Remembering What’s Possible

A friend’s daughter is heading to university in the fall. As we talked, it reminded me of the excitement I felt during that summer between high school and post-secondary. Regardless of where you were headed, there was this unwavering energy—a feeling that life was about to change in a radical way, and that endless possibilities stretched out ahead.

That leap from your childhood home into adulthood was exhilarating. For me, moving from Niagara to Ottawa meant I could shed identities that no longer felt right. Asking myself, What do I want to study? opened the door to exploring who I wanted to become. Doing it all in a new environment gave me the freedom to discover myself without limits.

As we talked about her daughter’s next chapter, that same energy I felt nearly 20 years ago came rushing back. Excitement rose in my chest, a nervous flutter stirred in my belly—and for a moment, I felt that deep inner knowing again: boundlessness.

But through my four years of university, that sense of possibility slowly dimmed. I began to take on limitations, thinking less about What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? and instead focusing on What do I need to do to live a good life? I narrowly defined that “good life” solely as financial security. By the time I graduated, I was asking myself the same questions I’d asked at the end of high school—but this time, with undeniably less hope.

Walter’s accident happened just a few short months later. Watching my brother on life support, suspended between this world and the next, pushed me into a state of sheer survival. Looking back now, after nearly eight years on a healing journey, I can see that my nervous system was locked in a constant state of fight-or-flight. I didn’t feel safe or secure enough to even consider my own future.

For the three years Walter was on life support—and the years that followed as I grieved his death—I existed in a fog of fear, grief, despair, and powerlessness. The Abraham-Hicks Emotional Guidance Scale places fear, grief, despair, and powerlessness at the very bottom, while joy, appreciation, empowerment, freedom, and love rest at the top. Between them lies a fragile bridge—hopefulness and contentment—guiding us from the heaviness of the lower emotions toward the lighter, higher ones.

Slowly, as I began to heal and weave more acts of self-love into my days, that sense of hope—and that feeling of endless possibility—began to return. It was a slow journey, marked by setbacks and small victories, but over time, I learned to trust again: trust the universe, trust the unfolding, and trust that there is a greater plan for me.

That conversation reminded me of the power I have to cultivate—and call in—those feelings at any time. Feelings and emotions are simply energy in motion, and we hold the ability to shape and direct that energy, creating more of what we want to feel.

When we consciously choose where to place our focus, we shift the frequency of what we experience. Hopefulness, gratitude, and curiosity can become practices rather than fleeting moments—intentional invitations for more of the same. It isn’t about ignoring the harder emotions; it’s about remembering that we’re not powerless to them. We can let them move through us while still creating space for lightness, joy, and that sense of boundless possibility to return.

So as I sit here and reflect on that conversation, I’m holding it as a promise to myself—a commitment to create more moments to sit in that spaciousness of possibility.

With gratitude,

Nicki