Spring Cleaning the Soul, Part Two:

The Death of Pollyanna

Prim and Proper Pollyanna

Nobody really talks about this part.

We talk about decluttering closets. We talk about letting go of old habits. We talk about downsizing houses, careers, relationships.

But we almost never talk about the quiet, unsettling moment when you realize the thing that no longer fits isn’t a thing at all.

It’s you.

Or rather, a version of you.

An old self that once made sense. Once kept you safe. Once helped you survive, belong, perform, or endure.

And now just sits there. Heavy. Ill-fitting. Taking up space.

Her name was Pollyanna.

And for most of my life, she kept a roof over my head.

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The Woman Who Managed Everything

Pollyanna moved through the world with fierce grit and determination, deploying southern belle charm when necessary.

She said yes to everything.

Hosted fancy dinner parties. Threw Christmas gatherings. Welcomed new church members for tea. Made the preacher look good. Sponsored the youth groups. Sang in the choir.

Later, she managed the concert pianist’s entire life—picked up his tuxedos at the dry cleaners, organized 700 books of sheet music, arranged for other musicians to work with him, wrote press releases, booked studio time for rehearsal and recording.

She was useful. Agreeable. Smooth.

And I needed her.

Because without her, I believed I would become impoverished. Homeless. Lost.

Pollyanna wasn’t my personality. She was my survival strategy.

And she worked. Until she didn’t.

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The Moment I Knew

It started with a life coach.

For two years, I paid her. Showed up. Listened. Did the work.

But something began to shift in me. I was building enough strength in my relationship with my own soul that I could feel it—the things she was urging me to do weren’t helping me grow.

They were keeping me in a loop.

She kept redefining the purpose of our work together. Changing focus. Finding new ways to say the same thing: You need to trust the universe.

And I realized: she needed me dependent so I’d keep paying her.

The fury hit me in my chest. Tight. Hot.

I went home, hit my pillow, and screamed into it.

Then I never responded to her messages again.

No formal goodbye. No explanation. I just stopped.

Because I didn’t owe her another minute of my time. Especially not a reason.

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What I Stopped Doing

After I walked away from the life coach, I made a decision.

I was going to stop being agreeable with everyone and everything.

I spent weeks learning how to disagree with someone without losing my temper. I watched workshops and video lectures on boundaries and self-improvement. I shut myself off from everyone and everything.

I stopped attending art shows. I stopped being useful. I kept to myself.

And for the first time in my life, it felt right.

I remember thinking: Oh. So this is what normal feels like.

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Not everyone liked it.

When I moved to Lynchburg four years ago, I tried to fit in with the local art clubs. I was the new kid in town, eager to make friends.

I deployed the Pollyanna energy—charming, helpful, agreeable.

And it failed.

I couldn’t get along with tepid-thinking women who viewed making art as a hobby when I saw it as the very breath of life. Every meeting was the same: someone else’s idea of what the art market should be, but no one willing to take steps to develop it.

I’m a marketer. I knew what I could do to help. But the response was always the same: “We’ve never done that before. We can’t do that.”

Just like the churches.

So I turned in my keys, asked for my membership dues back, and never looked back. I put “ POLLYANNA” away for good.

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My daughter noticed, too.

She didn’t like the new version of me. I wasn’t malleable anymore. I couldn’t be easily manipulated.

She’d say: “Mom, what’s happened to you? I want my old mom back.”

I didn’t give her the old mom back. She’s fine. We have a good relationhip now with mutual respect. Turned out she never respected the “ old mom”. Go figure.

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The Disorientation

Here’s what I didn’t expect:

Letting Pollyanna go wasn’t grief. It was relief.

I didn’t mourn her. Not once.

But I did feel disoriented. I had to learn how to be me without any obligations to other people or events. Without a script. Without someone else’s needs organizing my day.

There were moments when the old energy tried to reassert herself—usually in social situations, dinners with friends, moments when I could feel myself getting prim and proper, my voice slipping back into that charming southern belle cadence.

But I catch it now.

I feel it in my body. And I tell her: No. I’ve got control now.

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The New Furniture

By the time Pollyanna truly faded, I’d already been forced to figure out life on my own.

There was no time for fear. I just had to step up and manage my life—including earning a living.

I sold my art. I sold my car. I sold most of my jewelry. Everything I had of monetary value, I sold.

And then I started buying things that were mine.

Not inherited. Not handed down. Not chosen by a husband.

Mine.

The first thing I bought was a bed. A lovely daybed with a beautiful powder blue headboard.

It was exciting. And frustrating—because it took time out of my day to have the handyman come put it together. I loathe interruptions to my day.

But it was mine.

Then I got rid of everything else.

The old stale bookcases. The couch and matching loveseat. The area rugs. The china collection. The clock collection. My dad’s old books.

All of it—gone.

When I look at my home now, 100% of it is mine. Chosen by me, for me, because I wanted it.

Including a new friggin’ TV.

What I Know Now

Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:

Old selves do not leave because you tell them to. They leave when you stop feeding them.

Most of us keep old selves alive out of habit, not truth.

The “responsible one.” The “nice one.” The “strong one.” The “productive one.” The one who knows how to hold it together no matter what.

You don’t wake up one day and dramatically renounce them.

You simply stop waking up to serve them.

You stop saying yes when you mean no.
You stop performing happiness for an audience that doesn’t exist.
You stop being useful to people who don’t actually care about you.
You stop managing other people’s lives so you don’t have to look at your own.

And when you stop feeding her, she fades.

Not with fanfare. Not with ceremony.

She just... goes.

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The Question You’re Afraid to Ask

If you’re reading this and feeling a strange mix of recognition and terror, here’s what you need to hear:

You are not becoming less. You are becoming truer.

Spring cleaning the soul is not about self-improvement. It’s about self-honesty.

It’s about noticing what you keep doing out of loyalty to a past version of yourself who no longer needs to run the show.

The question is not: Who do I want to be now?

The better question is: Who am I still being out of habit?

What are you still saying yes to because she would have?
What are you still performing because she believed it kept you safe?
What are you still tolerating because she thought she had no choice?

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I’ll tell you what happens to women who keep being Pollyanna long after they’ve stopped needing her.

I see it in their eyes. A timid energy. Curiosity just below the surface—but never quite breaking through.

They know something’s off. They can feel the old self doesn’t fit anymore.

But they don’t let her go. Because letting her go feels like free fall.

Who am I if I’m not her?

Here’s what I discovered:

I am self-sufficient. Loaded with intelligence. I have soul intelligence.

And I am actually a pretty good woman.

Those are things I didn’t know I was capable of. Things I didn’t know I was allowed to want.

But I couldn’t discover them while I was still being Pollyanna.

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The Invitation

If something in you is loosening right now, trust it.

If you feel a strange mix of relief and disorientation, that’s normal.

If you sense space opening where certainty used to live, you’re right on time.

This is not a breakdown. It’s a seasonal shift.

Old selves fade when they’re no longer useful. They don’t need to be shamed, analyzed, or healed to death.

They need to be thanked—if you want to.

And then gently set down.

Or not gently. However it needs to happen.

Because here’s the truth I wish someone had told me earlier:

The version of you that kept you alive then is not the version of you that will let you thrive now.

And you don’t owe her another single day.

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If Pollyanna just whispered your name while reading this—if you recognized her in your own life—then you’re ready for what comes next.

This isn’t just an essay. It’s a doorway.

And on the other side? A full year of daily truth-telling that will help you stop performing and start living as yourself.

Right now through February 7th, I’m offering 20% off annual subscriptions to The Daily RE-WIRE—plus immediate access to my BREAKTHROUGH guide.

But here’s what most people don’t know:

Every Tuesday at 7 PM, I host live BREAKTHROUGH workshops for paid subscribers.

Not webinars. Not lectures. Not me talking at you.

Real conversations. Real women. Real work happening in real time.

We gather—usually 15-20 of us—and we do the thing most women have never been taught to do: we tell the truth about who we’re still being out of habit, and we help each other let her go.

We have a chair waiting for you.

Here’s what you get with an annual subscription:

• 365 days of essays like this one—raw, real, unfiltered

• Immediate access to the BREAKTHROUGH guide

• Live Tuesday workshops at 7 PM EST (recordings available if you can’t make it live)

• The full archive of everything I’ve written

• Direct access to me via DM when you need guidance

• A community of women who’ve stopped performing and started living

This isn’t about adding more to your life. It’s about finally setting down what was never yours to carry.

Pollyanna kept you safe. But she’s not who you are anymore.

And the woman you’re becoming? She needs support. She needs witnesses. She needs other women who get it.

She needs a chair at the table.

After you have become a paid subscriber send me a message including your eamil. I will send the pdf of BREAKGTHROUGH to your email. Totally private.

We meet every Tuesday. The work is real. The women are extraordinary.

And yes—there’s room for you.

—Monica

P.S. If you’re still on the fence, ask yourself: How much longer are you willing to be her? The version who says yes when she means no? The one who performs instead of lives? That’s your answer.

Next: Part Three - What Grows in the Space She Leaves Behind