One winter night, I was hauling in groceries after a long day. The air was sharp, the ground slick with ice.

As I stepped across my driveway, arms full, my foot slipped.

In an instant, I was on the ground—head hitting the pavement, groceries scattered around me.

For a moment, I just lay there, stunned by the cold, the shock, the weight of everything.

And then, clear as day, I heard a voice in my head:

"You are doing too much."

I sat up slowly, checking for injuries. Miraculously, I was fine. But the message stayed with me.

That night, as I put away the groceries, I couldn’t shake the thought. How do I cut out anything when it all seems important?

The next morning, I sat down with a pen and paper and wrote out every role I was juggling—every hat I wore. Then, for the first time, I asked myself: What does success actually look like in each of these areas?

That moment changed everything. It was the beginning of realignment, of shedding what wasn’t mine to carry, and of redefining success on my terms.