Follow Your (Unreasonable) Heart
In February 2015, as I was picking through the wreckage that my life had become in Sonoma, California and wondering about how to rebuild, I received very clear "guidance" in the wee morning hours following a night of brutal insomnia.
The "guidance" was prompting me to spend that summer in Crestone, Colorado, a remote town in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains bordering New Mexico. I had been to Crestone several times before and felt called by the powerful land, the dear old friends who live nearby, and a meditation teacher I had been connecting to via podcast over the winter.
I had no money. My business was just getting started. And I was going ... where for the summer?
Yet I've learned over the years to heed the call of the heart, unreasonable though it might be. When I deny that call because I can't predict how things will work out, I gnaw on regret and wonder, "What would have happened if I had . . . ?"
So in mid-June I drove across Highway 50, "the loneliest road in America," with fear and doubt riding shotgun as my traveling companions. I might as well have been driving off a flat earth.
After a two-week silent meditation retreat and another few weeks visiting friends, I received a call from a client who wanted to work with me. Then another. Like the drip-drip-drip of rain that presages a deluge, those first few clients were the early bloomers in a garden that is now sprouting a riot of happy flowers.
Three years later, I'm living in Crestone, helping women around the world love and forgive themselves, their food, and their figure while being blessed with more abundance--financial and otherwise--than I ever imagined possible.
If I had shrugged off that initial "guidance," I might well still be wringing my hands in Sonoma wondering how I was going to pay next month's electricity bill.
What callings from your heart have you been afraid to face? Have you been using food to suppress or deny the deeper part of you that knows? A bigger life awaits you just on the other side of your fear.