The University of Santa Monica. I was coming to terms with the reality that my marriage wasn’t working. I remember telling my trio partners that if I took the step I knew I needed to take, I would free-fall and die. I truly believed that making such a life-altering decision would literally kill me.

It didn’t occur to me to ask for support from anyone or even from myself.

One of the men I was sitting with said something simple and steady: even though I believed I would free-fall, what was actually true was that I was always supported and I wouldn’t die. In that moment, as tears streamed down my face, something landed. It felt like a revelation.

Growing up, there was a lot of love in my home. There was also neglect and there were secrets I carried about abuse. When there is a foundational lack of emotional attunement and the presence of abuse, children adapt accordingly. They do their best to meet their own needs and make meaning out of the way the family system functions.

In my family, we looked mostly high-functioning (and in many ways we were), yet I felt deeply alone. I longed for connection, and over time, I began to believe that love was limited and conditional, and that parts of who I was were not welcome or lovable. I believed that if people really knew me, they would confirm what I believed about myself - that I was too much.

Over the years, I unconsciously chose situations and people that aligned with the conclusions I formed in my childhood. My interpretations of people and experiences were filtered through a lens shaped by survival and self-preservation. The lens kept me safe and it also kept my life limited.

The Mark Nepo poem affirms what I didn’t know then and what I now practice: recognizing when my thinking is limiting my connection to myself and to the “unassuming love” that is always present, quietly waiting to bring me (and us) back to the truth.

Much of my work with coaches over the years has revealed this. What has proven most useful is reconnecting to my own capacity to endure, create, and grow beyond what my limiting thoughts insist is possible.

Now, this is what I offer my clients: support in recognizing where their thoughts are shaping and limiting their present and future, and a reminder of the loving presence and capacity that already exists within them.

An opportunity for self-reflection: Do you feel disconnected from yourself? If so, you might look to your thinking. Is there a thought you could choose right now - just one -that reconnects you to the love that already resides within you?

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I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while. I’ve shared bits and pieces on social media and in direct emails, but I’ve often held back. I realize that hesitation comes from what I see in much of the coaching and self-help world - so much sharing that feels like a quick fix or overly aspirational, and not grounded in real, lived experience.

The people who inspire me most are those who are real, genuine, and messy. My approach in my work with my clients is rooted in honesty, presence, and relationship. I’ve been looking for a way to bring that same energy here, to this space.

This will be a sharing where I explore different aspects of my life - finances, relationships, divorce, dating, parenting, aging parents, my relationship with my body, post-menopause, childhood trauma, my spiritual life, etc. My intention is to grow as a writer, to bravely share more of myself, and to offer something that can be useful or inspiring in some way.

Each newsletter will include something for you to take with you - a question to consider, a resource, or a bit of inspiration. Imagine being in a one-on-one coaching session with me where I offer something that might serve you right where you are.

A significant shift I’ve been experiencing lately is spending less time in my thinking and more time in my knowing - my inner wisdom. I’ve noticed that my thinking is often filled with anxiety, judgment, and worry especially about what others might say or think. My ego has a field day there, creating inertia and self-doubt.

When I’m in my knowing, I feel at ease. I feel flow. There’s trust and spaciousness. Things unfold more naturally. I don’t need to force or overanalyze; I can simply be. From that place, what’s true becomes clearer, and decisions, even difficult ones, come with more grace and less struggle.

This shift hasn’t been sudden. It’s been a slow practice of noticing when I’m spinning in thought, gently stepping back, and asking myself: What do I already know here? That question alone often brings me back home to myself.

An example from my life is beginning to write and share this newsletter. My mind often tells me I have nothing important or interesting to offer, that no one wants to hear from me. But my deeper knowing reminds me that the value of sharing isn’t something to be measured; it’s already present within each of us. It’s not earned; it’s a birthright. When I share myself without clinging to any outcome, I feel more alive, more aligned, and more connected to the greater good. In that openness, I discover a truth that transcends judgment and expectation: simply sharing is enough.

So, this week, I invite you to explore the same. Notice when you’re caught up in thinking - in the stories, worries, or judgments and pause long enough to feel into your deeper knowing. What wisdom is already there, waiting for you to listen?

P.S. I photographed the statue below on my recent stop in Florence before heading to Greece to co-facilitate a retreat. Any time I’m in Italy, I immediately drop into my wisdom.

This Thanksgiving was one of my least enjoyable in recent years. If I wanted to figure out why, there are myriad reasons I could point to - a couple that are top of mind - my oldest daughter didn’t come home (my first year in 22 years of not seeing her at Thanksgiving), and it was the third year with my father gone. This year was more somber than the first two - he’s farther from being here, which means my family continues to lose its shape and familiarity.

This is difficult, and it gets me to what’s on my mind: I don’t want to figure out why Thanksgiving kind of sucked this year. This, in and of itself, is new for me. In the past, I’ve wanted to understand - dive deep into the why, over-intellectualize. It was one of my defense mechanisms. I just turned 54, and I am learning to connect more with my knowing, with my heart and my intuition, and less with my thinking.

I saw this same shift mirrored in my work today. Earlier, I had a session with a new client. She’s an extraordinarily accomplished engineer who is at a place in her life where she sees that relying solely on the very exercised muscle of her head - her thinking - is only going to get her so far. Her comfort zone is her mind; she has significant evidence of “success” using her sharp thinking, all of which has been enormously beneficial for her up until now. The place she is very uncomfortable is in the heart, especially at work. I was curious about this and asked her whether she believed there was intelligence in the heart, and without hesitation, she quickly replied, “YES!” We spent the rest of our session exploring where she can start to experiment with listening to her heart, because when anything is an underutilized resource, it takes small, steady practice. We developed some baby steps for her.

I think it’s courageous for anyone to be willing to experiment with a new way of being, and I’m learning that it’s essential to create change. This takes me back to Thanksgiving—maybe I don’t need to understand why it was hard. Maybe the courage is in letting myself feel it, trusting my heart to hold what my head can’t explain, and allowing that to be enough.

Is there a new way of being you’d like to experiment with between now and the end of 2025?

With love,

Liz

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P.S. Me and my dog Charlie on Thanksgiving - a moment of lightness and ease. Charlie always connects me to my heart.

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