The Current Climate

After a four-hour drive across the great state of Florida, I’m now sitting in a hotel room with my friend. We’re here to see Nine Inch Nails in Tampa tomorrow—a trip we planned way back at the beginning of the year. The kind of thing you set on the calendar in January just to give Future You something to look forward to. A breadcrumb on the trail.

We just got back from dinner—technically lunch-slash-dinner—at Don Julio’s, a Mexican restaurant that knows what it’s doing. The food was great. Flavorful, fresh, generous. But the conversation? It was heavy. The kind of heavy that weighs down your chest and sticks to your clothes after you leave the table. Doom-scrolling-level heavy, but in real life.

It was the kind of “current state of the world” talk that circles the same drain: capitalism is rotting, the climate is toast, nobody’s honest anymore, and it’s all probably too far gone. That sort of hopeless, self-reinforcing feedback loop that sounds more like a sigh than a strategy.

Every time I asked, “Okay… so what do you think we do about it? What’s your move? What’s the vision?”—silence. Or jokes. Or vague references to living off-grid in a cabin somewhere with chickens and no Wi-Fi.

And look, I get it. I really do. There’s a certain seductive comfort in declaring everything broken and washing your hands of the whole thing. It feels righteous. It feels correct. And if you just read headlines or scroll long enough, you’ll start to believe that being deeply pessimistic is somehow a form of intelligence.

But I remember something Erick Godsey said in one of the last Mentally Fit classes: “Pessimists don’t change the world.”

And they don’t. Because pessimism is an endpoint. A cul-de-sac. It’s resignation dressed up as insight. It takes zero courage to say, “Everything’s fucked.” It takes a lot of courage to say, “Things are hard—and I’m still choosing to show up and shape something better.”

The world doesn’t need more pundits of the apocalypse. It needs builders. Listeners. Artists. People who are willing to stay awake and stay honest—especially when it’s hard.

The Parade

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately: the energy it takes to complain is almost always energy stolen from the act of creation. From showing up. From making anything.

And I’m just not interested in pissing on everyone else’s parade.

You know what I mean? If you see someone trying—really trying—to make something, change something, share something, build something… don’t show up just to critique from the sidelines like it’s safer not to care.

That energy wrecks people. It wrecks you. And it’s not helping.

There’s no use crying over spilled milk. The question is:

How are you going to clean it up?

And what are you going to do differently so you don’t spill it again?

Otherwise, all you’re doing is crying over milk you’re not even planning to drink.

Resistance, in Disguise

Speaking of spilled milk and misdirected energy… I haven’t written a newsletter in two weeks.

Why?

Honestly? I don’t know.

The task feels daunting. My energy feels pulled in ten directions. And the inner parts of me that usually rally behind a mission or a message are… gridlocked. Like a tug-of-war in a mud pit.

Just writing that sentence sent me straight to a 20-minute scroll session on Instagram. DM’s to check. Memes to half-smile at. Posts to compare myself to. You know the drill.

Something is stealing my focus. Something is pulling my awareness just outside of arm’s reach.

And I’ve been wondering lately:

Is it my diet?

Is it just a lack of discipline?

Am I depressed? Or just understimulated?

Am I uninspired? Or is my soul trying to tell me something?

Am I protecting myself from a hard truth?

Because that’s what resistance is, right? It’s a fire alarm going off before you even open the door.

And sometimes that alarm is helpful. It’s guarding you from burnout, from misalignment, from doing what your soul isn’t here to do.

But other times, it’s just fear. Fear wearing different hats—laziness, perfectionism, overthinking, fatigue.

And it’s hard to tell the difference when you’re in it.

The Shallow Water of Lies

Even my morning pages have been off.

You know that feeling when you’re writing but it’s shallow? Like you’re skimming the surface of your own psyche, avoiding the real stuff? That’s been me. Writing as a kind of avoidance. Journal entries that sound more like summaries than truth.

And here’s the thing I keep coming back to:

If you can’t be honest with yourself, you can’t be honest with anyone else.

So where is the lie? Where is the dishonesty?

It’s subtle. But it’s there. Maybe it’s in the performance. Or the pressure to be "inspiring" instead of just being real. Maybe it’s in how I’m posturing for some invisible audience in my head—one that I imagine will either validate or reject me based on how palatable or "healed" I sound.

But life’s not a TED Talk.

And we’re not here to curate the clean version of the truth—we’re here to tell it, live it, even when it’s messy.

The Trickier Adversary

One thing I’ve learned the hard way:

The higher levels you reach, the trickier the adversary gets.

In the beginning, resistance looks like procrastination. Or self-doubt. Or just not knowing where to start.

But later? It looks like everything else.

The busywork. The self-improvement addiction. The endless optimization. The fear of being misunderstood. The brand. The audience. The “what if they don’t like it?”

It’s sneakier now. It wears better clothes.

But it’s still fear. Still ego. Still resistance.

And the only antidote I’ve found is:

To tell the truth.

Even when it’s half-formed.

Even when it’s still messy.

Even when it’s “just a newsletter.”

And Maybe That’s the Point

Maybe writing this is the act of resistance.

Maybe sitting down and bleeding honestly into a keyboard is its own kind of protest. Against numbness. Against distraction. Against the false self that wants to keep everything controlled and un-risky.

Maybe this is how I get back into alignment—not with a 10-step plan or a new productivity system, but just by… telling the truth. Letting it take up space.

Maybe that’s what we’re all trying to do:

Tell the truth.

Live in alignment.

Follow some personal North Star that doesn’t always show up on Google Maps.

And maybe you’re here, reading this, because you’re doing the same.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a perfect answer. But if you can get honest with yourself—even a little bit—you’re already changing the game.

Pessimists don’t change the world.

But people who choose to be honest in the face of despair?

People who still show up, even when they’re tired, unsure, or scared?

Those are the ones who do.

See you next week.

If not sooner.

—BIG Love,

Leah

P.S. If you’re feeling stuck, out of alignment, or just in a weird fog, I get it. I work with people one-on-one to help navigate exactly that—resistance, clarity, purpose, and staying connected to your inner compass. If that’s something you’re craving, click here to book a session or just reply to this email and say “I’m in.” We’ll go from there.

✧ Clarity Call: Shedding the Skin ✧

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