Behind the Curtain: The Pivot

Dear Friend,

This retreat began long before anyone packed a bag or boarded a flight.

It started with a friendship.

With art. With conversations about what it means to show up for each other in a real way. Over time, those conversations turned outward. What would it look like to create a space where other creative women could experience that same kind of connection?

For a year and a half we planned it. Not just the schedule, but the feeling of the room. The kind of honesty we hoped it might hold.

What neither of us expected was how quickly those ideas would move from theory into real time.

The retreat had been planned months in advance. By chance, it landed on my week off chemo. I hadn’t engineered that. It was simply how the calendar fell. Still, it felt significant.

During the two hour drive from the airport to the retreat house, everything shifted. I had stepped in at the last minute to co host, that part was clear. What none of us anticipated was that before the weekend even began, Natalie’s body would speak for her.

No, it wasn’t planned or convenient timing. It was simply real life.

By the time I reached the house, I knew I would be leading alone. That came with a trust given so she could take care of herself.

Here is what struck me later… I had come to support her and without any of us knowing it, I was needed to carry it for her. That’s friendship.

Yes, there was a moment of stress. Then came the pivot.

I’ve got this.

RHA 

The retreat sits about twenty minutes off the freeway. Just when you begin to wonder if you’ve taken a wrong turn, a large metal gate appears. It opens slowly, the initials RHA, River House Arts, marking your arrival.

The house sits on a peninsula with the forest as the backdrop and the river along three sides. When the door opens, water greets you first. Not voices or traffic. Just the river moving over stones, steady and unbothered, as if it has all the time in the world.

The log cabin holds room after room, enough for 14 adults. The walls are layered with modern and whimsical art set against raw beams and wood. So earthy and unexpected it makes you exhale. 

Angela, the owner, designer and artist behind the retreat, is an exquisite host. From the bed pillows to the pottery she serves each meal on, every detail feels considered, like it belongs on the cover of Food and Wine.

And there I was. Having declared to thousands of people just hours before of my fear of standing in front of an audience with no eyelashes, no eyebrows and a new wig. But what I do know how to do is pivot.

Welcome Dinner

That first evening, I sat at the head of the table under the covered deck where you could practically feel drops from the river splash and watched as each of them arrived.

We were all strangers. We were polite and measured. You can feel it when a room is guarded with the scanning, small talk, and quiet wondering. The subtle performance we slip into when we think we need to impress.

In true form, I didn’t ease into it. I introduced myself and told the truth.

How this retreat came to be. A friendship that started and continues because we decided The PET scans that hover quietly in the background of my life. The fortuitous timing of this weekend, that happened to fall on my week off chemo.

And I am an artist.

I had my friend Kendall’s voice on repeat in my head reminding me, “Cancer is the least interesting thing about you.” (Thank you again, alway for this)

And finally, life asked us to change course again. A lesson I know by heart.

As I spoke, I watched it happen. Eyes stopped scanning the room. They locked in and shoulders softened. I watched the polite energy wash away. Doors opened. No one was performing.

After dinner, one of the women walked up to me and said,

 “I didn’t really know what I had signed up for. But I can already tell this is not what I was expecting, and it’s everything I need.”

That’s when I knew the pivot had already happened. I felt stronger as each conversation unfolded throughout the evening. I know the big looming question my husband kept repeating: can she physically do it? Will she have the energy needed?

I did not hesitate.

I can.

GALLERY

The next day we stepped into something entirely different.

A private showing at Gillian Bryce Gallery.

Gillian is a top designer’s secret weapon. Her gallery is filled with thousands of vintage paintings, stacks of frames, portraits leaning against landscapes, pottery and sculptures layered with history. The women were given a private showing and shopping experience.

We all walked in wide-eyed. Our senses were heightened, not overwhelmed but awakened. Where to start was the only question.

I wore a ball cap. The wigs stayed behind. I didn’t need them.

While the women wandered, I sat with Gillian. She asked me questions and we talked briefly about our shared bond of breast cancer. She’s an introvert, so small talk is off the table. We became immediate friends as we shed a few tears. We promised to stay in touch.

Let me tell you, spending the day at her gallery and creative space is in my near future.

Everyone left with new-to-them vintage art and a strong desire to get into the studio. It was the perfect bridge into the workshop the following day.

That evening, after dinner, the storytelling continued.

My husband, Ehli joined the table. The women were relaxed around him immediately. They asked how we met. Always delighted to share about our origin story, I told them to hold onto it because if Ehli could find a guitar, he would sing the song he wrote about us, our family. He’s a songwriter and another storyteller, so it felt fitting. Asking if he found a guitar became the inside joke and hopeful mission.

Workshop

10:00 am the next morning was the full day workshop and five new women joined.

I began again with the three words:

Pivot.

Showing up.

Paying attention.

Before we picked up a brush, I thanked them. Being in this room cost everyone something. It cost money, family rearranging, travel and courage.

“You showed up for yourselves,” I told them. “And that matters.”

We began with a brief color theory lesson and a visual exercise that got them right into painting. This was to prime them for the rest of the day.

After lunch, the room was different. Everyone was eager, decisive and ready to allow for the creative flow to happen. It was such a joy to watch the pieces come together and the giddiness at using a small blow torch.

By 5:30 pm, each woman stood back from her work with something unmistakable in her expression. There was satisfaction and pride, not because it was perfect, but because they had accomplished what they set out to do. I walked around the room looking at each piece with equal admiration. I loved every single one.

Meanwhile, while we were busy in our workshop, my husband wandered into a local vintage music store and walked out with a 1971 Gibson he’d had his eye on for years. Yeah, I will go ahead and call it kismet.

 It felt fitting. We were all collectively thrilled. So after dinner I said, “I have one last story to tell before the song.”

Tears were already close to the surface as I turned everyone’s attention to him. He played our song. Then another and another. Half a dozen songs woven between conversations and laughter. No one was checking their phones or rushing off to bed.

As the night grew later and quieter I announced, “Okay. Let’s have a woo woo conversation.” They all lit up.

“Yes!”

This is the good stuff. I asked each of them a question, the real ones. The kind that tighten bonds because they require vulnerability and honesty. We can all relate to trials, trauma and triumphs. At the end of the day, we want to cheer each other on or offer a hug that doesn’t need words.

Our circle drew closer.

Ehli listened, slightly unsure at first what qualified as woo woo. Then he said something I will carry with me.

“I’ve heard each of you speak about my wife. This isn’t the first time she’s done this. It’s what she does. It’s who she is. She’s magic.”

Collectively, we reached for the tissue box.

We didn’t just make art. We made space.

Somewhere between the pivot and the river and the paint and the music and the questions asked late into the night, something in me settled too.

Those quiet questions hovered all weekend.

Can she physically do it? Will she have the energy?

I did.

When I returned home, I asked each guest to send a reflection.

Sally wrote:

“What an absolute treasure of a weekend. Reflecting with my husband, all I could say is that it was a time that I will never forget. Thank you for making it all possible and for showing up so honestly. You opened up the door for the rest of us to do the same which makes you such a bright light in this world. I’m already looking forward to the next retreat!”

“It all felt steady and deeply meaningful. There was something almost spiritual about simply showing up and being fully present.”

Steady. That word again.

She went on to write that what shifted for her was, “a deeper confidence in who I am right now. Not who I am becoming. Not who I was. But who I am in this season.”

I sat with that for a long time. 

Because maybe that’s the real work. It’s not about becoming someone else or chasing a past version of ourselves. And more importantly a version that actually never existed but it is an immortalized, made up version. But it’s trusting who we are in this season.

She described the space as honest and deeply connected, without any sense of performance. That might be the greatest compliment of all.

If this weekend proved anything, it’s this:

When we show up honestly, doors open, shoulders soften and rooms change. Something inside us settles. We pay attention so that we don't miss the moments that were meant to steady us and carry us forward when we need them the most.

It isn’t about performance. It’s about trust. Trusting a friendship, the room, the unfolding and the quiet shifts of who you are in this season.

I can.

                                                      With love and gratitude,

p.s What is one quiet shift is happening in you right now, and what would it look like to trust it?

Where is life asking you to change course, and are you fighting it or listening. Love you.