The swimming drill I learned to love were blast-offs. It took three years, mostly because of my stubbornness and ingenuity to get around the task at hand.

At thirteen, my world was one big blast-off.

In most practices, we’d finish our first hard sprint set and, instead of getting to rest, our coach would direct us to the deep end of the pool. Lungs burning and legs wobbly, we’d make our way to the bottom of the nine-foot depth. Firmly planting our feet, we’d crouch in a squat with our arms in perfect streamline and blast from the bottom. Not just once, not twice, but twenty times in a row - about the same time you lose your will to be at practice.

The goal was to strengthen our legs and lungs while giving us more resistance to mimic strong pushes off the wall. I hated them. No, that’s not a strong enough word. I wanted to rage every time coach yelled “go to the end and start sinking!” He thought my evil glare was a joke. I was the compliant, kind, perfectionist one on the team who always took direction well, except for this one drill.

Why so much disdain? Part of it was that it was so difficult to get to the pool floor. Everyone else effortlessly glided to the bottom, but my buoyant body wanted to bob at the halfway mark. My lungs - still striated from childhood asthma and slowly building their elasticity - only wanted to finish at five blastoffs, not twenty.

It wasn’t two years into this drill that my coach pulled me aside to question why I wasn’t leading the charge. I clung to the sandpaper tiles on the pool’s edge and stared into the distance from exhaustion. “Come see me after practice” he fumed, and I knew I had crossed a line.

As I walked in his office door, he tossed me a dry-erase marker and asked me to draw a line. Then, he read out the past two years of time results from my favorite race: 100 breaststroke. Under that, he made me write down the average time it took me to do a flip turn, and how far I had gotten on the lane rope after pushing off the wall. It seemed formulaic and too “sciency” for this 13-year-old, but I humored him.

We stood for what felt like 20 minutes staring at the data in silence. With every faster race, my flip turns were faster, and my length underwater was longer.

“Do you see what I see?” he said, breaking the ice with a knowing glance. “Because you trained your body to shift power to your legs over two years, you gave energy to other parts of your body to be faster for longer.”

“You were just building capacity.”

For the first time in a long time, I thought about those drills again while journaling. I’ve been heads down this year, circling the lessons I’ve absorbed from 2024 and spinning about how I want to move forward in this new life pivot like our neighborhood bald eagles swirl around a nest waiting for their babies to hatch.

Yes, I know we’re five months into 2025 and so, yes, maybe I should have it all figured out right now. That’s the thing about “success” - it will whisper to you that you’re not reaching the brass ring fast enough.

It took me the entirety of 2024 to understand that I’ve been Wintering as

I could feel the initial tug a year ago when I decided to hit a slight pause button with

Hell, I even got hearing aids last year. That was a kick in the ass.

It was one of those years where I forced myself to go back down to the bottom of the pool multiple times, each time with shaking legs, trying to blast off as powerfully as possible. With each dive, I had to reserve a tiny bit more energy than the last. I knew I’d make it above water - that was never in doubt. The question always was: Who will I be when my head is at the surface?

I still don’t know the answer to that question yet, but I’m closer.

Now, you might be thinking, “But Amy, there were a ton of great things last year, right?!” I agree with you- there were, and they were the heartbeat that kept me going. With the shift in priorities, my memoir manuscript became a prime focus. I’m really happy about where it is (my beta readers are awesome) and I’m looking forward to pitching agents this summer. I reconnected with Dave, Evie and Brendan in new ways. I hope they feel my love and feel seen.

I’m excited to keep writing and cultivate something I miss dearly: community for both writing and telling stories with impact. I’m looking forward to writing more on Substack, embracing the community, and sharing about my client work, my writing work, and more.

I can’t wait to bring you the antics of my kids, who help me see the world with their glasses, letting me illuminate the technicolor and faultlines of my own.

Maybe these more intentional, slower days may not look like “success” to you. To me, the fact that I’m standing up, legs shaking, feels like the ultimate win because, in the end, the past year was building up my capacity for something bigger.

Giveaway: THE MOTHER CODE

In lieu of my normal 3 favorite things, I’m sharing some #booklove for my dear friend

No need to be a mom/parent to win - as Ruthie would say (and I agree), we all have a mother code story. I’ll pick a winner on Sun., May 18 at 5pm PT.

Some Unscripted Changes

Friends, I’m going to be doing some new things here on Substack as UNSCRIPTED evolves. Our paid subscribers are going to start seeing some great benefits in the coming weeks, including:

• Monthly live calls: writing circles and story development sessions

• Writing prompts, exercises, and mindset shifts to help you move from “stuck” to “writing”

• Behind-the-scenes essays on storytelling as a business, strategy, or healing practice. (Plus, some essays that are more personal, and deserve to live behind a paywall.)

• Early access to retreats, workshops, and limited storytelling client openings.

• Invitations to co-build new experiments or editorial series.

Don’t worry, free subscribers will still get good content and select writing prompts. You just might see more initial essays that eventually prompt you to subscribe. I didn’t want you to be caught off guard.

I’ll also upgrade 40 random subscribers to a lifetime paid subscription just because I can.

Whether you’re here as a fellow writer, an executive aching to build something that actually matters, or someone in a season of reinvention — you’re in the right place.

Onward and Upward,