EDITION 17

All week, I’ve been thinking about detours.

About the muddles and puddles, the wrong turns—how wild it is that the moments we superlative in strings as setbacks or find ourselves stumbling across thorn-filled sidewalks turn out, time (and time) again, to be these crazy curious little gifts. Not obstacles, but doors to spaces we didn't even know existed. Or ever planned on entering…

I mean, seriously, who could dream up half the places we end up? The gravel roads, the slippery streets with no name, the times we’re convinced we've missed the sign… only to discover, looking back, that those were the routes we were meant to take all along.

Maybe we were never meant to open up our eyes and see the sign..? Nudge. Wink. 

Maybe the point is to trust our feet, to keep forging forward even when the map lines are smudged over and the road doubles back on itself.

I know—the tricky part.
You’re asking, But, Shanna, how do we keep moving forward when the frittata seems so far from fluffy? 

(Even if the universe, somewhere just beyond the bend, has a whole pan of fluffiness waiting for us. Vegan friends—substitute your preferred non-egg egg here.)

Maybe, just maybe, John… the what-if’s and why-now’s—and yes, sometimes the wtf's—are actually the real magic in disguise, working out something well beyond our planning. Maybe those out-the-who detours are where the real wildness—and the real “us”—is found, once we all get aboard the nighttrain.

And really, if we knew all the poop we’d have to dig through to find the pony (yes, it’s the pony again), would we really do it all? I argue not, Eileen.

Maybe the journey doesn’t need us to know or have all the answers, but to stay curious. And to keep digging… Even if—we don't know the way, or even see any bottom… yet. Because maybe what feels off course and deep in doo-doo is actually the universe steering us toward a kind of magic we couldn’t have planned for. That includes the oddball surprises, like fluffy frittatas. Who knew?!

So this week, here’s to trusting the crooked paths, the U-turns, and the divine accidents are bringing us, crumb by crumb by fluffy crumb, to the feast of fluffy frittatas we didn't know we needed.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "steering somewhere fluffy" Lindinger

P.S. Got a story of a stumble that turned out to be a secret sunbeam blessing? Hit reply. I’d love to hear about those snack breaks along the road.

P.P.S. If you’re enjoying this series of writings, please do go ahead and share the love with a friend (or friend of a friend) or fam. 💗 

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Current Thinking Spot: The Dining Room Table

▶ Poem of the Week: The Journey by Mary Oliver

▶ Song of the Week: Dunya Salam by Baaba Maal

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 16

I promised I’d keep showing up here, even on the weeks I’m not sure what to say. Lately, the world’s felt really heavy, and my mind’s a bit elsewhere, and if I’m honest (as I tend toward), I just don’t have the thoughts to link to the words to string into any real sentences of profundity.

Buuuuuuuut I do want to keep my commitment to this letter (and you), soooooo instead of my own thoughts, I’m sharing lines from a book, from one of my favourite authors of all time that always always always brings me back to hopeful—even (or especially) on hard weeks:

Gif by UniversalDestinations on Giphy

Sometimes it’s enough just to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Who knows?! The places you’ll go…!

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "steering somewhere" Lindinger

P.S. If you’re feeling a little lost or slow this week too, know you’re not steering alone. Reply and let me know how you’re moving forward—I’m cheering you on.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Poem of the week: The Guesthouse by Rumi

▶ Current read: Oh, the Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 15

This is the question I keep circling back to this week.

(Or, in other words: How long does it actually take for things to come together? How long do we wait in the dark, the uncertain, the murky middle before the way becomes clear?)

Gif by tvland on Giphy

If I’ve learned anything this week—and maybe why that lotus analogy never leaves me—it’s this:

It’s in the muck and the mess, the dark, heavy, and downright unlovely places, where the lotus finds its way to bloom.

It’s almost funny how often clarity or unexpected gifts—ones that may have been waiting for us all along—only break through after we’ve slogged through the deep, dark, dingy mud.

It reminds me of the story I shared back in edition two: if you keep looking for the pony, you’ll probably get your hands dirty first (and dirtier than you thought they’d get, for sure).

Maybe that’s just how life works: You really have to dig through the mess—through the frustration, the uncertainty, and those moments when you’re questioning if you’re even in the right place.

And then, like the mist that clears unexpectedly along the coast, something quietly shifts.

Cracks appear, the mud settles, and in all that mess, if you’re open to it, tiny signs of life begin to spring up—maybe a chance bud, the faintest ray of light peeking through the clouds, or THAT pony…

It isn't always graceful or easy. And to be honest, I think it rarely is. Oftentimes, the detours are longer than we ever could have imagined, there’s tripping and fumbling, the string knotted and seemingly endless, and the bloom taking its own sweet damn time… 😒 

Sometimes it’s all knots and tangles, and it can feel like the string might just run out. But maybe that’s exactly why we need to just keep holding on. Because eventually… eventually somewhere in that muck, things start to come together—and often in ways we never ever (ever) could have planned.

I don’t quite have the answer. But maybe it’s worth holding on to that string. And not letting go. No matter what. Like, Dorie said, “Just keep swimming.” 

Because the tide will turn.

It always, always turns.

It must.

And as the lotus rises up through the mud—against all the odds—sometimes, just sometimes, the mess is the beginning of something beautiful for you too...

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna (thick in the mess) Lindinger

P.S. If you’re in a muddy place or finally found your own “pony,” I’d love to hear about it. Hit reply—let’s remind one another that something good grows here, even in the thick of it.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success by Deepak Chopra

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 14

This week, I’m asking myself: What do you do with your hope, your faithful routines, when the world seems determined to test every ounce of it?

That feeling crept into my bones today.

Disillusionment is the only word I can find to describe it.

You spend weeks—months, even—doing your best to stay positive, tending that little flame of faith through all the dips and dead ends. You face the “you shall not pass” moments (like I wrote about in Edition 11) with the same gusto as Gandalf at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. And yet, opportunities still fade, promises are broken, and doors (le sigh) shut without explanation.

Sometimes, no matter how gently—or steadfast-ly—we hold onto hope, the universe replies, Not yet, Sarah... or, Not this way, Sarah.

And you’re left confused, like: “But... which way, then?!”

Gif by handymartian on Giphy

It’s easy to let those moments sink deep into the fabric of your days. Disappointment creeps in, clouding your previously peach-tinted horizon and convincing you there’s nothing more ahead.

But, fair friend, give not up.

(Yes, you read that correctly.)

If you pause—just for a breath (or three, in my case)—and let yourself sit with the ache and the silence, a deeper wisdom will bubble up.

This is the space where remembering happens: remembering the light within the darkness, even in the funkiest funk of uncertainty.

There’s a saying: “The only way out is through.” That’s one piece of the puzzle. The other? Standing still long enough for the noise to fade away. Giving yourself space to let silence become the unexpected ally you never knew you needed.

Picture yourself as the moon, pausing at its brightest before the waning phase.

Yes—I believe even the moon takes a moment.

So, if you’re feeling upended or unmoored, here’s your invite:

• What are you still giving your precious energy to, even though it’s ready to end?

• What might happen if you let go—even for a moment—and allowed yourself the gift of quiet?

• Is there a “full moon” in your life right now—something needing closure that you’ve been afraid to face?

Sometimes the hardest part is seeing things for what they are, and then giving yourself the grace to actually let go. Because even after the loudest endings—inner or outer—there is always a pocket of quiet possibility, waiting to be witnessed.

MINI CONTEMPLATION FOR THIS WEEK

Sit with tonight’s moon (or just take a quiet moment) and ask yourself:

• What echo or old story is loudest in your mind right now that you’d like to pack away for good?

• What would it look like to let stillness in, to “clear the field” for whatever is ready to be planted next?

• What hope, word, or wish could you carry forward with you, in the absence of all that old noise?

It’s worth us all remembering, dear friend:

No matter what endings or confrontations this wild (and often unpredictable) road brings, there is always a place for silence, for breathing, and for letting a new truth be born—if we will it so.

Sometimes, all you need to do to keep the light in your life is to make space for it.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "letting in the quiet" Lindinger

P.S. If you’re clearing any fields, closing cycles, or simply noticing where the moon finds you—hit reply and share. Sometimes, saying it aloud is how the real letting go begins.

P.P.S. If you’d like to geek out on fun moon facts, you can follow this link.

P.P.P.S. The edition’s title and subline are inspired by Simon & Garfunkel’s classic, but I adore Disturbed’s version—give it a listen if you haven’t.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Divine Matrix by Gregg Braden

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 13

It’s one of those weeks. Tuesday crept up, and in the midst of everything, I blinked and the hours vanished.

Gif by oxygenmedia on Giphy

Even so, in the haze, there’s always a moment, right?

If we’re lucky, we can squeeze in more than one…

Like, catching early morning rays across the ocean on a windier-than-normal walk with the pooch, that first sip of coffee, or, Xavier Rudd’s “Follow the Sun” on repeat, if we want to be uber specific.

Sometimes, it's as simple as the sun breaking through the clouds on a wintery morning or a song looping to bring you back to now. (YouTube link, if you need it today too.)

Our windier-than-normal walk

Maybe today isn’t a grand reset.

Maybe it’s the gentle nudge to notice a small good thing you almost missed—and whisper a thank you, just because you didn’t miss it.

Sometimes, it’s not about life lining up “just so,” but about breathing through uncertainty, trusting that everything always unfolds for our greater good—late newsletter or not.

Every time.

MINI INVITATION

What small joy did you notice today—even if the day ran away from you?

Here’s to second (or third, or fourth) starts, winding roads, soft thanks, and the comfort of a fresh-air morning and a sun-filled song stuck on repeat.

Here’s wishing you find a little wonder too.

That's all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "noticing today" Lindinger

P.S. If you’re finding little miracles—brilliant or utterly mundane—hit reply. I’d love to hear. Sometimes the noticing grows in the sharing.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: A Changed Mind Podcast

▶ Current read: The Divine Matrix by Gregg Braden

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 12

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been gently noticing—practicing the art of slowing down (and becoming more intentional with my time). When you have time, why not take some advantage, right?!

And last week, something shifted: moments of pure synchronicity started tumbling in, one after another.

It’s been more than just green lights and lucky parking spaces (though, those always make me happy). It felt like the universe was leaning in my direction. There was the “wrong” turn that led to bumping into someone I’d just been thinking about. The delay that served up an unmistakable insight. The half-formed wish for confirmation that found me, unexpectedly, in a message from a friend.

Was it luck? Or was it something I’d seeded?

Gif by netflix on Giphy

A couple of weeks ago, almost as an experiment (call me guinea pig), I started whispering—and later saying to myself—“I live in an abundant and friendly universe.” Not obsessively, just quietly, especially when old patterns of control or fear surface.

And here’s what I’m learning (or maybe, what I’m remembering):
The more we practice faith—not as wishful thinking, but as a lived attitude, paired with gratitude—the more often these tiny miracles have room to show up.

I’m learning the more I notice, the more there is to notice; the more I give thanks, the more I’m given. In one day, just this past week, no fibbery, that included two books and a box of (really good) vino gifted—out of the blue!

Neville Goddard says it best:

So this week, let’s try it together.

MINI INVITATION FOR THE WEEK

Take a moment to notice:

• Where are you seeing signs of serendipity, even if it’s just a perfectly timed parking spot or a sudden shift in the weather?

• Where could you say thank you now, trusting that what you appreciate really does appreciate?

• What if you acted as if the universe was friendlier than you thought—and life, a little more magical?

What I’m coming to know for sure: the deeper we lean into gratitude and faith, the more life seems to meet us with playful winks—out of the blue.

And maybe that’s the point?

Here’s to walking a little lighter, gathering delightful coincidences, and letting the ordinary become extraordinary simply by how we greet it.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "noticing miracles" Lindinger

P.S. If a “meant-to-be” moment found you recently, hit reply—I’d love to add yours to my collection. Sometimes the noticing grows in the sharing.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: A Changed Mind Podcast

▶ Current read: The Divine Matrix by Gregg Braden (Reread)

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 11

Endings often land with a timestamp. Strange how that is. Mine came last week—Friday, 15:15. Six and a half years… done and dusted in 15 minutes.

Incredibile.

If you’ve ever watched an era end, you know the feeling. It’s a strange blend of relief, excitement, and a nervous flicker of old doubts just beneath the surface. It goes something like:
“Well, that's that. Was that it? I'm free! What now..?”
The ol’ brain starts offering up its greatest hits.

(I imagine my offerings in ‘80s soft rock.)

Old fears, limiting beliefs, familiar scripts—all hoping to fill the space you’ve just carved out for yourself. I was ready for it…

But da-da-da-da-da… something different happened this time.

Giphy

Instead of spiraling into panic and dread, I found myself observing.

An interesting turn.

I noticed the old patterns show up.
Those “blips” of doubt and fear that once would have sent me reeling.

(Imagine a beginner fisherman, fresh on, deep blue, his line spun out by a larger-than-anticipated marlin… Not pretty.)

But rather than letting these blips aka Marlin-fish take over, I simply allowed myself to watch.
I saw the stories flicker, the nudge at the worry strings, felt the familiar pull to brace for the worst—then let myself just softly pump the brakes.

There’s a quiet power in pausing the playback. In noticing—not immediately reacting, but letting the old narratives play out and realizing you’re no longer automatically subscribing to them. The old scripts are still there, yes, but they take up less room now.
Because you decided it so.

I guess it’s a bit like the scene in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf warns the Balrog, “You shall not pass!”

This, dear friends, makes more space for possibility. New thoughts...

I think that’s where true rewiring starts—not by erasing every old fear or limiting belief, but by letting your awareness lead so something new—something wilder (wink, nudge) and more true to the new you—can take root.

Lately, I’ve been doing a little more digging into the science behind how our minds actually change. Not just the “woo woo” affirmations, law of attraction stuff—but the connection to our biology and the wiring underneath it all.

(If you’re curious, look up the Reticular Activating System—RAS—a filter in your brainstem that lets in only what fits your beliefs, expectations, and sense of possibility. Andrew Huberman, American neuroscientist, has some great shorts on this.)

Turns out, it’s not just metaphysics and subliminals at play here. Your mind literally re-wires itself according to what you believe is possible. What you feed your mind, it takes as truth.

Buy a new car—suddenly you see it everywhere? That’s your RAS: what you focus on expands.

And this ties directly to Neville Goddard:

What you train your mind to assume—to look for, to expect—becomes the story your brain collects evidence for.

The filter you set determines what makes it into your world.

Rewiring isn’t about forced positivity or “faking it till you make it.” It’s about gently, consistently teaching your system a new way to see.

MINI INVITATION FOR THIS WEEK

If you feel like experimenting with your own rewiring, try these gentle questions as a starting point:

• If your subconscious is a filter, what have you been priming it to find—lack or possibility?

• What if, this week, you looked for just one sign each day that a new story is possible, maybe even already forming?

• Could you give thanks before you see the outcome—not as pretending, but as a practice in trust?

It’s a slow, sometimes awkward process.

No instant lightning bolts—just the gentle opening of new connections, one neuron, one wilder thought at a time.

Here’s to gentle rewiring, gratitude-first mornings, and the wild experiment of moving yourself toward the reality you’re ready to live—all from the inside out.

Growth isn’t a grand gesture. It’s made of many small, brave wriggles. Wriggles ever forward into the life you see in your wildest imagination.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "rewiring the pathways" Lindinger

P.S. If you’re standing at the edge of change and feeling old anxieties or lingering doubts, you’re not alone. I was first diagnosed with depression at 16, and anxiety in my twenties—so I know that the road to your truest self is sometimes slow, always imperfect, and almost never a straight line. Here’s the good news: change is not only possible, it’s often easier than you think when you give yourself permission to go gently and celebrate even the smallest shifts. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply notice, take a breath, and try again—awkwardness and all. You’ve got this. 💛 

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 10

Sometimes life sends the right lesson twice.

(Or a couple more times, depending on how well you're listening, right?!)

Last week, we dove into the magic (and discomfort) of starting again—stepping away, letting go, choosing beginnings over old comforts.

Truth is, just because something feels comfy doesn’t mean it’s still good for you.

This week, without planning it, I found myself catching up on Naval Ravikant’s interview with Chris Williamson. I’m only halfway through (so these are living thoughts), but there was a moment so synchronous with what we just explored, I had to hit pause and share it with you.

It was a conversation about pride—how pride is the enemy of learning, how it convinces us to cling to what we know rather than risk being wrong, how it traps us at the “local maxima” instead of nudging us to climb toward something greater, messier, and more real.

What’s a “local maxima”?
It’s the comfortable plateau you get stuck on—good enough to stay, but not your true highest potential. Sometimes you have to leave it (even risk looking foolish) to reach a bigger, wilder peak.

It’s so easy to stay put when you’ve built something—anything—on a foundation of being “right” or “successful.”

You become known for a thing, comfortable in a particular circle or role, and then pride whispers (maybe a little too confidently):

Don’t risk looking foolish. Don’t admit you were wrong. Don’t start over; you’ll lose what you have. You don't really want to look like a fool, do you…? You’re too old/ young/ late/ early…

But here’s what most of us haven’t woken up to:
The cost of pride isn’t just stagnation. It’s compounding “stuckness”—accrued over months, years, paid in missed opportunities, the slow drain of time, even love.

The catch?

This price is perpetually re-paid until you’re willing to look like a beginner, to say, “I was wrong,” or simply, “I’m ready to start again from zero.” Aka, "I'm willing to look like a fool."

Gif by grownish on Giphy

We call this going “back to zero,” but as Naval points out, zero (if you choose it) is actually the launchpad for creativity, reinvention, and real growth.

Think of the artists, entrepreneurs, and seekers you admire—the ones who keep showing up, willing to be seen as foolish now for the chance at something greater later. The ones who start over, again and again, who refuse to get stuck at a plateau when there are real mountains left to climb (and summit).

The truth is, pride is holding you back from what could be the most wondrous moments you have yet to experience. And it's not really the act of starting over that's scary—it’s the fear of looking like a “numb nut” (to borrow my own favorite phrase) in the eyes of “them” for a little while. In reality, what we risk by refusing to move is so much greater: a slow fading into irrelevance, boredom, or regret.

So this week, I’m asking myself (and you):

• Where in my life am I defending a local maxima out of pride?

• What am I too proud to let go of—even though it’s no longer working for me?

• If I was willing to look foolish for a season, what mountain might I finally start climbing?

MINI INVITATION THIS WEEK

The next time you feel pride has you stuck in the mud, remember:
Starting over isn’t the cost, it’s the opportunity.

Every mountaintop worth reaching begins at the bottom—with the courage to let go, get it wrong, and keep going anyway.

Here’s to all of us willing to risk the climb, look a little lost and foolish, and start again—for the chance at something wilder, deeper, and truer to who we really are.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "happy to look foolish" Lindinger

P.S. If you know someone ready to let go of a plateau and risk a new mountain, forward this along. Your encouragement might be the sign they need to take that first, “foolish” step.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Interview pick: 44 Harsh Truths About Human Nature - Naval Ravikant (4K)

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 9

You know that feeling when you’re kind of here, kind of somewhere else? That’s been me.

Officially, I’m still at my old job, but in my mind and, more importantly, my spirit—I’ve already packed my bags and walked out the door.

And if I’m honest? It’s terrifying. But also—finally—thrilling.

This isn’t the first time I’ve started again. It probably won’t be the last, if we're being honest.

For ages, I’ve clung to the idea that being valued by someone—a boss, a friend, a partner—was the holy grail. If I could just do more, bend further, shine that shoe just that little bit brighter… they’d see it. They’d see me. I'd be "enough".

Sound familiar?

But there’s something sacred—and utterly unnerving—about that first step away: away from what drains us, toward what feeds us.
Away from toxic roles, relationships, even our old, worn-out self-doubt.

For the first time in ages, as I pour myself into creative work that feels honest and needed, I am not drained. I am alive.
Time dissolves.

The risk is real, yes, but it’s alive with promise.

But here’s what nobody warns you about: when you finally step away from people, places, or roles that won’t see your worth, you start becoming visible to yourself.

(Read that again.)

Cue both the heart-palpitating fear (what now? what if it all falls apart?) and a quiet pulse of excitement—like catching a flash of light through the trees on that wild, unmarked road.

See, letting go is not the same as losing. I’m realizing now: sometimes, all the signs to walk away are there for a reason. That uneasiness in the gut. The dread.

Those instincts are there because, deep down, you know you’re clinging to something no longer meant for you.

The truth is, the longer we ignore them, the heavier everything gets. We tell ourselves we’re loyal, persistent, committed—when underneath, if we're really honest with ourselves, we’re just afraid to start over.

So, pause here. Give yourself a breath. Ask yourself what might open up if you believed that starting over is simply the beginning of honoring your soul—at last.

Leaving isn’t failure; it’s fierce faith. The courage to stand at the foot of a new mountain—and daring the climb for nobody except yourself—is the greatest gift you can give your own wild heart.

But here's the secret:
Scratch isn’t really scratch at all.

(Thanks for the reminder, Tanie.)

Every lesson, every heartbreak, every so-called “wrong” road has helped pack your bag for what’s ahead of you.

(And yes. Still packing extra socks. If you know, you know. 🍩 Missed that story? Catch up here.)

You’re carrying tools—even if they’re disguised as old scars and tangled hopes.
You’re not starting from nothing—just from something new.

If something (or someone, or some version of yourself) is draining the soul out of you—that’s your sign.
That's your permission slip to step away.
(Spoiler: You always had it.)

Right now, working on this newsletter (and another project in the works I’m super excited about), creating things that fill me up, I don’t feel that sense of "empty" anymore. I’m not gulping down time or waiting for the gap of free time on my weekend. I'm… here.

I feel both thin-skinned and thick with purpose.

The biggest green flag, though? I’m feeling more me than I’ve felt in ages.

Maybe you’re reading and wincing because you’ve been there. Maybe you’re there right now. If you are, let this be your tiny nudge:

There’s no medal for staying where you aren’t valued. Harsh truths.

So go on and risk “the biscuit” (if you must) for a life that feeds you—not just the life that looks good on someone else’s scoreboard.

The greatest act of faith is choosing yourself, even when the horizon isn't yet visible.

A FEW INVITATIONS FOR YOUR OWN WILD ROAD:

Trying something unfamiliar is always a bit awkward—but it’s how we grow, one small experiment at a time. A few gentle ways to practice stretching this week:

• What are you holding onto that’s holding you back?

• What might be revealed if you stepped into the glorious unknown—even just one step to test the ground?

• Are you willing to believe, just for today, that you’re more equipped than you realize?

Here’s to those of us starting again (and again, and again).

May we have the willingness to let go, the courage to walk away, and the wild faith to trust that every ending, every gravel (and sometimes muddy) road, was leading to this next beginning all along.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "risking the biscuit" Lindinger

P.S. If you know someone stuck between closing one chapter and daring to enter the next, feel free to forward this. Sometimes the road we choose alone is the one that makes us realize: we were never as alone as we feared.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 8

I’ve been thinking a lot about growing pains this week—the kind that show up not just in our limbs or lungs, but right in the heart of our everyday lives.

I thought back to how, when I recommitted to running after a good few years of, well… not even jogging, it was a lesson in discomfort. I could barely make it a few hundred meters before my body begged for mercy. But I stuck it out, bit by bit—sweat, ache, breathlessness—until one day a 5K felt normal. It was never easy, but the progress tasted all the sweeter because of the pain it required.

Maybe that’s why anyone who’s done anything worth doing will tell you: “Just start.” Don’t wait for the stars to align. They know what many of us are slow to realize—there’s no way around the fire if you want that perfect toasted marshmallow.

But as much as I can stick out physical discomfort (and even though I know pain is needed to gain anything worthwhile), it’s a different beast when it comes to stepping into the world, being seen, and stretching for my full potential—especially in work and life. Funny enough, I can face inner storms, but the real discomfort for me lives in daring to succeed or fail publicly, in front of those I see as accomplished. There’s a glass ceiling, not made of skill or motivation, but of old insecurity.

Maybe you know that feeling too: that moment when you sense you’re capable of more, but you hesitate at the edge of the unknown—contained by the comfort you know, even if “comfort” isn’t truly comfortable anymore.

Sometimes it’s easier to push our limits physically; sometimes it’s mentally or emotionally. For me, the real challenge is letting myself be fully seen, somewhere public, at that so-called table of “success,” without pre-emptively self-editing, without hiding out of fear of being too much—or too little.

But regardless, there’s this odd pattern. When it comes to changing anything—habits, careers, relationships—we flinch and avoid, even when we know it holds us back.

This week, something from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet nudged me (again). He wrote:

Gibran originally spoke about the pain within love, but I feel like this truth can be applied to growth of self as well. If life is asking for a version of you that doesn’t quite exist yet, maybe discomfort isn’t a warning sign after all. Maybe it’s a signal you’re exactly where you need to be. Like a seed breaking open, this pain could be the beginning of something bigger…

It isn’t easy. Sometimes it arrives as a quiet, prolonged ache in the bones. Sometimes it’s a sudden, unplanned adventure with old friends that shakes you loose from hermit mode. (This weekend, what should have been a quick “hi-bye” became a full-on late-night soul reset. My liver may not be grateful, but my heart certainly is.)

Isn’t it curious how often the unexpected finds us just as we’re stretching? The surprise expense, the sideways life event, the awkward conversation—little reminders that growth isn’t just about the changes we choose, but how we respond when our best-laid plans go sideways. I keep trying to remind myself: even the uninvited stuff—the friction, the worry—plays a part in our becoming. Maybe, just maybe, they’re the universe’s way of stretching us into something bigger too.

Every time I step, even reluctantly, out of my cocoon, I’m reminded that growth rarely happens in the safety of routine. It happens when we open ourselves to the unknown, trust ourselves to handle what comes next, and let life surprise us for once.

Writing this newsletter each week (into our eighth today—can you believe it?!) has been its own realization: a necessary push toward growth. Every send is a step further into discomfort and discovery—proof that, just like running, if I keep plugging away, one step (or edition) at a time, past the unease, I really can achieve anything. The path ahead just keeps getting wider and more wonder-filled with each attempt.

I hope this lends a bit of inspiration to you, too:
Every big leap starts with a wriggle of discomfort. But that’s just proof you’re expanding.

Here’s to the pain that comes before the limitless possibility, and to finding ourselves somewhere entirely new—a little further along the gravel road to somewhere more amazing than we ever thought we’d go.

ACTION INVITE: STRETCH A LITTLE

Trying something unfamiliar is always a bit awkward—but it’s how we grow, one small experiment at a time. A few gentle ways to practice stretching this week:

• Name your edge: What’s one area where you feel just a bit uncomfortable or “not enough” right now? Write it down—even if it’s messy.

• Tiny risks over big leaps: Do one small thing to nudge your limits: send that email, share a rough draft, ask for the feedback you want, or let someone see an unfinished idea.

• Reframe friction: Next time an unexpected bill, tough conversation, or sideways life event lands, pause and ask, “Is this an invitation to grow, to see what I’m capable of here?”

• Spot your wins: Jot down even the smallest moments you stepped outside your comfort zone this week. Every stretch is a sign you’re expanding.

Remember, growth isn’t a grand gesture. It’s made of many small, brave wriggles. 🪱 

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "out here growing" Lindinger

P.S. What was your latest leap into the unknown? Hit reply and share your story! I’d love to hear how you’re stretching into your becoming.

P.P.S. If you missed last week’s edition, you can catch it here.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 7

Yesterday marked the anniversary of my father’s passing.

21-04-98.

27 years ago.

It's almost surreal to think back on the lifetime that's passed since.

(So many swirls of the ice cream cone.)

What's stranger: these past days, the heaviness settled in my body more than my mind. Grief, it seems, can become a physical thing—a malaise in the bones, a gentle nudge to slow down. I spent most of yesterday horizontal, simply decompressing. It wasn’t sadness in the way I used to know it. It was just my body saying, “Take it easy.”

So I did.

Originally, I was going to share the story of how I came to write—how loss cracked something open in me and the ideas behind Finding Wilder came to be. But as this current journey goes with its challenges front and center and the growing need to rethink what “security” really looks like, I got dwelling on something different: support.

Following last week’s conversation about self-kindness, this week I can’t help but reflect on the kindness of others.

There’s a Maya Angelou quote that’s stuck with me for some time now. One I've found come to the fore consistently for the past few months, in fact:

That line rings especially true at this time.

Thinking back, a memory still so vivid to me, finds me at the end of my high school career, staring at the threat of failing matric.
(True story.)
It was the world's end over a biology exam. The facts of which refused to stick in my pip at the time. A friend—still one of the best friends I could ask for, decades later—stayed up with me until after 5 a.m. day of finals, walking me through all the possible and likely parts to that pending paper. She didn't have to but she did. I scraped through with a 40% pass…

‘Pass’ being the focus word here.

And it's without question with every fibre of my being I would never have passed if it wasn't for her.

That night was a quiet crossroads between two very different trajectories. The difference in fates was her kindness.

My mum is another stalwart. She hasn’t always understood, but she’s always been there—sometimes hovering, sometimes at a distance, but always present. Other times, it’s been partners, friends, colleagues—people who were confidants during break-ups, soldiers during work chaos, soul-boosters during rough patches, and late-night co-conspirators when life asked for a little more care free.

If I look back on it all, the thing that has carried me through every hard stretch has almost always involved someone else’s support. The friends who sat with me through ugly cries and vino cheers, the advice-givers, the ones who believed in me and loved me when I genuinely couldn’t.

It’s funny—so much ink is spilled out of pens about “making it on your own” or hustling through the hard times. But not so much on how very few of us would honestly make it through anything alone. There’s a reason the “Blue Zones” (those rare spots where people live well into their hundreds) point to relationships and human connection as a key to longevity in any real and meaningful way.

We simply need each other.

As I reflect on things during what is usually my heaviest week, I find myself feeling, oddly, the most grateful. My heart group—those friends, family, and kind souls who have shown up, seen me, cheered (or consoled) me along the way—are the stepping stones of light that have carried me when I didn't know I needed carrying.

Maybe you have your own constellation of supporters: that friend who answered a call at 2 a.m., that parent who tried their best to understand, that stranger who showed unearned kindness on a hard day. Maybe you’ve been that for someone else.

If you can, take a moment today to remember them. If you’re inclined, send them a little note of thanks. You might be the light that lifts someone through their tough day—just as others have done for you (and me).

So this is a sincere thank you. To those who’ve held me up, cheered me up, believed in me, and seen light in places I never knew to find it.

The truth is, everyone you meet, no matter how brief, is going through something.

Here’s to being that support for each other, and letting ourselves be held when we need it.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna “grateful for the kindness of others” Lindinger

P.S. If you’d like to share your own story of how you’ve been supported, I’d love to hear it—just hit reply. Sometimes telling it is another way of saying thank you.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Maya Angelou: Messenger of Lasting Kindness
_____________________________________

Maya Angelou didn’t just write about compassion—she lived it. Her words remind us that people may forget what we say or do, but never how we made them feel.

Angelou shows us that genuine connection and support aren’t just nice to have; they’re essential—the truest legacy we leave behind. In moments of need and joy alike, these acts of kindness echo across lifetimes.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 6

I stared at my blank page earlier, willing the words to come out—as if sheer determination might summon them from wherever they were hiding.

You see, I had a surprise visit from my cousin and his family this week. They, in fact, landed today, earlier than anticipated. It's the kind of thing that fills your heart and empties your schedule in the best possible way. Between coordinations, catch-ups, and time spent, my writing time… vanished.

(Like batman in the night.)

And my brain happily decided to check out too. Unscheduled holiday? Check.

So here I sat, deadline long overdue, with nothing but the echo of last week's words about transformation and the vague notion that I should write something... profound.

Then it hit me—this moment is the perfect continuation of where we left off.

Because after unbecoming, after releasing old identities as we chatted about last week, there's a tender space that needs something specific: kindness.

Not just any kindness—the kind we struggle most to give ourselves.

This, dear friends, I'm calling, "The kindness gap."

Have you noticed how easily we show grace to others, yet withhold it from ourselves?

A friend misses a deadline: "Don't worry about it, life happens!" We miss a deadline: "What is wrong with me? I'm so unreliable/lazy/disorganized..."

A loved one needs rest: "Take care of yourself!" We need rest: "I don't have time for that. I need to push through."

Someone shares work that's not quite perfect: "Look at what you did, though? It's brave to share your process!" We consider sharing work that's imperfect: "I can't put this out. What will people say? It's just not good enough."

This gap between how we treat others and how we treat ourselves? That's where honest to goodness transformation often gets stuck in the mud.

Because becoming who we're meant to be isn't just about letting go of old identities. It's about how we treat ourselves in the vulnerable space between who we were and who we're becoming.

(Which often involves a couple more blips and bumps than anticipated.)

Enter, the false dichotomy.

I found myself caught in this familiar trap today: either put out something "worthy" or fail my commitment. Push through or give up. Perfect or nothing.

But what if there's a third option?

What if kindness itself is the "fair-weather" friend we've been needing to open up to all along? Not kindness as lowered standards. Not kindness as an excuse. But kindness as the acknowledgment that we're human, moving through a messy world, doing our best with what we have in each moment.

Sometimes that means writing through the haze. Sometimes it means sending a simpler letter than planned. Sometimes it means admitting that we're in that gloopy caterpillar soup phase (remember that from our messy middle conversation?) and that's exactly where we need to be just that little bit longer.

There's a bridge called kindness. In Brianna Wiest's words that I shared last week:

But here's what I'm learning to add: The bridge between who you were and who you're becoming is paved with small acts of self-kindness.

The gentleness to say: I'm not where I was. I'm not yet where I'm going. And that's okay.

The courage to show up as you are, not as you think you should be.

The wisdom to recognize that change, any kind of real transformation isn't linear or neat or Instagram-ready.

(Sorry, not sorry.)

Fall in love with the practice, not the destination.

My family's visit became a perfect laboratory for this very moment in time. Would I choose presence with people I love, or would I cling to the ideal of what I imagine a perfect writer identity to be? Would I beat myself up for a disrupted schedule, or embrace the joy of catch-ups and connection?

I chose the latter... mostly. (Let's be honest: old habits die hard, and I had at least three moments of intense self-criticism before remembering to breathe.)

But here's what I'm learning: Self-kindness isn't something you achieve once and for all. It's a practice you return to, over and over, and over… especially when it feels most difficult.

It's finding the courage to write these words today before the clock strikes a pumpkin (or after), knowing they aren't my most polished.

It's giving myself permission to be a flawed human in a world that often demands superhuman perfection.

It's the quiet voice that says, "This is enough. You are enough. Just as you are, right now. No more. No less."

So if you find yourself in that space between—not quite who you were, not quite who you're becoming—perhaps the kindest thing you can do is acknowledge the courage it takes to simply be here, showing up, doing your best with what you have perfectly imperfectly. And maybe, just maybe, that kindness is actually the transformation you've been looking for all along.

That's all for now.

Until next week.

Always light,

Shanna "practicing what I preach" Lindinger

P.S. If someone in your life needs permission to be a little more gentle with themselves during a messy time, feel free to forward this their way. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is remind each other that we're all just doing our best.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Kristin Neff: Pioneer of Self-Compassion
_____________________________________

Kristin Neff isn't just a researcher—she's the founding voice who brought self-compassion into mainstream understanding. Through rigorous research and personal practice, she reveals how treating ourselves with the same kindness we offer others transforms our relationship with failure, imperfection, and growth.

Her definition of self-compassion involves three elements: self-kindness, common humanity, and mindfulness. This isn't just theory. It's a revolutionary approach to wellbeing.

Neff reminds us that self-compassion isn't self-indulgence or lowered standards. In fact, her research shows that people who practice self-compassion are more likely to take responsibility for mistakes, persist through challenges, and maintain motivation without the harsh internal critic many of us default to.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 5

Last week, I wrote about the messy middle—the space between who we’ve been and who we’re becoming.

Since then, I’ve felt unsettled.

Not in a drama-fueled way—just a slow circling. Like my whole system knew something deeper was waiting to surface… but I wasn’t quite ready to look it in the eye.

Then today, after the rain cleared and the air took on that charged quiet that settles after a storm—something shifted.

My mum recently gave me The Mountain is You by Brianna Wiest—a book about self-sabotage and transformation that I’ve only just started reading. I’m barely into chapter one, but already it’s stirred something definite.

To become who we're meant to be,
we first must unbecome who we've been.

(And yes—that realization feels exactly as uncomfortable as it sounds.)

Because transformation—change in any form—isn’t just about adding new routines or changing scenery.
Sure, those things can lead toward a better version of yourself.
But in this context, it’s about surrender.
About letting go of parts of ourselves that no longer fit.
It’s a soul-deep shift.
An unbecoming.

Like the caterpillar who doesn’t just grow wings—but dissolves entirely before becoming a butterfly.

And yet… we resist it.

We cling to identities that once kept us safe.
We armour ourselves with old thinking, old selves, old stories—even when they no longer serve the person we’re trying to become.

Suddenly, self-sabotage makes a strange kind of sense.
It’s not laziness. It’s not weakness.
It’s protection—a scared part of ourselves trying to preserve the known in so much unknown.

This week, when I sat down to write (and thus the lateness), my survivor self showed up first.
She gave it a right go—even though she knows it's time to let go.

Then I read this quote from Brianna’s book:

It continues:

But then—a softer truth rolls in:

And just like that—the stage lights come on.

This isn’t only about loss.
It’s about alignment.

It’s the untangling of survival... and the conscious choosing of what feeds your becoming.

So if you’re standing—like me—at the edge of something uncertain…

If you feel caught between the person you’ve been and the version of you that feels unfamiliar but infinitely more true…

Take a breath.
Thank your survivor self.
They did their job.
They carried you here.

And then gently ask yourself:

No more clinging.
No more resisting the shape-shift that’s quietly asking to unfold.

Just one surrender at a time.
One honest release after another.

Because sometimes, discomfort isn’t failure.
It’s not a warning.
It’s a green light.

A signal that something wild—and wildly, beautifully aligned—is about to begin. 🧝‍♀️

That’s all for now.

Until next week.

Always light,

Shanna "between lives" Lindinger

P.S. If you have a friend who’s in that messy stretch too—unbecoming, shifting, starting over in quiet ways—feel free to forward this their way. Sometimes, knowing we’re not alone in the in-between makes all the difference.

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Brianna Wiest: Architect of Authentic Becoming
_____________________________________

Brianna Wiest isn't just an author — she's a master builder who helps us dismantle the structures of self-limitation we've unconsciously constructed . Through penetrating insights and compassionate clarity, she reveals how our most persistent obstacles often arise from within.

Her observation that "your new life is going to cost you your old one" isn't just cautionary wisdom. It's liberating truth.

Wiest reminds us that transformation requires both destruction and creation — that we must sometimes tear down familiar frameworks before building something more authentic . By embracing the necessary losses that accompany growth, we lay the foundation for a life that reflects our deepest truth rather than our most ingrained habits.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 4

I read something the other day that suggested maybe we’re not in the wrong place—maybe we’re exactly where we need to be.
​
Because sometimes, we can be stuck in that hazy, in-between phase, unknowingly gathering lessons we never knew we needed.

Not quite sure what that means?
​
It is, dear friends, often called the “messy middle.”
​(Which isn’t too far off, because for all intents and purposes, you really do find yourself smack dab in the middle of what feels like a real mess.)

As Bruce Feiler puts it:

Think about that caterpillar for a moment. It doesn’t simply don a pair of wings and fly off.
​
No, sir.

Inside the cocoon, it literally dissolves into goop—no form, no flight, no guarantee. It’s only after this messy, uncertain meltdown that it transforms into a butterfly. Skip the goop stage, and there’s no fluttery freedom.
​
Same goes for us: sometimes we have to sit in the mushy middle before emerging with something new.

It’s kind of like that moment before a road trip—what often feels like frantic packing and re-checking. You go through closets, decide what to keep, and toss in a few “just in case” items. One last sweep, then off you go. Nobody mid-journey says, “Wow, what a waste of time, grabbing those extra socks.”

(If you ever find yourself in the Koue Bokkeveld, pack extra socks. But I digress...)

This is Sam, minus the socks

The point is, we instinctively know that prep—that messy deciding—is a necessary step toward getting onto that gravel road leading somewhere awesome.
​
So why not treat life’s in-betweens the same way?

A Few Real-Life Messy Middles

• Starting a New Gig While Exiting an Old Role​
  My current reality. It’s exciting but also a swirl of Do I have everything I need?

• Contemplating a Move​
  Maybe your lease is up, and you’re not sure if you can (or should) relocate, but you feel pulled to try.

• Rebuilding Post-Shift​
  A recent breakup, a family change, or a health scare—any big life shake-up can leave you stuck between the old and the not-quite-yet formed.

No matter the circumstance, each messy middle needs a kind of “packing” phase, even if it’s emotional. You can’t carry everything—some things have to go, and others are too important to leave behind. And that’s where a little mindful sorting helps lighten the load.

Emotional Baggage vs. Essentials

Think of your thoughts and feelings like packing items:

• What’s Useful?​
  Hope, openness, a dash of curiosity—those are comfy basics you’ll use time and time again.

• What’s Dead Weight?​
  Resentments or old insecurities that just weigh you down. They might not even fit anymore.

• What’s “Just in Case”?​
  Some caution or fear might be practical, like an extra hoodie for chilly nights in the Koue Bokkeveld. But overpack fear, and you’ll leave no room for optimism (or movement).

Trust the Process

Some days, it’s uncomfortable. Even after last week’s post on “shiny objects,” I still catch myself spinning in Wait, is this the right path? But maybe—juuuust maybe—it’s worth reframing that swirl as me “packing” for what’s next. Skip this stage, and we potentially arrive unprepared. 🧦🧦

So for now, I’m leaning in—really leaning in—and trusting that even this half-sorted, “kinda gloopy” feeling is part of the journey.

(Here’s to embracing the messy middle—extra socks and all.)

That’s all for now.
​
Until next week.

Always light,

Shanna "Koue Bokkeveld packing" Lindinger

P.S. Know someone else who’s stuck in a messy middle? Share this with them—maybe it’ll help them pack their metaphorical bag.

P.P.S. Serendipitously, while I was swirling in uncertainty just yesterday, my mum told me, “You don’t need to worry; everything will work out.” I’m taking her at her word—maybe you can, too. 🧙‍♀️

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

PERSON OF THE WEEK

Bruce Feiler: Navigator of Life's Transitions
_____________________________________

New and Selected Poems, Volume One

Bruce Feiler isn't just an author — he's a cartographer of life's most challenging terrain. Through thousands of interviews and personal exploration, he maps the territory of human transitions with both scientific rigour and heartfelt compass ion.

His insight about "the messy middle" isn't just an observation. It's a permission slip for all of us caught between what was and what will be.

Feiler reminds us that discomfort during transitions isn't a sign something's wrong — it's evidence we're doing the necessary work of transformation. By embracing the cocoon-like phase of dissolving and reforming, we create space for new versions of ourselves to emerge.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 3

I have shiny object syndrome—often.​

When my anxiety flares, it only intensifies.

For the unfamiliar, “Shiny object syndrome (SOS), also known as magpie syndrome,” is when we’re easily distracted by new, exciting ideas and drop our current goals to chase them.

It’s fun at first, but ultimately leaves behind a trail of half-baked potatoes.

(And we all know there’s nothing remotely satisfying about a half-baked potato.)

Feeling the familiar spin, I fired off a message to my coach—he identified and diagnosed SOS in my words instantly.
​
​(And no, the acronym doesn’t escape me. LOL.)

His advice? Rather than chase this new, shiny idea, get centered—heart-centered, specifically—and really sit with the question: What feels most real and right in this moment?

Things may evolve, sure, but what is your most true answer right now? Go with that.
​
Best part: he reminded me that the answers lie within.

I could feel my mind quiet—like I’d just hopped off the not-so-merry-go-round.
​Sugar-high dropped.​
​
He was right.

I vowed to pull myself toward myself.

Slow down.

Breathe.

The deeper I think about it, the more I realize it’s about presence and commitment.

There’s a quote by Amit Kalantri that captures this perfectly:

Because that’s what I’ve been missing—going somewhere (in this case, my writing path), but not taking all of me. Instead, letting my anxiety fling me in a million directions the moment a fresh idea glitters in the distance.

And so, here I am—writing. Saying no, for now, to the bright, flashy idea that tried to derail me late last night.

I feel like many of us experience this pull. We decide on one thing, one path—then someone says, “Hey, have you thought about…?” and we’re off chasing another shiny possibility.

Before we know it, we’re fragmented, frazzled, forgetting why we started in the first place.

But what if we did as Amit suggests: if we’re going somewhere, we bring our whole self?

We pick a rock (starfish-style at high tide) and stick—fully seeing one thing through.

And it’s not that you can’t explore new roads or go after that new thing eventually—just maybe not all at once.

One shiny object at a time, John.​
​
One pile of muck at a time, as I said last week. Finish trudging through the first load before tackling the second.

Because that’s how you find the pony—by sifting through your current mess with intention, instead of leaping to the next big (or slightly less intimidating) idea half-done.

Everything else goes into a box labeled “Later, John.”
​(And who is John? I’m not entirely sure. But we chat often.)

So if you’re prone to shiny object syndrome like me, take a breath, do a woosah if you need, and remember that if you really want to go somewhere, take all of you there.

No half measures. No ghosting your current dream the moment another winks at you.

Stay with me.

Starfish yourself down, keep going, and trust that clarity will come from finishing—not from starting something new every five minutes.
​
That's all for now.

Until next week.

Always light,

Shanna "one pile at a time" Lindinger

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Amit Kalantri: Philosopher of Presence & Commitment
_____________________________________

Amit Kalantri isn't just a writer and doctor — he's a master of distilling complex human tendencies into elegant, actionable wisdom. Through precise and contemplative prose, he captures the essence of what it means to live with intention and wholeness.

His powerful insight, "If you are going somewhere, take all of you there," isn't just advice. It's an invitation to integrity.

Kalantri reminds us that presence is a practice — that our fragmented attention diminishes not just our work, but our experience of life itself. In a world that constantly tempts us with the new and novel, his words call us back to the power of complete commitment.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 2

I almost skipped my morning walk today.

I mean, it was already late, and the time-tight to-do list was itching at the back of my mind.
My old self would’ve stayed in and put me second. But this morning, I decided to go against the grain.

(As one does, every so often.)

I laced up my running shoes, leashed the pooch, locked the door, and stepped outside the plan.

The air was warm, with barely any wind—like a soft promise that fresh air might just shift my mood.
And honestly, it did. But the real surprise came when I ran into Harold.​
​(Not his real name, but stick with me.)

We used to live just up the road from him when we first moved to town.
He’s quirky, eccentric, and oddly wise.

He asked how I’d been.
I told him the truth: life hasn’t felt so great—especially now that my current role is ending (as I mentioned last week).

I’m wrestling with my control freak side, trying to loosen my grip and let life happen. “Let things flow,” as they say.
​
Why is it that letting go often feels harder than holding on?
​(I keep picturing Elsa from Frozen, singing “Let it go, let it go…” and that helps somewhat. I know my cousin’s kid would be proud.)

Harold nodded, smiled, and then hit me with:
“Where there’s shit, there’s a pony.”

I blinked.
“The what…?”

He repeated it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world: “Where there’s shit, there’s a pony.”
​(Maybe this is a South African-ism, or maybe just Harold’s personal brand of gold. I’m rolling with it either way. Crib note: I grew up between the city and a farm, and we had ponies—easily my favorite childhood memories. So the moment Harold said ‘pony,’ I was in.)

He explained: “It means that wherever there’s a problem, there’s also a solution. You can look for the good in the mess, or you can spend your time complaining about how bad it smells. Your call.”

A perspective shift, basically—like Wayne Dyer said:
​“If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”

That got me thinking about how we show up in our own stories.
We see the chaos. We see the “shit.” But do we believe there’s a pony in there somewhere? That maybe we have a role to play in unearthing it?

I don’t know if you believe in synchronicity, but if there is such a thing, this felt like it.

See, before leaving the house, I was feeling down—still uncertain of my next steps. I hoped a walk might give me some clarity. Then Harold rolls by, delivering a one-liner that turned my entire day around.

He shrugged. “There’s so much going on—potential wars, unpredictability, everything we can’t control. We’re born, we try some stuff, then we die.”

“So basically,” I said, “we should stop sweating it all?”

“Exactly,” Harold replied. “That’s it.”

“And do the things that make us happy?” I added with a grin.

He nodded.
We talked for maybe five minutes—enough to leave me feeling lighter, realizing it really is all perspective, and wow, do we overcomplicate things sometimes.

He drove off, still smiling, and I walked away imagining a pony hidden under a pile of muck, just waiting to be found if I keep looking.

Moral of the Story?

The answers you’re looking for might already be within you—or they might show up as a brief encounter with a Harold. Someone whose quip or new perspective flips your day (or maybe your entire life) in just a few minutes.

Because at the heart of it, yes—where there’s shit, there might just be a pony. 🦄

I’m glad I have a Harold.
I hope you have yours, too.

That’s all for now.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna “finding the pony” Lindinger

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Wayne Dyer: Philosopher of Perception & Possibility
_____________________________________

New and Selected Poems, Volume One

Change Your Thoughts, Change Your Life

Wayne Dyer wasn't just a self-help author — he was a master of perspective transformation who understood that our view shapes our reality. Through accessible wisdom and genuine compassion, he showed us how perception becomes the foundation of our experience.

His powerful insight, "If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change," isn't just clever advice. It's an invitation to freedom.

Dyer reminds us that in every challenge lies opportunity — that our ability to shift perspective might be our greatest power in navigating life's inevitable messes and discovering the hidden gifts waiting beneath the surface.

Let’s keep exploring together

EDITION 1

I had a completely different email planned, being the first official FW edition. Then life stepped in (as it does) and changed the script.

Just this last weekend, I learned about the sudden passing of a classmate from school. She had just celebrated her birthday. She was only 43.

We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in years, but I’d followed her life from the periphery—family moments, everyday joys, milestones shared through social media. Vibrant, just as I remembered her from our school days, she was full of dreams—now a mother, a partner, a friend—someone with many chapters still unwritten. Her passing hit me deeply, a raw reminder that, as another classmate said when passing the news on to me, tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. No matter your age.

It brought me back to Mary Oliver’s powerful question:

Because here’s the truth:

We often live as though our days are endless—waiting, hesitating, holding back. We pick the comfortable route, delaying the dream that matters, deferring the passion project, pushing off that leap of faith. We drift unconsciously, not living as presently as we could.

I know I’ve been guilty of this. Over the past seven years especially, I poured most of my time and energy into work, pushing aside lunches with friends and weekends away—saying no to anything “outside” of my clocking hours. It became my new normal. COVID, no doubt, played a role. I built a protective layer around myself—cocooned and safe.

Maybe a little too safe.

But what if you, what if I, dared to step fully into the truth of who we are?

Timing is funny (and also not so funny).​
Just two days before I heard about my classmate’s passing, I learned that my current role will end in about two months—an outcome outside my control. It had been on the table for some time, but the final crumble of this cookie and the news of my classmate’s passing has brought a clear realization into focus.

It’s time for a change.

I’ve had some time to process, accept, and make peace with where “playing it safe” has taken me, and I’ve come to the conclusion that if my life is to turn into anything of real value or purpose, my next steps must lead me down the path less traveled.

A risk of the biscuits is at hand, my friends.

As the ancient Jewish sage Hillel the Elder said, “If not now, when?”

Instead of looking for comfort in the familiar, I’m choosing to honor what lights me up: writing stories that connect, inspire, and encourage others to live their deliciously messy lives too.

Because let’s be clear: the road is never straight and usually gravel, but that doesn’t mean we can’t follow it to an incredible end.

Apparently, I’m not too shabby at this whole writing thing, either.
​
And Mum thinks I can do it, so that’s got to count for something, right?

Here’s the thing to remember (and something I’m keeping in mind):​
Your tug doesn’t have to be big or grand. It doesn’t need to be earth-shattering or world-changing. It can be a gentle shift—like a ship traveling one degree to find its course, with small nudges here and there, eventually landing you in an entirely new place.

Maybe this is the check-in you needed. Maybe it’s not. But ask yourself: is your everyday life really where you want to be?

What if today was the day you decided it wasn’t—and named that dream within, gave it a heartbeat, and let it come alive?

Whether it’s:

• Writing the story you’ve kept inside

• Starting that podcast you’ve imagined

• Setting out on that solo African adventure you’ve always dreamed of (a personal dream of mine, by the way!)

• Finally reconnecting over dinner with someone you’ve missed

This is something I’ve come to know as truth.

When we share our vulnerabilities and speak from a truly honest place, we invite others to do the same. It’s the craziest, most beautiful thing—because once you speak up, you never know who you’ll open the door for, or who might take their own step forward. And that’s where real magic lies.

So, tell me: What story have you been holding inside?​
Hit reply—I’d genuinely love to hear from you.

Until next week!

Always light,

Shanna "writing her truth" Lindinger

WILDER ESSENTIALS

What's On Shanna’s List of Things Right Now

▶ Thinking Spot: Coastal path walks with the pooch

▶ Podcast pick: The Rich Roll Podcast

▶ Current read: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

▶ Writing setup: MacBook Pro + simple notebook and pen

WRITER OF THE WEEK

Mary Oliver: Poet of the Wild & Precious
_____________________________________

New and Selected Poems, Volume One

The late poet Mary Oliver didn't just observe nature — she dissolved into it, then returned with questions that wake us up. Through simple, clarifying language, she transformed ordinary moments—a wild goose flying overhead, a grasshopper eating sugar from her hand—into invitations to live more fully.

Her most famous line, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" isn't just a question. It's a compass.

Oliver reminds us that attention is a form of devotion—that in noticing the world around us, we become more alive to our place within it.

Let’s keep exploring together