Taking Up Space

I almost didn’t post it.

The image was too bold. The caption—raw and unfiltered—felt like I had peeled back layers I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to see. As my finger hovered over the “Post” button, my heart beat so fast and hard that it rose into my throat. A swirl of adrenaline flooded my system, stealing my breath. My mind was spinning, and I felt dizzy.

I wasn’t just afraid. I was terrified—terrified of being too vulnerable, too exposed, too real. Thoughts spiraled through my head, one after the other: What will people think? Will they question my credibility? Will they say, “Why would I work with someone who has felt broken by life?” Will they think I don’t have my shit together? I wanted to protect myself from the judgment I was sure would come. I wanted to control the narrative. Preserve the image. Stay in charge of how others see me. 

My finger lingered on the button for what felt like an eternity. And then, I gulped down my fear and tapped the button on the computer screen.  

Immediately, I questioned myself.  What did I do? Did I make the biggest mistake ever? I stared at the post. I told myself I could still take it down. I could pull the post before too many people saw it. I could retreat into the safety of my professional polish and pretend like the moment never happened. That would’ve been easy. Or at least familiar. I stared at the three dots in the top right-hand corner of the post that would give me the option to delete it. 

And then, I did it. I left the post up. Just as it was.

Even after I decided to leave it up, I’ve returned to it—several times. I’ve reread the caption over and over again, stared at the image, and scanned the comments. And each time, my heart still races. Because the anxiety doesn’t vanish once you choose to be brave. It lingers. It tests you. It whispers, Are you sure you’re ready to be this visible? This vulnerable? This real? 

And every time I go back, I feel the discomfort again, and I learn to breathe through it. 

Because the truth is, even after years of doing the work, even after all the healing, sharing this kind of truth still terrifies me. But underneath the panic, there is a deeper knowing—a quiet, steady voice I’ve spent years learning to hear—the voice of my essence. 

And it whispered what I already knew. 

This is the work.

Because this—this exact moment—is what I ask others to do. To own their truth, even when it shakes them.  To be visible, even when it’s terrifying. I cannot invite others to step into their truth if I’m unwilling to stand fully in mine. And every time I choose not to delete that post, not to run from my own words, I feel it again—that deeper knowing rising inside me.

This is what it means to take up space.

To not run from your own truth.

The post said:

“I was helping others heal… all while silently breaking inside.”

It was just one line, but it carried the weight of decades of showing up, striving, surviving, and holding space for others while quietly unraveling inside. It captured the disconnect between the woman the world sees and the tender, painful places that have lived just beneath the surface. That line wasn’t written from ego—it was from the part of me that remembers how it feels to hold everyone else while privately falling apart.

And as soon as I wrote it, I knew why it mattered. This is what I ask of others—not to pretend or perform, but to tell the truth. How could I ask anyone to do it if I wasn’t willing to do it, too?

Let me be clear: this isn’t about whether or not I’ve done the work. I have. I continue to. It’s not about whether I’m whole—I am, even when I feel cracked open. This is about owning the entirety of my journey. About standing inside of it instead of tidying it up. Not just the breakthroughs and lessons but the messy, in-between places. The chapters I once wanted to hide to stay credible.

Here’s what I’ve learned—what I keep learning—the power isn’t just in the healing. It’s in the owning. The naming. The sharing.

That’s why I left the post up. Because walking in integrity means I cannot ask others to stand in their truth if I am still hiding mine.

And I am not the only one who has faced this threshold. Guest after guest on my podcast have done the same—told their stories, shared their truth, not when they were polished or complete, but while they were still raw, tender, and unfolding.

They’ve spoken about grief, heartbreak, trauma, and betrayal. Of rediscovering themselves after years of playing small. Of learning to show up with nothing to prove but everything to say.

Every single one of them chose to take up space—not because it was easy, but because they knew their story might help someone else feel less alone. Their vulnerability might become someone else’s lifeline.

And isn’t that the point?  To use our stories—not as shields or weapons, but as bridges.

Still, it’s not easy. That rush of self-doubt, the fear of being too much or not enough—is the same fear I’ve witnessed in nearly every client, every brave soul I’ve had the privilege of walking beside.

We long to be seen… and we are terrified of what might happen if we are.

We ache to feel known… and yet we hesitate to let people get too close.

We crave belonging… but we’ve been taught that being fully ourselves might cost us acceptance and connection.

For so long, I thought that was the paradox I had to solve—to find a way to balance visibility and safety, to figure out how to be seen without feeling too exposed. But what I’ve come to realize is that the deeper fear isn’t just about being seen.

It’s taking up space.

Taking up space means existing without apology. Not just when you’re picture-perfect but when you’re still piecing yourself back together. It means standing in your truth even when you tremble as you share it. It means refusing to shrink in the face of discomfort or judgment—saying, This is who I am, even when your voice shakes and your heart pounds.

For many of us—especially those who learned early on that our power made people uncomfortable—taking up space feels like a threat. We were taught to be agreeable. Grateful. Humble. To not shine too brightly or speak too loudly. And if you’re a woman of color, that message is even more profound—passed down through bloodline and culture, reinforced by institutions, carried in your nervous system.

So we shrink. We code-shift. We get very good at performing according to expectations while hiding our brilliance. We take care of everyone else’s needs. We become fluent in acceptability.

I see it in my clients, too. I recently had a powerful conversation on the podcast with a longtime client—an activist and changemaker since middle school. Her work has touched countless lives, and yet, even now, she struggles to take up space.

Not because she doubts her purpose—but because, like so many of us, she’s carried the belief that shrinking is safer than being seen.

As we talked, I felt the tug-of-war—between the part of her that wants to rise and the part that still whispers, Don’t take up too much room. Don’t outshine. Don’t make others uncomfortable.

I recognized it. Because I’ve lived it, too.

But every time she shares her story—even through fear—she opens a door for someone else.

That’s what taking up space does.

It’s not just self-expression. It’s collective liberation. A healing act. A rebellious act. A generous act. 

This is authentic leadership.

When you take up space with your truth, you challenge every system that tells you not to.

You break the silence for those who came before.

You blaze a path for those who will come after.

You give voice to something bigger than yourself—and in doing so, remind others they’re not alone.

This isn’t about ego. This is about essence. About wholeness. About healing.

So yes—taking up space is scary. Your nervous system might register it as danger. Your mind may spin every reason to stay quiet, to stay safe, to stay small. But that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re doing something brave.

Post the thing.

Speak the truth.

Ask for what you need.

Take your seat at the table.

And if your hands are shaking while you do it—good. That’s how you know it matters.

Your taking up space might be the very thing that gives someone else the courage to do the same.

This isn’t just a moment. It’s a movement.

The world doesn’t need a quieter you.

It needs all of you.

So take up your space, my love.

The rest of us are waiting.