That isn’t discipline. It’s self-terrorism.

For sixty years, we’ve been running on high-alert caretaking mode. Realizing you can finally stop rushing isn't just a relief—it’s a radical rebellion. Open this for a breath of fresh air.

No More Terrorizing Myself Into Getting There

Three weeks ago, I received a standard $175 deposit for a new painting. But the real story is my total lack of a reaction. The old version of me would have immediately spun out into a manic frenzy to prove I was on the ball. This time, I just sat there. For women who have been running on high-alert caretaking mode for sixty years, realizing you don’t have to rush anymore isn’t just a relief—it is a radical rebellion.

The money sat right there for three weeks. Not too long ago, urgency would have had me moving swiftly to get those funds into my checking account because there is always a need. Many of you may not know this, but a few years ago, I had to move with panicked urgency just to make ends meet. Yes, I am on Social Security, and heck, we all know that doesn’t even pay the rent. Yet here I am, experiencing a shift so crystal clear I cannot deny it—and it’s exactly the transformation I want you to claim for yourself.

PayPal needed updated banking information before the transfer could happen—a new card, entered information, a connected account, money moved. None of that was difficult, it simply wasn’t convenient at the time. So it didn’t happen. The money was safe, the transfer would happen eventually, and three weeks later, when it was convenient, it did.

There was a time when that kind of patience wouldn’t have been possible. There was a time when that $175 mattered so desperately that everything would have been dropped, the card hunted down, the information entered, and the money moved immediately. But it wasn’t only financial need driving that urgency; urgency was how everything got done. Fear did the driving—self-inflicted pressure, constant reminders of what could go wrong, and imagined disasters if something wasn’t handled immediately. Ordinary responsibilities turned into emergencies, with anxiety standing in as the project manager. A lot got done that way. Actually, some of my best paintings were created inside the container of urgent, terrorized fear. It also meant getting terrorized just to get there.

These days, a new project is underway—a book bringing together fifteen articles, fifteen paintings, and Cartoon Rosie ( me ), who talks to the reader between each piece. There are quite a few moving parts. The articles need rereading, with every call to subscribe stripped out. Decisions are piling up: what stays, what gets trimmed, and what no longer belongs. Somewhere out there is a printer capable of the kind of book imagined here—beautiful paper and art reproductions that can be removed and framed. A limited first edition is on the table, as are pre-sales, deposits, printing costs, packaging, photography, and new photographs for some of the T-shirts.

Christmas has crossed my mind more than once. So has the possibility of pricing the book at $150, because this isn't meant to be simply a collection of essays. The goal is a beautiful art object—a high-quality coffee table book of real value. I want it to be the kind of treasure someone opens and immediately thinks, oh my God, I have to have this. Something beautiful that you’ll want to leave out, flip through, and eagerly share with your friends and family.

The old version of this project would already be an emergency by now—a schedule made, deadlines invented, twelve printers researched, and money worried over, with my mind fully convinced the whole idea would vanish without immediate action. It would be something thrilling, turned terrifying.

Not this time. This project matters, and that is reason enough to trust it will get done. That is not procrastination, laziness, or blind faith. It isn’t sitting around hoping the universe finds a printer and mails over a box of finished books. It is steadfastness—staying connected to what matters without attacking anything into motion.

That shift is one of the greatest gifts of sitting with the soul. Hoping something important will happen is no longer necessary. Neither is pushing, forcing, chasing, or frightening it into existence.

There’s evidence now. Everything that has genuinely mattered has eventually gotten the attention it needed. The painting gets finished. The article gets written. The money gets transferred. The decision becomes clear. The next step presents itself, and gets taken. Not always immediately. But steadfastly. A kind of certainty exists now that wasn’t there before—not a certainty that everything unfolds exactly as first imagined, but a certainty that the right move will be clear when it’s time to make it.

For most of a lifetime, urgency masqueraded as responsibility. Pressure felt like caring. Anxiety felt like productivity. Frightening consequences into existence felt like the tax we had to pay for being women who could be counted on. How many of us have lived that exact way?

We return the phone call within the hour, because waiting a single day feels like negligence. The guilt shows up before the dishes are even dirty. We experience a total inability to sit down and rest until every last thing on the list has been crossed off—as though relaxing a second too soon might cause the whole house to collapse.

Let’s call it what it is: that isn’t discipline. That’s self-terrorism wearing discipline’s clothes.

What would happen if fear stopped being the thing dragging you toward the life you want? Money still matters. Finishing what gets started still matters. This book will still get produced, and the finished copy will end up in these hands. But there is no longer a whip standing behind any of it. What matters gets done—walked toward steadily, not chased down in a panic. Whatever you’re trying to get to will still get there. Terrorizing yourself was never actually required.

You might be wondering how a woman who ran on high-alert panic for sixty years suddenly found this kind of stillness. It came down to a radical daily habit. Multiple times a day, I sit with myself for just one or two minutes and breathe. I inhale for four counts, hold for four, and let out a long, slow exhale for six counts through my diaphragm.

This simple practice manually reset my body and marvelously removed all the anxiety I ever had. In those tiny moments of quiet, my inner guide finally had a chance to speak. I learned how to actually listen to my spirit, and I developed a deep trust in my own intuition. And that is exactly why I built my new guidebook, Building Believable Trust With Yourself. ( Paid subscribers can download a copy from the PERKS page )

You Spent a Lifetime Being Needed. Now What?

For decades, somebody needed something from you.

Children. Parents. Husbands. Jobs. Families. Responsibilities. Expectations.

Then one day, much of it gets quiet.

And instead of feeling free, you may find yourself standing in the middle of your own life thinking:

What the hell do I want now?

That fog is real.

So is the strange discomfort of having freedom after spending most of your life answering to everybody else.

This is the work we do here.

Not becoming a better version of the woman you were.

Remembering the woman underneath all that responsibility.

If you are ready to stop asking for permission, hear your own voice again, and begin building a life that actually belongs to you, join us as a paid subscriber.

For this chapter of The Daily RE-Wire, I’m offering 20% off paid membership.

Your membership includes the guidebook Building Believable Trust With Yourself, behind-the-scenes access to the art book I’m creating, and our private community of women over 60 who are figuring out what comes next.

You are not done. You may simply be done living according to everybody else’s instructions.

And if something in this piece made you pause, nod, or feel a little less alone — please give it a heart before you go. That one small tap tells the algorithm this conversation matters. It puts these words in front of another woman who needs to hear them today. She's out there. Help me find her.