The Adventure of Becoming

Four careers. Four versions of me. One continuing evolution.

Depending on who’s counting, I’m either on my fourth career… or I’m completely unemployable.

I’ve smiled more than once when someone has asked me what my next career might be. A few well-meaning people have suggested ideas, assuming I’m looking for the next logical step. Others seem puzzled that someone with my background would choose to coach in a YMCA.

I understand their perspective.

We’ve all been taught to think of careers as ladders. You're supposed to climb steadily upward—more money, more responsibility, bigger titles, more prestige. Every step should make sense to everyone watching.

My life has never worked that way.

Looking back, none of my career changes were neat or carefully planned. They were what I’ve started calling Unruly Evolution—small decisions, quiet pivots, unexpected opportunities, and the willingness to become someone new before I knew exactly where it would lead. Or perhaps not someone new. Perhaps more completely myself.

I’ve worked in New York fashion and advertising. I’ve spent years touring as a singer, songwriter, guitarist, producer, performer, business owner, and marketer. I’ve produced large-scale events where thousands of moving pieces had to come together with precision. Today, I coach people in fitness.

People call them careers. I think of them as versions of myself.

The fashionista is still here. She notices details, appreciates beauty, and believes presentation matters because it communicates respect—for yourself and for others.

The rockstar is absolutely still here. She knows what it means to create something from nothing, to live entirely on your own steam, to stand on a stage and trust your preparation. She also learned difficult lessons about ego, envy, loyalty, and the complicated side of human nature. Don’t be surprised if you see her touring again someday. She never really left.

The event producer still walks into every room three steps ahead, quietly building timelines, anticipating problems, and finding calm in complexity.

The coach has taught me that some of life’s greatest victories don’t happen under spotlights. They happen when someone discovers they’re stronger than they believed possible.

None of these women replaced one another. They simply learned to work together. For a long time, I thought reinvention meant leaving an old version of myself behind. Now I think the opposite is true.

Evolution isn’t about abandoning who you’ve been. It’s about inviting every version of yourself to come along for the journey.

That’s why comments about my "next career" make me smile. I don’t think that way anymore. I’m not replacing careers. I’m adding chapters.

Success changes.

At one point in my life, success meant being part of New York’s creative energy. Then it meant making music and living as an artist. Then it meant producing extraordinary experiences at an extraordinary level.

Today, success looks surprisingly simple. It looks like waking up excited to go to work, helping someone believe in themselves again, and still having enough energy left at the end of the day to write music, paint, create, and imagine what’s next.

It looks like building a life that actually feels like mine.

One of the most important decisions I’ve ever made happened when I was trying to figure out what came after my career in event production.

Like so many people standing at a crossroads, I kept asking myself what I should do next.

It was the wrong question. The better question was this: When in my life have I been happiest?

The answer came quickly. It was the years I spent making music. Touring, writing songs, building something from nothing, connecting with audiences, and creating alongside other musicians—I had never felt more alive.

So I asked myself another question.

What was it about that life that made me so happy?

The answer surprised me. It wasn’t the stage. It wasn’t the applause. It wasn’t even the music itself.

It was the feeling of helping people experience something they couldn’t have experienced without me. Whether I was writing a song, performing live, mentoring younger musicians, or simply sharing a moment with an audience, I loved watching people leave changed in some small way.

That realization took me somewhere unexpected. It took me back to the YMCA.

My very first job had been teaching swimming there. As I thought about those early mornings on the pool deck, I remembered how much I loved helping people learn something they didn't think they could do. I remembered the joy of encouraging someone until confidence replaced fear.

I realized I wasn't returning to an old job. I was returning to an old part of myself.

That changed how I think about growth. Maybe moving forward sometimes requires looking backward—not to relive our past, but to remember who we’ve always been.

I don’t know what my fifth career will look like. Maybe I’ll spend more time making music again. Maybe painting will become something bigger. Maybe there will be another chapter I can’t even imagine yet.

What I do know is that every version of me is still here. The girl who loved fashion. The rockstar. The producer. The coach. None of them disappeared; they’ve simply become collaborators. They each bring something different, and together they’ve become someone I never could have imagined at the beginning. Every version of me walks into the room together.

If four careers have taught me anything, it’s that life isn’t a ladder. It’s an adventure. Not an adventure of achievement. An adventure of becoming.

Perhaps the greatest gift we can give ourselves is permission to evolve—not by becoming someone else, but by becoming more completely ourselves.

This is the first in a series reflecting on the lessons each chapter of my professional life has taught me. Each career deserves its own story. Each version of me still has something worth sharing.