OUT OF HIBERNATION
Journal

May 1.

I slept in. Not just a “hit snooze” sleep-in—but the kind where your body and mind revolt against years of alarm clocks and inbox dings and... refuse to rise. It was a Thursday, but it felt like a Sunday that had forgotten to leave. That morning, I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling, asking myself the quiet question: “What have I done?” No emails waiting. No meeting reminders popping. No staff check-ins. I was no longer part of the federal cadence.

 

For the first time in decades, there was no structure tethering my day. Just me, some post-it notes of loose plans, and a resume that still had wet ink on the latest update. I wandered the house. Made coffee. Sat on the porch. And I did what many high-functioning humans forget to do when given a sliver of silence—I listened. Not for opportunity. Not for my next boss. Just... for my breath. And the truth? It was uneasy.

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The early days of “admin leave” were less about power moves and more about power outages. I’d spent the last few years running on reserve—creatively, physically, emotionally—and now the switch had been flipped. I didn’t know if I wanted to plug back in... or light up something completely different. Fast-forward to an evening in July. I’m sitting in my garden, knees dirt-streaked, hands as well. The breeze has a rhythm that’s more healing than any guided meditation. I’m perched on the hill above the Treadwell Mine trailhead, watching boats move across Gastineau Channel, the water doing what water does—flowing forward, without asking permission.

 

This is where I come to think. When the Juneau rain pauses and the light lingers late, this little hill becomes my lighthouse. I plant a few things here—not just flowers, but possibilities. This night, I thought about everything I’ve accomplished. I mean, it’s all right there in the résumé: the four decades, the leadership titles, the national deployments, the earned stripes from newsroom to boardroom to command room. It’s there in the cover letter, too; those milestone moments that only happen when you stick with something long enough to make your mark.

 

And yet, I kept circling the same internal debate: Do I parlay all of that into the next logical chapter? The next big title, the next demanding inbox? Or... do I write something different now? The answer didn’t come in a blinding “aha” moment. It’s been revealing itself in quiet ways these last 2.5 months. While I’ve been testing both the solid and the squishy—applying for positions that look good on paper, interviewing for jobs that came close—I’ve also been running heart checks under the radar. Seeing how it feels not to chase. Seeing what stirs when there’s silence.

 

So here’s what I’ve come to: I want peace. I want serenity. I want time to love on Miss Winnie, my granddaughter, while she still thinks I’m the coolest person in the universe. I want to cruise every summer to places I’ve never been—not for a conference, but for curiosity. I want to keep learning, creating, getting better—not because someone’s tracking metrics, but because I’m still wildly interested in this life.  And I want to stay healthy enough to live into my 90s, to sit at Winnie’s college graduation, to dance at her wedding, to be there for all the things.

 

I met my fitness trainer today. For the next six weeks, she’ll see me twice a week. And I’ll make good use of her, not just because I need the accountability, but because I finally know what I’m training for: a long, whole, grounded life. One I don’t need to escape from. One I can fully enjoy. This is not a pause. This is not a fallback. This is The Great Thaw. And I’m just getting warmed up.