To Soar

There's a moment in flight when the wheels lift from the runway -- when the rumble beneath you fades, the ground falls away, and everything suddenly becomes still.  You feel the weightlessness, but not from absence.  It's a fullness -- of trust, of effort realized, of freedom earned.  For so long I chased that moment in my career -- that moment when I would feel like I had finally arrived.  I didn't realize then that soaring isn't something handed to you by others.  It's something that you claim when you stop asking for permission to rise.

Today I know that moment.  Not because life became easy, or work became fair, or the systems changed overnight.  But because I changed.  Because I reclaimed the parts of myself that I had muted for decades.  Because I stopped trying to earn belonging in rooms that were never meant to hold me.  Because I built a new set of wings, out of every hardship, every betrayal, every time I had to start over.

To soar is not to forget the climb.  It's to remember it with reverence -- to look down at the terrain that you've crossed and see it clearly.  The narrow ledges of doubt.  The valleys of burnout.  The switchbacks of resilience.  And the steep, soul-testing ascents you never thought that you'd survive -- but did.  It is because of those experiences that you understand lift.  It is because of the turbulence that you can recognize peace.  And it is because of the silence that you once endured that you now honor your voice.

I've come to understand that soaring isn't about speed or altitude.  It's about spaciousness.  Spaciousness in your schedule, yes -- but also in your spirit.  The kind that comes from no longer performing for acceptance.  From walking into a room and knowing that you don't have to prove a damn thing.  From choosing work that aligns with your values, your health, your legacy.  From choosing joy over justification.

I didn't always know this was possible.  For so long, I only knew how to climb.  I knew how to push, to deliver, to anticipate needs before anyone had to ask.  I was praised for being the woman who got things done, who didn't make waves, who didn't ask for much.  But all that climbing -- without rest, without recognition, without room to be whole -- left me depleted.  And when the climb stopped giving me the reward that I'd been promised, I had to ask myself: " What if I let the mountain go altogether?"

Letting go didn't mean giving up.  It meant redefining success.  It meant seeing leadership not as a title, but as a way of being -- one rooted in integrity, compassion, and courage.  It meant turning away from scarcity and stepping into abundance.  Because when I finally paused, I realized that everything that I'd been chasing externally, I had the power to create internally.

And from that new truth I began to build.  I built conversations that told the truth.  Programs that offered more than advice -- they offered understanding.  Coaching that helped women navigate systems that didn't see them, without losing themselves.  I showed up to speak not because I had answers but because I had experience.  Because I had walked through the fire and could now carry the torch for others, not to lead them, but to light the path so that they could see their own.

I speak to women who are barely holding it together and think that they're the only one.  I speak to women in rooms full of men where they still second-guess whether they belong.  I speak to women who get fired after giving everything and now wonder if they were ever enough.  I tell their stories in my own, and I keep showing up -- because when one woman soars, she clears airspace for others.

That is the gift of experience.  Not just in years, but in wisdom.  The ability to take what tried to break you and shape it into something that elevates others.  I used to think that leadership was about titles and deliverables.  Not I know that it's about the kind of lift you create in the lives of others -- quietly, consistently, unapologetically.

For years, I was taught to believe that success would come from being tough, agreeable, tireless.  And for a while, that belief got me pretty far.  But I see now that it also cost me more than I ever acknowledged -- the erosion of joy, the slow silencing of my own voice, the endless shrinking to make others comfortable.

But what once felt like a series of sacrifices has become the basis for something new.  I carry all of it with me not -- not as baggage, but as ballast.  It grounds me in who I am and reminds me of how far I've come.

I used to crave higher altitude -- the higher role, the bigger platform, the next challenge.  These days, it's the freedoms.  The ease.  The integrity of the path that I'm on.  I no longer need to prove that I can fly.  I know that I can.  The work now is choosing how to fly -- and with whom.

The sky still calls to me.  Not in the way it did when I was a girl tracing shuttle arcs with her eyes, or a young engineer trying to prove that she belonged.  It calls to me now with a quieter, deeper, voice – one that speaks of purpose, connection, and grace.

This is not the end of the journey.  But it is the first time in a long time that I am truly flying on my own terms.

The turbulence has passed.  The ground has fallen away.  And the lift I feel now --
- it is steady
- it is strong
- and it is mine.

And so, with nothing left to prove, no more weight to carry, no more parts of myself to hide or handover -- I rise.

Not because I was given permission.
Not because the sky opened on its own.
But because I chose it.

This is what it means
To reclaim your story,
To trust your wings,
To carry others as you climb --

And finally

To Soar.