What I know so far about readiness

Someone said to me recently, “You’re calling in readyish clients because that’s your relationship with readiness.”

It caught me off guard. Not because it hurt, but because it was true in a way I hadn’t looked at yet.

I’ve always been someone who jumps. I take the leap, say a quick prayer (one that would definitely not make it into a church bulletin), and figure it out midair. That approach has taken me to places I’m proud of and a few I’d never choose again. It’s not easy to raise or love a person like that. My favorites have had to hold their breath through more than one free fall.

Honestly, as I write this, I can see how much that was their quiet way of loving me. They watched me take off without a map, held their breath when I disappeared into the free fall, and still picked up when I called mid-crash. Some of them tried to stop me, and probably talked a little bit of shit, but they also knew I was going to be me. They just stayed close, kept a sense of humor about it, and loved me anyway. Not many love stories like that get the credit they deserve, but they’re some of the most beautiful ones I know.

Lately my relationship with readiness has been shifting.
I still move quickly but I’m trying to bring more awareness to it. There’s more pause now, not polished or perfect, just deliberate. Box breathing looks great on paper, but my version is more like coming up from the deep end or halfway through a hyperventilation. Whatever works. The point is, I’m learning to create space before I move, not to look calm, but to actually choose.

I still trust the leap, but I’m noticing when it feels like impulse instead of intuition. I’m experimenting with slowing down, letting clarity build before I go. It’s a work in progress.

Readiness isn’t a single moment. It moves. It cycles. Sometimes it starts as a spark. Something in you lights up even if you don’t understand why. It’s a body thing before it’s a plan, a nudge, an internal yes that doesn’t have evidence yet.

Then comes the stir. The mind kicks in, asking all the questions - how, where, when, what if. This is the messy part. The heart races, your stomach flips, your brain starts running numbers and escape routes. It’s not a no. It’s just your system trying to keep you safe while something in you expands. Then, if you let it, and I know it’s scary as hell, there’s a settling. You breathe. You wait without withdrawing. You build the capacity to hold the unknown without trying to control it.

And then comes the step. The move. Not perfect, not proven, just next. Sometimes it looks graceful, like you just slid into the rhythm of a song you somehow already knew. Other times it’s more like Elaine Benes, all arms, knees, and unbothered confidence. Either way, you’re movin'. The cycle repeats every time you grow. And when you let it, you grow in ways that are honest and true to you. That’s the magic. That’s the “okay girl” moment, the one that’s quiet but undeniable.

I never thought readiness meant certainty. For me, it was always about the details, thinking they mattered more than they did, confusing preparation with alignment. Now I think readiness is capacity. The ability to stay steady in motion. To move before you have every answer. To trust that you can handle what comes, not control it.

So if you’re in a readyish place, you’re not behind. You’re just somewhere inside the cycle. The work is recognizing where you are and moving from there, not from pressure.

Thank yourself for that. Thank your favorites for holding their breath while you figure it out. Say a little prayer, whatever that looks like for you. My grandmother always told me, “A prayer’s a prayer, Nickie. God’s fine with how you talk to Him.”

And if any of this sounds familiar, maybe it gives you language for something you’ve been living without words.
Or maybe it helps you see one of your favorites more clearly, to love them through their own kind of readiness the spark, the stir, the free fall, the figuring it out midair.
Either way, it’s a beautiful kind of love story, and one you’ll be proud to have been included in.

See you in midair, 

nad