"I manifested the life of my dreams. But now I’ve outgrown it."

Ten years ago, I walked away from the life I had built in the U.S. I left behind the familiar—the apartment in Hoboken, the patchwork of TV gigs, the part-time yoga classes that helped me pay the bills and fund my escape plan. I was broke, single, 33, and unsure of what life had in store. But I was also burning with a fire I couldn’t name. A hunger for something more.

At the time, it felt like everyone around me was settling into something—marriages, mortgages, maternity leave. And there I was, choosing celibacy, unsure of how I’d support myself, yet unwilling to trade passion for safety. I remember my friends cheering anytime I met someone new—hoping it might end my “dry spell.” But deep down, I wasn’t waiting for a man. I was waiting for something unnameable but so vividly alive inside me.

I had no idea that a few months later, I’d meet Jorge. That we’d spend four days together that would change my life. That one choice—to say yes to the unknown—would begin a decade of miracles, heartbreak, growth, healing, and the birth of a life I never even dared to dream.

And now, here I am. Ten years later. In a sunlit apartment in Lisbon that I share with my husband. A home I chose, a city we chose, after living and traveling all over the world. I teach yoga and run yoga teacher trainings. I’ve built a community. I’ve created a life that ten-years-ago-me could never have even visualized.

But lately, I feel it again.

That ache. That internal shift. The discomfort of outgrowing something you once prayed for. I feel it in my body, in my gut, in the deepest folds of my spirit: this version is ending. The structure I built with so much love no longer fits. I’m shedding skins again. Something else wants to be born.

And yet, I’m not rushing to figure it out. I’m not launching into creation mode. I’m learning to sit in the space in between. To wait. To listen. To let the universe, my guides, God, show me the next shape of my life. To grow strong in mind, body, and spirit so I can hold what’s coming. Because I know it’s coming.

But let me be honest: this waiting is not soft or serene. It's not romantic. It's messy and confronting. Some days I’m present. Other days I spiral. I resist. I distract. I avoid. I scroll too much. I compare. I overthink. I cry. I whisper my fears into the dark and wonder if I’ve lost my spark, if the creativity that once pulsed through me has dried up.

I wrestle with guilt when I don’t do my practices. I speak my doubts aloud. I cling to prayer, even when I’m unsure who’s listening. I remember what it felt like to be certain—and grieve that I’m not there anymore. And still, I wait.

I’m not waiting in apathy. I’m waiting with devotion. With ache. With hope. With everything I’ve learned from this path so far. I’m waiting because I believe the new version of me deserves to be birthed in wholeness, not in fear.

This isn’t a story of arrival. It’s a story of returning. Of honoring cycles. Of stepping into a new unknown with the same wide-open heart that boarded a plane ten years ago.

I’m now in what’s often called mid-life. I feel immense gratitude for all that I’ve experienced—and deep pride in the risks I’ve taken to create this life. But even with all that gratitude and pride, I feel afraid. This moment isn’t about what more I can offer through my work, or how I can create new content for my students. This moment is about the woman I am becoming—a version of me who sometimes feels unfamiliar, even to myself. A woman still seeking truth, still asking the questions, still listening for what’s next.

It’s not always graceful. It doesn’t always look “inspired.” Sometimes it looks like burnout. Sometimes it looks like pulling back. Sometimes it looks like crying in the middle of the day and whispering, “I don’t know who I am right now.” And still, I trust.

Because this isn’t the end of something. It’s the edge. The fertile void. And something sacred lives here too.

If you’re in this space, I see you. If you’re questioning everything you’ve built, everything you’ve known—even the dreams that once lit you up—I see you. If you feel like you’re changing, and you don’t yet have words for what’s next—I see you.

Let yourself not know.
Let yourself unravel.
Let yourself be new again.

Because you never know. You might just be surprised by miracles.