Month: May 2025

Categories
heart and soul

My Brave List: 3 Things I Found Hard to Admit (But Wrote Anyway)

brave list

There are alot of benefits of journaling, how it clears your mind, lowers stress, helps you make decisions, track patterns, and grow. 

But none of that can happen  unless we’re willing to be honest on the page.

I mean deep honesty, the kind that catches in your throat. The kind that makes your pen pause. The kind that makes you look over your shoulder even though no one else is reading.

That kind of honesty, the brave kind, is where the real breakthroughs happen.

And yet, many of us filter, even when we are alone. We edit ourselves, even in private. We write what sounds right. What feels palatable. What we think we should think. We stick to the version of ourselves we’ve grown used to presenting to the world, because it’s safer that way.

But here’s the truth: pretending doesn’t heal us, politeness won’t bring clarity, and self-censorship keeps us stuck.

The page is meant to be a place of freedom. A space where nothing has to be resolved. Nothing has to be polished. A space where the real story can exist.That’s where ‘The Brave List’ comes in.

It’s a journaling practice created to help unblock us and or uncover the things we may be avoiding.

The Brave List is exactly what it sounds like: A list of things we are scared to admit. Things we’ve never said out loud. Things that would’ve shocked a former version of us. Things we need to write down before we can move forward.

Although I rarely reveal what’s in my journal, I’m doing it today because sharing personal truth makes it easier for others to share theirs, and that’s the path to freedom. So here is my current ‘Brave List’.

As you read, I hope it stirs something honest in you too. Maybe even enough to start your own.

1. I was too good for my own good.

As a child, I was taught to be good. Programmed, really. To be helpful, polite, well-behaved, and agreeable as most of us are, as I have also taught my children to be. And I lived like that, believing that being good was the goal. 

But my goodness came from fear, not love. Fear of rejection. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being too much or not enough. 

Being “good” became a kind of cage. And while I still value morals, I no longer hold them up for morality’s sake. I believe in love. Here’s what I mean: real goodness is alive and generous, but there’s a counterfeit that only wants a show. It swaps presence for performance and honesty for whatever sounds pleasing. That isn’t love. It’s fear disguised as virtue.

2. I Used to Think I Was Free… But I Feel Freer Outside the System.

Having been taught that true freedom comes through faith. I thought that anyone who didn’t believe what I believed was bound in some way. 

But now, standing outside the religious system I once belonged to, I can see just how caged I really was. I used to sing about freedom, but the truth is, parts of me were never free at all.

Looking back, I see that I didn’t need to walk away from people or even unravel my faith, because that’s not really what happened. What I needed was to step away from a system that had started to feel more like a machine than a place of grace. More like a business than a true belonging. More like an obligation than an honour. More like control than calling.

Since stepping outside of it, I breathe easier. I feel closer to the Divine. I am less judgmental. I’m less certain now, which really just means I’m more open, embracing the mystery of life rather than rules. This helps me to be more empathetic towards others. 

There’s a lot I miss, and still grieve, about being ‘on the inside,’ part of the system, as it were. But what I had wasn’t really home. It was a belonging that came with conditions, an inclusion built more on what my family contributed than on connection. It was comfort disguised as freedom.

3. I Used to Think Obedience was devotion…Now I believe honesty is.

For a long time, I measured my faithfulness by how well I followed the rules. I believed that obedience, quiet, consistent, unquestioning, was the truest sign of love. But over time, that version of devotion began to feel hollow.

Honesty is sometimes disruptive. It doesn’t always look spiritual. It sometimes means saying things that are misunderstood. But when I started admitting what I really feel and think, that’s when I began to cultivate a deeper sense of  truth, love and faith, not further.

Honesty made room for healing. Obedience had me doing things out of habit, rather than from genuine relationships. I started to realise, if what I want is real connection, I can’t keep trying totick boxes just to keep people happy. And I definitely didn’t want to become the kind of person who expects others to do that for me. I didn’t want to be someone who measured closeness by compliance. 

Now it’s your turn.

What’s on your Brave List?

Maybe it’s something small. Maybe it’s something that would shake the ground beneath the version of you that others know. Write it anyway.

Try this journaling prompt to begin:
“I don’t want to write this, but…”

And follow that sentence wherever it takes you. No censoring. No apologising. Just you and the page and the truth that’s ready to be seen.

Because the real work, the healing work, doesn’t begin with answers. It begins with honesty.


books by lauren Lott
Categories
heart and soul Therapeutic Writing Prompts

You Already Know: 5 Questions to Reveal What You Know Deep Down

inner knowing

Being raised in the church shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.

In my early years, I felt cared for. I was encouraged to be polite, helpful, and gentle. I learned to listen, to respect authority, and to trust those who were seen as spiritually wiser. Somewhere along the way, though, I picked up the belief that other people, pastors, leaders, mentors, knew more about life and faith than I did.

So I learned to defer. To seek permission. To wait for a green light before taking a step. It made me cautious, hesitant, and out of tune with myself. I second-guessed everything, even the smallest decisions.

Now that I’m older, I can see how that pattern formed. How my resistance to taking full ownership of my choices wasn’t a flaw, it was a habit. A habit of passing off my responsibility to someone I believed knew better.

But the truth is: I have my own knowing. And it’s taken time, mistakes, and lived experience to recognise it.

When I say “knowing,” I’m not talking about facts or intellect. I’m talking about that quiet inner sense, a kind of recognition. The word itself comes from the Old English cnawan, meaning to perceive directly, to be familiar with.

Knowing doesn’t mean we think we’ve got all the answers. It’s not arrogance. It’s not stubbornness or certainty. In fact it doesn’t feel anything like certainty to me. Inner knowing is quieter than that. It’s not about being right, it’s about being honest. 

The best word I can think of to describe inner knowing is alignment. When I have it, there’s a sense of ease, even if things are hard. When I don’t, something feels off. I might not be able to name it, but I feel the disconnect. 

Inner knowing nudges us toward choices that feel true, even if they don’t make sense to anyone else. It’s not about being absolute, it’s about being integral. We might not be able to explain why we know something, but we still do. And learning to trust that voice, especially after years of outsourcing decisions to others, can be one of the most powerful shifts in a person’s life.

So how do we begin to reconnect with that quiet, inner wisdom?
Sometimes, the best place to start is with a few good questions…

1. What do you keep circling back to, despite distractions, doubts, or other people’s opinions?

Some truths don’t just knock once. They come back, again and again. They won’t leave us alone until we listen. What’s been repeating itself in your life, asking to be heard?

Maybe it’s a decision you keep avoiding. A dream that won’t stay quiet. A truth you’ve tried to bury. Whatever it is, it keeps returning, not to haunt you, but to help you come home to yourself.

2. What brings you peace when you imagine choosing it?

Not excitement. Not applause. Peace. The quiet kind. The kind that lets your shoulders drop and your breath come easier. It might not look impressive to anyone else, but something in you knows, it feels right. What choice brings that kind of calm? What direction feels like relief, even if it’s hard?

3. What decisions have you made in the past that turned out to be right, and what helped me make them?

Looking back, how did you arrive at the truths you’ve come to trust? What guided you? Intuition, stillness, reflection, prayer, experience? And what might those same guides be leading you toward today?

Maybe you didn’t even realise it at the time, but something was already leading. Those moments of clarity, however small, were proof that you do have a knowing. That you do know. And maybe, just maybe, those same quiet guides are still speaking, nudging you toward something true today.

4. What feels true in your body, even if your mind tries to argue with it?

This isn’t about following every impulse or craving. It’s not about indulging in what might harm you or others. It’s about paying attention to the deeper signals your body gives when something aligns, or doesn’t. The calm, the tightness, the heaviness, the lightness. What brings tension? What brings ease? What feels like a quiet, steady yes beneath the noise?

5. What are you pretending not to know?

Sometimes we bury what we know because it feels inconvenient, uncomfortable, or risky. Naming it might mean change. It might mean disappointing someone, setting a boundary, or stepping into unknown territory. So we push it down, cover it with distractions, or convince ourselves we’re unsure. But the truth doesn’t vanish. It waits under the surface, ready to rise the moment we’re willing to face it.

What I Knew

I knew I needed time and space for deep healing. I knew what felt fake, performative, and out of alignment, even if I couldn’t fully explain why.  I knew the narrative being told didn’t hold, I was living a totally different story. I knew my life had its own unique rhythm, one that made space for meaningful work, creativity, following curiosity, stillness, caring for my kids with intention, and nurturing deep, connected relationships.

That knowing didn’t always come with a plan or proof, it just came. And when I started listening to it, really listening, my life began to shift.

You don’t have all the answers, but you do have access to a deep, steady truth inside you. It may show up as a nudge, a pause, a pull. But it’s there, quiet, true, and waiting to be trusted.

books by lauren Lott
Categories
heart and soul life lessons

Starting Over at 40: What I’ve Learned About Changing Direction in Midlife

Starting again at 40

At forty, my husband and I walked away from a life we’d built over decades. We weren’t running toward a dream. We were walking out of the rubble of one.

For most of our adult lives, we were part of a ministry. To me, it was our community, our family, my identity. But after the fracture of a deeply trusted relationship, I began spiraling. I couldn’t seem to surface. And instead of being a place of healing, the church environment only perpetuated the loss.

I was unraveling. This became clear to me when my husband went away to a conference, and for the first time in our married life, I didn’t want him to come home. Not because I didn’t love him. Not because I didn’t want to be his wife. But because I knew where he had been.

I knew who he’d spoken to, the kind of language that would’ve been used, the narrative likely repeated, and all I could do was either stay quiet and pretend it didn’t matter, or open the conversation and risk being flooded by the pain it would unearth.

I didn’t want to navigate that impossible space again. In my heart, I just wanted distance from the version of life he was still able to walk in, which meant, painfully, wanting distance from him too. And so, after an honest conversation, we decided to leave.

Leaving meant walking away from what we thought was our calling. It meant saying goodbye to financial security, predictability, and the life we knew. We started again with three kids, little money, and no map. Midlife did not begin as a gentle pivot. It was a freefall.

The Identity Collapse No One Prepares You For

There’s something uniquely disorienting about starting again at forty. You’ve already lived a whole life, or at least it feels that way. You’ve made sacrifices. Spent time, money, energy building something.

And then, unwillingly, the story you’ve been telling no longer fits. And as I discovered, without that story, I didn’t know how to introduce myself, even to myself.

That was the moment I began, out of a need to be alright, to pull the pain out of my chest and set it beside me. I didn’t have the language for it then, but later I’d learn it was called externalisation.

Externalisation means the problem is not you. It’s something you’re experiencing. When you place it outside yourself, you create space to see it more clearly and respond with compassion. I hadn’t failed. I hadn’t fallen apart. The life I had known had ended, and I was standing in the in-between.

Listening is Imperative

People love to say, “Just start fresh,” but at forty, it doesn’t land the same way it might have at twenty. I didn’t have the energy or the luxury of starting from zero. We had bills, teenagers, tired hearts and bodies.

I didn’t want inspiration. I needed truth. And because of what we’d been through, truth felt slippery, impossible to hold.

The only way forward was to get quiet and listen for what was still alive beneath the grief. What still mattered. What still moved me.

This is called double listening. It means not only listening to the pain so it can be processed, but also noticing the values hiding beneath it.

What did my heartbreak reveal about what mattered most to me? Authenticity. Creativity. Freedom.

Those values had always been there, and with starting over, they were simply looking for a new way to live through me.

A Few Traps Best Avoided

Starting over at forty comes with its own set of pitfalls. Here are a few worth sidestepping:

* Don’t compare yourself to peers who’ve had a seemingly straight path. They absolutely didn’t, and you’re not behind.

* Don’t rush to reinvent yourself just to feel useful. Clarity takes time. It’s okay to do what you need to do to survive, to feed your kids, pay the bills, and keep things steady, even if it’s not your dream job for a while. My husband did exactly that. He tried different roles, took what he could, so our family could stay afloat and so I had the space to navigate the wreckage of what was going on inside me.

* Don’t cling to your old identity out of fear. I know how tempting it is to hold tight to the roles and routines that once gave you a sense of purpose, especially when everything feels uncertain. But starting over means making room for who you’re becoming. That often means life might feel a little empty for a while. Quiet. Ordinary. Uncertain.

The Truth About Starting Again

Here’s what I’d tell you if you were sitting across from me, coffee in hand, whispering that you don’t know where to begin.
1. You don’t need a five-year plan. You need a compass.

I stopped trying to plan my way forward and started using what narrative coaches call future authoring.

Future authoring is about shifting focus from what you think you should achieve to imagining a future that aligns with your core values. It’s less about ticking off goals and more about envisioning a life that feels meaningful, then letting those values guide your next steps, even if they’re small or uncertain.

Instead of asking, “What should I do next?” I began asking, “What kind of life feels true to who I am now?”

That question didn’t give me a five-year plan, but it gave me a place to begin.

2. You can’t heal in a story that’s too small for you.

Pain has a way of telling us we’re not good enough, not wanted, not worth understanding, or only worthy of contempt. That’s the old story.

Healing begins when you rewrite the narrative. When you stop seeing change as the fallout offailure or mistreatment, and start seeing it as a sign that the life you were living was no longer in alignment with who you truly are.

3. You’re not who you were, and that’s okay.

For a while after leaving my old life, I gripped tight to old versions of myself like they were proof I’d mattered. This was simply fear, and the need to be sure of something. Anything. When everything familiar had fallen away.

I clung to who I used to be because I didn’t yet trust who I was becoming. Letting go felt like erasing myself. But over time, I began to see it differently. The past wasn’t something to hold anymore. It was something to honour, and then release.

Changing direction in midlife requires us to honour the past, no matter how painful. Honouring the past looks like telling the truth about what happened without rewriting it to make others more comfortable.

It means acknowledging the joy and the damage, the growth and the cost. It means thanking the version of you who got through it, even if she was messy, even if she stumbled or wasmisunderstood, even if she hurt others along the way without meaning to.

4. It Is Both Beautiful and Necessary

Starting again in midlife breaks something open. It’s not gentle. It often comes with loss, disorientation, and the ache of having to let go of everything that once made you feel sure of who you were.

But alongside the unraveling is something strangely beautiful. The realisation that you are allowed to live more than one life in a lifetime. That there are versions of you still waiting to be known.You begin to see that the life you built before, even if it mattered deeply, was not the final word.

There is necessity in the shift, in the shedding, in the quiet becoming. You grieve what was.

It’s painful, yes. Challenging, absolutely. But it’s also a chance to become someone new. Someone you’ve never been before. Someone who may not have surfaced if everything had stayed the same. And that is quietly exhilarating.

books by lauren Lott