A reflection from Key West — same campground, one year later
A year ago today, I was sitting in Key West. The sun was warm, the mangroves were doing what they do, wild and overgrown and completely unbothered by the world, and I had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.
I thought I was safe.
I had given 25 years to my career: my ideas, my loyalty, my best thinking, my late nights. I was trusted enough that, when leadership decided to cut a percentage of the organization, I helped coach my leadership team and draft scripts. These words would be delivered to the people whose roles were being eliminated. I made sure the language was humane. I made sure it would land with dignity.
And then, on a call I didn't see coming, someone read my own words back to me.
I won't pretend that it didn't bring me to my knees. I'm not someone who cries easily, but that day, I did. I let myself feel the full weight of it. The shock. The grief. The strange, hollow feeling of not knowing who you are when the title disappears. That night, I stood in the shower and just kept saying it to myself: wash all the grief away.
And then I went and had a margarita. Because I was in Key West, and someone wise reminded me that if you're going to have the rug pulled out from under you, there are worse places for it to happen.
I wrote about those early days honestly — the grief, the fear, and the first steps forward — in this post from earlier in the year. If you're in the thick of a transition right now, that one might meet you where you are. This post is its sequel.
Here's what I couldn't have told you then.
I couldn't have told you that a year later I would be back in the same campground, a few spots down from where I was sitting when that call came in. That wasn't planned. The reservation was made before any of this happened. I only realized it a few days ago, and I've been sitting with that ever since.
I couldn't have told you I'd be living in a more fluid and transient way, selling my house, choosing a life that moves and breathes and looks nothing like the one I carefully built over 25 years.
I couldn't have told you I'd be building three businesses, one rooted in wellness and transformation, one drawing on every ounce of my corporate experience to help leaders and teams find their footing, and one more still taking shape. If you'd described this to me a year ago, I would have laughed and said you're crazy.
But here I am. And here's the thing I most want you to know.
The fear doesn't last.
That hollow, untethered feeling, the one that whispers, who are you without the title, without the calendar, without the plan, it passes. Slowly, then all at once.
What I've discovered on the other side of it is something I didn't expect: I feel safe. Not because everything is figured out, trust me, it isn't. Not because I have a five-year plan, for those that know me, it's surprising, but I don't. But because somewhere in this past year, I stopped needing one. The woman who lived by structure and strategy, carefully mapping out next steps, is still here, still capable. But she's learned to loosen her grip. To let a day be a day. To trust that what's coming will come, and that she is ready for it even when she can't see it yet.
That shift, from control to presence, has been the greatest gift of this entire year.
If you're in the middle of your own transition right now, as I know many are, whether it was your choice or not, I want you to hear this:
You are enough without the title. You always were. The title was something you wore. It was never what you were made of.
The people who matter will show up. Let them.
And the life waiting for you on the other side of this moment may look nothing like anything you'd have planned, and it may be more alive than anything you've ever known.
I couldn't have built this life if they hadn't read my script back to me.
One year later, same campground, a few spots down. Different Lisa. Better story.
I'm Lisa Russell — founder of Jade & Oak, a wellness retreat and lifestyle brand, and Unsalted Oak, a leadership consulting and strategy firm. If this story resonates with you, I'd love to connect. Whether you're navigating a transition, curious about what I'm building, or need someone to tell you that you're going to be okay ,don't be a stranger.
