She texted me at 11pm on a Tuesday. “Is something wrong with me?”

She’d just gotten back from a dinner where someone asked her about her career—the VP title, the corner office, the team she built from scratch.

And when she opened her mouth to answer, she felt nothing.

Not pride. Not excitement. Just… nothing.

“I have everything I said I wanted,” she wrote. “So why do I feel like I’m suffocating?”

For months, she’d been waking up at 3am with this knot in her chest. Scrolling her phone. Googling things like “successful but unhappy” and then closing the tab before anyone could see.

She couldn’t tell anyone. Because how do you complain when you “have it all”?

How do you say you’re dying inside when everyone thinks you’re living the dream?

We started working together that week.

And about four months in, she said something I’ll never forget: “I spent so long chasing what I thought I wanted that I never stopped to ask if I actually wanted it.”

She didn’t blow up her life. She didn’t quit her job or move to Bali. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that!)

But she did start asking different questions. She started listening to the part of herself she’d been silencing with “I should be grateful.”

Last week, she sent me a voice note. She sounded… lighter. “I’m still figuring it out,” she said. “But at least now I’m asking the right questions.”

And it reminded me: Gratitude and grief can exist in the same breath.

You can be thankful for what you built and still mourn the woman you abandoned to build it.

What if the emptiness isn’t ingratitude? What if it’s your soul telling you there’s more—not more success, but more you?

Is it selfish to want something different? Is it ungrateful to question what you worked so hard for? Or is it the bravest thing you could possibly do?

Here’s what I know for certain: when a woman starts feeling guilty for not being happy, she’s not ungrateful.

She’s waking up.

You don’t owe anyone your silence just because your life looks good on paper.

Maybe it’s time to ask what you actually want—not what you think you should want.

That’s the work we do in Convergence. Six months. Small group. The kind of space where you can finally tell the truth about what’s not working—even when it “should” be enough.

No judgment. No fixing. Just you, remembering what lights you up.

If this one hit different, you already know.

Go here to reserve your seat by the fire.