You know that feeling when you’re kind of here, kind of somewhere else? That’s been me.

Officially, I’m still at my old job, but in my mind and, more importantly, my spirit—I’ve already packed my bags and walked out the door.

And if I’m honest? It’s terrifying. But also—finally—thrilling.

This isn’t the first time I’ve started again. It probably won’t be the last, if we're being honest.

For ages, I’ve clung to the idea that being valued by someone—a boss, a friend, a partner—was the holy grail. If I could just do more, bend further, shine that shoe just that little bit brighter… they’d see it. They’d see me. I'd be "enough".

Sound familiar?

But there’s something sacred—and utterly unnerving—about that first step away: away from what drains us, toward what feeds us.
Away from toxic roles, relationships, even our old, worn-out self-doubt.

For the first time in ages, as I pour myself into creative work that feels honest and needed, I am not drained. I am alive.
Time dissolves.

The risk is real, yes, but it’s alive with promise.

But here’s what nobody warns you about: when you finally step away from people, places, or roles that won’t see your worth, you start becoming visible to yourself.

(Read that again.)

Cue both the heart-palpitating fear (what now? what if it all falls apart?) and a quiet pulse of excitement—like catching a flash of light through the trees on that wild, unmarked road.

See, letting go is not the same as losing. I’m realizing now: sometimes, all the signs to walk away are there for a reason. That uneasiness in the gut. The dread.

Those instincts are there because, deep down, you know you’re clinging to something no longer meant for you.

The truth is, the longer we ignore them, the heavier everything gets. We tell ourselves we’re loyal, persistent, committed—when underneath, if we're really honest with ourselves, we’re just afraid to start over.

So, pause here. Give yourself a breath. Ask yourself what might open up if you believed that starting over is simply the beginning of honoring your soul—at last.

Leaving isn’t failure; it’s fierce faith. The courage to stand at the foot of a new mountain—and daring the climb for nobody except yourself—is the greatest gift you can give your own wild heart.

But here's the secret:
Scratch isn’t really scratch at all.

(Thanks for the reminder, Tanie.)

Every lesson, every heartbreak, every so-called “wrong” road has helped pack your bag for what’s ahead of you.

(And yes. Still packing extra socks. If you know, you know. 🍩 Missed that story? Catch up here.)

You’re carrying tools—even if they’re disguised as old scars and tangled hopes.
You’re not starting from nothing—just from something new.

If something (or someone, or some version of yourself) is draining the soul out of you—that’s your sign.
That's your permission slip to step away.
(Spoiler: You always had it.)

Right now, working on this newsletter (and another project in the works I’m super excited about), creating things that fill me up, I don’t feel that sense of "empty" anymore. I’m not gulping down time or waiting for the gap of free time on my weekend. I'm… here.

I feel both thin-skinned and thick with purpose.

The biggest green flag, though? I’m feeling more me than I’ve felt in ages.

Maybe you’re reading and wincing because you’ve been there. Maybe you’re there right now. If you are, let this be your tiny nudge:

There’s no medal for staying where you aren’t valued. Harsh truths.

So go on and risk “the biscuit” (if you must) for a life that feeds you—not just the life that looks good on someone else’s scoreboard.

The greatest act of faith is choosing yourself, even when the horizon isn't yet visible.

Trying something unfamiliar is always a bit awkward—but it’s how we grow, one small experiment at a time. A few gentle ways to practice stretching this week:

Here’s to those of us starting again (and again, and again).

May we have the willingness to let go, the courage to walk away, and the wild faith to trust that every ending, every gravel (and sometimes muddy) road, was leading to this next beginning all along.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "risking the biscuit" Lindinger

P.S. If you know someone stuck between closing one chapter and daring to enter the next, feel free to forward this. Sometimes the road we choose alone is the one that makes us realize: we were never as alone as we feared.

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen