The Year of Renee

The Year of Renee: How the Universe Tested My Commitment to my Recovery Year

For years, I lived in what I now call the ultimate state of survival mode. I was constantly hustling, building a lucrative business, growing a family, and somehow, during it all, draining over $100,000 of my own cash into a massive home remodel. My motto was more, more, more. The nervous system I’d developed over a lifetime was fine-tuned for high-speed flight or fight, leading me to great successes, but at an astronomical personal cost.

When I finally looked at my exhaustion—and truly, deeply decided to take responsibility for my energy—I made the choice to slow down. I declared this year the Year of Renee.

This wasn't just a quiet promise; it was a firm commitment backed by action. I took out a small loan against my house, the kind of wise, self-directed investment I was always coaching my clients to make. I was finally taking the time I needed. I cut my work hours down, closed parts of my business, and fully stepped into the enough is enough mindset, ready to see what life outside the hustle could possibly bring.

Everything was lined up. The time had come.

Or so I thought.

The Tests Begin

The moment I stepped away from the grind, the universe seemed to send a series of relentless tests to check my commitment. Was I truly ready to let go of the chaos I’d grown accustomed to?

I had begged my coach, my business partner, and my partner: "Please, stop me from signing up for more courses or studying anything else." My new mantra was simple: finish one thing before starting another.

Yet, within three months, the old patterns started whispering. I found myself looking at an advanced breath coach training. I heard the voice, the new, wise voice, and committed to waiting until after 2026. A small victory, yes, but then I enrolled in a driving course to finally get my Dutch license, which I rationalized as a necessary step after ten years of dedicated biking. The wheels were still turning, just under the guise of necessity.

Test Two: The Quantum Leap of Responsibility

The real tests came when a co-worker mentioned looking for a new business location.

I jumped. Full throttle.

I immediately called a client who owned the ideal property. It felt like a sign from the heavens—she was just about to list the building. I could envision it perfectly. My colleague and I were in; we were enthusiastic. I felt that 100% yes deep in my bones, even though this dream carried new responsibilities and financial commitments I hadn't even imagined two days prior. I had fully entered the quantum field of the new dream, a dream that pulled me violently away from my planned Year of Ease.

Then, she backed out.

The dream slipped through my fingers. I was gutted, yet immediately flooded with a strange sense of relief. I realized I had mentally spent all my money and time on this new building. When the deal fell through, I suddenly felt rich in time and peace. Sadness mixed with profound relief. Phew, I thought. I beat that test.

The Tightening Chest and the Dream of More

But the universe wasn't done.

The owner of the building messaged me: "Would you like to rent it alone?"

Oh, maybe this is the real sign, I pondered. My planning brain, my fixing brain, my wheel-turning brain, was engaged. I felt that familiar sensation—the chest tightening, the low-grade anxiety that I had always mistaken for excitement. Dreams mean sacrificing money, time, and freedom, right? That’s what success looks like. More, bigger, faster.

A call with my coach was the final anchor. She gently reminded me of the Year of Renee. The energy deflated from my chest. "You're right," I admitted. "This isn't what I want today." I shut the door and was relieved again.

The Final, Hard-Earned Stop

But the old pattern is a beast, and it doesn't give up easily.

My first colleague, the one who backed out, offered one final push: "Maybe you can do it alone." Boom—the door opened for the third time.

I started contacting friends and other professionals. I found a new potential partner. I was caught up again, ready to run straight to the property, but this time, the feeling was different. The initial ease and joy were gone, quickly replaced by stress, nervous system overload, and full-blown cognitive dissonance.

My brain was now leading the charge, urging me to push through and just sign the papers, even though every moment felt heavier than the last.

I stopped. I cried.

I asked myself why I couldn't just let it go when it didn't work out. Why did I need to keep opening that heavy door? I was crying because I felt upset that I couldn't make that old dream—the dream of the next big thing—happen now.

And then, clarity. I remembered the real dream: taking deep care of my nervous system, nurturing my home, my marriage, and my relationship with myself. I had almost gone down the familiar path of chaos, responsibility, and hustle.

It was a hard test, and I saw the beast I can become when I let the old, stressed-out nervous system lead—the one that thought it was thriving under extreme pressure.

Landing back in myself, regulated and in peace, felt like the greatest victory of the year. The Year of Renee is still on. And I finally know the difference between inspiration and old programming.