There are many of us who feel really deeply.

And for those of us who do, life can be a lot.

I want to start here, because if you are reading this, there’s a good chance we already have a lot in common. We are the ones who feel the beauty and the ache at the same time.

The ones who notice the shifts before they’re obvious.

The ones whose nervous systems register life in full color.

The growth of our children alone can undo us in the most tender ways.

How on earth did we go from this to this in just six years?

Nothing prepares you for how quickly seasons pass.

One day you’re knee-deep in the logistics of early childhood, and the next you’re standing in the doorway watching independence stretch its wings.

This season of my life has been filled with that exact feeling. Beauty and grief braided together. Expansion asking more of my body than ever before.

I want to share this not because I think my life is harder or fuller than anyone else’s, but because so few people talk about how the good can still be hard on the nervous system. We tend to only give ourselves permission to struggle when something is obviously wrong. When there’s loss, illness, or crisis. But what about the seasons that are full of growth, change, and expansion? The ones that look beautiful from the outside, but feel stretching and tender inside the body?

I think many of us are afraid to talk openly. Afraid it will sound like complaining. Afraid it will seem ungrateful. But vulnerability and complaining are not the same thing. Vulnerability is honest. It’s regulated. It allows the body to exhale and say, “This is a lot, AND I’m allowed to feel it so I can grow through it.”

If you’ve ever wondered why you feel more tired, more emotional, or more on edge during seasons that are technically “good,” there is nothing wrong with you. Your nervous system is responding to change.

So instead of trying to summarize this season or tie it up neatly, I want to take you with me through a single day. January 6th. Because that day held a bit of it all.

I woke up at 5 a.m., like I always do. Before the house stirs. Before the noise. Before I belong to anyone else. I meditated. I journaled. I ran a long bath. But this morning felt different. One of my ribs had popped out in the night, and I was in so much pain. The kind that doesn’t let you ignore your body.

One of the first things I did was book a chiropractor appointment.

With the rising of the sun, I was quickly whisked head-on into the day.

I went out to feed our horse and donkeys and let the chickens, and the partridge that just appeared a few months ago and adopted our flock as family, out for the day.

I blended a smoothie for breakfast. Carried mattresses down from the upstairs bunk room, the room where our children have always slept together, to prepare for demolition the next day. Finished laundry. Reviewed my daughter’s packing list as she prepared to travel internationally without us for the first time for twelve whole days.

Which actually, this feels like a good place to pause.

Because this part of the day carries a lot of backstory.

Our family has always homeschooled. From the very beginning, learning was woven into our daily lives. Books, travel, conversations, real world experiences. We honestly believed we would homeschool all the way through because we all love it so much. It isn't just our schooling choice, it is our way of life.

This fall, something shifted in me. Not because my daughter asked for anything different, but because I felt it deeply in my body how important it was to give her options. To let her be part of the choice. She chose to try a small independent high school here in our small progressive town.

There are fifteen students total, from ninth through twelfth grade. Only four freshmen. It’s the most intentional, grounded, and truly the most beautiful extension of the homeschool experience we built together.

And still, this change required so much inner work for me.

It was a massive transition I hadn’t anticipated. My daughter is my best friend. We have spent nearly every day together for fifteen years. Letting go, even when it’s the right thing, might be one of the hardest parts of motherhood.

I love being with her. I miss her. AND this change has created space for the most magnificent growth. In her. In me. In our relationship. In our entire family.

Good and hard coexist. And it’s so important that we pause long enough to feel both.

So, back to January 6th.

Here’s a photo of me and my daughter getting her bag finalized.

All of this was happening while my youngest two ran past at full speed, asking if I could blow up balloons and if I wanted to see "a super cool magic trick right now?"

I answered questions from the construction crew building a barn on our property.

Paused to receive big reassuring hugs from Ty.

Updated a few ōNLē team members on meeting details.

My newly twelve-year-old was grumpy because the electrician arrived before he was ready to be awake.

At the same time, I finalized cabinet designs for our new kitchen renovation and packed myself for a few days of work in town.

Cleaned out the hen house. Brushed our horse and donkeys. Reassured our cat that everything was okay. Told our dog everything was okay too, even though walls were starting to come down in renovation and suitcases were filling up.

I wrote a card to slip into my daughter’s suitcase so she could read it while she was away. Did I mention that once they arrive at their international destination their phones get turned off and put away until they get back home? Twelve days without even talking to my Lu! (But how beautiful that these teens get to experience no screen, all in immersion like this?! Really, truly such a gift!)

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I felt it in my body.

Big breath. This is a lot.

Not bad. Not wrong. But full.

That afternoon, my daughter and I went to the health food store with our list in hand. We picked out everything she would need to stay aligned with her microbiome-friendly lifestyle while she was away.

We shared our favorite salad for lunch and went to my chiropractor appointment together.

When it was time to take her to the airport, something surprised me. I felt calm. Not dissociated. Not braced. Calm in a way that felt deeply embodied. Almost like I was watching myself from above, aware of how much inner work had gone into being able to stand in that moment without fear running the show.

I felt proud. Not in an egotistical way. In a nervous system way.

Proud that I could hold space for my daughter to become her own person while still feeling connected. Proud that I could let go without collapsing. Proud that my body felt safe enough to trust what was unfolding.

That night, I took myself to dinner, checked into my Airbnb, and I sat down to write this.

Not because everything felt easy. But because everything felt held.

That day was a snapshot of this entire season. So many good things happening at once. So many transitions layered together. And every single one of them asking so much of my nervous system.

One of the most important things I’ve learned in my self growth work is that it isn’t just emergencies or obvious trauma that can overwhelm us. More often, it’s change. Decisions. Expansion. The slow closing of one chapter and the uncertain opening of the next.

Even when it’s wanted.

Even when it’s beautiful.

And then in between, there will be trauma, loss and hardship.

A couple of weeks ago, my son and I were in a car accident.

Afterward, I took both of us to craniosacral therapy. During one session, the practitioner explained something to my son that landed so deeply for me too.

"When we experience shock or big change, the nervous system can get stuck if the body doesn’t have support to complete the stress cycle. If we don’t intentionally work stress out of the body, it can stay stored as fear, hypervigilance, or shutdown long after the event itself has passed."

Most of us were never taught this.

We were taught to push through. To keep going. To be grateful. To stay positive and productive. Even when our bodies are quietly asking, or in many cases, screaming for something else.

This season has been full of moments like this.

My daughter transitioning into school. The physical unraveling of our home. Demolishing the ever so special and endearing bunk room to accommodate our children’s growing need for personal space that I was sure would never come. Beginning a full kitchen renovation. Temporary systems everywhere. The heart of our home under construction. Familiar rhythms disrupted.

While my daughter is traveling internationally with her school, Ty and our son are heading to Florida for a big skateboard competition. Which means for the first time ever, I will be home for several days with just my two youngest. The three of us. A new configuration.

Alongside all of this, I just made a significant investment in the next level of my own growth and the impact ōNLē will make. The kind of investment that asks you to meet yourself really raw and honestly.

Every single one of these things is good.

Every single one is chosen.

And every single one requires regulation.

If I hadn’t spent the last several years intentionally working with my own nervous system, prioritizing my gut balance, and committing deeply to my personal growth, there is no way I would have the capacity to hold all of this. And I want to be really clear. This isn’t about achievement or endurance. It’s not about doing more or handling more than anyone else.

It’s about what becomes possible when your body feels safe enough to meet life as it is.

I’m sharing this because I know you are also carrying a very full life. You’re showing up for your children, your work, your relationships, your home. You’re holding joy and responsibility and change all at once. And because no one talks about how the good can be just as regulating or dysregulating as the hard, many of us end up thinking we’re failing when we’re simply human.

This isn’t a post about pushing through. It’s about choosing to stay with yourself. About learning how to regulate, surrender, delegate, balance, and soften without collapsing. About trusting that you don’t need to abandon your body or your needs to live a full, meaningful life.

If this season feels like a lot for you, that doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. It means your nervous system is responding to change. And with the right support, care, and grounding, you don’t have to brace your way through it.

This human experience is a lot. In all the beautiful and tender ways. And learning how to tend to your nervous system through it is one of the most powerful forms of self-leadership there is.

This is why I made the choice to not record my weekly podcast episode. We are on episode 175. I have never missed a week. Any business book will tell you consistency matters more than anything else. And I agree. Consistency does matter.

But sustainability matters more.

I am here for the long haul. I am committed to running ōNLē in a way that supports the life I actually want to live. I will never throw myself under the bus to meet an external standard rooted in fear or pressure.

That choice is supported by nonnegotiables in my life right now. Here is what I have been doing that has made all the difference.

• Delegating. Remembering that every yes is also a no, and making sure my yeses contribute to the bigger picture of the life I desire.
• 100% committed to following the Super Start dose of Rebalancing with Cleanse, Nourish, Bind, Remineralize and Balance during exceptionally stretching times and the daily maintenance dose during times of calm.
• Accepting and surrendering without resistance. Letting seasons change without clenching against them.
• Committing deeply to my own regulation and trusting that everything else will unfold exactly as it’s meant to when I am grounded.
• Letting myself feel all that comes up, whenever and wherever it does. Lots of tears.
• Scheduling do-nothing time. Even just a few minutes to observe. To spontaneously jump into a game of freeze tag with my kids. To stay up late watching a movie with my oldest two. To walk with Ty. To listen to the sounds that fill our home. To hear the wild birdsong. To watch the wind move through the native grasses.
• Practicing my daily anchors.
• Journaling.
• Moving my body.
• Leaning hard into my microbiome foods and recipes.
• Choosing what content I let into my nervous system.
• Reading books for pure joy, not just the ones that teach me more about growth or parenting or optimization.

This is what it looks like to tend to the nervous system while life is full.

If any of this feels familiar, I want you to know you don’t need to push harder to get through this season.

This human experience is a lot. In all the beautiful and tender ways. And taking care of your nervous system is not optional. It’s foundational.

You’re allowed to choose capacity.

You’re allowed to slow down.

And you’re allowed to live this life without abandoning yourself along the way.

That choice might be the most important one you make.

I love you. And I am so proud of you and me for choosing capacity, presence, and a way of living that honors our microbial balance and nervous systems.

xx - Juniper

PS. Stay tuned for the Follow Your Gut Podcast on January 27th. I am talking all about how stress and dysregulation impact your microbiome and how your microbiome balance or imbalance impacts your bodies ability to regulate, rest and heal.