Last night I did something that when initially envisioned, scared the living shit out of me. And I did it with grace, ease and zeal and authenticity. No one tells you how scary it is to share your truth, your journey and the path with which you have walked.

Sure it’s easy to elucidate emotional realities through art - it’s what my life’s passion is. To capture the singular effect that is “anger” or “joy” or “passion”. It’s easy. But baring yourself - like unhinging your ribs apart and letting yourself bleed all over the furniture. It sounds poetic and is. But you live it and part of it stings. Burns up your core and incinerates the lies you tell yourself to keep yourself subtle, sane and small.

Honesty is beautiful. It’s real. Visceral, a word I use often and alive. The exaltation is not without work. In other words, you don’t get to make it to the top of the mountain without getting scraped. And maybe this journey will pick at old scabs and tender, blue bruises that never fully healed. We climb, anyways.

There’s a reason why intrepidness isn’t just a brand, but a way of life. It’s more than just a title, it is my swan song. The tune I sing as I climb the ladder of Being. And last night, smiling and laughing among friends, it dawned on me that the view from the mountain top is without a doubt, worth the climb to get here.