Cutting Through the Noise: Releasing What No Longer Serves Me.

A Photo, A Moment, A Message

I took this photo in 2010, during a break from college, trying to figure out my next steps in life. At the time, it was just a creative outlet—me playing with photography, trying to be “edgy,” without realizing I was expressing something far deeper than I understood back then.

Looking at it now, over a decade later, I see a young woman silently screaming for release. A woman who was torn but didn’t even realize it. A woman who had been suppressing so much of herself—her voice, her emotions, her needs—that she had become lost in constant self-doubt, guilt, and worry.

Worry about what she said, what she did, how she was perceived—what people thought of her.

If there was a moment in time that visually represented what it feels like to be stuck between who you are and who you’ve been conditioned to be, this was it.

And what’s even more surreal? This photo was taken on July 26, 2010—exactly ten years to the day before my father passed away.

For so many years, I unknowingly passed that date, not realizing it would become the day that would shift my life forever. A day that would redefine my path, my purpose, and my healing.

The Weight of Suppression

This year’s theme for me is releasing what no longer serves me—a phrase that sounds simple but carries the weight of a lifetime.

For years, I lived under a cloud of suppression. I second-guessed my emotions, my choices, my worth. I carried shame that wasn’t mine, guilt that wasn’t mine, burdens that weren’t mine.

I was taught, whether directly or indirectly, to question myself at every turn.

To be the peacemaker. To be the one who carried the weight. To be the one who was strong even when I was breaking inside.

I know I’m not alone in this. So many of us—especially women, especially those raised in environments where we were taught to prioritize others over ourselves—live in this space of internal conflict.

We shrink ourselves. We silence ourselves. We convince ourselves that our emotions are too much. That we should just be grateful and not ask for more. That putting ourselves first is selfish.

And before we know it, we are walking through life like ghosts of who we were meant to be.

But suppression has a cost.

For me, it was a cost I didn’t even recognize I was paying until much later. It showed up in indecisiveness, in people-pleasing, in worrying about how I was being perceived more than how I was actually feeling. It showed up in burnout, in resentment, in exhaustion.

And then there were the moments I started to recognize I was changing—where I wasn’t conforming anymore.

The Criticism That Made Me Realize I Was Changing

I remember walking through the halls at school, minding my own business, doing what needed to be done, and still—people had something to say.

"Why don’t you smile more?" "Why do you look so pissed off?" "What’s wrong with you?"

Nothing was wrong. I was just existing. But apparently, existing as myself wasn’t enough.

What burned me the most? When men—especially men—would say it. It ate at me in a way I couldn’t even put into words at the time.

All I can scream in my head is "Don’t tell me to freaking smile."

This is why when I hear Lola Young’s song "Messy", I swear it resonates in my soul. That song captures exactly what I was feeling—the frustration, the exhaustion of being told how I should present myself to the world.

The same thing happened when my father was in the hospital. Everyone had an opinion on how I should feel.

"Don’t cry here." "You shouldn’t say that to the nurse." "Think about it this way instead." The comments were never ending from every angle.

OH. MY. GOD. The scream fest in my mind and heart was deafening.

I completely shut down for two years because of it. No one knew that except my husband and my closest friends. But that moment broke my soul in ways I don’t even have words for.

The one person who had always let me feel everything without judgment—my dad—was gone. And what I got in return was people trying to police my emotions, trying to shape my grief into something comfortable for them.

It killed my spirit for a while.

The Moment I Knew Teaching Was No Longer for Me

After my dad passed during the pandemic, I was going through the motions at school, trying to hold it all together. Grief was still consuming me, but I was showing up, doing what I thought was my best, trying to navigate loss in a space that demanded so much of me.

A few months had gone by, and I thanked an administrator for allowing me to take my time to grieve. I wasn’t done grieving—don’t think I ever will be—but I appreciated the space I had been given.

I wasn’t expecting much in response. Maybe just a simple acknowledgment, something like:

"Oh my, just take your time, this is hard." "You are doing amazing."

Instead, their response took me back in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

"You’re welcome. Now it’s time to get back on the horse and get back to it."

Right there, something shifted in me.

I was done.

The light switch of education turned off.

Even when I had come back and did my absolute best despite the circumstances, the response I got wasn’t about grace, understanding, or recognizing my resilience. It was a directive to move on. A reminder that, despite what I had just gone through, my grief had an expiration date in their eyes.

It was a gut punch.

Because the truth was, I had dealt with some truly crazy circumstances that year in my position, and I thought I had handled them well. But in that moment, I realized something:

I was not in the space I was meant to be in anymore.

And I needed to figure out my next steps.

The Moment of Realization

I recently read about Highly Sensitive People (HSPs), a term that resonated with me on a cellular level. It described the experience of being told you were “too emotional,” “too sensitive,” or “too much” your entire life—until you started to believe it yourself.

HSPs are the people who feel things deeply. Who pick up on emotions in a room before a word is spoken. Who carry the unspoken burdens of others. Who are conditioned to suppress their natural instincts because the world tells them they are wrong for feeling so much.

Reading about this, I had an epiphany: I was never crazy. I was never “too much.” I was simply a woman living in a world that wasn’t built to hold the depth of my emotions.

And I refuse to shrink any longer.

Releasing What No Longer Serves Me

This year, I am intentionally stepping into my fullest, truest self. I am shedding the guilt. I am dropping the shame. I am no longer apologizing for taking up space.

Here’s what that looks like for me:

✅ Trusting myself. No more second-guessing every decision. My intuition is strong, and I honor it.

✅ No longer carrying what isn’t mine. I refuse to internalize other people’s opinions, projections, or expectations.

✅ Letting go of survival mode. I deserve to live in joy, in peace, in alignment—not just to get through the day.

✅ Allowing my voice to be heard. In my business, in my relationships, in my own head.

✅ Honoring my emotions. They are not a weakness. They are a superpower.

If this resonates with you, you are not alone. I know what it feels like to live in that space of suppression, and I know what it takes to finally let it go.

This isn’t just my journey. It’s our journey.

And I want to take you with me.

How This Ties Into My Business

I know some of you may be wondering, how does all of this tie into what I do?

It’s the foundation of it all.

At Emerging Adulthood Consulting, I help individuals and families navigate the transition into adulthood with confidence. I never want anyone to feel like they can’t feel.

Whether it's emotions, struggles, failures, or growth—I believe in holding space for it all.

I believe in letting people be who they are. To express what’s inside them. To fail, learn, and rise again.

Because when we are seen, when we are validated, when we are free to be ourselves—that’s when real transformation happens.

What’s Next?

This journey is just beginning. I hope you continue to walk this path with me as I share more of my experiences, insights, and lessons. This was just the beginning of my journey from 2020 to 2022, I have more to share and I am ready to share it with you.

Because the more we free ourselves, The more we free each other.

Let me know in the comments: What’s something you’re releasing this year?

I’d love to hear from you—drop a comment below, or send me a message. Let's do this together.