This Is Me Checking In

This week felt like my hair was on fire, in that way where everything is technically good, but also happening all at once.

This week felt like my hair was on fire, in that way where everything is technically good, but also happening all at once. Between preparing for the Hollywood premiere of Balance, picking up truly copious amounts of dog shit, school responsibilities, and clinical work, the days blurred together fast. Add in the launch of a new season of The Radically Well Podcast, and suddenly that moment I mentioned a few weeks ago when everything I’ve been working on starts converging…arrived.

The now is, in fact, nowing (lol).

The week went by in a flash. Tessa came into town, and we managed to squeeze in some time together, brief but meaningful. Then it was right back to writing papers and seeing clients. If I’m honest, this is probably what the rest of 2026 will look like for me. Structured, Busy, Routine, just the way I like it, you all know how much I love a routine.

And yet, even with so many positive things unfolding, I find myself carrying a deep sense of sadness about the state of the world. I don’t need to spell it out. We’re struggling. People are living in constant fear, and those in power seem far more invested in their own agendas than in collective care. What I’ve been witnessing lately feels devastating on a global scale, and it raises the quiet but persistent question: what do we do with this?

I find myself returning to something I learned over twenty years ago. When I was twenty-two, I was already feeling behind, convinced I hadn’t figured my life out, certain that everything I was doing was a waste of time. I wish I could say that feeling disappears with age, but the truth is — twenty years later — it still visits. I still ask myself whether what I’m doing matters. Whether it’s moving the needle in any meaningful way.

At the time, my life looked full on paper. I was working as a salon manager at a celebrity hair salon, surrounded by constant motion, personalities, and pressure. On my days off, I would go to Golden Bridge and the Center for Yoga, searching for a little peace inside an environment that felt anything but zen. It was a strange contrast, high-paced, image-driven work on one side, and the quiet discipline of practice on the other. We were also filming a reality TV show then, which only added another layer of surreal intensity, though that’s a story for another time.

Even with all of that happening, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something essential. That I was busy, but not necessarily grounded. Doing a lot, but not sure if any of it truly mattered in the long run. That tension, between movement and meaning has followed me through every chapter of my life.

When I was fifteen, I worked as a receptionist at a hair salon in the Montebello Mall, right across from the food court. The smell of Panda Express would drift into the salon all day, it still makes me a little queasy, though I’m sure the orange chicken is just as good as ever. I’d get out of school, take the bus to work, and honestly, I loved it. This was also during the period when I was on probation from that one incident involving a cop car, but I digress. What I loved most was talking to people. Looking back, I can see how my introverted extrovert nature was already forming. I’ve always gravitated toward front-facing roles, even when part of me wanted to stay hidden.

There was a regular client at the salon, we’ll call him Adam. He worked as a private investigator for the city of Los Angeles, which completely fascinated me. When I told him about my run-in with the law, he looked genuinely surprised and said I didn’t “look like” the type. That comment rubbed me the wrong way, even though I understood what he meant. Then he said something I’ve never forgotten: people like you will have to work twice as hard, and if you ever get a seat at the table, you’ll have to make it look easy, or people won’t like you.

That comment stayed with me. Not because I didn’t understand it, but because of what it revealed. The idea that people might not like me wasn’t the part that bothered me. I’d been bullied as a kid, so I already knew how quickly others can project discomfort or misunderstanding onto someone who stands out. I understood, even then, that that wasn’t a “me” problem.

What stayed with me was the other part. The idea that if I ever earned a seat at the table, I’d have to make it look easy. That my competence, confidence, or comfort in my own skin might need to be softened so others could feel at ease. I remember wondering why that responsibility would belong to me, why my ease should need to be edited to protect someone else’s discomfort. It wasn’t anger I felt so much as clarity. A quiet recognition of how often people are asked to shrink, not because they’re wrong, but because they’re visible.

And then, in my thirties, when I had built a career from nothing, I finally understood what he meant. It wasn’t about proving worth. It was about learning how to carry it without apology and without contorting myself to make it more palatable for others.

That lesson came full circle when I entered perimenopause. Suddenly, everything I had built felt like it was balanced on a tightrope. My body changed. My mind felt unreliable. My sense of identity wobbled. There were moments when it genuinely felt like I had done what I came here to do, and, well, that was it. Morbid, maybe. But honest, and far more common than we admit, especially for women who move through these transitions quietly.

With everything I’ve learned over the past two years, clinically, personally, spiritually…I can now see this period for what it was: not an ending, but a profound reorientation.

To call it a transformation almost feels insufficient.

My hope is that Balance gets to be experienced by as many people as possible. Not because it has answers, but because it opens space. And if supporting the film helps bring this conversation into the world more fully, then that, too, feels like moving the needle.

Thank you for being here. Truly.
And thank you for being you.

Rosie

Don’t miss Season 2 Premiere of The Radically Well Podcast