You don’t do this work for yourself.

You do it because you believe that something is wrong, and that it can be changed.

You do it because you believe that the cost of not showing up is higher than the cost of showing up.

That your life only had meaning when you were fighting for something. That rest was a privilege you hadn't earned. That your needs came last — not as a temporary sacrifice, but as a permanent condition. That love, belonging, and a place in your community had to be earned through dedication, through suffering, through never being enough.

You didn't choose that story consciously. But activism can install it — or reinforce one that was already there. And it will run you into the ground if you don't name it.

I know this experience from the inside out.

I've been an activist since I was a child. By sixteen, I had started the cycles of burnout that would shape two decades of my life.

My work as an organizer and human rights advocate was devotional. I gave it everything I had — sometimes too much, sometimes, it nearly cost me my life.

“Why? Why was I so brave? So dedicated? So committed? ” I started to ask.

What was underneath this calling, this purpose, this path?

I started to ask questions. I started to seek help.

I wrote for hours and hours. I read books, listened to podcasts, attended workshops, retreats. I consulted friends, family, professionals in mental health, healing arts, spirituality.

I started to uncover the hidden beliefs that were driving so much of the story about how I needed to do this work.

I changed my beliefs, slowly and with enormous effort.

I changed my relationships — with family, friends, romantic partners. friendships. Some were able to transform, others I left entirely, many I built a new.

I changed the workplaces and colleagues I surrounded myself with. I changed the kind of work that I do.

All of it. Over years.

Eventually I knew I needed to stop, I needed to pause. I called it a Shabbatical — a sabbath stretched across a year, inspired by the Jewish practice of shmita, the seventh-year release. I stepped back from work, leadership, and media entirely. I walked in nature. I lived simply. I let go of who I thought I was supposed to be.

What I found on the other side wasn't a different set of values. It was a self that could actually hold them — without disappearing in the process.

And then I rebuilt again. This time, a life and a practice that was an expression of where I’ve been and what I now have to offer.

This is the journey I want to accompany you on…