Reclaiming your life is an interesting idea. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever really claimed mine to begin with. Does anyone? Sure, there are moments I look back on now after getting lost in a man, marrying within months, moving across the world (effectively making my career credentials useless and my bank account nearly empty), then spending years in self-discovery trying to “find myself”—and I can see how it looks like I reclaimed my life. I blew it all up and, paradoxically, found my way back to the heart of many of the principles I was raised with. From the outside, it probably seems like I came full circle. But if I’m honest, I don’t think I ever really had it to begin with.
How could I have truly claimed my own life when I was taught by family, by teachers, by pastors, by well-meaning communities, to think, act, and be a certain way based on someone else’s idea of morality? How could I have truly claimed it when society had already written the script? Work hard, get married, have kids and live happily ever after.
So, when I sat down to write this week’s post, I realized that this reclamation wasn’t about going back to something I once had. It was about waking up and slowing down long enough to see that I was never really free.
Reclaiming my life has meant freeing myself from the chains of conformity. From society’s rules, from other people’s expectations, and from my own internalized “shoulds.” And instead, for the first time, actively choosing how I want to live.
What Does it Mean to Reclaim Your Life?
To reclaim your life means choosing in your freedom, right here and now, how you want to live. And deciding you can shape your future, no matter how hard or how small the steps may be. It means to live your life with intention, from moment to moment. Not everyone else’s intention or the intention you created ten years ago.
Reclaiming your life might mean quitting the job that drains your soul. It might mean ending a relationship that no longer fits, or finally honoring that small voice you’ve ignored for too long. Or maybe it’s something less daunting, like saying no to plans you don’t want to attend, taking a solo walk without your phone, or letting yourself rest without guilt.
But at its core, to reclaim your life is to come back to yourself, to stop living someone else’s story and start living your own. It means asking yourself, maybe for the first time: What do I actually want? And am I brave enough to choose it, even if it changes everything?
My story reads like this…
When I was 22, I had a budding career as an Occupational Therapist, a home, a car, a growing bank account, and a wild zest for life. I had dreams of traveling the world, being a digital nomad with no home base, and living a life of physical freedom.
While many of my friends were naming their unconceived daughters and daydreaming about wedding days, I knew for sure I didn’t want kids. Marriage? Maybe. But I hadn’t thought much about the wedding—just vague ideas of what the man might look like.
My first solo trip at that ripe young age was to the USA… and straight into the arms of that man. He was well-meaning, grounded, and kind. He told me, “You can still travel, but you need a home base.” His dreams were different from mine. And so, without much of a fight, I conceded. I figured he was probably right, and I was young. What did I really know about myself?
A house in the suburbs, a gang of stepkids, and over a decade of silent turmoil later, I realized that I had never truly claimed the desires of my heart. I had never anchored into myself or paused long enough to consult the wisdom within… I didn’t even know how.
I followed the path of conformity even when it felt off, even when I felt pressure and even when, buried in the depths of my heart, I knew this wasn’t the life for me, even though I loved him. I kept my head down and kept moving. For years, I ran on autopilot, chasing hard after dreams I wasn’t sure were even mine anymore.
In the final year of my marriage, I seriously considered having a baby even though I knew my entire life I didn’t want children. I met with midwives and doulas, talked to friends, and tried to overcome a fear I’d carried for years around being pregnant. I told myself I was a wimp for being afraid of something women are built to do. But deep down, I wasn’t just afraid of pregnancy. I was afraid I was trying to become a mother just to prove I was a woman. To connect with the feminine I had never known within myself. And to rescue a marriage that felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
And then, slowly, I started to wake up. I started to see how much of myself I had been contorting to fit into a box, trying to feel connected to a man who had long been disconnected, and entertaining a life that wasn’t even mine. All because I had never slowed down long enough to really sit with and embrace my own desires.
What would happen if I slowed down and got honest with myself? What would happen if I claimed the desires of my own heart… Not what anyone else thought I should or shouldn’t want, but just my own desires?
What followed was one of the scariest, and most liberating, seasons of my life.
Why Slowing Down Feels So Dangerous (But Is Exactly What We Need)
Slowing down is dangerous because it welcomes the unknown. We fear what it will do to our bank accounts, to our reputations, to our egos, to our families. We fear the fallout, and we also fear the possibilities. What if everything changes? What if nothing does? But underneath it all is the most human fear of all… Uncertainty.
My first fear was that if I slowed down, my “dreams” would never come to fruition. That I’d get left behind in this race to the top. That other people would get the clients, the resources, the spotlight and I’d just be forgotten. Or worse, that I’d slow down and never find my momentum again.
I was afraid of what it would look like to other people if I had the audacity to live a slower life while everyone around me was hustling, struggling, and clawing their way to the top. I was afraid to make choices that weren’t “society approved.” Not “Boss Lady” culture approved.
On a deeper level, I was afraid of what I would see. In the stillness of my life, I suspected that I’d start seeing my emotional junk more clearly and I would be terrified of what I saw. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared, that I felt behind, that I didn’t know what I wanted anymore, and that I wasn’t as happy, healthy, or fulfilled as I pretended to be. I was scared to come face to face with the places I needed to meet myself boldly.
But I also knew I couldn’t keep doing life the same way. I couldn’t keep moving with my head in the sand, avoiding the truth of a fading marriage, a misaligned career, and a body that was begging me to listen. And I couldn’t work any harder or faster to try and fix any of it.
People think slowing down is this serene, peaceful experience. And in some moments, it is. At the beginning, and at the end of the rollercoaster, it is calming. But if you let it take you on the full ride, slowing down is illuminating, radical, and disruptive.
I never expected my slow year to end in divorce. I spent most of it trying to reconnect, to rebuild, and to make my life better. But that’s what slowing down does. It holds a light to the things we couldn’t see when we were moving too fast, and forces us to finally tell the truth.
Slowing down feels dangerous because it threatens the version of ourselves we’ve worked so hard to maintain. It makes us question our stories, our choices, and sometimes our entire identities. But that’s also what makes it sacred.
In my experience, slowing down has been the precursor to every transformation that mattered. It was the doorway to peace, to freedom, to love, and to a kind of connection, with myself and with others, that was more honest and beautiful than I ever imagined.
4 Steps I Took to Reclaim My Life
I lived for many years in a kind of silent hell, entirely of my own making. From the outside, everything looked fine, but inside, I was drowning. I felt desperate and exhausted, and was trying so hard to “succeed,” and yet constantly feeling like I was falling short.
I’d lie in bed next to a man who felt like a stranger. I couldn’t explain why I felt so disconnected. Or why I kept waking up with dry-ass skin, a deep stress line etched into my forehead, and a mind thick with brain fog. It felt like I was trying to live, but wasn’t having much success at it. Unconsciously, I’d traded joy for just getting through.
At the time, I didn’t call it “reclaiming my life.” I didn’t even know what that meant. But I knew something had to change. I couldn’t bear the thought that this was what I was going to settle for. That this one precious life I have was meant to be lived on struggle street.
I wanted beauty and meaning in my life, and to actually feel like I was living my life to the fullest, doing work I loved with people who genuinely loved me, by my side. So I made a choice—a series of them, really. The choices were small at first, then bigger. Until one day, I looked up and realized that I was living a completely different life.
Here’s how I began to reclaim my life, one step at a time:
1. I Made the Decision to Slow Down
Sometimes the only thing standing between us and the life we want is the willingness to choose. To stop sitting in “maybe someday” and just decide. We all know that indecision is a decision too, and so many of us waste years in it. The decision doesn’t have to be dramatic or overwhelming. It can be simple and subtle, at first.
I knew for a long time that I needed to slow down, but knowing isn’t enough. I had to make the decision. I wanted to make slowness a way of being, that I sensed would only be possible if it were a long-term commitment, and not just for a long weekend. That’s how The Slow Year was born.
My one decision that entire year was to move a little slower. Live a little more intentionally. That was it. That was the whole assignment. Every time I felt myself rushing, whether mentally or physically, I came back to the same simple prompt: slow down, Candis.
At first, it was physical. Could I lay in bed just one more minute, relaxing into the morning instead of launching out of bed at the sound of my alarm? Could I savor the feeling of my mattress, feel grateful for the roof over my head, notice the light coming through the window? I slowed down while getting dressed. I started putting my clothes away instead of tossing them over the chair. I sat down to put on my shoes for the first time in years.
Even the gym, which had been a place of pressure and punishment for me, began to shift. I’d avoided working out for so long because I dreaded the intensity. The heavy weights, the HIIT classes, the sweat-fueled striving. But when I gave myself permission to move slowly at the gym, something reignited in me. I told myself to just get there and be in the space. That would be enough. Over time, I found myself drawn to slower, strength-based movement. These days, I do Lagree twice a week. I love a slow burn that leaves me feeling powerful and grounded. And I’m the strongest and leanest I’ve been in years.
That simple decision to slow down became the starting point for the reclamation of my entire life.
2. I Reclaimed My Body
By the final few months of my official Slow Year, I was feeling better physically. I was cooking more vibrant, colorful meals at home, spending more time in meditation and devotion, and relaxing into my days. I was choosing rest over hustle, especially on weekends.
But despite all that, I still felt strangely disconnected from my body. I had never truly explored my sensuality or sexuality, not in a way that felt conscious or fully embodied. By that point, I understood intellectually that feminine energy is strong, intuitive, and receptive. But deep down, I still carried the subconscious belief that the feminine was somehow weak.
I started to wonder: What would it be like to actually know my sensuality on an intimate level? Would it improve my sex life? Would I finally feel like a fully integrated being? What did people really mean when they said, get out of your head and into your body? I didn’t know the answers, but I was curious enough, and tired enough of feeling disconnected, to find out.
So I threw myself in and I hired a tantra coach. I was terrified. I didn’t know why at the time, but looking back, I can see that my body knew something my mind wasn’t ready to accept. Or maybe it was just that my ego was afraid to let go. Afraid of surrender. Afraid of sensation. Afraid of the unknown.
The work was awkward at first. There I was, being guided through visualizations, looking at my pussy with a hand mirror, rolling around on the floor in tears and laughter and movement. It felt strange, exposing and very unfamiliar. But as I kept showing up, I began to transform. I learned how to really move. I began to feel a kind of joy, self-trust, and groundedness that I can now only describe as emotional sovereignty.
Through this work, I discovered that my body wasn’t just something to fix, push, or sculpt. It was a wise, alchemical force capable of holding pain, transmuting emotion, and guiding me home.
Reclaiming my body is what ultimately gave me the courage to face the truth: My marriage was over. And I had to let it go. That embodied knowing is what carried me through the grief, and into a life of deep inner freedom.
3. I Deepened in My Spiritual Practices
Sometimes the idea of “spiritual practices” can sound lofty or intangible—like something reserved for monks, gurus, or people with a lot of free time and incense. But one of my most sacred spiritual practices is doing nothing, on purpose. Just being. I remember hearing Eckhart Tolle say in an interview that the spaciousness of the sky reflects the spaciousness within us. That landed like truth and still does. I’ll often sit by a window or out on my balcony, simply staring into the sky. It’s how I connect to the stillness within myself, the soft presence I now recognize as the God within me.
There is a power greater than me, and yet it lives within me, too. It animates all of life. We see it in nature. Without any effort, things bloom and cycles complete and life unfolds. There is an intelligence behind it all. And when I choose to trust in Life, I surrender to that deeper, wiser intelligence. That, to me, is spirituality.
The more I slow down, the more I witness this silent power everywhere. I notice trees and flowers as I walk down the street. I let the sun hit my face, feeling into the rhythm of the day rather than powering through it. And in that rhythm, something sacred has emerged…
I know when to move. I know when to rest. I know when to work and ride the wave of creative momentum. I know when to hold on, and when to let go. That’s what deepening in my spiritual practices has done for me… It’s returned me to a living relationship with Life itself. One anchored in trust, peace and freedom.
4. I Rebuilt My Life in Freedom
It took me a really, really long time to not just understand, but to fully know, deep within my bones, that I am a free woman. I was free when I was married. And I am free now. Freedom has always been available to me. I just had to recognize it. And claim it.
We spend so much of our lives chasing external freedom. Freedom in our schedules. Freedom in our work. Freedom in our relationships, in our bodies, in our bank accounts. But what I’ve found is that external freedom only becomes available when we seek and find inner freedom. When we stop waiting for permission, and start walking through the door that’s been open all along.
Most of us are sitting in cages we’ve built for ourselves. Cages made of expectations, old roles, or of fear, guilt, shame, and “shoulds.” And even with the door wide open, we stay inside. Because stepping out means letting go. It means becoming someone new, or maybe finally becoming who we’ve always been. It means risking the unfamiliar.
But, guess what? That’s the only way to freedom!
As I began to claim my freedom, and co-create with Life in a more soulful way, I started making choices for me. I owned my desire to live a childless life. I owned my desire for long-term partnership without the framework of traditional marriage. I owned my desire to live a slow, deeply intuitive, creative life, unhooked from society’s expectations of what a “successful woman” should be.
This is what rebuilding in freedom looks like. As we deepen in our spiritual practices, as we stare courageously into the open sky, as we choose to leave the safety of our cages and fly into the wild unknown, we realize that the life we’ve been waiting for… was always waiting for us.
The Courage to Choose Yourself
In the year after my divorce, although I had started to dismantle many of my old conditionings, I still found myself spinning inside the same inherited patterns. I was grasping desperately for a sense of security. I thought I could find someone or something solid to hold onto in romantic relationships or in work. Maybe a new role to play or a new cage to fly into. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a place to land. And so, I had no other choice: I had to turn inward.
As I turned inward I began to discover a deep and enduring peace within me that I had never truly experienced before. One that, over time, grew into lightness and joy. That joy became the sun that lifted the clouds from my eyes and helped me see clearly again. And as I saw more clearly, I began to feel something wild and beautiful stir in me. It was the freedom of the open skies. The thrill of knowing I am the pilot of my life. That I can choose who I want to be and how I want to live.
Choosing myself has meant honoring what’s true for me, even when it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s meant letting go of what no longer fits and trusting that when I meet Life with presence, it will meet me right back.
If you’re feeling the tug to change but fear what you’ll lose, just know that you don’t have to have it all figured out and you don’t have to blow up your life overnight. You just have to be willing to tell yourself the truth, and take one small, honest step in the direction of your freedom. Even if you do it scared.
Trust me on this—the moment you begin to choose yourself first, is the moment your real life begins. And that is worth slowing down for.
Are you feeling the call to slow down, to choose yourself, or to reclaim your life in some small (or big) way? I’d love to hear: What’s one step you want to take toward claiming your own version of freedom? Feel free to share in the comments below. I read every one!
Ps. Want to begin your journey to a slower, more peaceful way of living? Sign up for the free 5 Days of Slow audio course here.
Mace
I’ve read several of your posts this evening and I really appreciate you sharing your story and /how/ you figured this all out. I’ve been searching for some sort of connection to spirituality but have never felt good about any organized religion and am wary of the way many white people practice “spirituality” in a culturally appropriative style. this just feels like such an honest (and tbh obvious! but sometimes those are the toughest things to see) way to do it and you articulate it so well that I’m gonna try to do a slow year myself. glad you found your path and thank you<3
Candis Williams
Hey Mace! My pleasure to share. And thanks for sharing a little of your heart here, too. Folks can definitely complicate the spiritual sometimes. I’d love to hear how your slow year goes! Enjoy 🙂