It’s been a minute.

Okay, more than a minute. It’s been months since I’ve posted anything real here. Months since I’ve shown up. Months since I’ve shared what’s actually happening in my life.

And if I’m being honest? There’s a reason for that.

July 2025 broke something.

I’m not going to dump all the details on you—this isn’t the place for that. But let’s just say that the second half of 2025 has been one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Marriage struggles. Identity crisis. Working two full-time jobs to dig us out of debt while building the house we just moved into—together, still trying. Pausing the hiking group. Battling depression. Questioning everything.

The kind of hard where you wake up and think, “How did I get here?”

So I stopped posting.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t know what to say.

How do you show up online and post about gratitude and adventure and living your best life when you’re barely holding it together?

How do you smile for the camera when you’re crying in the shower?

How do you lead others when you can’t even find your own way?

So I went quiet. I stepped back. I focused on survival.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

The unposted life—the messy, hard, ugly parts we don’t share—that’s where the real transformation happens.

I’ve been cracked open. Broken down. Forced to look at every wound, every pattern, every lie I’ve been telling myself for 46 years.

And slowly—painfully slowly—I’m rebuilding.

And part of rebuilding means letting go.

I made the incredibly difficult decision to officially close the Women’s Hiking Crew.

Seven years. Hundreds of hikes. Thousands of miles walked with amazing women who became friends, who found strength on the trail, who showed up for themselves and each other.

The group that saved my life in 2018 when I was drowning in illness and depression. The thing that gave me purpose. That made me feel alive.

Closing it feels like losing a piece of myself.

But I’m learning that sometimes you have to let go of even the good things to make space for whatever comes next. I can’t keep giving from an empty cup. I can’t lead others when I’m still trying to find my own way.

So I’m releasing it. With gratitude. With grief. With hope that it served its purpose and maybe something new will emerge when I’m ready.

I spent a weekend with my 92-year-old grandmother. Sharp as ever. Still driving. Still learning. Still LIVING.

And I did the math: If I live to 92, I have 46 more years. The exact same amount of time I’ve already lived.

That hit me like a truck.

Because I’ve been living like my best years are behind me. Like midlife is the beginning of the end.

But what if it’s not?

What if this is the launch pad?

So here’s where I am:

I’m writing. Words are pouring out of me in ways they haven’t in years.

I’m getting healthy—not for anyone else, but for ME. Because I have 46 years left and I need my body to keep up.

I’m making hard decisions. Letting go of what no longer serves me. Setting boundaries. Building something that’s mine.

I’m figuring out who the fuck I am after 46 years of being everyone else.

And I’m learning what it means to heal while still being in the middle of the mess—and being okay with not knowing how it all ends yet.

I don’t have it all figured out.

I’m still in the middle of it. Still battling. Still healing. Still trying. Still grieving. Still becoming.

But I’m here. And I’m showing up again—not with a polished, perfect version of my life, but with the raw, real truth.

Because maybe you need to hear it too:

You can be broken and rebuilding at the same time.

You can be grieving and grateful.

You can close one door even when you don’t know what the next one looks like yet.

You can be lost and still moving forward.

You don’t have to have it all figured out to start showing up again.

So here I am.

Cracked open. Messy. Uncertain. Grieving. But alive.

And ready to see what the next 46 years can hold.

Thanks for sticking around during the silence. I’m back now.

Let’s see what we can build from this mess.

— Shannon