I've Been in My Pajamas for Four Days. A Year Ago, That Would Have Terrified Me.

Not in some dramatic, throw-the-curtains-closed kind of way. Just… unbothered. Unmoved. And sometime around day four, I heard a voice in my head say: Are you depressed?

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Sitting at My Desk in My PJs

I’ve been in my pajamas for four days.

Not in some dramatic, throw-the-curtains-closed kind of way.

Just… unbothered. Unmoved.

No real reason to get dressed, so I didn’t.

I know not everyone can do this.

Some of you are still in the thick of it—working, caretaking, showing up for everyone but yourself.

But what I’m really talking about isn’t the pajamas.

It’s the permission.

The belief that when you do have space—even just an hour, even just a Sunday morning—you’re allowed to use it however you need.

I swept the floors. I made the bed. I fixed meals. I stripped the sheets.

I answered a few messages.

I lived. Just… softly.

And sometime around day four, I heard this voice in my head say:

Are you depressed?

And without thinking, I answered back:

No. I’m listening.

A year ago, I would’ve been appalled.

Four days in pajamas? Not leaving the building? No makeup, no earrings, no structure?

I’d have called it lazy. I’d have called it dangerous.

I’d have spun it as a personal failing.

But today?

Today I can sit in this quiet, undone rhythm and feel something I never felt before:

Satisfaction. Peace. Regulated stillness.

Not because I gave up.

But because I finally stopped running.

I thought maybe it was Minnesota. Maybe it was the cold. The fatigue.

But the numbness was there before the snow.

It took me a minute, but now I remember.

When I was 28, I became the 17th highest-selling Tupperware rep in the entire country.

I was given a car. Furniture. Bonuses. Awards.

I stood in a room full of people and got celebrated.

And exactly one month later, I turned it all back in.

I quit. I walked away.

No one could believe it.

But I could.

Because what no one saw was the ache I felt once the mountain had been climbed. Once the reward didn’t feel like it had anything to do with me anymore.

That’s the feeling I’ve had this week.

I hit the goals. I have more than I asked for in the bank. The fire I lit caught, spread, and turned into something real.

And then my soul said:

Okay. But now what?

I’ve spent the last year discovering something no one ever taught me:

That the possibilities inside me weren’t gone. They weren’t buried.

They were just quiet.

And I had never been still enough to hear them.

Writing—daily writing—became my tool.

Not the kind I used to do for my Facebook art business, where I wrote to match the paintings or offer a story.

This was different.

This was survival-meets-soul.

Because when I started this Substack, my back was against the wall.

I had no car. No steady income.

No plan beyond don’t let yourself disappear.

My choices felt stark:

Take a job I didn’t want for $13 an hour…

Or bet on what was whispering beneath the noise.

Even then—when I wasn’t fully tuned to my own soul—I knew:

That wasn’t the answer. That wasn’t my path.

And so I began.

I began writing, yes.

But I also began listening.

And what I heard reshaped my entire life.

I learned what it means to regulate my nervous system.

I didn’t even know what that meant a year ago.

But I built a daily practice that changed everything.

Every hour, on the hour, one minute of stillness. Of presence. Of listening.

I learned to say no to people who wanted access to me without intimacy.

To neighbors who praised my “business mind” and wanted meetings, plans, collaborations.

And I tried. I did. I spent months showing up for everyone else’s vision.

But every time, I heard that inner whisper:

I just want to write.

It took a while.

I’m not proud of how long it took. But I’m not mad about it either.

Because eventually—I chose me.

And this community? This publication?

This is the proof of what happens when a woman chooses herself over expectation.

It’s not just a newsletter anymore.

It’s the glimmer of a movement.

I see it in the comments, in the chat, in the way you speak to one another.

There’s a warmth here. A resonance. A gathering.

And here’s what I’m watching happen inside the paid space:

Women starting Joy Ledgers and realizing joy isn’t just gratitude repackaged—it’s a frequency you can track and amplify.

Women recognizing Convenient You in themselves and choosing differently for the first time in decades.

Women sharing their glimmers in the chat—not performing, just naming:

“I said no without explaining.”

“I stayed in my pajamas and didn’t feel guilty.”

“I booked the trip.”

And other women replying: “Me too. Here’s what helped me.”

That’s the difference between reading about transformation and living it with others who get it.

Not just my voice.

Your voices. Together.

I’m not here to chase another $10,000.

I’m not here to scale. To strategize. To outdo what I did last month.

I’m here to love you.

With words. With stories. With real truth told in real time.

Not because I have to. But because it’s how I breathe.

It’s how I know I’m alive.

So if you’ve felt the shift lately—the pause, the quiet, the space between—

Know this:

I wasn’t stuck.

I was remembering.

I was making a new agreement.

I’m not here to prove anything anymore.

I’m here to build something that helps you remember you.

And I already know the way in.

It started not with a plan—

But with a choice.

A choice to listen.

So yes, I’ve been in my pajamas for four days.

And it’s not a symptom. It’s a signal.

That I’m no longer performing for value.

That I’m no longer afraid of stillness.

That I’ve built a life spacious enough to pause inside.

I didn’t expect this.

Not this quiet. Not this pace.

Not this odd, weightless in-between where I’m not chasing anything, not avoiding anything…

Just being.

But I think I know what it is.

It’s me, finally arriving in the space I’ve been creating for the past year.

The space I used to write my way toward—one post at a time, one breath at a time—

Hoping I’d eventually land somewhere that felt like home.

And now I look around and wonder what comes next.

I don’t have a 10-step plan.

I don’t have a burning desire to launch, build, climb, conquer.

But I have this steady hum in my chest that says:

More is possible.

But only if you’re willing to sit here long enough to hear what your soul says next.

And that?

That’s what I really want to offer you.

Not a mug. Not a milestone.

A practice.

One hour a week. Just you and your soul.

No plan. No productivity. No performance.

Just listening.

Because that’s where the next chapter begins.

Not in the doing. Not in the planning.

In the stillness. In the listening. In the space between what you’ve been and what you’re becoming.

You can change your mind.

You can want more. You can want less.

You can be in your pajamas for four days and still be in your becoming.

There is no absolute.

There’s just this moment.

And what you choose to do with it.

xo,
Monica

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P.S.

If you’ve been reading quietly and these words keep finding you when you need them—this is your invitation.

Not to a sale. Not to urgency.

Just to the space we’re building together.

30% off annual subscriptions through January 17 + a “We Don’t Retire, We Rewire” mug.

This discount ends January 17.

But more than that—this is the anniversary.

The moment where we mark one year of women choosing themselves. Of women stopping the performance. Of women reclaiming what was buried.

And I want you to be part of what comes next.

Not as a spectator.

As a participant.

Because this life you’re building?

It deserves to sit at your table too.

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