Whelp, I lied to my editor.

Back in early January, I emailed her a compilation of articles that could have filled this space until mid-February. I remember writing, “Here you go — just in case. I want to make sure we’re covered. Don’t expect to hear from me until the next article is due.”

Well … here we are. One week post-op, and I’m sitting at my laptop typing away.

If you all knew the number of text messages I send to myself — half-formed thoughts, strong opinions, fleeting moments, lines I swear I’ll turn into something someday — you probably wouldn’t be surprised. Writing has always lived with me, even when I tell myself I’m “not writing right now.” But this morning was different. I didn’t text myself the idea. I didn’t save it for later.

I was standing there, getting ready for the day, trying to beautify and style myself in a brand-new button-up pajama set, and I just needed to get it out. To vent it. To expose what I’m actually going through beneath the logistics, beneath the doing.

This may be a long one, so bear with me as I try to make sense of something I’ve never really had to before.

I’ll start here: I have come to accept something about myself that I used to adamantly refute. I am a “woo” person.

Not full-blown. But if we imagine a line — with woo on the left and full-on Unabomber on the right — I’m definitely left of center. I’m into Myers-Briggs, Gallup, CliftonStrengths, Enneagram (I’m certified and even wrote a short workplace ebook), Human Design, and yes, every few years I get my astrological chart read. Judge away. It doesn’t change my truth.

These tools don’t unground me — they do the opposite. They help me see patterns, common threads and connections I might otherwise miss. They keep my eyes open.

Right before my surgery, I met with my astrologist — someone who doesn’t know me personally and had no context for what I was about to walk into. (And yes, she’ll be joining me on my podcast soon, which I’m genuinely excited about.) During that session, she kept coming back to one word: focus. Focus on myself.

People close to my business know that 2026 is all about focus for me. I chose that word months ago, back in late summer or early fall. My word for 2025 was push — and holy hell, did I push. I also knew, deep down, that pushing would eventually land me exactly where I am now.

In transition.

Women know this process well. A thought gets planted. It grows quietly inside us. We start making small external changes that don’t fully reveal what’s happening internally — even to the people closest to us. Subtle shifts happen. Then one day, it’s ready to sprout.

(And yes, there’s a reason my company is called Dandelion-Inc. I lean hard into these analogies because they hold truth.)

To the people around us, it can feel sudden. I didn’t see that coming. But it’s not meant to hurt. It’s not intentional exclusion. It’s because we needed to tend to it privately — to nourish it, study it, strengthen it — before it was ready to face the sun or any external elements for that matter.

Back to my point.

Right before my surgery, I met with my astrologist. Again, feel free to roll your eyes. She started talking about scientific alignments I won’t even attempt to explain properly. Then she said something that stopped me cold.

She said, “This period requires focus. Focus on yourself.”

Hold on. Did she just say my word? But not in relation to my business.

I give these people nothing. I listen. I translate internally. And yet — there it was. Focus. On myself. With everything happening with my health, it felt like one of those moments where you look up and say, Okay. I get it. I promise I’ll listen.

But what followed in my own mind didn’t scare me as much as it intimidated me: I have not truly focused on myself in a very long time. I’ve lived in doing. Doing what needs to get done to make room for more doing. Even now, during this forced pause, I have a list — respond to emails, crochet (yes, crochet), read, plan next event. It’s gentler than before, but it’s still a list.

Feeling? There hasn’t been time for that.

So this season — whether it’s the stars, my age, my circumstances, or all of the above — is going to be interesting to navigate. Beyond this column, I may take you along for the ride from time to time.

And if you have any advice on how to focus on yourself, I’m all ears. Because right now, I feel a little like Julia Roberts in “Runaway Bride,” trying to figure out how I like my eggs.

And while I know this article won’t see the light of day until mid-February, chances are I’ll still be writing through all of it. Because unlike the new kind of 50K I wrote about last week — where there was the acknowledgement of me pushing my mind and body to a breaking point and trusting that I would succeed — this season asks something different of me. This season is about focus. About not hiding behind momentum or productivity, about staying present when there’s nowhere else to run, and about becoming the next version of myself that I know is waiting on the other side.

I’ll also say this — writing has been one of the most therapeutic things I’ve ever done, for more reasons than I can count. Sharing what I’ve written is a whole other level of therapy altogether. If you’re a writer and you’ve been wanting to share — just to feel heard by even one person — please know you can share with me. It will go nowhere else. And if something you share feels scary or unsafe, I’ll help you find someone better equipped than me — because I know my lane.

From me to you — thanks for being here while I figure it out.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.