I’m back in Spain after an intense 5-week trip to the US and grateful to be back in a stable rhythm.
The highlight of my trip was a three-night men’s retreat I led in Colorado. We dipped into icy mountain streams, grilled local steaks and veggies, and got rowdy over games of Liar’s Dice. In the midst of all that, I admitted something to those four men that I had never shared with anyone—a career desire I’ve been hiding from for years. As I spoke, I was moved to tears—both from the resonance of naming something so precious, and from the release of the shame I had been holding around it.
One man shared that before the retreat, burnout had brought him close to walking away from his fast-growing business and lifelong dream. Afterward, he felt “unlocked” to keep building in a more aligned way. Working with men in this way is as close as I’ve ever felt to my personal ministry.
🔹 Taking root in Madrid
Back in Madrid, it’s blissfully quiet: many locals have left for the beach, while the rest of us hide indoors from the heat.
I love speaking Spanish and the feeling that I’m forming new neural pathways via everyday communication, even if my constant missteps also humble me.
I am grateful for how easy it is to get outside and eat clean. I’m smashing insane amounts of grocery-store gazpacho, which has exactly zero additives or preservatives—hard for this American to believe.
I like how Madrid’s international diversity exists alongside a palpable local culture. I recently learned that “gato” 🐈 is slang for someone whose parents and grandparents were all born in Madrid. (“How do you know someone is a gato? … They’ll tell you.”)
My airway/breathing journey continues to be arduous, but I feel good about my path forward. I’m consulting three new specialists later this year, and am confident I’ll have a clear plan for 2027. Meanwhile, I’ve shifted my gym regimen to focus on addressing chronic bracing and compensation patterns. Despite slow progress, cultivating a sense of agency in this process has been its own kind of relief.
🔹 Telling the truth, losing the game
Despite the very physical basis of my ailments, a big part of my recent healing appears at first blush to have nothing to do with my body: Learning to tell the truth, even when I may lose connection or opportunities.
An example: I sign up for a future pickleball game, but later realize I should cancel because my body can’t handle it on that day.
We all know we’re supposed to “put ourselves first,” but this is easier said than done. The reality is that if I cancel at the last minute, I may annoy some people and not be invited back.
Am I willing to tell the truth anyway?
Frankly, it's complicated. There are days when I force myself to play and my body pays the price for staying in the good graces of the pickleball-powers-that-be.
While pickleball remains a challenging arena for this work, I’ve made bigger strides in my love life.
Last year, feeling my desire for marriage and children, and wary of the passing years, I found myself downloading and then deleting dating apps, going on a date or two and then withdrawing—always grappling with: What do I say?
“I want to find my life partner” was true, but in a curated way. In some circumstances, if I said only this, it was closer to a lie.
“I have some health issues that limit what I can give to a relationship.” More disclosure, more true.
“I am grieving and not ready to fully open my heart.” This was the hardest truth to say out loud. But eventually I realized it was the only version that had integrity—the only one that gave someone enough information to decide whether to spend time with me.
I was scared that this honesty would result in rejection and pain. What happened instead was unexpected: the spell of fear began to break. I felt increasingly unattached to the outcome.
Eventually, for the first time in my adult life, I found myself deprioritizing dating—an activity that bordered on compulsion for the better part of two decades. The change has been liberating—I feel free to slow down and exhale even more.
I still want marriage and kids, but I know that I need to follow a gentler, more emergent path through my 40s—one that honors where I am now without fighting it or forcing an outcome.
Bottom line: telling the truth has been an essential part of my healing. And this makes sense: lies and half-truths are the verbal expressions of fear—the fear that our truth is not safe—with stress and tension as their physical counterparts.
Whatever connection I’ve lost with others by telling the truth, I’ve gained back through deeper connection to myself, and a body that is gradually getting the message: You’re safe. There’s nothing to hide.
(Unless of course pickleball is involved. One step at a time…)
Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what landed for you, and how you’re doing.
Love, Taylor
July/August📍— Madrid, San Francisco, Mexico City, Madrid