It all started in late March, when I recorded with Cri Gabriele, founder and CEO of MESSWORK, in person in NYC. All I had was my personal relationship with Cri, a desire to hear about her evolution (from jewelry designer to graduate professor to somatic practitioner to where she is taking all of that now), and a hope that through her, listeners would gain insight through the experience of a woman who has been successful across a multitude of expressions of her creativity. At the time, I was coming to some significant realizations about changes I needed to make, specifically around how I do what I do. And while I did not go into that conversation with an expectation for myself, I did leave it with vocabulary for what I knew I needed—a structure—and permission to not have it all figured out.

A month later, I recorded my conversation with Georgia Clark via Zoom (while I was again, in NYC). Georgia is, among other things, the producer and host of Generation Women, a monthly, intergenerational storytelling event held at Joe’s Pub. At the time, I was coming to grips with how hard I push myself. But that was not at top of mind when I asked Georgia to join me on the podcast. Instead, given that Generation Women and Stories That Sparkle are both platforms for women’s stories told in their own voices, I wanted to talk to her about the power of storytelling.

But when we recorded our conversation, Georgia brought up the idea of a “bad manager”—the unrealistic expectations that crowd out the joy of being creative when you, the artist, and you, the manager aka the boss, are the same person. Once again, I heard the words I needed to hear to help me articulate not only that I was a bad manager of me, but also just how bad of a manager I really was.

A week later, at the end of April, I was still in NYC so I was able to schedule an in-person recording session with Megan Klein, founder and CEO of Little Saints (full disclosure: I was an early investor in Little Saints). We had tried a few times to schedule something but it never seemed to work. Until it did. And when it did, I was digging through my old ideas about money, ideas which I have avoided facing ever since my job ended two years ago (really, much much longer than that). Those ideas are really about my abject terror of annihilation. As a result, they power my unrelenting drive to prove myself by way of overefforting (that whole bad manager thing Georgia talked about).

In our conversation, Megan talked about her realities of being a solo founder—the constant schlepping (even if happily) without a guaranteed safety net (or as she calls it, a (financial) sponsor). In the context of that, Megan, who (like me) is a single, middle-aged, kid-free lady, shared that she has a roommate. Just weeks after my roommate moved into my house, and just as I was still working out what I thought that said about me, I was hearing from someone else how none of that was a failure. It was a founder’s hack. Mind blown.

At the end of May (almost exactly a month later), I recorded with Annie Herman while sitting on a bolster inside the yoga studio she owns, Queens Community Yoga. I first met her at the end of 2025 when I went to one of her yoga classes. Between my variable north-south schedule and her multiple priorities as wife, mom, part-time school teacher and studio owner, it took us almost six months to find a time to record. When it finally came together, I had just finished setting up a new content structure and formalized the idea of a series. It was all still very new for me, and I was not entirely sure how it would all work out. So when Annie shared about how the yoga studio came together with one fortuitous phone call at exactly the right time, I could recognize that it is not just about trusting the process, but also about trusting the timing of that process.

Over a year in to having these kinds of conversations for the podcast, that level of personal overlap is no longer a surprise. It is now a given. It is also not new that I will start something with no real idea how to do it, and trust that I will build the plane I need while I am already in the air flying it.

What is new is the gift I did not see coming. Each of these four, very different women, built four very different things, because they had a need and recognized others had that need too. It was an act of service—to themselves and for others.

It’s not about scale. It’s about availability.

Four months ago, before I even knew I would build a series, I was just getting clear that I needed a structure—for my life, my work, and my podcast. I had no idea what that would require. I just did it. Which is the whole thesis of “Becoming the Proof,” one which Georgia, Annie, Megan, and Cri stated plainly: building something doesn’t always start with a clear endpoint. Or all the resources you need. And even when it does start with those things, it changes. It evolves out from under you. That is not a bug. It is a feature.

Following that roadmap, I discovered all the things I would need when I needed them and a few more that I did not even know I needed.

I have become my own proof—to myself. Now it stands for others for when they need it.

What are you building right now without knowing exactly where it’s headed?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 7.21.26

The things I need, including the ones I don’t know I need, will appear when I actually need them—not any sooner and definitely not any later.

Coming up:

This week is an off-week for the podcast. Next week, keep an ear out for my conversation with Jaclyn Dima, long-time musician and performer. This is a standalone episode about Jaclyn’s journey out of the self-imposed limitations early in her career to freedom and joy she feels in expressing more herself today. It is right on time. Instead of forcing this conversation into the next series (on shame which begins in August), or holding it back until later in the year, I’m choosing to spotlight Jaclyn’s latest single, I Won’t Dance For You, now.

And if you have an idea of something that you want to build but aren’t sure where to begin, feel free to reach out…I work with a lot of women one-on-one as a somatic coach to help them kickstart an idea using the body as a guide.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Cri (pronounced “Cree”) Gabriele’s path to here was anything but a straight line. It started with making jewelry, working for a fine jeweler in London, and building her own jewelry company. But as she explored her creativity in different ways and places, everything she created, including her jewelry, became part of the process—sometimes a launchpad, sometimes an inspiration, and always a vehicle for communication. In this on-going liberation (from fixed objects, approaches or materials), Cri followed her curiosity, refined her clarity and honed her messaging through craftsmanship. In the process, she recognized that others wanted help to do the same. Now she offers her clients, her graduate students, and others a way to synthesize what they already know—in whatever form it wants to take.

Cri is a professor in the graduate Communications Design program at Pratt Institute in NYC. She is the founder and CEO of MESSWORK, a somatic practice in which she supports clients with personal transformation working with and through the body’s wisdom. And she helps creatives, somatic practitioners, and alternative health professionals build their practices.

And she’s just getting started.

Near the end of our conversation, Cri shares about what she’s building next—the MESSWORK Living Archive. A real-time resource and body of knowledge, it sits at the center of the infinity swirl, the place where her pedagogy and research, her students, clients, and other creatives, intersect ethically. And that’s not all. Cri is sharing an inquiry into grief and performance as research work with 3, 30, 300, 3000: A Durational Psychosomatic Inquiry into Grief; Repetition, Rounds, and Reconciliation. To say that she inspires me would be an understatement.

Cri and I recorded this conversation underneath a discoball. When I brought up photo booth pics, Cri had a strip of her own—taken that morning. And, as we talked and later as I listened back, I heard the thing I needed to hear: “the things that on some level you know, and that sometimes you doubt, […], you do know them. Listen to them. Follow them.” Even though it was recorded first, this conversation brought all the other ones in this series full circle: Georgia built a stage. Annie built a studio. Megan built a beverage. And Cri built a language—one which is not limited by words, materials, or states of being; one which, by design, offers a multitude of ways to get to where you’re going. I can’t think of a better way to end this series than with the woman who gives the often messy process of getting there its name.

Been a beautiful journey to discover the connective tissue across these conversations and a joy to bring you “Becoming the Proof”—four women who built the thing they needed to ensure it exists for others when they need it. You can find all posts and episodes connected to this series here.

Now, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and listen in.

LINKS

All things Cri Gabriele:

Instagram:

@messwork

@messworkpracticebuilding

@cristina_gabriele_studio

Websites:

messwork.com

cristinagabriele.com (Cri’s Communications Design Studio, Cg Studio)

3, 30, 300, 3000: A Durational Psychosomatic Inquiry into Grief; Repetition, Rounds, and Reconciliation (Performance as Research)

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Wan to share your story? Open to submissions: hellarader.com/submissions

Follow me on Instagram, subscribe to my channel on YouTube.com/@hellarader and learn more about me on my Website.

Listen now wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes drop every other Wednesday.

It has been a minute since we have been together. And the timing for this gathering could not be more perfect.

Between my trip to Asheville two weeks ago, the anniversary of Barbara’s passing (which I somehow missed in the moment), and making a start in the basement last weekend, the (internal and external) emotional processing has been intense. Good. And intense.

Which is why I am beyond grateful that I have not only learned, but also put into practice, all the hard and easy lessons of the last six months. I surrendered some old ideas about money. I made space in my home. And I faced the avoidance within myself which allowed me to address some realities outside of myself. I stopped pushing myself to be anywhere but where I am right now.

Today, now is sitting with my besties, enjoying a free-wheeling range of conversational topics, and laughing. Without needing to be anywhere (or do) anything else, my phone sits, unattended, on the ground next to my chair. On purpose.

All this is the result of one key choice I made in late spring: to focus on one main task every day, and once I completed it, to not fill up the rest of the day with busyness. The result has been more free time to feel where I actually am. And from there, more, different spaces have opened up. That chain reaction, which took place without any concerted effort on my part (well, except for that decision and a daily choice to put it into action), came to a crescendo when I made a start in the basement last week.

Ever since, I moved through the often heavy, not always pleasant emotions as they arose. I went from confronting reality to giving it creative expression in my writing and in calls for support to my besties. And this weekend, an unprompted text from him about making a plan to get his things came through (followed by a second one). I have no idea what prompted that. And to be honest, it does not really matter. What matters is that without realizing it, that one, seemingly isolated decision to make a start now finds me approaching a resolution.

I know it’s not done. I know I’m not done. But even that’s part of the point. None of this, none of me, is ever done. I mean, I was tempted to feel bad that I did not send the first text.

Because there is no perfection.

It is however about acceptance—of what is and of who I am. When I can do that, all the messy, untidy parts are baked into, not separate from, the process. Choosing, every day, to step out into yet another unknown and to trust that I will have all that I need when I need it (especially when I have no idea yet what that actually is) is the only thing that matters.

Because as long as there is movement, there is growth. The movement is not a push ahead. It does not mean one more thing I need to do. It is not something I force or manufacture. It is just a simple, daily decision to proceed through whatever may sit in front of me—whether it is of my own making or someone else’s.

From that decision, the flow (or current) emerges. On its own. And often, in surprising ways. Once it does, it moves with an ease and an excitement that no amount of planning, forcing, or overdoing can make happen. It allows me to hold the past versions of myself with grace and compassion, and recognize that each one of them made it possible for me to be where I am today.

Today is simply a new starting point.

Which brings me to tomorrow’s episode of the podcast. “Bringing Language to It” is my conversation with Cri (pronounced “Cree”), and the fourth and final episode in the series “Becoming the Proof.” It was recorded in late March. At the time, much of what is now resolving itself was only just emerging and becoming visible to me.

With only glimpses of the disconnected dots, I began to do the kind of work which Cri (a professor in the graduate Communications Design program at Pratt Institute in NYC, and founder/CEO of MESSWORK) talks about. And much like those dots are now coming together into a more complete picture, this conversation closes out the series with the woman who gives the often messy process of getting there its name.

What one thing, however small, do you do every day as your starting point?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 7.14.26

Every day, I can choose the risk of living without dismissing my troubles or fearing my happiness.

Coming up:

Tomorrow, new episode, “Bringing Language to It” with Cri Gabriele, and series finale of “Becoming the Proof,” drops into the feed. Since I have already said my one thing about it for today, I’ll simply invite you to come back tomorrow and listen in.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

I rip open boxes in one of the piles at random. One holds a stack of cookbooks. Another expired emergency food. And one an assortment of empty knife boxes…yes, a whole, medium size box filled with at least twenty small boxes in which knives of every kind, shape and size were packaged when they arrived. Not in the last year. Sometime over ten years ago.

As I sort each item into three piles—trash, keep, decide later—the low hum of the dehumidifier provides a soothing backdrop to what feels like a heavy lift. Emotionally.

Because today, Sunday of the 4th of July weekend, six years since my ex-husband moved out, and two and a half years since I cut off all contact with him, I am finally going through the stuff he left behind.

I have avoided this task not because I hold out hope for or want a reconciliation. I have avoided it because dealing with this might mean dealing with him. It would mean making a phone call to him. And I would rather let this stuff sit here indefinitely, and take up space in my home (really, my heart) than make that phone call.

It has taken some time for me to say that so plainly out loud. Mostly, I have set that thought, like his stuff, aside—out of sight, out of mind. Besides, what harm can it do to have his pile sit there next to some of my own? It’s not in my way. I don’t have to look at it. Especially now that I have a washer and dryer on the 2nd floor, and I hardly ever go down into the basement. Who cares that his stuff is still here.

Every so often, however, it is has popped up, front and center, in my mind. Each time, I mentioned it, very casually, to one of my besties. And each time, I included a range of possible options for what to do about it. Maybe I’ll pack it up and ship it to him. Maybe I’ll put in the garage and have him pick it up. Or maybe I’ll just throw it all out. But that feels mean. How would I feel if someone did that with my stuff?

No matter how rarely it has come out in words, I have spent more time than I care to admit pondering all the options. Never mind that, except for one attempt two years ago, he has never once done anything to deal with it himself. Why I am so concerned about it, no, more concerned about it, than he seems to be. And why, when I consider my options, am I willing to lean towards the ones that come at my expense—leaving it where it is or paying to have it shipped to him.

Oh, right. I am still more comfortable accommodating him than face the discomfort of accommodating me.

Then, over the weekend, after several days of deliberately doing nothing, sitting on the back patio, and watching World Cup soccer matches, purposefully by myself, I woke up on this morning fully rested. Finally.

As I drank my coffee and puttered around, I thought about the chat I had with a bestie the night before. Once again, his stuff in my basement came up. Once again, I ran through my litany of reasons for not dealing with it, and my options for getting it to him. Basically, I argued for my limitations and rationalized my avoidance. When I paused, she lovingly said, no, she queried, “I wonder if his books sitting in your basement are sitting in the way of your book, the one you have written, the one that you want to have published.”

Her words hit a place in my heart. And from that place, I felt a distinct current of energy run through me.

Because what I forgot to mention is this: in one corner of the basement, behind a wall of plastic boxes of various colors and sizes, there is a massive wall of small-ish cardboard boxes. Stacked seven boxes high, and four boxes wide (plus a bonus stack of six boxes in front), it almost reaches the ceiling. Each box weighs just over 44lbs. (20kg) and contains sixty copies of my ex-husband’s graphic poetry novel. The one that was released in 2003. The one I helped him self-publish, including setting up the ISBN#, placing it in bookstores, and promoting it.

Ultimately, it was not a smashing success. But the hope was, it’s time out there would come. Which means it never left in here.

Because each time we moved somewhere new, I helped move all those boxes (the original count was 50=3,000 books). First across NYC into various storage units, then across the country (at least twice) to New Mexico and then to Virginia. That’s in addition to several moves into and out of various houses and apartments within each city we called home. And today, twenty-three years after it first arrived in our East Village apartment in NYC, 34 boxes (=2,040 copies) of his book still sit in my basement in Virginia.

For over two decades, I lifted, almost singlehandedly, up to 2,200 lbs. of someone else’s dream. No wonder I had nothing left to pick up my own.

In this moment it would be easy for me to veer off course and make myself a victim. On this particular point, I am definitely not. Whatever his part was, I made my choices. Repeatedly. And I own them.

But as much as that experience has since led me to make lots of different, better choices about all kinds of things, this wall of boxes sits like a silent, heavy weight tucked away in the basement. It is an anchor that grounds me—but not in a good way. It represents my literal resistance to asking, in no uncertain terms, for what I want and need. Especially with him. (Reminds me of a different resistance I had back in January when, during a major snowstorm, the plumbing backed up…in the basement).

So, when my bestie posed the question about how his book aka this wall (of his books), might be in the way of my book, Beyond the Wall (that is the actual title of my book…you cannot make that up), something in me clicked. I heard the words others have said to me differently. Because I was ready to hear them.

Maybe because I am rested. Maybe because my roommate Deedee (Tuesday Tidings #33 “Making Room”) took it upon herself to clear out some of the obvious trash in the basement (including three boxes of emergency water packets which are no longer potable by a human so I’m using them to water the indoor plants). Maybe because deep down, in my soul, I know something new is unfolding ahead of me.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, my decision to make a start in the basement, to go through some of the boxes and to see what’s actually in them before I even consider tackling the wall of books or make any phone call to him, is part of a larger, ongoing shift within me: I have opened myself up more to others and to myself (something I’ve been writing about here for the past six months).

But none of that has addressed how much I continue to bend over backwards (in body, mind and spirit) to accommodate someone (not everyone) else rather than prioritize my wants and needs. Oh right. That comes from a very old idea that is clearly still very much alive in me: if I stand for myself in this way, I will be the bad guy.

And I really don’t want to be the bad guy.

But that old idea is another kind of wall. Not one outside of me—within me. And, because some part of me believes it will keep me safe, I will convince myself to hide behind it, even when doing so costs me—time, money, and freedom.

With that, I pause.

After only half an hour of work and fairly minimal effort, there is now an opening. For the first time in six years, after all the pondering about what’s down here and how I should deal with it, I have a clear sense of things and of what actually is. And even though the 34 boxes of books remain untouched, the first, heaviest brick has been removed.

And for today, that is enough.

Side note: Yesterday, after I worked on the first draft of this post, I was on a call with a different bestie. When I asked her how she was, she mentioned feeling off. Why? Because July 6th is the two-year anniversary of Barbara’s passing. The minute those words hit my ears, I was mortified.

I had totally forgotten.

There is a lot more to say about that, but for now, I will recognize how that explains part of my deep exhaustion last week and my desire to spend most of the weekend alone. My heart knew. My body knew. (Even though my mind did not). Together, they helped me take care of me. I listened to what I needed, rested and made a start in the basement. That is the current in my heart doing for me what I could not do for myself.

Love you, Barbara! ❤️

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 7.7.26

When I open my heart, the current it sends will break down any wall—including the ones within me.

Coming up:

Next Wednesday, July 15, the fourth and final episode of “Becoming the Proof” drops into the feed. It is my conversation with Cri Gabriele—communication design professor at Pratt and founder & CEO of Messwork, a somatic practice. Cri shares about the journey to find her own language and how she now helps other people (her students, her clients, and others) find theirs. Even though this was the first conversation in what turned into a series, it felt like the right one with which to end. When you listen in, I think you'll hear why.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Megan Klein is the founder Little Saints—a beverage company that is focused exclusively on zero-sugar, non-alcoholic cocktails and spirits fueled by functional mushrooms. Megan started this company because she had a need and she continues to build it because others have the same need.

Meeting in New York for the first time in person (she lives in Miami and I live in Virginia), Megan and I recorded this conversation in April inside of a conference room within Industrious (it was supposed to be my first ever in person video pod but alas, technology and user-error thwarted that part). We cover the highs and lows of being a solo woman founder, the importance of having a clear “why,” and the challenges of making ends meet while building something from scratch. Spoiler alert: like me, Megan has a roommate (her bestie) which turns out to be a founder hack (totally stealing that one). Megan also shares honestly about the dark night of the soul of a founder and how being of service to others is the fuel that helps her keep going.

(Megan appeared last year on the season opener of Shark Tank, and, along with Little Saints, has been featured in a wide-range of publications).

I was an early investor in Little Saints because I believed in Megan before I believed in myself. Since then, I have watched her grow this company into a huge success. In the moments when I’m ready to quit or give up, I look to Megan and get re-inspired by her example to keep going. Could not think of a better guest to join me for the third installment of the 4-part series “Becoming the Proof”—four women who built the thing they needed to ensure it exists for others when they need it. You can find all posts and episodes connected to this series here.

Now, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and listen in.

LINKS

All things Megan Klein/Little Saints:

Little Saints on the web: littlesaints.com

Little Saints on Instagram: @littlesaintsco

Megan Klein on Instagram: @meganjoklein

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Open to submissions (join me on the podcast): hellarader.com/submissions

Follow me on Instagram, subscribe to my channel on YouTube.com/@hellarader and learn more about me on my Website.

Listen now wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes drop every other Wednesday.

This is how most of my Mondays begin now. With a dance.

I have always danced. Often by myself, at home. Usually in my sunroom. Sometimes by the sink in the kitchen. Occasionally in my bedroom. Really, wherever there was enough space and no one watching. When I was younger (and even as a teenager), I made it a point to go to night clubs with my friends with the sole purpose to dance. And over the years, I danced, every once in a while, at home. Whether it was intentional or not, whether I knew what I was doing or not, and whether I was invited to do it with others or stepped into it on my own, dancing has always been the thing my body knew to do. It was a release.

The first time I really made that connection was in the summer of 2021 when I went to South Beach alone, and danced by myself in a small, very dark club until 3am. My drive to go dancing that night in and of itself was revealing. And once I was on the dance floor, the music, the crowd, the permission of it all, rekindled something in me that I had not realized was dimmed. That night was a reminder of a big piece of who I am and have always been. (You can read about that night in Tuesday Tidings #18, “Creative Pilot Light”).

After that experience, the relit ember grew and dancing started showing up more often and in more places. About four years ago, I was invited to join other women to dance, together, in someone else’s home. It was a communal experience that allowed me to inhabit my body and process my re-emergence into life in an intimate way (even if I did not fully get that at the time). Even though that group has since disbanded, I decided to explore that kind of dance with someone one-on-one via FaceTime. Out of that more pathways to move emerged and for the past two years, as part of my somatic training, we dance a lot—every time we get together as a group, and before we do or say anything else.

But all of that, even if loosely, was very structured.

Then in March, I started to dance spontaneously in random places. The first time it happened, I was working in the garden. But the new thing was not the dance itself. Or that I was inspired to make a dance of the mulching. It was my decision to film it, and then post it on Instagram.

A few days later, I recorded myself dancing in the kitchen in support of a fundraising effort for documentary short, Tiny Movements. After that, anytime joy moved through me and I happened to have my phone nearby, I danced, recorded it, and posted it. It was unplanned, unpolished, and real. It simply emerged out of me.

But spontaneous is not the same as consistent.

Then May happened. I (finally) dropped my resistance to a few different things. In the process, I realigned how and when I create, surrendered some fears, and made the podcast the focal point for all the different spaces in which I create to connect with each other. I found myself dancing more, not less. And what had, back in March, started as something random and spontaneous became an intentional part of what I put out into the world every Monday on Instagram. Not just for the sake of it, but as a practice.

In the same way that recording 50+ episodes for the podcast was practice for using my voice, and talking to camera was practice for being seen while using my voice, the Monday Dance Reel is practice for me to be fully in my body, show up as I am, move and put my name on it. That is how I build the muscle. (What is it they say: move a muscle, change a thought?)

That shift from spontaneous to consistent feels significant in a way I am still unpacking. The last few years, my focus has been on using my voice, to speak, out loud, in different places, not just as host of the podcast. As a result, it has gotten easier and I have become more comfortable saying (most) things on camera, into a mic, or in person.

Now the focus is on dancing. Really, on movement. Not just by myself or with others, but to camera and therefore in front of whomever. Much like in the early days of the podcast, every time right before I press record, I wonder if it’s too much or not enough. Really, if I’m too much or not enough. I get nervous about how it looks, how I look, and what someone might say or, more importantly, what they might think about me, which turns into I should not do this. Or I should do that.

Dancing in this way and putting my body front and center is a different kind of exposure. Oh right, being seen, not just heard, is the sticking point.

For a long time, longer than I care to admit, I was afraid to be seen. Not just because of shame (which has been its own thread, one which I wrote about most recently in March in “My Body is My Home”), but because I was afraid, with good reason, of what my ex (and others) might do if I was that kind of visible. Even after he was gone, even if most of those people I feared are no longer part of my life, I continued to make myself small to protect myself. The consequences of being otherwise felt dangerous and loomed so large that they appeared inevitable. It was, in some ways, debilitating.

In April, I began to unpack this whole thing around being seen—not on a screen, but in person (which I wrote about in “Being Seen”)—a bit. At that time, it was about freezing at a mic, trembling in front of people I already knew, and choosing to be real with a stranger instead of hiding. In the process I discovered the beauty of what is possible when I choose to be seen as I am…perfectly imperfect. But even since then, as I look back, I recognize the evolution to where I am with it now.

Then this past weekend happened. I was in Asheville to moderate two panels following screenings of the documentary Tiny Movements (in which, not coincidentally, dance features prominently). Each night, I shrank down a bit. Not when I was in front of everyone, and speaking into the mic as the moderator. Beforehand. Something about being in a room full of people who are mingling, and chit-chatting, even when some of them are people who came to support me, still makes me want to escape—to leave my body and vacate the premises. (I did go outside a few times to take a short walk). So, while I recognize the progress in some areas, I see where there is room to grow. Or at least, be aware of and accept that shy, uncomfortable part of me.

I do not always think of the Monday Reel as reclamation. But that is what it is. Every time I press record and move—slowly or excitedly, always deliberately and joyfully—I am doing the thing I spent years believing was not safe for me to do. I am taking up space. On purpose. In public.

And enjoying it.

Which brings me to Megan Klein and tomorrow’s episode of the podcast.

Megan built Little Saints—a non-alcoholic mushroom-based, adaptogen beverage company—because she needed it. She wanted a beverage that tasted like a cocktail, something that felt like a “real” drink, something that belonged on a dance floor and did not ask her to choose between taking care of herself and having a good time. Because really, those two things are one and the same.

It’s a great reminder that the room being built does not always mean an actual room. Sometimes it’s what’s in your glass. And sometimes, it’s what happens when I dance.

Do you dance? If you do, what does it do for you? And if you don’t, why not?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 6.30.25

The body already knows the way home. Movement is the doorway to enter in.

Coming up:

Tomorrow, Wednesday July 1, my conversation with Megan Klein and the third episode of the series Becoming the Proof releases via the Stories That Sparkle podcast. Fun fact and a throwback to last week’s post, “Making Room”: Megan also has a roommate. She calls it a founder hack. Love! We talk about that, dancing, and so much more in the context of her being a solo female founder so come back and listen in tomorrow.

And because I included the (hand-written) lyrics to the song from this week’s Monday dance, here is an embed to the song on Spotify and a link to it on Apple Music.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Despite the light breeze, it is hot. Especially in the sun. I can already feel a thin bead of sweat form at my hairline. The first step is to break up the hard, dry soil. It’s not a small task. Which is why I am glad to not be doing this alone. Next to me, without a word, Deedee drives the shovel into the ground. Slowly, methodically, she begins to break up the dirt.

Because she loves to garden as much as I do (she also loves to mow the lawn, something I do not enjoy), we are spending our day off together and creating a new flowerbed. And because she insisted, she is the one doing the digging, including the hole next to the relocated birdbath so I can plant the calla lily I brought home when I got the bags of compost.

She moves along, punching into the dirt, while I spread out the compost, rake through to blend with the small chunks of dirt, and prepare it for the wildflower seeds.

It is the epitome of teamwork.

Oh, and I forgot to mention. Deedee is 60 and I’m 52. She’s not my sister. She’s not a friend. She’s my roommate.

Deedee moved in just over two months ago in April. The weekend she moved in, I was in New York. This weekend is one of the first when we have both been home at the same time. Despite not being at home at the same time much since she moved in, we already have a natural groove together. We chit chat when she gets home from work, and sometimes eat dinner together—or next to each other. On Saturday, while I was out for a pool day at a friend’s house, she cleaned up parts of the basement (and even chased off a garden snake that was trapped in the storm door). While I handle the utilities, Deedee takes on projects like the garage, which has always had recycling piled up for weeks. Now it is not only organized but also clean. Not because I did any of that. Because she did. And more importantly: Not because I asked, demanded or expected her to do any of that. Because she wanted to do it. It brings her joy.

All of this has been the most unexpected, delightful surprise about having a roommate—another woman, slightly older than me, with whom I share my home and my space.

In great part, because anytime I seriously considered getting a roommate (as recently as last summer), I rejected it because I felt that it meant I’d failed. Six years after my divorce, on the cusp of turning 53, wasn’t I supposed to have a husband or at least a live-in boyfriend by now? Or, if not that, wasn’t I supposed to be proudly, staunchly single, come and go as I want, and prove (to others) that I didn’t need anyone—that I could carry the house, the yard, the garage, oh, the plumbing, all of it, alone? I mean, isn’t that the epitome of freedom? And isn’t that kind of freedom what I am supposed to want?

Oh, that’s it. I resisted the idea of a roommate because of the rules nobody wrote down, some assumed idea that someone (maybe me?) made up but which loom large in my mind (kind of like the rule I had about eating dinner alone in a restaurant—the horror! The shame!).

But here’s what’s actually true: my house is an asset. Renting a room in it is income. And income (that is not my savings account), at this point in my life (a middle-aged, one-woman-audio-visual department), is not a small thing. Needing that isn’t failure. It’s math. Besides, most of the time the house sits empty. It is un-used because I am not there. Which is why the pipes dry up. Or the guest toilet tank leaks. Letting it fall apart from underuse goes against every piece of love I have put into it.

This home that I renovated and the gardens I planted over time are a safe space. I designed it that way and cultivated in it the kind of safety I needed for myself so that it would be readily available to anyone who needs a safe place to be. Why not open it up to someone else to live in that safe space alongside with me?

Once I stopped treating the decision like a referendum on my worth or a measure of success or failure, I recognized it as a solution (for me and for someone else) that was put in my path…including for problems (like the plumbing) I did not even know I had. And as soon as I made that choice, almost instantly, everything shifted.

I didn’t just get help with rent. I didn’t just get help with all kinds of things around the house—mowing the lawn (which I genuinely don’t enjoy doing), tending the garden, organizing the garage, and cleaning up the basement. I got a friend to share the ups, the downs, and all the in-betweens of life as they happen, in real time.

It’s a partnership. Even if it doesn’t look like the one I thought I was supposed to have or the one I hope to one day have with someone else. Either way, I have it. And I have it with someone who wants to tend to this place, my place, our place, when I’m on the road tending to the space in which other women can share their stories. What a gift…and who knows what other surprises might, one day, arise from this experience.

It makes me think of all the different spaces (and ways) I was willing to show up in over the past month. It also brings up my conversation with Annie last week. Only unlike her, I didn’t need to build a new room. I just needed to stop insisting on holding the room I already had all by myself. Once I did, I opened up the room—not just in my house, but also in me.

That’s the thing about choices. They create space—in me, and for others. And in that space, I can enjoy my freedom, and feel at peace—whether I am at home or away.

How have you made space for someone, or something, you didn’t expect?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 6.23.25

The greatest gift of freedom is to set aside the rules, expand my choices, and rest in the peace that comes with living in partnership—whatever it looks like.

Coming up:

Next week, the third episode of the series Becoming the Proof drops into the Stories That Sparkle podcast feed on Wednesday, July 1. I am joined by Megan Klein, founder of Little Saints (a non-alcoholic cocktails and spirits company) because she needed a room. Listen in next Wednesday to hear the full story.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

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Annie Herman is a mom, wife, yoga teacher, part-time school teacher and owner of Queens Community Yoga. During our conversation, I learned what led Annie to yoga, how she arrived in this place, and why it was so important to her to open the studio and create a space not only for herself but also for others to be as they are.

Spending time with Annie and recording with her in the studio while sitting on a bolster was a breath of fresh air. It hit home for me the importance of community for support and structure for sustainability so that I can do all the things without falling apart. What an incredible second installment of the 4-part series “Becoming the Proof”—four women who built the thing they needed to ensure it exists for others when they need it. You can find all posts and episodes connected to this series here.

Now, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and listen in.

LINKS

All things Annie Herman/Queens Community Yoga:

Queens Community Yoga on the web: yogaqc.com

Queens Community Yoga on Instagram: @qcyogastudio

Annie Herman on Instagram: @anniehermanyogaandwellness and @annevans23

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Open to submissions (join me on the podcast): hellarader.com/submissions

Follow me on Instagram, subscribe to my channel on YouTube.com/@hellarader and learn more about me on my Website.

Listen now wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes drop every other Wednesday.

This is my true happy place.

And for the past three mornings, afternoons and evenings, whether in the direct boiling hot afternoon sun, the temperate early morning shade, or the sultry gloaming hour, I have sat in this spot. And pondered. And rested. With forward momentum.

It is a new-to-me state. Not quite resting and not quite in motion. Not in an indecisive way. I’m both still and moving at once. It’s a deep breath in and also an exhalation in anticipation of what’s next. It’s a particular stillness that happens when you’ve been moving for a long time and you finally stop and let everything catch up to you. But it’s not exhaustion. It’s integration—that moment when all the different parts of you come together in one, cohesive whole.

I can feel it as a full body sensation—a calm interlude to ensure that all that I have absorbed settles in and from which the next steps will emerge.

For the past three weeks, I have been in three different spaces—some physical, some not—which required me to show up fully in different ways and for different reasons.

In one of them, I recorded two podcast episodes. Each conversation required me to be present, curious, and actively listening. That’s always the ask when I record. It’s also my commitment. And I have learned over the past year that afterwards, I need time to recharge.

Another space was my somatic training weekend. It required a different kind of showing up—not for someone else’s story but for my own. My own body, my own knowing, my own capacity to stay with the hard thing instead of moving past it. I wrote about that in last week’s Tuesday Tidings, “The Risk of Showing Up”—the trust that’s required to risk being seen and heard, and the reward on the other side of taking that risk. In that space, I stepped out (more like, stepped in) in a way I haven’t before. And I felt it. For days. Not as a crash, but as a calm, yet energized clarity within myself. It built my confidence (my word for 2026) in big and small ways.

The third space was much harder to show up in but for less obvious reasons. Mainly because it was a different kind of space and it required a different (if similar) kind of action. I applied for a board position within an institution that matters deeply to me, one I have not only watched but also participated in from the inside out, one whose complexities and challenges I understand in a way that is not abstract. I resisted applying because of the time commitment it would require.

At least that’s the story I told myself to justify not taking the action.

But underneath, my hesitation was more about being nervous. Not because I’m unsure of wanting to contribute and not because I don’t think I have something to offer. I was unsure because I lacked confidence—there’s that word again. Just as quickly as I had built my confidence in one space the weekend before, it escaped me in this space. Oh, it’s the space that matters as much as anything else. Not only the space—but what is required of me within it. Right.

And in this space (of applying for something), I would be required to name my experience—the things I have already done. Not as pride. Not as performance. As fact. Basically, it would require standing on (and in) the truth of who I am today without minimizing or aggrandizing it, and allowing myself to be undeterred by what I have not done and therefore don’t know. Yet.

But then all the appointments I had scheduled towards the end of last week canceled. The space around me opened up. The excuses I had not to do it fell by the wayside. And the nudge I felt within me to go ahead and submit got clearer. And louder.

This was another opportunity for me to risk showing up. And not without help. As I prepared my application, and before I hit submit, I asked a bestie to read through it and give me feedback. The words she had for me were the same I got from somebody else a few weeks ago about something else. “You have mad skills and a huge amount of experience…own it. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Apparently I needed to hear that (again). I know my tendency is to make myself small because I’m afraid I will be too much. It shows up in this kind of space—the kind where a list of credentials that aim to quantify what I know comes into play. And being willing to admit that to myself and to ask someone for help is part of the work. Not so that their confidence in me takes the place of my own, but so that I don’t have to go it alone. It is then up to me to be willing to take the next step towards where I want to go—or not.

That’s what I keep coming back to from this week: the willingness that powers the action…to show up, to do the thing and to make a space. Each time, it is a step towards fully embodying that confidence without puffing up or shrinking back—to allow it to settle in. And each time it does, it builds toward a new baseline from which to take the next step.

Which is why today, I’m more willing than I’ve ever been to let the opportunities come (rather than force them) and walk into the unknown spaces when they appear.

The risks don’t get smaller. The willingness gets bigger.

Where do you feel the nudge to show up—despite the reasons to not?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 6.16.25

The willingness to walk into the room with the fear and the uncertainty is what builds confidence, not the outcome or the result.

Coming up:

Tomorrow I’m releasing the second episode of Becoming the Proof. My guest is Annie Herman—yoga teacher, studio founder, mom, wife, part-time school teacher. She built Queens Community Yoga in Queens, New York City because she needed a room, a space, where she could talk about the real things. The things you think about when you’re a kid staring out the window. I’ve been carrying her example of willingness with me ever since I left. Listen in Wednesday to hear the full story.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Earlier this morning, I was in Connecticut. After a full weekend of somatic training, I woke up surrounded by a different set of trees, a similar variety of birds singing above my head, and a bigger collection of squirrels chasing each other up and down tree trunks. Mid-morning, I left my bestie’s house to drive back to New York. And now here I am. Back in the city. Back on the pavement. And still carrying the weekend with me.

Really, I still carry with me a sense of community. Not the word. The feeling.

I’ve been in community many different times, many different ways over the years. Annual women’s retreats. One-on-one visits with friends (where I live or across the country). Groups. Circles. Gatherings of all kinds in person and online. It is something I prioritize, not just some time in the past but also today, so I have a lot of reference points for what it feels like to be held by other people. The willingness of others to hold my hand and walk with me when I was not ok, and let me know that it was ok to not be ok, is the very thing that got through the toughest of tough times to here…the much lighter, easier, still bumpy, times.

But something about this weekend was different. Maybe because I am different. Or, more precisely, maybe because I have never been more myself than I am today. Yeah, that’s it. I am the most myself than I have been and I feel it. It enables me to more easily show up as I am, and not only take the risk to be exactly who I am, but also to be seen by others as I share who that is. Not that it isn’t scary. Not that I didn’t have moments of getting tongue-tied or nervous. But I was willing to step out in a way I have never done it quite like this.

It makes me think of the meadows of wildflowers that surrounded me all weekend. Wildflower meadows at my bestie’s house, at the retreat center, and at another friend’s house. Meadows upon meadows of wildflowers, growing wildly in their full splendor. I don’t know half their names. I don’t need to. They’re just there, doing their thing. Growing exactly where they are. They do not announce themselves. They do not caveat or apologize for who they are. They simply stand in their beauty and power. They attract by being themselves.

It makes me think about my conversation with Georgia Clark, my guest on last week’s episode of the podcast. She turned the stage in Joe’s Pub into a platform for women in their 20s through their 90s to stand up and share a true story from their lives in front of a room full of people. She built it because her mom was disappearing from the world. She built it so there would be a room where women’s stories were front and center—not only heard, but also witnessed. She built it because the room matters. And being witnessed matters.

Not just to the person being witnessed. But also to those who are the witnesses.

But after this weekend, what I cannot stop thinking about is the risk involved. Not the risk of building the room, but the risk of walking into it. Not just that. The risk of stepping onto the stage, standing in front of a room full of people, opening your mouth and revealing the truth of you who are. It can be terrifying, even in a small, non-stage room. Maybe even more so.

Because that risk requires trust. Trust that the room will hold you. Trust that the people in it will be there with you. Trust that you can hold yourself and remain in who you are, not who you think you are supposed to be.

This weekend, I showed up fully as myself. I shared honestly. It was a big risk. And I got to experience the other side of that risk. The loving, open response I got from my community built trust—trust with them, trust from them, and ultimately, trust of myself.

That’s what being in community with people who are willing to be seen does. It builds trust. Sure, it is a risk. And today, I feel the reward.

What community holds your risk of being yourself?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 6.9.25

Being witnessed and being a witness are the same gift because the reward of that risk flows in both directions.

Coming up:

This week is an off week for the podcast. Next week the series “Becoming the Proof” continues with Annie Herman, founder of Queens Community Yoga. She opened a yoga studio in Queens because she needed a space where she could talk about the real things, and so she could offer a place for others to come and do the same.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Georgia Clark is an eight-time published novelist, founder and host of Generation Women, a monthly intergenerational storytelling event at Joe’s Pub in New York City, and the woman behind My Novel Year, a one-year writers program that helps writers finish their books without burning out. And less than two weeks out from the release of her latest novel, Play It Again (the book launch is June 16th at Joe’s Pub), I could not think of a better guest than Georgia to kick off this four part series, “Becoming the Proof,” four conversations with women who built the thing they needed to ensure it exists for others when they need it.

This conversation with Georgia came at a key point for me personally, and I drew from it great inspiration to step up my podcast game to ensure The Stories That Sparkle and, more importantly the women whose stories it holds, receive the proper time and attention.

So, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and listen in.

LINKS

All things Georgia Clark:

Georgia Clark on the web: georgiaclark.com

Georgia Clark on Instagram: @georgialouclark

Generation Women on the web: generationwomen.us

Play It Again book launch X Generation Women Show at Joe’s Pub: Tickets Here

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Open to submissions to join me on the podcast: hellarader.com/submissions

Follow me on Instagram, subscribe to my channel on YouTube.com/@hellarader and learn more about me on my Website.

Listen now wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes drop every other Wednesday.

I am noodling on something.

A few weeks ago, a woman with whom I work on spiritual things, said “You know, watching you over the last two years helps me have the courage to make the changes I am making. Seeing you work it out shows me that even when it gets hard, even when it’s scary, it’s possible so keep going.”

In the moment, I could not fully absorb her words, appreciate what they meant, or receive what they said about me. I blew past them.

And then last week happened. Seemingly all at once, I surrendered.

But it was a much more gradual process than that. It started in March, after the harsh winter vibes sort of receded, when I really began to grapple with my resistance to structure (and creative containment), my deep fears around money (or more precisely, the ideas I have around money that are not really about money), and my unwillingness to slow down (and effort myself out of the joy of having the life I say I want). It was a full two month stretch of deep, inner work.

And just as May drew to a close, I listened back to the four, most recent conversations I had recorded for the podcast. One of them was recorded in late March, two in late April, and the final one last week. I did not go into those conversations with any real plan in mind. I did not envision them as a group or a series. My only goal was to talk to women who had started something of one kind or another.

When I listened back, I realized that the questions I asked and the tangents I went on related to something I was working on in real time even if I could not fully articulate it that way (to myself). Turns out, I not only needed to hear how she did the thing she did, but also to hear myself get clear—out loud.

Which brings me back to the words my friend said to me. The ones about me building something she can look at to know she can build her thing. The words I blew past. The ones I did not allow myself to take in. The ones I happily ascribe to others but find it hard to receive as true about me.

But then I listened back to those four conversations, and what I had assumed would be four disconnected, stand-alone, very inspiring conversations with an assortment of women founders across a wide-range of (for lack of a better word) industries, was really one conversation about the same thing: a woman building the thing she needed, for one reason or another, one way or another, to ensure it would be there for the next person when they need it.

Turns out, I built something: a series. It has a sequence (even if it is different from the order in which these conversations were recorded), an arc, and a theme. Even if I did it unintentionally, I did it. Just like I did with the podcast over the last year—one episode at a time, without a real plan, I built the thing while I learned how to build it. And that means now someone else will know (how) they can do it too.

Suddenly those words my friend said to me land totally differently. Well, they land at all. Not only that. They settle in. Not in my mind, but in my heart. And as I breathe them in, they travel further down through my body and into my feet. They are now held—within me.

Part of me would rather keep doing the podcast by accident, because doing it by accident means I can't get it wrong. And if I don’t get it wrong, it means I did not fail. And making a plan to which I am held accountable or against which I am measured, feels, to me, like a box. At least that has been my (unspoken) argument against it.

But a series isn’t a box. It’s a room—a room that is clearly marked for those looking for a place to connect, and into which I can invite even more people.

This moment feels like a turning point—a jumping off from a different cliff into another unknown. Only this time, unlike a year ago, I have the felt sensation of my feet already firmly planted on the ground.

And because I have other women laying down a path ahead of me, I know where I am going and how I want to go about getting there.

What’s the thing you built without knowing you were building it?

Let’s discuss. Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 6.2.25

The plan is not the thing. The thing is what gets built before you even realize it needs a plan.

Coming up:

Tomorrow’s episode of the podcast kicks off the four-part series “Becoming the Proof”—four women who built something that didn't exist yet, and became proof it was possible. Delighted to start that off with Georgia Clark, author of eight published novels (her newest one, Play It Again, comes out June 16), founder and host of Generation Women (a monthly, intergenerational storytelling event at Joe’s Pub in NYC), and the woman behind My Novel Year (a 12-month writing mentorship to help other writers finish (or revise) a first draft of their book).

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

Part of me is annoyed by this seemingly never-ending wetness. Another part of me knows, intellectually, that the rain, the gloom, the sorrow, is as important as the sun, the cheer, the joy. After all, I know that to be true for my pollinator garden, the one I sit beside when the sun is out and stand next to in the light drizzle. For those plants to thrive, they need the sun and the rain. And for me, rain or shine, that garden is my happy place.

But knowing that does not make it easy for me to fully embrace the sun (joy) without worrying about the arrival of the rain (sorrow). And once I have accepted the rain as both vital and necessary, it is tempting to sink into its dark, soggy bottom, pull the covers over my head and resist its departure.

It ties in with where I have been over the last three weeks. It started when I went on vacation and slowed down, not just my activity but also my thoughts. Right on cue, the grief emerged. I traveled back in the rain and got home in the sunshine in time to do a thing after which I crashed. Not into more grief but into a surrender. Buoyed by the low humidity sunshine, and a visit from friends, I felt energized only to bump into the blazing, muggy heat of 90 degree days punctuated by thunderstorms. It felt unbearable. So much so that I wanted to do what I typically do: get real busy, real fast, in order to get myself out of this discomfort.

It goes back to something else I wrote about in the last three weeks—the need to earn it (whatever “it” might be) by doing more. To avoid addressing what that may be about, I stay maddeningly busy to avoid disappointment. In the process, I blow past things, neither celebrate the risks I take or the progress I make.

I talked a little bit about this in last week’s one-year anniversary episode of the podcast. My busyness leads to more effort (after all, it’s all on me to ensure my survival), a faster pace, and a harder push, often without a clear direction. The busyness is not a means to an end but the end itself. But when that does not lead to where I think it should, or when circumstances bring it to a stopping point, I feel the very strong temptation to quit and give up—neither acknowledge the fears, or, as I like to to call them, the “fall shorts.”

And wouldn’t you know, from the minute I hit publish on that episode, the rain started its 5-plus-day stretch, everything in me came to a screeching halt, and almost every conversation, meeting or interaction I had offered me the opportunity to not only see but also to accept this tendency of mine (to live in either the extreme of “do it all, all the time” or “do nothing, ever”) as a fact. And a choice.

Now I had a choice to make: blow past this awareness (and ignore it) or stay put (and accept it).

I chose to accept it.

Then I allowed that acceptance to inform my actions. Really, to open me up to new ways of doing things. In practical terms, I gave up my resistance to using AI as a way to synthesize large amounts of my own content. As a writer, as someone who makes things, that was a hard one for me. But when I finally accepted that there are only so many hours in the day and only so many resources available to me to get done what needs to get done so I can write and create, I relented. During my annual physical exam, I asked my doctor to help me address an ongoing physical concern with medication instead of suffering through the shame that had started to form around my inability to handle it myself.

As the rain continued to fall, relentlessly, I took its slow, steady rhythm as a cue to take other, smaller actions. To say the thing I need to say in the moment, and, when I did, to celebrate with someone else that I did something different. And when I felt disappointed by something, including myself, to own the “fall short” and admit it to somebody else that I struggle. Like each drop of rain falling into the ground, I let each moment sink in and allowed it to inform and replenish.

Not as a means to keep going, but as an inspiration to proceed…differently.

Which brings me to this space and this weekly post.

When I started it in earnest in January 2025, I had a sort of sense of what it was—first and foremost, a place for me to practice writing and expressing myself through words. As time went on, I added a podcast through which I gained more of my outside, speaking voice. And then I added more tabs (which meant more things to write or videos to make). I got real busy.

I have no regrets for any of that. Every single addition, subtraction, and rearrangement was part of the larger process of getting to here. (Spoiler alert: that process will continue over time because “here” is a moment, not an end point). Now that I am here, in this moment, I want to proceed with a much slower, more deliberate, and less impulsive approach—another way for me to choose a different next action and make it a daily practice in what I do writ large. I am aware that I have talked about this here before. But resisting change and lacking the prerequisite acceptance, I still needed to work it out of my system by trying it this way or what way (aka my way) before I was willing to surrender—not just what I do or how I do it but also how I build it.

All that to say—this space will, for all intents and purposes, remain much the way it is now. I will still post long-form memoir pieces under the tab “From the Vault,” and Tuesday Tidings will continue to be my weekly personal reflections on where I am, what’s up for me, and what I am practicing. Every week, to close things out, it will include my Tuesday Morning Meditation but not necessarily the rundown of things. And the main difference is that I will connect all that more intentionally to the podcast. Instead of running on parallel tracks, my conversations with other women and my conversations (aka monologue haha) with you about myself (which are often inspired or expanded by hearing other women share) will now be in more direct conversation with each other. Ahhhhh. Just saying here, like that, creates a sense of ease within me.

And right on cue, just as I am about to hit “save” on this post, the rain fades into the background and the sun re-emerges.

Only this time, I neither fear the joy, or escape into the sorrow. I hold both a little bit more loosely and sit with each of them.

I am in acceptance.

Before I wrap up…where are you in the weather cycle — rain or shine? Hit reply or leave a comment.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 5.26.25

Let things be, just as they are, where they are, so that what they are can emerge.

Coming up: Next week’s episode of the podcast begins a series of four conversations with women founders and solopreneurs…first up is my chat with Georgia Clark, founder and host of Generation Women, about the invisibility that kicks in as we get older and the importance of seeing others do the thing to know its possible for me to do the thing.

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And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, this space is very much open to submissions.

One year later, this episode is part celebration (of how I gained my voice in amplifying other women’s voices), part look back (to two years ago when all this really began), and part look ahead (to what I want to cover in future episodes) by way of sitting with some old ideas that manifest in my fear around money (a topic that will get a deeper exploration in the months ahead) but are really about something else (that feels much more existential) and a segue into the opening my somatic coaching practice Embody & Create (to help other women call upon the wisdom held in their bodies and navigate life’s transitions, especially in midlife). As usual, I cover a lot of ground in a relatively short amount of time.

So, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and listen in.

LINKS

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Curious about my somatic coaching? Visit embodyandcreate.com to learn more.

Have a story to share on the podcast? Is there a topic you want to discuss with me? Submit your idea using this form and I will be in touch with you about setting up a recording session.

Wanna collab? Work with me? Or ask me a question? Let’s connect.

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With the two of them comfy in the white boucle chairs that serve as the viewing posts for the wildlife and wildflowers just outside the window and the seats where, when I record locally, my guest and I settle in for a conversation, I made myself at home in the bean bag across from both of them. My view was of them, not the happenings outside. And just behind, on top of the counter between the kitchen and the sunroom, I caught a glimpse of the bouquet of flowers they brought me. The one that, to everyone’s surprise and delight, had a butterfly inside of it.

The day before, a different bestie brought me a single stem clipped from a peony bush, along with some self-care goodies. In combination, it was a not-so-subtle reminder to me that the people in my life think of me. And care for me. Really, they care about me.

Apparently, I needed to be reminded. Not because I don’t already know that. Or believe that to be true. No, I needed to be reminded because I am yet again in a moment of transition. And it feels a lot like a moment almost exactly two years ago.

In that moment, with my hoodie pulled up over my head, I laid down on the mats in my workout spot and logged into my session with my somatic practitioner. The minute she saw me, she knew the very thing I knew but did not want to know.

“You’re in a surrender,” she said. To which I responded, “No.” I don’t want to be.

It was the “wrong” answer. Not because I was wrong. I was right. I did not want to be in a surrender, and to make sure of that, I would fight tooth and nail against being in one.

It was the wrong answer, because whether I wanted to be or not, whether I liked it or not, I was in a surrender. I knew that my time doing what I was doing (my job and how I was doing it) was coming to an end. Not that anyone had said anything to me. Or that I had any plans to leave. It was happening nonetheless and I was resisting it. My fear about what I would do (or not do) next stood in my way and blocked my freedom (within myself).

But as I lay there, on my right side, about to curl up into the fetal position as a way to hide (from myself as much as from her), I caught myself. Still on the floor, I unfurled, stretched my legs long and reached my arms above my head, and breathed deep into my belly.

In that moment, I surrendered to the surrender. Really, I surrendered to being seen in the surrender.

So, as my besties and I sat across from each other in the sunroom and chatted away, I remembered an epiphany I had about something (apparently the details don’t matter because I cannot remember the exact context or topic): I need to ask for help. Not just from my Higher Power, but from the people in my life.

It is not a new epiphany. It has been bumping around my head for a while. And once again, I had been resisting what I knew to be true in an effort to hide the truth about where I am.

Two years after that big moment of surrender, the subsequent end of my job, and the start of my journey to build the life I want, so many things have fallen into place and so many other things remain unknown, frightening, and, at times, overwhelming. I am at yet another turning point.

And that means, once again, I am at a moment of a surrender.

This time is a little different, even if similar. To surrender to what is now, the price is my pride and admit, first to myself and then to somebody else, that I need help to do what I want to do next. But in asking for it, the risk is to be seen as helpless, lazy or, worst of all, incompetent. And even though I have been through a version of this many times over, and have practiced asking for help a trillion, bajillion times, a part of me is still afraid that the other person will say (or more likely, think), “you should be able to do it yourself, and if you can’t, then clearly you are a loser.”

Not that anyone has ever actually said that to me any of the other times I have asked for help. I also doubt the people in my life think of me as a loser. And sure, maybe not every request I make will be met with a “yes.” Sometimes, the right answer for them as much as for me, is “no.” It is an other part of the surrender—to take the action and not only let go of the result, but also my judgment of the result.

Because my ideas, conclusions, and beliefs, more often than not, are created. They are fungible, not required. But my fear and my pride will tell me they are fixed and necessary (to stay safe). Which is why, even though I know that the next right thing is to ask for help, even though I believe that there is no shame in needing support (of various kinds), and even though I trust in the people around me to love me no matter what, the fear and pride will kick in and override what is best for me.

Which is why, when I heard the Still Small Voice clearly say, “Ask for help,” what I have said, quietly and out loud, is, “No, wrong answer.”

But then my besties came into town. They brought me the bouquet with the butterfly in it, took me out to lunch, and sat with me in the sunroom. We shared with each other, exchanged ideas and laughed—a lot.

Just before we ordered in dinner, my bestie looked at me and said, “So, how about we go upstairs and turn your bedroom into the Den of Zen?” Immediately, my shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief. “Yes, let’s do it.”

A few days earlier, I had asked her if she would help me clean up my bedroom. Covered in an array of piles of clothes and unpacked bags (for almost a week), I called it the “Room of Doom.” But by the time we were hanging out, and having such a good time, I did not want to spoil the fun, head upstairs, and come face-to-face with both my unmanageability and my shame around needing any kind of help with something this basic.

That’s the beauty of people in your life who both know and love you…and recognize parts of themselves in you. They are willing to lovingly nudge you in the direction you want to go in.

We went upstairs to my bedroom. As soon as we got there, she grabbed my hands and we said the Serenity Prayer (God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference). Then she set a timer for 30 minutes, and suggested an approach to keep things simple. We unpacked, folded, and put away every item of clothing while we chatted and laughed even more. And with 1 min and 4 seconds left to go before the timer went off, we were done. The thing that had felt so overwhelming to me that I could not begin to tackle it on my own and around which I felt such shame because of all the things I need to do, it is easiest item on my list, was complete. It was off my plate and now there was (literally) more open space for me to rest.

I won’t say whether or not asking for help is the right or wrong answer. However, I can confirm that it is the way-more-fun-than-going-it-all-alone answer. With that in mind, and, more importantly, in my heart, I will continue to surrender and ask for more help with more things.

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Meals Out: Well, since I am in Virginia, I have been hitting up all the faves, and that means Water Street Kitchen. In fact, I went there twice and had Steve’s Breakfast both times.

Listening (voice): Listened to several episodes of Pod Save America, The Daily and Channels. There was not one episode in particular that stood out.

Listening (song most likely on repeat): Now that it’s warmer out, the first round of wildflowers are popping out ahead of the next one, I have been jamming to Following the Sun by Super-Hi/Neeka (link to Apple Music). Such a feel good song that despite being tired, brings an extra pep into my step.

Watching: When I got home last week and took some time to recover from a very busy sprint towards a speaking engagement and a final exam, I discovered a new series: Taste of Murder (Amazon with BritBox subscription). Set on the island of Capri (which I know very, very well) off the Amalfi Coast and a 45-minute ferry ride to Naples, it is visually stunning (never mind that many of the filming locations were not actually on the island but in Naples, along the coast and even in Croatia). The plot, subplots and mysteries are also pretty good (and involve lots of cooking and food as a way in to have difficult conversations), even if at times a little heavy-handed or incomplete…and who cares, because the scenery is gorgeous, the food/cooking scenes are delicious, and all combined, it makes for an easy breezy watch (even if some of the background/subplot for the main characters involves grief which brings some heaviness into it). With only six episodes, it’s a quick binge watch if that’s what you’re looking for.

Most Hours Logged Doing: Spent not only most of the weekend but most of last week just resting and slowing down, which included an unofficial semi-hiatus from social media (or maybe a reset? tbd), a final exam (to end year 2 of my somatic practitioner training), and a visit from and with several besties (including my usual walk-and-talk around downtown with one of them).

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 5.19.25

The old ideas of how I should be and what I should do are a creation, not a fact. The choices I make today dismantle them and replace them with something new—the truth of who I am.

Is there a topic you would like me to write about in a Tuesday Tidings? Cover in a podcast episode? I am curious about what you’re curious about so leave a comment below or drop me line.

And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, please complete either one of these submission forms.

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After being away from Virginia for three weeks, as soon as I returned on Sunday (after a 4.5 hour drive), I walked into my garden and the first thing I saw was the black butterfly. The one that appears every so often. The one that tells me Barbara (my spiritual mentor who passed away almost two years ago) is near. It was fitting, because for the last week, I felt a lot of grief around her passing. I missed her. A lot.

But it was also a nudge.

In last week’s post, I wrote about being willing to risk it all to be to be fully me. It is a journey that started, in earnest, sixteen years ago and one which is on-going, differently if also similarly, today. Since I wrote that post last week, new information about me, for me, is being revealed. Hence, the nudge.

So, I pulled out the following piece, a version of which I wrote four years ago. When I read it, I was amazed, but not shocked, by how much I needed to hear my the words I wrote then “spoken” back to me today. It is the continuation of a running theme in my life told by a former version of myself about an even more distant version of myself. And the things I need to hear always come back around at the exact right time. Don’t you love how that works?

People often ask me why I left New York City. Clearly I love it there, and to some extent, it remains my forever spiritual home. In fact, every time I go there, it feels like I never left. In many ways I never did, because once you have New York in your system, you never really get it back out. It is like the well-worn pair of jeans you will never get rid of, no matter how tattered they become, and no matter if they fit you or not. Just trying them on every so often reminds you of who you really are.

The easy, funny, and small-talk appropriate answer is this: one day I stood outside of my apartment building on Sixth Avenue between 19th and 20th Street (in Brooklyn). When I looked up and realized that every window was like a drawer with a life inside of it, I thought, “I live in a filing cabinet of people.”

Once I had that thought I could not shake it. And then everything I had loved about New York bothered me. The crowded subway, the crappy, too small drawers in the kitchen, knowing that my neighbors could hear everything I said inside my apartment if they were in the hallway, and shlepping my laundry down the street to wash it.

The hard, serious and two-besties-chatting answer is complicated. It was not a solo decision. I was married at the time. Together we decided to pull a geographic for very different reasons; reasons which only became clear after we left.

It started when my then husband floated the idea of moving, permanently, to New Mexico. He had family there and we already owned property near them—a piece of land (almost 40 acres) and an off-the-grid house on top of a ridge in the mountains an hour or so north of Santa Fe, just off the High Road to Taos. A truly magical place. And rugged. And completely different from anything I knew.

Around this time, I read lots of books, fiction and non-fiction, about the pioneering adventuring spirit, the search for connection with the wild ways of nature, and a shedding of the constraints of society and certainly urban living. The ones that made the biggest impression on me were “Drop City” and “Budding Prospects” by T.C. Boyle and “Into the Wild” and “Into Thin Air” by Jon Krakauer. As I devoured those books, I created a wonderful fantasy about living off the land.

It’s always the secrets that get me, and my deepest secret was the fear of being abandoned. The sheer panic of being left behind, of losing someone’s affection, drove me in ways I did not realize at the time. The other big secret was my enduring grief over the loss of my dad (in 1999) which I had not allowed myself to feel. It produced an intense discomfort within me and most days, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I saw this move to live on top of a mountain, with only him, as a way to be free of the grief and the discomfort it carried. Really, I wanted to ensure that I would not be alone in this world.

Never mind that I was already not alone. In addition to the cadre of besties I already I had, I spent three years building a community of love and trust—and intimacy. But I was not prepared for the awesome consequences of investing in others: they will invest back into you. The intimacy I had longed for, once it became a reality, terrified me. Beyond that, I had started an internet radio show, a dream of mine for a long time, which was just finding its voice. But I did not know how to use my own voice. And to make matters even more great, I was offered a job by a woman who believed in me. But I did not believe in myself.

What started out as a thought in my mind, the filing cabinet of people, turned into a series of choices that led to actions that altered the course of my life. I turned down the job, quit my radio show, and packed up my apartment, a U-Haul truck and drove west. I did what I always did: I abandoned others before they could abandon me but not before I abandoned myself.

I wanted to be free. Not of a filing cabinet. Not of another person. Of me.

All of this brings me back to Sunday. And the black butterfly.

Even from a distance, Barbara was with me through all that came from that decision to leave New York in 2010. When the opportunity presented itself, she helped me decide to move back east in 2016. When my ex-husband asked for a divorce in 2019, she held me through the steps to make it reality during COVID. And when I started to write, she kept me on track and made sure I finished my book—right up until her last days.

As I sit in the pain of her not being here now, I realize that I not longer avoid the discomfort of grief. Really, I no longer abandon myself which means I no longer abandon anyone else. I do not give up on my dreams when things get hard which means I believe in myself. And even though I still struggle to speak up for myself or resist having the difficult conversations, I am willing to try, even if it means someone might abandon me.

I can remain. Which means, I stay…with me.

That’s what I really mean by risking it all.

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Meals Out: Since I was in transit most of the weekend, once I got home, I defrosted some meal prep I did before I left. I do love a good system for how to make this life on the go sustainable and nourishing.

Listening (voice): No pods this week.

Listening (song most likely on repeat): On my drive home from NYC, I listened to bunch of my current fave songs, including Free by Ultra Nate (link to Apple Music). (I could not find the accent to put over the “e”). I heard for the first time in a long time while cruising around Fairhope last week and immediately added it to my Liked songs. I loved it so much that I promptly used it in a Reel I made after I got back to Virginia. I mean, seriously, you cannot listen to this song and be in a bad mood. Or feel defeated. I mean, you could, but it would be really, really hard.

Watching: Ya’ll, The Brokenwood Mysteries (Amazon with AcornTV subscription…may also be on Netflix) is back with a new season and I am so delighted. It is such a quirky, funny show (which has only gotten quirkier with time) that offers all the best parts of a good mystery show. Really love this one.

Most Hours Logged Doing: Well, I spent most of the weekend traveling back from Alabama to NYC and from NYC to Virginia. Once I got settled, I worked on the final tweaks to my PowerPoint (first time for everything!) which I will use in my talk at the Women of Winchester Networking Luncheon TODAY! My topic? “Releasing the Creativity Within,” the official launch of my coaching practice, Embody & Create. I will share more about that another time.

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 5.12.25

What stories do I tell myself on the surface to cover a difficult truth I have stuffed under ground?

Is there a topic you would like me to write about in a Tuesday Tidings? Cover in a podcast episode? I am curious about what you’re curious about so leave a comment below or drop me line.

And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, please complete either one of these submission forms.

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Lillian sent the Menopause Questionnaire and Endo Screener docs to me which I have uploaded to this folder for you to access and download.

You can watch the episode here on Substack or on my YouTube channel (in the Video Pod playlist), or listen to audio only wherever you get your podcasts.

And now, I invite you sit back, get comfortable and watch (or listen in).

LINKS

All things Dr. Lillian Medhus and Aspire Women’s Wellness:

Dr. Lillian Medhus is a Women’s Health Nurse Practitioner and Certified Menopause Practitioner. She provides specialized care for hormone health, sexual wellness, and complex gynecologic conditions like endometriosis and PCOS. With advanced training in functional and holistic medicine, and a deeply personalized approach, she’s known for helping women feel heard, understood, and empowered in their health. Her personal experience guides the care she provides, helping women heal and thrive.

Follow on Instagram: @aspirewomenswellness

Visit on the Web: aspirewomenswellness.com

All things Hella Rader:

Every link in one place: linktr.ee/hellarader

Have a story to share on the podcast? Is there a topic you want to discuss with me? Submit your idea using this form and I will be in touch with you about setting up a recording session.

Contact me here: hellarader.com/contact

Follow me on Instagram, subscribe to my channel on YouTube.com/@hellarader and learn more about me on my Website.

Listen now wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes drop every other Wednesday.

Ya’ll, the one year anniversary of launch week (the first big revamp of this space) is THIS week which means the one year anniversary of the first episode of the podcast is next week.

This was the announcement exactly one year ago today.

It totally snuck up on me and I did not plan for it. In fact, I am currently on vacation in Alabama, doing my best to be “off.” And you know what, maybe that is the best kind of what for me to celebrate this anniversay…me, on vacation, working (a little bit) less.

If you have been here before, or since, launch week, you have undoubtedly noticed that this space, along with me, has changed (a few times). Or, more accurately, I have gone through a huge amount of change, which is reflected in how this space has changed. And perhaps even more precisely, I have become very comfortable with change, which means I no longer resist it.

But the one thing that has not changed is how hard I work. And how often. I work a lot and I work a lot of the time. It is rare for me to go even one day without opening my laptop. Hence I am writing this post while sitting on the back porch next to a golf course while on vacation.

Some of that is the work ethic my parents instilled in me (for which I am grateful). Some of that is the persistent fear of not doing enough (for which I am not grateful). It is that fear that tells me to do more, more, more and expects me to have unlimited energy which is why I will do things like sandwich a vacation in-between recording sessions in New York and my first-ever speaking gig in Virginia while preparing for a final exam in my somatic practitioner program and releasing a new episode of the podcast. Phew. Just writing that makes me tired.

As much as I have learned to pace myself better, I still pack in way more than is reasonable and forget to factor in any down time. Really, I still resist giving myself proper time off because some part of me does not believe I have earned it. Literally. I have not earned the money to justify a break. Since I have to do it all, it means I have to do it all the time if there is any hope of making it happen.

I have confused being fully self-supporting with entirely self-sufficient. I have fallen into the “I am alone and I need to go it alone” trap.

Once inside of that trap, the self-doubt builds, more fear emerges about more things, and any forward momentum I have stops dead in its tracks. I feel both frozen in place and frantic to act out in any direction. Either way, it makes the idea of taking even one day off feel not only impossible, but also irresponsible. That delusion is so firmly embedded within me that I can hear, see and feel it across several of my posts. It is an underlying driver that both pushes me forward and pulls me back.

This is one of the reasons why I did not take this leap of faith to be my own boss years ago (like, in my 20s, 30s or even 40s). Even when I did, in my early 50s, I needed a big, external nudge to do it. Sure, I could blame on other people, but underneath, the truth is, I was not willing to risk safety and security. I was not willing to risk failure or success. I was not willing to risk losing certain relationships. I settled into living a life aimed at creating certainty, even if not all of that certainty was in my best interest (and usually in someone else’s).

Basically, I did my best to make it easier for everyone else (emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, socially).

While I do need to face my fear around financial insecurity (the reality is not that dire…yet), address my old ideas around money (oh, that’s a big one!), and sift through my limiting beliefs around self-sufficiency (I have a plan for a series about all this), I also want to recognize how many risks I have taken over the last two years. When my last job ended, once I surrendered my fear, I did not try to get a new, similar but different job. When I watched the balance in my savings account dip below a certain number, I made a new financial plan and pulled from my retirement account. And a month ago, when the right person appeared, I welcomed in a roomie to make extra income.

Yes, all of that is in service to my mission to bring more women’s stories told in their own voices to more people. It is also in service to who I am. And that has been the biggest risk I have been willing to take. To be who I am, not who I pretend to be or who I think I need to be for others to accept me.

I am not a fearful, rigid planner. I am a fearless free spirit with an innate sense of adventure who will talk to anyone, go anywhere and try most things at least once. Except olives. And mushrooms (of any kind).

Turns out, I am willing to risk it all to have me.

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Meals Out: Currently I am in Fairhope, AL on a week-long vacation, which means lots of meals out. But the one I want to highlight is the first one, the one I had on the way from the airport when we stopped at Bill-E’s for a burger (I got the slider version), and OMG, so worth it. 10 out of 10 recommend.

Listening (voice): No pods this week.

Listening (song most likely on repeat): Last week when I cruised around Manhattan, Only You by Yaz (or Yazoo depending on where you pull it up or where you live) randomly started playing on my car stereo by way of Apple Music. Immediately, I hit the repeat button and listened to it non-stop on my way back to Queens. It is such a classic and I am delighted it popped back onto my radar.

Watching: I got started on Margots Got Money Troubles on AppleTV, and I must say, I really enjoy it. While I can see some of the criticisms about how conflicts come up and are too easily resolved, I also feel that there are some dynamics being set up that will come to a less-buttoned-up head so I am reserving judgment, and allowing myself to enjoy the wonderful performances by Elle Fanning, Nick Offerman, Michele Pfeiffer, Thaddeus Graham, and the rest of the cast.

Most Hours Logged Doing: Been bopping all over Fairhope and its environs. Lots of chilling and beautiful sights, including a fabulous sunset. A much needed reset and rest (even if I am doing some work).

Tuesday Morning Meditation: 5.5.25

I am willing to risk it all and lose what I already have to gain the freedom that comes from trusting a Higher Power who has my best interest at heart (especially in those moments when I do not).

Is there a topic you would like me to write about in a Tuesday Tidings? Cover in a podcast episode? I am curious about what you’re curious about so leave a comment below or drop me line.

And, if you have a story you want to share, either as a written piece or as a guest on the podcast, please complete either one of these submission forms.

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“Prologue” (the story before the story) is excerpted from my completed, as-of-yet-unpublished memoir and provides context for all that I do. To read it, you need to be a paid subscriber. To help you make the leap, I have set up a 20% discount off of a one-year subscription (good through 7/31/26).

Not sure you want to commit? That’s cool. You can also claim a free trial (if you have not before), read it and then decide if you want to pay for a monthly or annual subscription. When you do, you will be able to read not only this post in full, but also other, longer memoir pieces already posted here and the new ones that I will post down the road.

And now, here is “Prologue.” (It a longer piece so, get comfy).

We pulled up to Garvin’s trailer in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. It was surrounded by equipment, out buildings and old pickup trucks. The cliff wall—jagged, craggy, and red—created a hard edge along one side of the valley.

With a copy of Robert Redford’s book The Outlaw Trail in his hand, my dad knocked on the door that was barely hanging on its hinges. I recognized Garvin when he opened the door. Even in real life, he was a true Western rancher, clad in denim jeans, denim shirt and cowboy boots.

My dad introduced himself. “Hi there, I’m Heinrich. This is my wife Elisabeth, my son Hans, and my daughter Hella. I read about you in The Outlaw Trail, and I know you gave Mr. Redford a tour of the Hole-in-the-Wall. I wanted to meet you and have you show us around, too.”

Garvin flashed a big, delighted smile. “Well, howdy! Come on in! Make yourselves at home.” Garvin waved us inside.

While we found places to sit among the stacks of paper, he cleared empty bottles and dirty plates from the table and offered us a beverage.

As soon as Garvin pulled up a chair, my dad asked him a million questions. Though older than when Mr. Redford met him, Garvin remained larger than life and feisty. He not only answered every single question, but he also regaled us with stories about the good old days, including the struggles to maintain the only life he loved. But I was more intrigued by my dad’s enrapt expression as I watched him soak up every word. I could feel my dad yearn for something that he was still missing.

As a kid growing up in Germany, my dad voraciously consumed westerns—books filled with stories about the American West. And, after reading Robert Redford’s book, my dad wanted to retrace the steps of those old-timey bandits he had read about. To do that, we were following parts of the Outlaw Trail for our three-week family driving tour of the western United States. My dad wanted to feel the spirit of the Wild Bunch, which included such notables as Butch Cassidy, Sundance Kid, and Jesse James, and see for himself what it meant to live that kind of free.

And that desire brought us to Garvin Taylor, whose trailer sat in the valley that was home to the main outlaw hideout, Hole-in-the-Wall, and adjacent to the Red Wall. My dad wanted to walk the land with the rancher who knew it best.

After what felt like hours, Garvin stood up and said, “Well, let’s go. Let’s go see the Hole-in-the-Wall.”

As soon as we all filed out of his trailer, Hans and I jumped into the bed of Garvin’s truck and my parents got into the cab with Garvin. We drove a short distance along a bumpy dirt road. When we came to a stop, we were at the base of a shrub and rock covered slope that reached to the top. And up there was the unmistakable red rock portion of the wall.

In awe of its majesty, I climbed out of the bed of the truck and stood still for a minute to take it all in. “Right up there,” Garvin gestured. “Walk up and you will hit it. You can’t miss it.”

Together, my parents, Hans, and I started the trek up the hill. Uneven and littered with loose rocks, it was not an easy path to the top and steeper than it looked from below. While Hans and I made swift progress, my mom and dad moved a lot slower. Their arms were interlocked, and it looked like my mom was helping my dad out. They were struggling, and I was worried about them. A clear sign that my dad was aging faster than his fifty-eight years would indicate, I wondered if I should help them out. But then I noticed Hans ahead of me. He was almost at the top and I wanted to keep up with him—maybe even try to best him. So, I turned back up hill and picked up the pace. When I got to the top, in second place, I bent over to catch my breath. With my hands on my knees, my hair in my face, and my legs heavy from the effort, I craned my head up. I was face to face with the Hole-in-the-Wall.

Only, it was not a hole but a small opening at the top that cut through the rock wall. Clearly visible from this side of the wall, I walked through it to the other side. From there, I looked across the plains below. For miles, in every direction, all I could see was the wide-open and unforgiving land. Breathtaking in its breadth and magnitude, I was awed by the fearlessness needed to cover that ground. From beneath my feet, a pulse of energy climbed up my legs. Drawn to move closer to the edge, I peered down. That’s when I gasped. On this side, the narrow path to the top was steep, covered in rocks and boulders, and infinitely more treacherous.

When approaching from this side, and at a distance, the entry point to the passage, the “hole in the wall,” was imperceptible. It was cloaked in an optical illusion that made the wall appear solid. But the outlaws knew about this sliver of open space in the rock through to the valley behind me and from which I had come. So, when they needed to escape the law, they rode across the plains of Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains towards this spot. And, as very experienced horseback riders, they made their way up that treacherous climb without getting off their horses. Once through the gap, they escaped to the other side of the wall and into the green, verdant valley behind me. By the time the law or sheriff’s posse caught up to them, it looked like they had vanished, and the outlaws had simply disappeared.

After all, there was no way through that solid red rock wall, right?

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