Ask, Overthink, Cry & Repeat

Let's Begin

By Kimberley Ann

I’ve read the books.

The self-help bibles. The Investing-for-Dummies guides The Spiritual Currency of Guilt and Crystals. The Emotionally Confusing Father Figures and Their Financial Advice. And yes… Ask, Overthink, Cry & Repeat.

Every shelf in my house holds at least ten spiritual how-to guides, a dozen or so manifestation manuals, or some financial breakthrough blueprint (that never got filled in) — usually tucked beside a melted candle, a hopeful affirmation card, and a journal I only wrote in once.

And I’ve loved them. Truly.

Some of those books are brilliant. Some shifted me for a season. Some I still quote when I’m feeling aligned — or slightly dramatic.

I’ve downloaded the masterclasses. Applied the principles. Built the vision boards. Ordered the bonus crystals. And whispered affirmations into my abundance vortex with the utmost sincerity.

And yet…

No mansion. No overflowing bank account. No spiritual glow-up where the universe kisses my forehead and hands me a life upgrade.

What I got instead was something quieter.

A little burnout. A little disillusionment. And — if I’m being honest — some holy frustration.

What finally clicked?

The books weren’t the problem. The people who wrote them weren’t either.

The missing piece was this: I wasn’t writing my real story.

Not the raw, unfiltered, blood-splattered version.

I was skipping the messy parts. Polishing my pain into something presentable. Turning my rage into resilience before it had a chance to breathe.

Then something broke open.

Something deep enough that I couldn’t bypass it anymore. I couldn’t keep spiritualizing my silence.

So I started writing.

Through tears. Through fury. Through laughter sharp enough to split me open.

I wrote about people I wanted to scream at. I wrote scenes where the villain died dramatically — and came back in chapter five, freshly dressed and offering snacks.

And slowly — miraculously — things began to shift.

Not in some movie montage where I meet a fully healed soulmate in a health food aisle.

But in the relationships that mattered. In my nervous system. In the quiet space between breaths.

Writing became the medicine.

Not because it fixed everything — but because it made space for everything.

That’s what this space is for.

A place to tell the truth in whatever ridiculous, soul-wrecking, heart-healing way it needs to come through.

Some days it’s a story about a worm. Some days, grief. Some days, a prophetic orange cat. And some days, it’s just me —Trying to stay tender while feeling like setting everything on fire, Then serving tea with a side of forgiveness.

If you’re here, maybe you’re ready to write your own epic, imperfect, astonishing tale.

Or maybe you just want someone else to say the unsayable so you can exhale.

Either way — welcome.

This is your invitation to remember:

You’re allowed to tell the truth. Even the messy bits. Especially the messy bits.

Let’s begin.

— Kimberley Ann