Round about once a week, I drive a stretch of highway I deeply dislike in order to have meetings with folks I think the world of. It's a fair trade. Last week, I left a little earlier than usual and the highway was a little emptier than usual and I had moment, driving along, when I was fully appreciating the ease of that morning's drive, particularly in comparison to what I expected it to be.

It was just after that when I looked into my rear view mirror and saw a small pickup truck barreling toward me. I was in the fast lane behind a sedan behind a tractor trailer that was going just slightly faster than the tractor trailer it was passing. It was your standard rolling road block. I had a chance to move on over to the slow lane and took it. The fella in the little pickup truck drove, well, like you might expect given his speedy entrance. He cut from lane to lane with great enthusiasm and little warning, despite how apparent it was that there was nowhere to go. He drove close enough to the vehicles in front of him that a bare tap of the brake could have been enough to lump us all into one great pile of metal and confusion.

Is there not something about traffic that spurs our inner vigilante like nothing else? Yeah, a part of me wanted to box the guy in. Truthfully, I was riding next to him for a minute... until he almost whipped right into me as he was jockeying around. That was what I needed to remember myself and fall back.

Takeaway 1: I have a lot more control over my driving stress than I tend to think. When I slow down to disengage from grouped-up traffic, when I pull over and let a tailgater get around me, when I remind myself time and again, "I'll get there when I get there and no amount of rushing is going to change that in a meaningful way," I control what I can control and feel heaps better in the process.

And yes, that does require that I make it through the gatekeeper of my ego who feels like she deserves that stretch of road and who wants to teach the driver in the little pickup a thing or two.

I mean, clearly, the guy was a jerk. Or, as George Carlin said, he was a maniac and, following that line of reasoning, to him, the rest of us were idiots in his way.

Psychologists call that the Fundamental Attribution Error. When I'm driving in a tizzy, it's because I know I'm running late already and I have a huge meeting that I will ruin if I'm late and I really need this account because Suzy needs a surgery and the insurance will only cover the tiniest fraction of it and and and... When the guy in the little pickup truck is driving in a tizzy, it's because he's a flawed human being.

Takeaway 2: To be the person I want to be in this world, I need to work on noticing when I'm falling prey to the Fundamental Attribution Error and introduce humanity to my assumption. Perhaps the guy in the little pickup truck just got a call that his grandma, the one who hugged him tighter than anyone else and made his favorite cookies just the right way and always had time to listen, is in her final hours and he was racing to see her one more time.

Is that likely why he was driving like that? No. Is it possible? Yes.

Does it hurt me to believe he was racing toward his grandma?

Quite the opposite: There's no amount of compassion that leads to harm.

(Side note: I'm not saying I wouldn't have cheered if the guy had gotten pulled. He was driving dangerously, for himself and those of us around him. Having compassion doesn't mean accepting dangerous or mean behavior.)

At some point, the fella in the little pickup opened the sliding window in the back of his cab. I thought, "Yeah, I'd be burning up, too, if I was driving with so much stress." The sedan and then the tractor trailer that were in front of him found opportunities to move over and the guy pedaled-down to get to his grandma.

As he passed the tractor trailer, though, he took a moment to extend his arm fully out of the back window and flip off the driver. One long, premeditated, exaggerated finger bird. Yeah, he didn't open the window because he was hot.

Grandma's Little Soldier was enacting - with great flair, I might add - the story he was in which had to do with how people should drive, his rights to go fast, and the way we were impeding his progress.

Takeaway 3: We are all enacting our own stories all the time - about driving, sure, and about how people should interact and families should treat the holidays and, "Damnit, I'm a good person - I deserve a car/spouse/kid/raise/pat on the back."

I started to write, "Would that life were that fair; would that we all shared the same beliefs." But, oh! What a horribly boring existence that would be!

So, I'll offer these wishes instead:

That Grandma's Boy arrived at his destination safely, and that something gently knocks him upside the head that inspires him to reconsider his driving habits. Oh, and I hope that he got to his grandma in time for a final hug.


That you notice your imperfect humanness with more and more clarity and find with it an appreciation, even joy, in the wiggle room that imperfection allows.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.


I keep a folder in OneNote with testimonials and other nice words people have offered me over the years. Though I don't look at it often, it feels good to know it's there and warms me whenever I happen upon it and give it a quick scan.

I couldn't tell you a word of what's in there. I just know it's lovely.

All things considered, I've gotten a fraction of negative feedback as compared to the positive stuff. Recently, though, a person who presumably believed I wasn't privy to the evaluation wrote that I don't know the definition of the word professionalism, I dress like a lollipop, I speak like a dog's squeaky toy, and there's no chance I have anything of value to offer this person.

I don't have the evaluation in front of me; the above is from memory.

Reflection 1: I have hoarded every word of this mean-spirited feedback while allowing the kind words to gather quietly like little shadows in the back of my mind.

A relevant bit of additional information: This evaluation was written after a phone call that lasted less than a minute, and a LinkedIn connection. That was quite literally the entirety of the contact.

Reflection 2: That feedback was not about me. It was about the person who left it.

A precious teenager in my life, upon hearing this story, said, "Sarah, you do dress like a lollipop!" It was a compliment, a reflection that couples with other feedback she's given me that she loves my quirky ways and style.

Now, it's become a warm joke among my closest circle.


Our most primitive minds have a ton of neural wiring to collect negative information. It was honed through tens of thousands of years of self-protection. Unfortunately, that wiring can't distinguish between info that lets us know we're in physical danger and info that just hurts our feelings. We gather it all as though it's similar in value.

Happily, we also have more recent (in evolutionary terms) additions to our brains that allow us to sort out one type of negative info from the other, and to discern whether feedback is of the useful, constructive variety, or the useless, critical variety. The trick - and challenge - is pausing to activate that part of our brains.

That pause can be greatly aided by reaching out to a straight-shooting yet kind friend. I highly recommend a bright, thoughtful teenager if one is within your circle.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

Okay, there's something I don't talk about much because I feel like it comes across high falutin and me, I like to keep my falutin on the down low. You know what I mean.

I have watched untold hours of television in my life but now, I don't have a TV in my home. Once in a blue moon, I take advantage of having the login to a friend's Netflix account but that's one mighty blue moon when it happens.

Similarly, I used to check Facebook, oh, a dozen times a day probably. Now it's once or twice a week.

Recently, I turned off all of my technology for 24 hours. I'm pretty sure I reached for my phone every 90 seconds for the first few hours... and then there was all this time and quiet. I took a really long nap, a really long walk, read a bunch and wrote a little, and when the 24 hours were up, I knew I wanted to make those breaks a regular part of my life. It felt a little like taking a long, hot shower after getting really disgustingly dirty. You know exactly that feeling, don't you?

My shyness to share is related to how often people read virtue into my TV-free home, etc. Each decision, though, came from noticing a discomfort in response to these inputs. The relaxation of TV time turned into antsiness related to the preciousness of a lifetime; the pleasure of social media connections became anxiety as I scrolled down my feed; and my precious phone, my vade mecum (mom, I hope you're reading this - that joke's just for you!), adds a sense of urgency that, for me and my life, is out of line with reality. Don't misunderstand - I'm not denying that I'm important to some people. But I'm not urgently important. There's no one in my family, friend group, or professional world who's going to bleed out or melt down or give up if they can't get in touch with me for 24 hours.

So, what's the point of sharing all of this? Well, it's so you'll know how doggone virtuous I am. No, really no.

We have precious little control in our lives - I suppose that's what it boils down to for me.

We choose our spouses/partners but not who they become; our family is delivered however it's delivered. We choose our friends but with the great big caveat of who happens to be available to us as friends, both in terms of who we have access to and if they feel moved to reciprocate those friendly feelings. We rarely have a say over our coworkers and other professional contacts...

Technology, on the other hand, has off buttons. Question is, does it serve you to press them?

Only you know that, my friend. I trust your judgment and encourage you to trust it, too.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

In line at the post office yesterday, a young woman stood in front of me looking somewhat distressed and antsy. At some point, she turned her head slightly toward me and began speaking quietly and urgently.

"There was a wreck on 81," she started.

Her quiet urgency, and the fact that she still faced forward, mostly away from me, made it hard for me to understand her but I gathered she was sharing some of the details of what she saw, and how she was trying to make sense of it.

"It's gotten so I don't even like going out," she said. And that was her segue to the shooting in Vegas and her belief that the shooter didn't act alone, perhaps hadn't acted at all, that this was a part of a conspiracy to distract the American people from bigger issues.

I naturally bristle at conspiracy theories and yet I can acknowledge the world is complex enough, and my reach is limited enough, that I can't rule much out... or much in.

I wanted to comfort this woman, to ease her pain, but all I could think to say is, "That must be very scary to believe."

She nodded vaguely and walked up to the now-available clerk.

I've been thinking about her since then and what else I could have said. I always want to go to statistics - that her drive to the post office was, statistically, far more dangerous than any public venue she could inhabit, but statistics are averages, and too ephemeral to stand up to the visceral discomfort of mortal fear.

I think if she were in front of me right now, I would say, "Focus on what you can control and try your hardest to release what you can't control. Wear your seatbelt. Drive more slowly and with greater attention. Be more intentional about telling the people you love that you love them. Be more intentional about doing what little you can to create the safer, friendlier world you crave."

But that, too, feels inadequate.

What would you say?

My sister, mom and I had a sort-of spontaneous play date at the National Folk Festival in Greensboro, NC, this weekend. We knew we were going to see each other; what we didn't plan on was spending the whole afternoon playing with and among the community there.

Our play was aided and inspired by two things: First was a clever section of the festival where my mom's good friend and former colleague Matt had the most amazing color-by-number-to-discover-the-image community art project and another group had a Make-A-Task, Pick-a-Task area. Second, my sister's deck of Sneaky Cards.

This is 1/3 of the overall color-by-numbers picture.

I colored, I picked a task... to make earrings and give them to a stranger.

Happily, there was a clever kid there who helped me work through how to make earrings given the delightful yet limited supplies provided. Turns out, you tie loops of yarn and hang them over your ears. As so often happens, though, when one problem is solved, another presents itself; in this case, who would be delighted to receive yarn and duct tape "earrings" from a stranger?

Alex. Turns out Alex would.

This is Alex, who gamely - enthusiastically! - accepted the "earrings" I made!
This is Alex, who gamely - enthusiastically! - accepted the "earrings" I made!

She was in line for food and I full-on interrupted her conversation. I don't know what they thought was happening - maybe that I was cutting line? - but those around us hushed and tuned in. When Alex not only accepted my earrings but asked if she could keep them, the crowd around us cheered.

Legit cheered.

Friends, it felt awesome. It was up there with applause at the end of a particularly well-received talk.

We were off and running then with the Sneaky Cards, a game that offers all sorts of creative challenges that involve connecting with others.

Together, my sister, mom and I:

  • Found a doppelganger for my mom.
  • Passed a card to someone who said our secret keyword, "Sorry."
  • Challenged a woman wearing a pink shirt tied with pink cord to pass the card to someone wearing sequins.
  • Took a selfie with a stranger. This one was all my mom and she found a fella who had just made a rad mohawk of a hat at the Make-a-Task booth.

    This is my mom's excellent Selfie with Stranger.
    This is my mom's excellent Selfie with Stranger.
  • Hid a card in someone's bag without her knowing it. The reverse pick-pocket was the edgiest of the challenges we took on and my sister rocked it out!
  • Started a chain of cards going from person to person wearing superhero-themed shirts. So far, this is the only card to be registered - the teen girl we gave it to logged in and passed it on like a champ, er, superhero!
  • And, my personal favorite because it scared me the most: We got a line of people waiting at a food truck to do the wave. My mom got me talking - as she said so wisely, the longer we waited, the harder it would be. My sister took video. What I wouldn't give to see the wave started by the purple-shirt-wearing woman who accepted the card!

Forgive the quality of the phone video but I think you get the gist!

I'm sharing because I'm still delighted by the whole thing - the games and the amazing diversity and great vibes of the crowd. The National Folk Festival is a beautiful event that brings together a world of music and culture. The one performance we managed to catch all of included percussionists from Latin America, the Caribbean, and Egypt, and a beatboxing dad/daughter team. Throughout the day, we heard the tinkle of an Asian string instrument, the strumming of a Mariachi band, and saw several people in native American garb preparing for a performance. We weren't able to get deep enough into the crowd to see the breakdancing competition...

Still, I keep asking myself: What's the real point of sharing this? Is this just a public journal entry?

Or is it an entreaty for you to go out and connect with your community?

Our rush, our fear, our current social-political discord inspires us to disconnect from one another, to avoid eye-contact, withhold simple greetings from strangers, close the gap in traffic instead of allowing another person to merge... I get it. I often rush past opportunities to connect with others, and also often feel that painful vulnerability of "Ayah, I smiled at ever person in that place and no one smiled back at me...". It hurts every single time.

I have to believe, though, that the effort matters every single time.

If the idea of reaching out to others feels too risky to you these days, I encourage you to instead try and tune into others trying to reach out to you. Try and notice the person offering you a random smile in a store, or holding a door. Try and notice the person making a gap for you in traffic, or slowing her walk slightly so that you can reach the register first.

Once you notice, there's a world of opportunity for reciprocation.

Forgive me a kumbaya moment, my friends, but these little gestures and smiles, in my mind, are what add a little more warmth to our days and connection to our communities. And is there ever too much of that?

(No. The answer, for me, is no.)

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

August 22, 1996 is kind of a  big deal for me - that date marks the near-fatal culmination of an unhealthy teen relationship.

I've written about it a bunch, in personal essays, fiction, poetry. I shared it with however-many of the 300,000 readers of the Greensboro News & Record who turned to the opinion pages when I carried a regular column there, and made a submission to the My Turn column in Newsweek. I didn't hear back from them but I did like that piece.

This year, I debated whether to say anything about it or just let it go on by.

Part of the internal argument to let it go this year was about just being that far into the healing process. Certainly, there's plenty of room yet to go, but it's more like picking the dog hair out of the car's upholstery after a scary, but successful, emergency run to the vet. The remaining lessons are noticeable and sometimes even painful, but mild compared to what came in the first years after, when it wasn't even healing, really, but just coping.

At some point, though, I realized there was also an old gremlin message at play, too, one that said it was somehow bad to keep sharing my story. Part of the message said that it's because it makes people uncomfortable to hear; part said it's because it's a relatively minor trauma in a world where, well, where people go through things like happened during the childhood of the fella who was the antagonist in my story of trauma. Part of the message said it's shameful to have gone through such a relationship and attack in the first place.

One of the cool things about learning to really hear our gremlin voices is that once we get a fix on their messages, we can think them through and feel them out, to figure out what they're actually saying and decide what to keep and what to 86. Each of those messages about my story is some form of should, as if there's one right way to live, one right way to heal, one right way to grieve.

Last week, I looked up a quote that's been churning around the back of my mind since I stumbled across it after my grandma's passing last year:

Grief is subversive, undermining the quiet agreement to behave and be in control of our emotions. It is an act of protest that declares our refusal to live numb and small. There is something feral about grief, something essentially outside the ordained and sanctioned behaviors of our culture. Because of that, grief is necessary to the vitality of the soul. Contrary to our fears, grief is suffused with life-force. It is riddled with energy, an acknowledgment of the erotic coupling with another soul, whether human, animal, plant or ecosystem. It is not a state of deadness or emotional flatness. Grief is alive, wild, untamed and cannot be domesticated. It resists the demands to remain passive and still. We move in jangled, unsettled and riotous ways when grief takes hold of us. It is truly an emotion that rises from soul.

-Francis Weller, Entering the Healing Ground

As a culture, we have a terribly limited tolerance for grief, giving the most leeway in the event of the loss of a loved one, though even there we find an unspoken time limit, adjusted based on the age of the person lost and the bereaved's relationship to that person. The causes for grieving, though, are expansive and appear throughout our lives, regardless of our challenges and opportunities.

Part of my process of healing has been grieving the loss of trust that I experienced during that time, and my sense of safety, and that unique feeling of immortality that those of us who were raised in safe homes take for granted until it's, jarringly, gone.

Grief also comes from sources less likely to make their way into the plots of Hallmark Specials. Grief can come from recognizing that we've drifted from our spouse or best friend, or from rain and a defective air mattress dulling the shine on a long-awaited vacation.

Hell, grief can even in the midst of joy. Here, parenting comes immediately to mind, like the loss of independence and increased financial responsibility that parallels the joy of becoming a parent, or the bittersweetness of helping a child move into her first dorm or apartment.

Grief, like all feelings, just is. It isn't good or bad, right or wrong. It just is. And we can either be the rigidly-built beach house that's eaten bit-by-bit by hurricane floods, or we can be the one in which a piece of the house is allowed to crumble so that it can become a conduit for the waters that might otherwise more deeply damage the whole.

That's an oversimplification by a long shot, of course, but it's a pretty image, isn't it?

So, I didn't exactly talk story on this anniversary, but not because my gremlin voices poked at me with sticks sharpened by the sometimes thoughtless, sometimes fear-based input people have given me over the years. Instead, it's because the healing and learning that mark our greatest lessons often take us in a spiral where we revisit the lesson from different angles and a greater distance as we develop more tools and greater understanding. From where I am in that spiraling path right now, I don't need to be knee deep in the memories of August 22, 1996, but rather swimming around its wake.

As I move through this 21st season of introspection, growth, and healing, I wish for myself, for you, and for that one person with whom I shared that terrible August morning latitude for ourselves and our feelings. I wish for all of us that we're able to loosen our grip on the idea that grieving is selfish or detracts from our gratitude or even that it's virtuous, and that we instead are able to hold onto the idea that it is simply necessary, a part of these complex lives of ours.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

Whampus was a name that came to me in an instant as I was reading The Artist's Way at Work. The activity at hand was to notice the various voices originating in my grey matter, parse them out, and give them proper names.

Whampus was the biggest and baddest of my gremlin voices. He's the one who tells me I'm not enough, that I'm a fraud and everyone is going to figure it out, that I might as well not even try.

Naming him and a handful of other problematic voices has been so helpful in giving me a little space from them that making that suggestion to others has become a habitual part of my life. Rarely do I work with a client, give a talk, or counsel a friend without making this very suggestion.

I say to them: That voice ain't you, baby. It's not logic, it's not wisdom - it's an animated collection of all of the naysayers you've interacted with over the years, all of the ways you've felt outside of the "norm," all of the failures and disappointments and hurts you've experienced.

It's fear under a magnifying glass.

I say: If your gremlin voice feared malaria and then saw a mosquito on the wall, it wouldn't swat it with a rolled magazine - it would blast it with a cannon and take down the wall, too.

There - that last bit. That's the bit that hit me last weekend after years of using that example. Maybe you're already on it - maybe you already see what I was missing all this time.

Malaria is worth fearing.

Maybe not here in Southwest Virginia, but if I was in sub-Saharan Africa, then I would be a fool to ignore Whampus's fear. No need to hike the rainforest hauling pirate battle gear, though. Instead, I can pull the message from behind the magnifying glass, sift through the hype, and find the kernel of useful information. I can wear bug spray and use a mosquito net.

I can use his warnings that I'm a fraud to double-check that I'm being as authentic and straight-up as I can be. I can use his junk about not being enough, that trying isn't even worthwhile, to check my motivation and reconnect with that part of me that knows that he's wrong, that I have a lot to give and that the effort is good for me and good for the people I have a chance to affect.

I saw Whampus once during a Focusing session (a partnered meditation technique that rocks my socks). Far from the fanged, club-carrying monster I expected, he looked like a nervous, shaggy, blue muppet. I knew in that moment that he wasn't malicious; he was scared. For me. And that he believed that the way to protect me was to scare me, too. Maybe, he seemed to think, if he frightened me enough I would hide and, in that way, be protected from hurt and danger.

I had been reprimanding him when what he really needed was a hug.

To those of you who have heard me ramble on about gremlin voices, my apologies for having only a piece of the picture to share with you. I hope you'll now join me in seeing their messages as a call for a little treasure hunt for the golden nuggets hidden in the rubbish, and in offering that part of ourselves some gentle compassion instead of berating.

I hope you'll join me in the discovery that there is no part of our ever-complex beings that are undeserving of love.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

In my 30-second ad last week, I told the rad community builders at Network NRV that people often misunderstand who it is I work with - some think coaching is for people who are unholy messes, incapable in some way. The exact opposite is true: I'm lucky enough to work with some of the most driven, empowered, productive, visionary people I've ever met. Coaching isn't about fixing anyone but rather enhancing the badassery that is already there.

Which makes it all the more funny to me when my clients confess - as so many of them do - to being lazy.

Yeah, no.

To them, I offer a tool that I now offer you. I call it Radical Time Tracking though somewhere early in my coaching career, a client renamed it The Terrible, Horrible Thing and for its honesty and its homage to Maurice Sendak, I've adopted the name.

Here's how it works:

Step 1: Find a means of documentation that you'll remember and utilize. I prefer a scrap of paper that I can carry around all day without having to open my phone and risk the distraction of a half-dozen notifications. If you're an all-app kinda kid, go for it.

Step 2: Track your time. Every minute of it. All day. Billable and administrative work, yes, and also travel time. Meal and snack breaks. Bathroom breaks. Excursions into the rabbit holes of social media and search engines. Self-care, networking time, social time. All of it. From waking to bed.

That's it. You do that for as many days in a row as you can. Me, I shoot for three days at a stretch whenever I do it because I tend to be on my best behavior on the first day, avoiding those rabbit holes because I know I'm going to have to write them down. Days two and three tend to be a little more typical of my work/play style.

What makes it Terrible and Horrible? It's uncomfortable to really look at where we spend our time, and tedious to note all of it. But it's doable and valuable in that it tends to provide two kinds of useful info:

  1. Invisible time sucks, the things you don't really value but you do out of habit and that hoover up time. I certainly spend more time on social media than I value.
  2. Your actual level of productivity. This is the one that tends to really get people. I found it pretty uncomfortable to get a clear picture of just how much time I was spending on social media when I first did this but what was even more notable to me was that I was actually spending the rest of the time pretty doggone well and was just expecting to be able to get more done in any given hour or day than was realistic.

My "lazy" clients? Sure, they have their own time sucks but, more so, they were beating themselves up for having a limited amount of time and energy in each day. They were judging their levels of productivity based on an unrealistic should rather than the reality of their busy lives.

Next time you're feeling that stomach-churning sensation of being on a hamster wheel, or your inner gremlin voice is chanting "lazy" into your ear, give this a go. I think you'll be struck and perhaps even pleasantly surprised by what you find after three days of tracking.

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.


When I was an uncomfortable, awkward teenager, I used to wish that I could sort of konk out until all the big unknowns of my life were known: what I would be doing, with whom I would be spending my time, who I would be...

At the time, I imagined it would all be shored up by the time I was 40. Yeah.

Wednesday is my 39th birthday, kicking off my 40th trip around the sun. I guess I don't have to tell you that though there's all sorts of great stuff going on in my life these days, my teenage self would have been mighty disappointed to wake up in this person who has few (if any) solid answers and an ever-increasing pile of questions.

What my teenage self couldn't have anticipated, though, was the comfort I would come to find in uncertainty, even an excitement, a sense of possibility. My teenage self couldn't have wrapped her head around the idea that what is compelling about this life, for me at least, is the process of exploring, discovering, learning; that certainty is no longer a comfort for me but a red flat suggesting that I've gotten too narrow in my perspective of what is and could be.

When my paternal grandmother passed back in 2002, she wasn't ready to go. At the time, I thought it was tragic, the idea of her struggling against that greatest of transitions. Now, what strikes me as vastly more tragic is finishing the work of becoming before that final breath.

What else would be compelling enough to fill these precious, complex days than to continue to discover ourselves and the potential of our lives?

Sarah B Rawz has a lil something to share with you
You've got a ton to put into the world.
I've got some rad tools to help you make it happen.

And I've got a free sample coaching session so you can find out what they are. Email me to get it scheduled.

So, I've been undergoing a heck of a transformation, the culmination of which is a new brand (which, in my case, is also a new last name!). It has been one seriously fun and uncomfortable process to choose the new name, find my way through who I am now as a person and a professional, and prepare myself to share that with all of you.

To celebrate, I want to invite you to come to an evening of play and stretching, much like the fun and discomfort this process has given me! There will be bouldering and climbing, food and community, and (thanks to Charlie Whitescarver of Whitescarver Photography) live blues with Smokestack Lightnin' Blues Band!

Bring your friends, bring the fam! We'll be playing and partying from 6-9 and I hope you'll be there at 7:30 when I announce my new identity!

**This is an alcohol-free event, both to honor the chunk of the community that doesn't imbibe, and because this event is about full-on, bold-as-all-get-out experiencing, no numbing allowed!