Coming to My Senses

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t moving.

As a child, movement wasn’t something I thought about. It was simply who I was. I swam, danced, competed in gymnastics, cheered, played sports and eventually found my way onto a track. I became a sprinter, and to this day I can remember the feeling that came over me the moment the starting gun went off. Everything disappeared except the lane in front of me. I loved the anticipation, the adrenaline and the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next. I wasn’t simply chasing the finish line. I loved the possibility that existed before it.

Competition shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. There were tryouts, auditions and races. I auditioned for The Nutcracker. I remember the determination of wanting to make the cheerleading squad and the quiet satisfaction of winning the longest headstand contest in gymnastics. None of those moments felt extraordinary on their own, but together they shaped the way I would move through the world. They taught me to trust myself before I knew the outcome. Long before I started a company, that instinct was already there.

I realize now that I’ve spent my entire life following that feeling. The excitement before the unknown. The willingness to step forward before everything is certain. Every meaningful decision I’ve made has begun there. Years later, that same instinct led me to build Live The Process. More recently, it found its way into RAWCOTTON. The projects changed, but the willingness to begin before knowing the outcome never did.

This spring, that same instinct quietly returned.

I had just closed one chapter of my life and didn’t yet know what the next one would look like. In the past I probably would have tried to solve that immediately. Instead, something quieter happened. Without consciously deciding to, I found myself returning to the same ritual almost every day, whether it was a walk, a run or a hike. I never set out to reconnect with the outdoors, and I certainly didn’t think I was searching for anything. Subconsciously, my body knew what I needed before my mind did.

Before I noticed where I was, I noticed how it felt. Warm evenings carried the sweetness of jasmine and flowering trees. Afternoon rain left behind the rich scent of damp earth. Other mornings smelled of salt carried in on the breeze before the sun had fully risen. Later came dry sage, warm earth beneath my feet and trails that stretched quietly ahead. Then, almost without noticing the season changing, fresh greens emerged, honeysuckle lingered in the air and dragonflies skimmed effortlessly across still water.

For years my attention had been consumed by building, creating and thinking about what came next. This spring, almost without realizing it, I began experiencing the world through my senses again. I noticed the quality of the air before I noticed my thoughts. I listened to birds before I reached for my phone. I felt the warmth of the sun, the humidity on my skin and the changing rhythm of the seasons. For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I stopped trying to get somewhere and simply allowed myself to be where I was.

Of everything that returned during those months, running surprised me most. Not because I hadn’t run in years, but because of how familiar it felt. The movement itself hadn’t disappeared. It had simply been waiting for me. Somewhere between one step and the next, I found myself back on a track as a teenager, waiting for the starting gun. I could still feel that surge of adrenaline, the quiet anticipation before everything exploded into motion. I remembered trusting my body without questioning it, committing fully before I knew the outcome.

Around the same time, years of work quietly came together with the launch of RAWCOTTON. Looking back, I don’t remember the launch as much as I remember everything that came before it. What began as developing a collection made from certified organic cotton became an education I never expected. I wanted to understand where the cotton came from, how it was grown, what the certifications actually meant and whether every step of the process reflected the values we believed in. One question led to another until I found myself immersed in agriculture, biodiversity, regenerative farming, soil health and transparency.

At first it felt like product development. Eventually, I realized I was asking much bigger questions. The deeper I went into understanding the natural world, the more I found myself wanting to live in greater alignment with it. I wasn’t interested in simply creating another collection. I wanted to create something that reflected a deeper respect for the land it came from, the people who made it and the responsibility we have to be more thoughtful about what we bring into the world. The more I learned, the more I realized my work was no longer separate from my life. They had quietly become reflections of one another.

The same curiosity that had me asking better questions about what we were creating was also changing how I moved through the world. I became more discerning about what I consumed, what I created and where I spent my time. I found myself paying closer attention to quality over quantity, to craftsmanship over convenience and to transparency over marketing. What began as a search for better materials slowly became a search for greater alignment.

I’ve often said that Live The Process was never just about clothing. It has always been about evolution. Over the years that evolution has taken many forms, but at its heart it has always been an invitation to become more aware. The more I reflected on this season, the more I realized I had been living that philosophy without even recognizing it. I wasn’t trying to reinvent myself. I was returning to a way of being that had always been there.

Looking back, I don’t think I consciously knew what I needed over these past few months. I never woke up and decided to reconnect with myself or spend more time outside. I simply kept returning to the same rituals. A walk at the end of the day. A run before breakfast. A trail before opening my computer. My body understood something long before my mind was ready to acknowledge it.

For much of my life I’ve been energized by what comes next. Building, creating and imagining new possibilities has always been part of who I am. This season reminded me that not every answer arrives through planning. Some arrive through paying attention. Through moving your body. Through breathing fresh air. Through allowing yourself to experience the world before trying to explain it. There was nothing dramatic about any one walk or run, yet together they became one of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had with myself in years.

As the months passed, I realized I wasn’t searching for where I wanted to live. That question had quietly transformed into something much deeper. I was asking myself how I wanted to live. The answer wasn’t found in a destination. It revealed itself in small moments of presence, in trusting my instincts, in allowing curiosity to lead instead of certainty and in remembering that some of the most meaningful decisions I’ve made have always begun before I knew exactly where they would take me.

I still don’t know exactly where I’ll live next, and for the first time in a long time, that no longer feels like something I need to solve. I’ve spent my life moving toward the unknown, trusting my instincts before certainty and believing that the path reveals itself one step at a time. Somewhere between the scent of jasmine after the rain, salt carried on the morning air, warm earth beneath my feet, birds greeting the sunrise and dragonflies skimming across still water, I realized I hadn’t discovered something new. I had simply found my way back to myself.