On Wednesday, I graduated from a six-month intensive experience that just about brought me to my knees.

Having written two books and taken the stage countless times to speak in front of large audiences, I am no stranger to my creative process. I know how to do me in that arena.

And yet.

I didn't even recognize myself in this process—it undid me. You know why?  I had to unlearn so much (always the loudest bit for me) in order to make space for the new learning to move in.

I make a lot of noise when I'm learning something new.

I get insecure (which I hate...)
I question everything (which annoys me—and everyone around me)
I use the word "triggered" and whine loudly with great drama (sigh...)
I compare myself ruthlessly to those around me (which is really code for: I judge people)

Yeah, it's not pretty.
It's alligator-brain central.

Does that surprise you to hear about me?
Because from over here it's a pretty common experience...just sayin'.

We have stories about people who make things and try things and do things...don't we?
Stories that often aren't true.

We say they're fearless and brave and confident.

And sometimes we are...but it's usually after we've made or tried or done something...

Truth be told, most of the time I feel like a hot mess, flailing about.

So let me pull back the curtain a bit and let you into my world of this recent experience.

I have spent the last six months working on a keynote—it's all about debunking the myth that "change takes time" (pfft!) and showing how that phrase has been weaponized as a tool to preserve the status quo (grrr!).

It's a call to revolution, really—my Katniss Everdeen three-fingered salute to my community.

I see you over there, let's GO!

The first three months were all about writing the script. Every Tuesday I'd gather with my cohort of 40 amazing people from all over the world who were in this program, and we'd be guided through a fresh new level of hell that revealed all the things we didn't know we didn't know.

Did I mention I began this program the week after the inauguration? I'll never forget looking at that blinking cursor that first week with the prompt...what is the change you want to see in the world?

Seriously? Where do I even begin....? I have to pick just ONE? (head smack, eyeroll....). FUUUUUCK.

But begin I did, and three months later I had a script—or enough of one to start the second half of the program: stage mastery.

This required me to drive to New Jersey (my home state that I hadn't been in for THIRTY years—very intentionally) for a three-day intensive for April, May and June. To say that there were a few ghosts and old wounds waiting there for me would be a gross understatement.

The first day I finally met these 40 people I had come to know virtually, they asked me where I was from and I'd say, "Well, here....actually....but really Maine, though I'm not really from there either....I'm starting to realize I don't know where I belong anymore..."

Yeah, not a good look. It was one of those instances they wanted to have a quick "fine!" or "good!" response and what they witnessed was a very public existential crisis. Whoops.

But I dug in with both hands, as I do.

Between the financial investment and committing all that time and energy away from my family and my work, I felt like Tom Cruise hanging from the ceiling in Mission Impossible—face down, spread out like a starfish, hovering inches from the floor, held by an impossibly thin wire, hoping like hell someone (God?) had me.

So this past Tuesday, when there was just one day left of the program, and I felt like I was worse than I was before I even began, I came home from class that night and said this to myself:

Fuck it. That didn't work.
I want those six months back—I want the old me back.
This sucked. I suck. Speaking sucks.

And I fired it all. (hello, alligator brain...)

I decided I'd just stick to writing books and never get on a stage again. Why bother?

The next morning I got up early to go for a run and nothing was working.
My iPhone simply refused to play any of my playlists and had a mind of its own—so I just let whatever random music it chose fill my ears.

And that's when the magic happened.

I heard one, two, three songs that all had the same message embedded in their lyrics.

Don't worry 'bout a thing...'cos everything's gonna be alright.
Don't worry, be happy...
I wanna see your brave....

I'm a stubborn woman, but I'm not thick.

And then a gut punch song started just as I was heading into the woods: Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush sang to me:

Rest your head...you worry too much.
It's gonna be alright..
When times get rough, you can fall back on us.
Don't give up.
Please don't give up.

Now I was crying as I was running—because I didn't feel so alone any more.
I felt like everyone I have lost in my life—my father, my son Silas, my sister-in-law Grace—were with me in those woods, wrapping their love around me.

I felt seen. I felt held. I felt blessedly human—and on purpose.

I started thinking about something Michael Port, one of the program's founders, said the day before.

When you falter and you feel like you're failing...see if you can remember why you're doing this. Plug into that.

I came out of the loop in the woods onto the playground of this elementary school. There, in front of me was an art installation with all the children's handprints on tiles...hundreds of them, covering four sides of this little wooden structure.

Having done this early morning run every day I was down in New Jersey, I had developed a ritual I did at this point in my run.

I'd stop and place my hands over their hands, saying a little prayer for each as I said their names.