Coming Home to Myself:From Survival to Self-Trust

How a two year "sabbatical" saved me

Coming Home to Myself: From Survival to Self-Trust
How a two-year “sabbatical” saved me

I’m realizing now that I’ve had to go to extremes to truly know my own truth—to strip everything down, turn the volume off on the outside world, and finally tune into me.

At first, I thought my 2016 solo sailing adventure across the Pacific to Hawaii was the breakthrough. I even made a documentary about it called Journey Back to Myself. And yes—it was HUGE. It showed me how strong I was on my own, without the noise, the input, or the energy of anyone else. That journey taught me to trust myself in a way nothing else ever had. It changed me and reminded me of my own inner strength.

But now I can see it was only the beginning. Just the crack in the doorway to the healing and growth I was longing for. A first glimpse of what real transformation would actually ask of me.

Let me explain.

Two years ago, I left LA. I left my partner, my friends, my community. I moved to Northern California in search of peace. It wasn’t a dramatic exit—it was quiet and subtle. I knew that I needed it because I was unraveling. I needed space—emotional, physical, all of it. I felt like I was disappearing and drowning and I needed a way to come up for air. I didn’t leave to escape. I left because I was stretched dangerously thin. Something in me said: step away, or you won’t be okay. I listened.

Now, with my time up north almost in the rearview, I can see it more clearly: I’ve spent so much of my life tuned in to everyone else. Fawning. Adapting. Shape-shifting. Reading the room like it was my job—before I even thought to check in with myself. That’s how I kept myself safe. I stayed one step ahead of other people’s moods, reactions, and expectations. But in doing that, I abandoned myself over and over again—and didn’t even realize I was doing it.

The truth is, I didn’t know who I was without all that. Without the reflections and needs of others shaping me.

So I stepped away into much needed solitude and quiet.

Singlehanded sailing was my first glimpse of freedom from fawning. It was the first place I felt what real space in my body even was. Being alone on my boat, without anyone else’s energy to track, was a kind of freedom I hadn’t known before. My sailboat isn’t just a boat—she’s my sanctuary. My floating nervous system reset. The moment I step aboard, my shoulders drop. I feel like me. No performing. No shrinking. No apologizing. Just me, as I am. On her trusty deck, I can finally exhale.

So, for years, solo sailing was my go-to reset-my escape even.
But when my health took a turn, I was forced to listen and do things differently.

Starting in 2019, my body began sending loud messages that I needed to slow down and listen. I’d been overriding those signals for so long that surrender didn’t come easily—but eventually, it became impossible to ignore.

First came the aftermath of menopause—which nearly wrecked me. Debilitating joint pain, severe depression, and a host of other symptoms left me feeling like a stranger in my own body. Then in 2021, lingering COVID symptoms took over and lasted for what seemed like forever.

In 2022, I sustained a concussion while sailing that turned into post-concussion syndrome—months of debilitating symptoms with lingering effects. I couldn’t work, couldn’t drive, couldn’t even manage basic logistics without triggering severe vertigo. My brain just wasn’t functioning normally.

And just as I started to come out of that fog, in 2023, I was diagnosed with a rare, life-threatening stomach condition. It was terrifying. Thankfully, with the right diagnosis and medication, I was able to bounce back—but it shook me to my core.

Between the fatigue, joint pain, constant dizziness and balance issues—and the total loss of physical strength from being so sick—solo sailing, and honestly sailing at all, was off the table for a long time. even though I desperately wanted and needed it.

That’s when it became apparent to me that sailing couldn’t be the only way I accessed solitude and inner strength. I needed more than that. Deep down, I knew I had to step away from the constant pull of relationships and responsibilities to really recalibrate. I needed quiet in which to hear my own voice. To figure out who I was when I wasn’t over-achieving, caretaking or managing everyone else’s energy.

And because I couldn’t sail, I was forced to find that sense of freedom and strength in a new way. I had to create that same feeling of spaciousness within myself—not just out on the water, but while living on my own, in relationship with myself, and not surrounded by other people.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was being called to unravel a lifetime of survival strategies. I had to step away from everything familiar just to begin seeing the impact of these protectors. And honestly, I don’t think I fully understood the magnitude of what I was doing back then. It’s only now, looking back, that I can really see it for what it was.

So, I stopped pushing. I slowed all the way down. I stepped out of the noise of my life and gave myself permission to go inward. Up north, I didn’t have my usual distractions—no full social calendar, no constant asks to volunteer, no pressure to show up a certain way for the community I love. All of that fell away. And in the quiet, I started to find myself.

Sailing to Hawaii alone was a huge act of self-trust. It was big and bold. It taught me I could count on myself when no one else was around. But these last two years, living alone in a new place? That’s been a whole different kind of journey. Not glamorous. or even visible- and way more confronting.

Because trusting myself out there, in solitude, was one thing. That kind of trust is easier when it’s just me and the ocean—no one else’s energy to navigate, no emotional entanglements to manage.

But learning to trust myself in here—in the stillness, without the distractions of a busy life, without the roles and relationships that once defined me—meant facing what was underneath. And what was underneath was this: the fear that if someone gets too close, I’ll lose myself. That I’ll disappear. That I won’t know where I end and they begin.

Being truly alone stripped away the noise—and with it, the protective patterns. It made space for the fears and true feelings to surface. And that’s when the real work began.

I grew up in a family culture with a lot of unspoken rules—where being “too much” could cost you connection or approval. The message was: keep things comfortable, keep things contained. Especially for the person at the center of it all—my larger-than-life dad. I learned early that if my bigness, my opinions, or my emotions didn’t serve the dynamic, they were NOT welcome.

So I got good at staying small and fitting in. At massaging my experiences and emotions into something “acceptable.” I became a master at earning belonging and approval by keeping things smooth. Disappearing in plain sight—while looking confident and “together” on the outside.

Even when I tried to tell the truth, I shaped it to be easier for others to hear.

For example, during the absolute shit show of menopause—when everything in my body and mind felt like a foreign land—I started making raw, unfiltered videos. Usually right after a walk, still sweaty, no filter, no makeup. Just me, trying to hold onto something real. I shared the videos publicly because I wanted others going through this painful, confusing time to know they weren’t alone.

In one of those videos, I spontaneously—and finally—said it out loud: I was sexually abused by a family member for many years, starting when I was five years old.

I didn’t name him. I still won’t (not for his sake, but for his children). But even that level of truth was too much for some. I got messages. Family members upset. “It’s too close to home.” “What will people think?”

It wasn’t their story. But they made it about them anyway. And it was painfully familiar.

So I did what I’ve always done. I shrank. I spiraled into shame. I took the videos down. I made myself small to keep the peace.

Looking back now, I see it clearly: even in my most “brave” moments, I was still fawning. Still checking the room before checking in with myself. Still shaping my truth to make it easier for others—more comfortable for them than honest for me. Still carrying that deep, old fear of annihilation just for expressing my truth.

But not anymore. I see it now. And just seeing it shifts something.

The shame still comes up and so does the fear..big time. The part of me that wants to backpedal or apologize or smooth things over is still fighting for control. But I can recognize it now. I can name it. That’s old wiring, and I finally know that it does not have to rule me anymore.

What I want now is simple: to be fully myself without needing to be liked or approved of. Without needing to be digestible. I want to be seen in my real truth—not the tidy version, the one that makes it easier for everyone else to hear or the palatable version crafted for someone else’s emotional comfort.

And I’m doing this not just for little Margie, but for anyone who needs to be seen, believed, and supported in their truth. For despite resistance from some close people, I KNOW that sharing our stories in an honest way makes a difference in the world.

So, I’m learning how to live that way—with the people closest to me, and even here, in public, through my writing. And I’ll be honest, it’s scary as hell. Some days it feels like standing naked on a stage in front of a silent judgy crowd.

But then there are days—like today—when I can feel the ground beneath me. When I can feel my own inner strength and a deep, embodied sense of entitlement to my feelings and experiences. Days when I remember why telling the truth matters—not just for me, but for all of us.

And I remember that I am safe and I am okay, and that I can trust myself!

And now, with that feeling as my anchor, I’m ready to go back to LA.
Back to my life.
Back to my boyfriend.
Back to my community.

Not as the version of me who left—exhausted, unsure, running on empty. But as someone who’s faced and sat in her my shit. As someone who has learned how to be with myself in the quiet. I’ve finally learned how to come home to myself—not just at sea, not just in solitude, but in the messy, beautiful, everyday business of being human.

I’m not going back to blend in or be everything to everyone. I’m going back to show up fully. To give from a place of strength, not obligation. To stay rooted in my own truth, even while connected to others.

This is the heart of my healing.
My unfawning.
My rebirth.

It’s a time of reclamation. Of stepping into the light and strength that has always been mine. My birthright.

And I want nothing more than for every human to do the same.
That’s why I show up here and share my raw journey.
And that is why I built a business around this work.

Because we all deserve to feel safe enough to come home to ourselves.

Hanalei Bay, July 2016. The crack in the door to coming home to myself