It was 3 a.m., and the Maine Coon I’m catsitting decided it was concert time—twenty-two pounds of pure opinion. Once the fur diva finally settled down, I figured I might as well check my text messages.

A friend texted me a Facebook link to one of Mel Robbins’ videos. The headline read, “This is THE painting story everyone’s talking about.”

I watched the video—and instantly believed it. I’ve lived that truth, though it took years to see the dots connect. Back in 2006, The Secret opened a door for me. It talked about the Law of Attraction—the simple yet tricky idea that our thoughts shape our reality. I ended up teaching those principles, along with other universal concepts, for over sixteen years. Somewhere in that journey, I realized I’d been manifesting long before I ever had a name for it.

Abraham-Hicks (Ester and Jerry—if you know you know) gave me one of the biggest a-ha's: shifting my thoughts could shift my life. I also learned the hard way that negative thoughts carry as much power as positive ones. It’s not magic; it’s mental training. For me, that has looked like years of recognizing old beliefs that didn’t serve me anymore and learning to rewrite that script.

Here’s something I’ve come to understand: the brain doesn’t actually know good from bad. It just believes whatever story you keep telling it. When life feels “off,” it’s like a dashboard light coming on—time to check your thoughts, your beliefs, and your daily habits.

One way to guide your focus is through visualization. A vision board isn’t just pictures—it’s an emotional compass. The key isn’t the images; it’s the feeling that comes alive when you look at them. Whether that warmth comes from a memory or a dream doesn’t matter. What matters is the emotion that says, this is mine.

Of course, if your mindset isn’t aligned with your desire, things get messy. Imagine a road where the lane lines randomly zigzag—that’s what it looks like when your inner beliefs don’t match your goals. A person won the lottery, their intention was clear and they won, yet when their beliefs, thoughts, and behaviors had not been developed to manage that amount of money, it vanished faster than ice cream on a 90-degree day.

Changing a belief, especially one planted in childhood, takes patience. Still, neuroscience tells us it’s possible thanks to neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to rewire itself.

Then there’s the Reticular Activating System (RAS)—your mental filter. Ever decide you want a red car, and suddenly every other car on the road is red? That’s your RAS at work. It notices what you focus on and quietly tunes out the rest. It doesn’t choose for you; it follows your lead.

And here’s where the dots really connect: your brain doesn’t work alone. Your body listens too. Every thought, every word you speak sends signals through your entire system, instructing it how to feel and what to do next. Your brain isn’t just listening; it’s issuing directions.

And there’s something kind of cool about how this article even came together. I’d been thinking for days that I needed something to write about, yet nothing quite fit. Then along comes a 3 a.m. cat concert, a friend’s text, and somehow all the pieces aligned—syncing the noise, the nudge, and the message into one big this-is-it moment.

Optimism

Lately I’ve been deep‑diving into things I never expected to learn — and honestly, some of what I’ve uncovered has left me flabbergasted. It would be easy to lose optimism. A lot of people are standing back, waiting for the train wreck, hoping someone else will step in and save them.

Where it shows up in my own life is in the writing. I could write endlessly about what I’m seeing, the questions it raises, and the hypothetical possibilities that follow. I know I’m good at it, even if it doesn’t bring sunshine or laughter. Some of what I’ve experienced — the “possible” corruption, the patterns, the decisions made behind closed doors — feels necessary to name. It’s local, and I feel a responsibility to contribute in the way that fits me best.

What concerns me is the growing push toward technocratic decision‑making — systems where experts and appointed boards hold the power instead of the public. On paper, that might look efficient. In reality, it often limits understanding and makes it harder for people to see or question what’s happening.

And I don’t say that from the outside looking in. I’ve served on several boards. Some operated with integrity. Others were closed circles — the kind where only certain voices are welcome, and anyone who doesn’t fit the unspoken rules is quietly pushed out. I’ve been that person they couldn’t wait to remove. That experience stays with you.

Closed circles behave a lot like dysfunctional families: protective of themselves, resistant to accountability, threatened by honest questions. Open circles, on the other hand, function more like healthy families: clear, resilient, able to tolerate discomfort because the goal is understanding, not control.

That’s the difference between genuine public process and insulated decision‑making. One invites the community in. The other keeps the community out.

Writing is where I can lay all of this out clearly. It’s where I refuse to believe that nothing can shift. Because if I convince myself something is impossible, I close the door on what is possible. And despite everything I’ve learned — or maybe because of it — I still believe in the possible.

Clarity grows when people recognize that their frustration is feedback — a signal that something is out of alignment and worth examining.

That’s why local involvement matters. It’s why I keep writing. It’s why I stay engaged. Because ignoring that feedback is how we got here — and paying attention to it is how we move forward.