Seasoned, Not Done: The Art of Trusting What You Know

I was never the academic type. School felt too rigid—sit, copy, pass. My brain’s always learned by doing: sensing, connecting dots, spotting patterns before they appear. I act on instinct, not theory. I can’t always explain why something will work; I just know it will. And most of the time, it does.

I’ve worked since I was fourteen—hospitality, cleaning, maintenance, e-commerce, real estate, marketing. I’ve held every role from the bottom up. From the outside, that looks like strength. On the inside, it’s also weight. People see resilience and assume it doesn’t cost you anything. They forget that being able to carry pain doesn’t make it lighter.

I’ve spent years fixing things—businesses, ideas, people. I lift what’s heavy, I smooth what’s broken. Often they walk away steadier, and I’m left a little emptier. I don’t resent it; I’ve just learned that courage and responsibility often share the same spine.

Now, freedom means more than it used to. I still take risks, but they’re on my terms. I want to work with people I enjoy, not just those who pay. I want mornings with ideas, evenings by the sea, and time to actually listen to life happening around me. I want to make a difference because it matters, not just because it pays the bills.

At fifty-three, I’ve probably got another twenty good years of building and creating. But I don’t want to spend them repeating old patterns. The next phase isn’t about doing more; it’s about choosing better. Meaning over motion. Depth over noise.

Call it intuition. Call it experience disguised as instinct. Either way, I trust it now. It’s how I’ve always found my way—and I’m not done yet.