There are people who seem to move comfortably through the world they were handed.

People who know exactly what they want, where they belong, and how to build a life that fits neatly around them.

I was never one of them.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt slightly out of step with the life script everyone else seemed so comfortable following — the stable career, the predictable milestones, the endless cycle of checking boxes because that’s simply what you’re supposed to do.

And yet, for years, I tried very hard to want those things.

I went to law school. Built the career. Chased stability. Tried to convince myself that if I just worked hard enough and followed the “right” path closely enough, I’d eventually arrive at the feeling everyone else seemed to have found.

But deep down, I always felt pulled toward something more alive.

So years ago, I did something that terrified me: I left my law firm job, packed up my dog Holly and a backpack, and began traveling the world full-time in search of a life that actually felt like mine.

And it changed me completely.

Travel gave me experiences, freedom, beauty, connection, and perspective I never could have found by staying inside the life I thought I was supposed to want. It taught me that there are countless ways to build a meaningful existence, and that sometimes the most important thing you can do is trust the quiet inner voice telling you there’s more out there for you.

Then, years later, I lost Holly.

And the truth is, I never really became the same person again afterward.

She wasn’t “just a dog.” She was my home, my constant, my companion through every reinvention and uncertain chapter of my life. Losing her created a kind of before and after in my life that I still live inside of now.

People talk about grief as something you heal from, but I’m not sure that’s always true. I think some losses simply become part of you. You adapt around them. You carry them forward. They change the texture of your inner world forever.

Losing Holly made everything feel sharper and more temporary at the same time. It forced me to confront how brief life is, how precious love is, and how deeply unhappy I would be if I continued living a life that no longer felt honest to me.

So at nearly forty, I started rebuilding again.

Not because I had everything figured out.
Not because I was fearless.
But because life is happening now.

This space is where I write about all of it — reinvention, grief, travel, spirituality, healing, love, burnout, meaning, becoming, and what it means to consciously create a life that feels fully your own.

So why The LITMO Life?

Because when I was younger, I’d text my dad every anxiety-ridden thought, fear, and existential crisis imaginable, and he’d always respond with the same advice:

“Live in the moment only.”

Eventually, those replies became just one word:

“LITMO.”

Over time, it became more than advice. It became a philosophy. A reminder that while we can plan for the future, the only moment we ever truly have is the one we’re living right now.

And honestly? The moments where I listened to that idea instead of the noise around me are the moments that brought me the greatest joy, deepest love, biggest adventures, and most meaningful transformations of my life.

So if you’ve ever felt out of sync with the world around you…
If you’ve ever wanted something deeper, freer, more meaningful, or more alive…
If you’re trying to build a life that feels honest and fully your own…

Welcome.

Let’s LITMO together.