I didn’t set out to build a platform like CherryCoBiz. Not in the way it exists now. In the beginning, I thought I had a cure — a supplement, a solution, something that might genuinely change the world. And maybe, in a small way, that’s still true. But long before CherryCoBiz, my work was always about the people. I specialized in geriatric care, sat with the dying in hospice, supported grieving families in a mortuary. I’ve worn more hats — and held more emotional weight — than I can fully explain. I’ve met the full cast of characters life has to offer. And every one of those experiences gave me something: a lesson, a story, a lens.

I remember once, a woman I knew in real estate — bold, unapologetic, full of sharp edges and a lifetime of hard experience — asked me about my work history. When I told her I’d worked in hospice, as a CNA, medication manager, home health — all the things that felt so meaningful to me — she looked me in the eye and said, “What is wrong with you?” I was stunned. I laughed awkwardly, thinking surely she was joking. But she wasn’t. She said, “No, seriously… people who do that kind of work are trying to fix something.” And I was shook. I’d never heard it framed that way. Was there something wrong with me for wanting to care so deeply? Was I really doing it for them… or to heal something broken in me?

The truth is: it was both. I gave to others because it was my nature — but also because there were places inside me that longed to be seen, valued, soothed. And taking care of others made me feel whole. There’s nothing wrong with that. More people should love that unconditionally. That woman — my mother’s friend — has since passed. And I miss her. Even though her honesty rattled my fragile soul more than once, I had a deep love and appreciation for her willingness to speak from where she stood, even when I didn’t agree. That’s part of growth too: respecting the perspectives of those who came before, while still choosing your own path forward.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but all of those moments — the jobs, the questions, the discomfort — were shaping the way I see the world now. Through compassion, through curiosity, and through the kind of truth that only comes from truly living. So if you’re new here, welcome. This space is for those who’ve woken up. For the ones who’ve felt too much, given too much, seen too much — and still choose to care. This is for those trying to live well in a world that doesn’t always reward wellness. You’re not alone.

Recently, I watched a video by The Temporal Nomad called “The Greatest Tragedy is to Be Good in a Rotten World.” And while I’ve seen a lot of thoughtful commentary online, this one stopped me cold. It held up a mirror I wasn’t expecting. It spoke directly to that inner knowing I’ve carried for years — that being a good, honest person in this world doesn’t always lead to reward. Sometimes, it leads to isolation. To abuse. To being used. But it also leads to awakening.

I’ve spent most of my life being “too nice.” And no, that’s not a weakness — but it has held me back. I was raised to be polite. To say yes. To be agreeable. My parents meant well. They wanted me to be kind. And I was. I still am. But over time, that version of kindness — the one that folds in on itself, the one that never questions, the one that bends to make others more comfortable — began to feel less like goodness and more like surrender. Not the spiritual kind. The self-erasing kind.

It wasn’t until my mid to late 30s that I began to truly question why I was the way I was. And when I say I “snapped out of stupid,” I say it with love — because I wasn’t stupid. I was shaped. Trained. Socialized. Molded into someone easy to manage. Easy to take advantage of. And the moment I began to challenge that script — to say no, to protect my energy, to stand up for my own needs — everything shifted.

But make no mistake: this transformation didn’t come without effort. I’ve studied psychology. I’ve studied people. I’ve studied myself. And while I may not lead with titles or formal accolades, I absolutely honor the time, energy, and discipline I’ve poured into understanding the human condition — including my own. Growth isn’t accidental. It’s intentional. It requires deep dives, uncomfortable truths, and the courage to evolve from what holds you back.

What I’ve learned is that I’m an authority on perspective. Not just mine — but others’. I get people. I understand how they move, what shapes them, what wounds they hide. My empathy allows me to see from many angles. My humility allows me to meet people where they are. And my dedication — even when I can’t quite define the cause — is what keeps me grounded in truth.

This morning during meditation, I had a vision. It felt dreamlike, vivid, urgent. My neighborhood was on fire. My building full of sleeping people. At first, I hesitated. I didn’t want to be the one to disturb anyone. But the fire was spreading. And something in me — the part that always chooses action over silence — rose up and began waking people. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. Even when it’s not easy. Especially then.

The fire, I believe, was symbolic. Of this moment. This world. This unraveling. So many are still asleep to the damage being done — to themselves, to their communities, to the truth. But some of us see it. And once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. You can’t just lay back down.

So if you’re still reading, I ask you to sit with this:

On what subject(s) are you an authority?
Not in terms of titles or accolades, but through lived experience.
Through your pain. Through your healing. Through the choices you’ve had to make when no one else was watching.
What has life asked you to learn — and what has it shown you that others still struggle to see?

Let this question stay with you. Reflect on it. Walk with it. Whisper it to yourself on a quiet morning. You don’t have to shout the answer. But you do deserve to hear yourself speak it, clearly and without shame.

CherryCoBiz was never meant to be a brand — it’s a reflection of all of this. The lived experience. The fire. The healing. And the quiet, consistent decision to keep telling the truth, even when it costs something. Some people won’t see the fire. Some won’t want to be woken. Some will resent you for sounding the alarm. But others — the right ones — will open their eyes. And when they do, they’ll be grateful someone like you was there.

Because not everyone will see the fire.
But I do.
And maybe you do too.

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If any part of this spoke to you, I invite you to sit with the video that stirred something in me. The Greatest Tragedy Is to Be Good in a Rotten World is more than commentary — it’s a meditation on truth, tenderness, and the quiet strength it takes to remain whole. Let it meet you where you are.