I’m going back in time.

I forget who first said this to me, so my apologies for not giving full credit where credit is due. Someone recently told me:

“I’m allergic to my computer.”

This is exactly how I have been feeling.

I’ve been intentionally spending less time on mine lately. Not because I don’t love what technology makes possible, but because I’ve been craving things that require me to slow down, use my hands, and be in the real world.

It’s easy to build a shell around ourselves without even realizing it.

We can surround ourselves with people who think like we do, believe what we believe, and see the world through a similar lens. And then…their voices echo back to us.

We hear our own beliefs reinforced again and again, until they start to feel like the truth rather than simply our perspective.

But what might be possible if we softened the shell?

Have you ever noticed how what matters to you changes over time?

The things that once fueled us don’t always fit forever. And honestly? That’s probably a really good thing.

My dear friend Brian is one of the most generous humans I know. What fills his cup is helping people experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. Put him in a room talking about ways to make an impact, helping people access resources, or feeding someone in need and you can feel his whole spirit come alive.

That’s his compass.

May I share something with you that helps to understand why I shuck?

For much of my life, I lived inside a shell.

As a young child, I learned to hide.

My father struggled with schizophrenia, and anger was often unpredictable. Somewhere along the way, I learned that staying small, staying quiet, and protecting myself felt safer than being fully seen.

And honestly? That strategy worked for a while.

I have been thinking a lot about what happens when we stop hiding.

When we stop shrinking.
Stop waiting.
Stop believing the story that says, “This is just who I am,” or “It’s too late for me.”

Because here’s what I know:

EVERYTHING changes when you get out of your shell.

A couple years ago, I admitted something that felt way too big.

Too impossible.
Too hopeful.
Too “who do you think you are?” to say out loud.

My stretch goal for Cracked was 1 million views on YouTube.

The Shuck Shop is officially OPEN — and let me tell you…

This is just the beginning.

Ohhhh you sparkly pearls…there are SO many ways to shuck coming your way. But for now, we’re starting with shirts + sweatshirts designed to help you do one very important thing:

GET OUT OF YOUR SHELL.

I just got back from a workshop with a shucktacular group at the YMCA in New Jersey, and one theme kept rising to the surface:

What if the power isn’t in changing your life… but in how you see it?

We talked about how easy it is to get locked into one perspective – one story about a situation, a relationship, or even ourselves.

“I’m stuck.”
“This is just how it is.”
“They shouldn’t have…”

But what happens when you gently… bravely… shift the lens?

For most of my life, I believed my emotions were…a problem.

Not just inconvenient.
Not just messy.
But wrong.

Growing up with a father who struggled with schizophrenia, emotions didn’t feel safe. They felt unpredictable. Big. Explosive. Uncontainable.

So somewhere along the way, I made a quiet, unconscious decision:
Don’t be like that.
Don’t feel too much.
Stay in control.

Are your problems actually big… or is your life just too small right now?

When one area of your life becomes everything — your job, your relationship, your role as a parent, your fitness journey — even a small disruption can feel devastating.

If all you do is work, then work problems won’t just feel stressful… they’ll feel personal. Existential. Heavy. This is why your problems feel bigger than they are

Years ago, someone I loved was struggling deeply.

They saw themselves as a victim of the world.
Life was happening to them.

Everything felt unfair.
Anger was their steady companion.

And every time I was with them, I made myself smaller.

Years ago, I met Peter Attia on a bike ride with friends.

We became friends. Close enough that he once set me up with one of his dear friends. Someone I dated for a year. I had dinner at his home. I met his wife and children. He was simply a person in my life for a season.

Then life moved on.

I once sat across from a beautiful soul who was deeply wounded. As if to mask her pain, she had surrounded herself with darkness—from thieves who stole her innocence to drugs that dimmed her light.

As we sat together, I felt her soften. The edges were not as sharp. Her shell began to open, and she asked if she could sit facing away from me while we talked. Then she shared, bravely and honestly:

“I want to keep talking with you, but I just can’t bear to see your light.”

I just returned from Joshua Tree, and I’m still carrying the magic with me.

The stillness.
The wonder.
The way time slows down just enough for you to hear yourself think again.

Every time I travel solo, people ask me the same questions:
• Aren’t you scared to go alone?
• Don’t you get lonely?
• How do you even do that?

There she was—my four-year-old niece—crawling across the floor with a blanket draped over her head, absolutely convinced she was invisible as she made her escape to the living room to play.

Just a few feet behind her?
Her brother. Barely two.
Freshly escaped from his crib… a feat that should have been physically impossible.

A new year has a way of inviting reflection.

Suddenly we’re surrounded by questions like:
What do I want this year?
What needs to change?
Who do I want to be?

The power of life coaching — or as I lovingly call it, shucking — is slowing down long enough to actually hear your own heart. Not the noise. Not the fear. The truth.

And the fastest way to get there?

Ask the right questions.

Questions that open your shell instead of tighten it.

I recently had a magical week at Rancho La Puerta with my mama — our first ever trip together, just the two of us.

While I love my whole family dearly, it was so precious to have uninterrupted time with just her. We hiked every morning to watch the sunrise, soaked up the sunshine while playing pickleball, laughed until we cried, and even danced like no one was watching.

There’s a different kind of connection that happens when you give someone your undivided attention – and receive theirs. It’s also made me think a lot about how I spend my time and with whom.