What Personal Freedom Means to Me (This July, and Always)

I had an unnerving experience this week.

A follow-up mammogram. An ultrasound. One more side view. And then the words I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath to hear:

“You don’t have breast cancer.”

Relief came in a strange, slow wave. 

In six months, I’ll go back to make sure what they saw is still just a shadow. But for now, I get to exhale.

While I waited alone in that quiet, sterile space, I thought of the beautiful women I know who have walked this path — the ones who are still fighting, the ones who’ve come through, and the ones who never got the chance to finish the fight.

And I thought: If they can do it, I can too.

But let’s be honest: 

No one wants to even have to think about that. 

The idea of it shakes you. 

It shook me.

So I sat with that fear. I didn’t try to bypass it. 

I tapped before I left the house. I meditated in the car. I did all the things I teach. 

But I also let myself feel scared.

Between the mammogram and the ultrasound, I was pacing slowly in a little private waiting room. I tapped gently on my collarbone. 

It was quiet. 

No one else was around. 

And I cherished that space — because I got to just be me.

Then the technician walked in. 

She told me I was, in fact, having the ultrasound. 

I took a deep breath — not dramatically, just to regulate — and she said, without a smile or softness:

“Why don’t you calm down until you know what’s happening?”

And then: “Think positive.”

And she walked out.

No warmth. No connection. 

Just the kind of casual dismissal I imagine women are met with all the time. 

And it made me wonder: 

How many of us have been told, in quiet and subtle ways, to “get over ourselves”?

It stung. 

Not because I needed hand-holding — but because I believe in meeting people where they are. Especially in a space like that.

And here’s what I realized in that moment: 

In the past, I would have internalized it. 

I would’ve spiraled—ashamed for being scared, judging myself for needing support. 

But instead, I made a different choice.

I went back inward. 

Back to my breath. 

Back to the tools I’ve worked hard to master.

That, right there, was personal freedom.

If I’m lucky enough to get 30 more years on this earth, here’s what I want from them:

• To love with my whole soul. Not just deeply, but courageously. The kind of love that terrifies me because it’s that real.

• To help as many people as I can heal from trauma — whether that means writing their book, processing their past, or stepping into something powerful I’m building right now. (More on that soon.)

• To leave a legacy of love for Laura and Wren.

I think often about the way love was modeled for me.

My dad loved me, but never quite knew how to show it. 

My mother, lost in her illness, couldn’t either.

And I want my family to say — without hesitation:

“She loved deeply.”

That’s the legacy I want to leave. 

Not the perfect business. Not a perfect body. Not a spotless life. 

Just love. Real, brave, messy, beautiful love.

In full transparency? I still have some work to do.

Vulnerability in love still scares the holy, f’ing crap out of me. 

Why? 

Because I spent years craving love from people who simply couldn’t give it.

That started in childhood and echoed through marriages, family, friendships—even business.

(Yes, I want love in business too. Why not?)

So here’s what I’m doing now:

I’m opening that scary, sacred door back to childhood. 

I’m finding the little girl who’s still hiding in the corners. 

And I’m telling her:

I love you. 

Unconditionally. 

Fiercely. 

Deliciously.

She will heal. Even more than she already has. 

And when she does, I will love even more deeply — because that’s what healing makes possible.

So what does personal freedom mean to me this month?

It’s not just about speaking my truth on a stage. 

It’s not just about choosing who I love or how I work.

It’s about reclaiming my nervous system. 

It’s about being with myself in the storm — not running from the fear, not overriding it, not shrinking for someone else’s comfort.

It’s about choosing compassion over performance. 

Every time.

And it's about helping others remember they can do the same.

Let this July be a turning point—not just in the seasons, but in your soul. 

Because you deserve that kind of freedom, too.

And I’m walking this road right alongside you.

With love, 

Allyson