How to survive? One brave next step at a time

And the most exciting news, for The Healing Lab, and all of us.

It had been a rough few months, or maybe even years.

It was hard to keep track amidst the fugue states and lost time. My therapist kept saying I was making progress, but no part of me felt like I was, especially since the last fugue state had taken me through a patch of early spring poison ivy and the resulting rash itched relentlessly, reminding me that still – ever still – I did not yet own me fully.

To make matters worse, I was suicidal.

So amidst the self-doubt, burning world, and fugue states, I was completely adrift. Although people don’t want to talk about it (nevertheless, read about it), the truth of recovering from chronic suicidality is work. Relentless work. It’s that brutally simple and also that brutally hard. It’s about living one’s survival before direction, perspective, energy, or even a glimmer of hope returns. It’s swimming each day in the grey doldrums of endless self-destruction and loathing until, on some random day, without rhyme, reason, or recompense, a glimmer returns.

In my years navigating this, I have simplified the approach into two truths:

Mood follows action.

AND

It’s not about fixing the pain or having an answer for the hardship… it’s about taking the next brave step.

(And for those who want clarity on what the next brave step is, I did not say “the next right one,” for this very reason. The next brave step is absolutely ANY step you take in any direction. Got that? ANY STEP! )

One brave next step at a time, help (and all the mess) included.

So, day after day, I did exactly that.

I lived my survival before I felt it. I walked the dogs each morning. I worked at my part-time job. I wrote pieces here. And I started to volunteer with my Dad and this wonderful woman, Susan, on a project that was tackling Vermont’s broken healthcare system.

It went on like this for months. Day after day. Next brave step after next brave step. Time passed in a monotonous haze, but I just kept going. But then, on Valentine's Day—the day we celebrate the arrival of Waffle and my life beginning again—those brave steps finally gave me a glimmer.

I remember the moment exactly.

Dave and I were eating cheeseburgers. (Waffle had her own, naturally, and Tuggie did too — equal rights, y’all.) But even as we enjoyed them and remarked on how truly profound it was to be celebrating ten *whole* years with our sweet best girl, my depression kept interrupting.

Its relentless darkness exasperated me. Couldn’t it just give me this one minute? Couldn’t it just give me this? Cheeseburgers with my girl, who was still here? Who was still alive? But no matter how hard I tried to live the joy of the moment – to taste each savory bite of cheeseburger and map the panting lines of my beaming and oh so drooly bear beside me, I couldn’t escape it, and the inevitable tears arrived.

Dave immediately leapt in to quell the tide and tried to distract me with puppy videos—Waffle in a snow bank, Waffle playing with her kibble scoop, Waffle chewing an extraordinarily massive bone. No matter how hard I tried to lean into the joy or presence, even, my bullying mind kept interrupting me: she saved you, Kate. Pay attention. Here. Now. It’s the least you can do to honor her. And how are you ever going to honor her anyway if you can barely function yourself? Serves you right. You gave your and her best years to a company that no longer exists, and colleagues who don’t even speak to you. You and your stupidity, Kate. You are just doomed.

Dave, seeing my overwhelm rise and tears fall, kissed my head and left me to my processing, resigned that dinner was now over. As he cleaned up, I curled up on the floor next to Waffle. Lying there apathetically, one paw of hers placed squarely on my panging chest, I flipped through Reddit, and then through my silenced texts. And there, I found that my new friend Susan had brought me one heck of a gift:

I sat up abruptly, startling Waffle as much as the text had startled me. AMY O’LEARY. I knew that name anywhere.

But here in the Upper Valley? No way!!!

After a quick Google search, I learned that it was in fact – THE Amy O’Leary. Known to me (and all other digital communication nerds) as one of the brilliant authors of the New York Times Innovation Report, she was widely considered a master in the narrative strategy space who helped build the roadmap that digital strategists now use to grow communities and create change, everywhere.

I scanned Google once more before asking for a paw from Waffle to confirm that this was, in fact, a real moment in my life: a moment when THE Amy O’Leary wanted to join our call.

Waffle sleepily obliged a reality check paw, and as the weight of her enormous bear mitt draped across me, a glimmer of light flashed into my being.

The glimmer was gone before I could even process it. But it was there.

I barely remember our first Zoom together, but I do remember the safety of those conversations clearly, and how glimmers arrived whenever I spent time with Susan and Amy.

Before I knew it, amidst strategy sessions and campaign planning, two months of calls had passed. I marveled at how easy time spent was with them. Amy was brilliant, kind, and the best communicator I’d ever witnessed. Bringing expertise from This American Life, the New York Times, and Headspace, she taught me every time she spoke. And Susan was equally talented, her career equally impressive. She had worked at Facebook Causes, run partnerships for Lady Gaga’s nonprofit, and become an ICU nurse with an Master’s in Public Health who now worked with teams to cure rare cancer. Suffice it to say, they were both incredible human beings, and each day that I got to spend with them felt truly extraordinary.

Slowly, my color started to return.

Then, so did my light.

The whole thing was such a gift – a welcome rescue from my dark suicidality. They held space for all of me—revered it even—the darkness and self doubt waned entirely.

And then, they invited me to lunch.

We had been working together for weeks, seamlessly — but I still had not met them in person. So when the lunch invite arrived via text, I ran around the room like Tug doing zoomies. No joke. Then, in true Kate fashion, I set a timer. YUP. I was determined to NOT be a Stage 5 clinger. I wanted to make a thoughtful impression. I drafted my response and got Dave to proofread it. When the alarm finally went off, I responded with the text that Dave had approved (i.e., the one without 17 exclamation points) and to my surprise, they replied instantly (take that, timer!) and suggested lunch the very next day.

Driving there, stoke at an all-time high, I gave myself the neurodivergent pep talk (you know the one):

You are a capable, caring human, so you are going to have a CONVERSATION. Okay Kate? A CON-VER-SA-T-I-O-N. That means back and forth. Back. AND. Forth. You will pause. You will let them talk. You will listen. You will not interrupt. You got it, Kate? And whatever you do, do NOT say you want to work together. You can only bring that up 45 minutes in if it’s going extremely (extremely, extremely) well.

Of course, I’m me, so I broke every single rule in the first thirty-five seconds. Amy was sharing how broken the corporate world felt, and how little she wanted to return to it, so I couldn't help but jump in, “Well, I think we should all work together!” My mind only caught up with that brave next step of mine after the words had already left my mouth. All I could think was FUCKKKKKKKKK as I tried to course correct.

“Shit, I’m sorry. That sounds crazy. I even promised my husband I wouldn't bring this up for at least 45 minutes.”

But instead of awkward silence or even feigned pleasantries, they just laughed. They whole body laughed with deep kindness.

And then, the miracle happened.

Then, the many glimmers of the past few months became their own entire sun as they honored me by taking brave next steps of their own.

They agreed.

We spent three hours that day—fully alight with enthusiasm. Scribbling ideas in crayon and dreaming up a new way of working and being—together.

Our first scribbles together, at the lunch where we met.

We went on to meet again that week. And the next. We talked about hustle culture, capitalism, and the patriarchy. We shared our work traumas. And we spoke about the world we wanted to live in instead of the one we found ourselves living through.

As the days turned into weeks, and our lunch meetings over “dinner pie” (yes, best kiddo “reframe” of quiche there ever was for picky eaters) became my absolute favorite pastime, I found exactly what I needed: companionship in my passion for a human-first, community-oriented existence and actual solidarity in the mission of human-life balance like that which I had attempted with my last team.

But more than that, more than anything, I found where brave next steps are meant to take us – to our people. To community. And by the end of two months, it was abundantly clear that even though my self-doubt and mind tried to trick me into believing otherwise, I am not the only one who is:

• Frustrated and brokenhearted by this world and how its flawed systems infiltrate and harm us even in the most well-intentioned work settings.

• Ready to reject hustle culture and healing as “self-improvement.”

• Determined to use my skills in the service of others and community care, above all.

• Overwhelmed entirely by how to build a Human-first way of living through capitalism when everyone we know is tapped out.

So, with some good ‘ol Kate gumption, I brazenly suggested we build out The Healing Lab, in they way I always envisioned it, to honor those shared truths.

And again, without awkward silences or feigned pleasantries, they laughed – full belly, kind-hearted laughs, and jumped right in because we are each other's people.

We are starving for a new way of being in this world, and we believe, together, one next brave step at a time, is the only chance we have to build exactly that.

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So yup, that’s the story, and now, thanks to these two women, I have burnt what was left of my depression and suicidality to the ground, and today, like the phoenix I aspire to be, I rise and have the great honor of introducing them to you as my new team – the team that will carry us all forward together.

So, without further ado, please give a warm, loving—only-YOU-all-could-know-how-to welcome-these-soul-humans-of-mine-to-this-cherished-community to Amy and Susan. Amy will be my new partner in this project, and Susan, amidst working to cure rare cancer, will be joining us as our chief advisor.

Me, Susan and Amy (from left to right) in our first team selfie — taken after I admitted that I spent more than a few hours each night doubting that what we were doing is actually real, and not a hallucination, lol.

Meet Amy O’Leary, who will now run The Healing Lab with me, as a full partner, as I continue as founder and writer.

Amy is good at holding the umbrella — for all of us.

Amy is a veteran of journalism, media, and non-profits (The New York Times, This American Life, Upworthy, Headspace). She spent her career asking the question: how do you get, and hold people’s attention on the truly important things? After many years leading big new projects and organizations, she’s seen exactly how even the best-intentioned organizations can leave deep scars on the people they rely on, and how easily mission-driven work can grind people down. Now, she wants to be a part of something better for all of us.

She’s an executive-function beast and anchor of her brilliant, neurodivergent family—bringing a fierce, unapologetic toolkit for helping people write, create, and build community while being fully seen, without costing them their selves in the process.

Susan knows how to put (and keep) the band together.

Next, meet Susan Horrell, who, while raising three kids and working at her day job improving options for rare cancer patients, will serve as our advisor. Susan spent her career in relentless pursuit of meaningful impact at the intersection of innovation and human connection.

She started in grassroots politics, organizing on street corners (and suing her first employer over labor violations before she turned 23). When she realized that shouting at the system wasn’t enough, she went looking for leverage—from policy to philanthropy to frontline care. That search led her to Silicon Valley, where she helped launch Causes on Facebook —an early experiment in digital grassroots organizing that attracted millions of users. But inside the big promises of tech, she saw the same old power dynamics play out. So she pivoted again, driven by a need to make a more direct, tangible impact.

So she put on scrubs and became a frontline nurse, landing in the ICU and then the ER—where the questions only got louder. Every shift revealed more: the quiet heroics of her colleagues, the impossible choices patients were forced to make, and the systemic failures that left everyone stretched too thin. It was hard. Determined to change systems for more than one patient at a time, she went on to earn her Master’s in Public Health from Harvard and lead partnerships for Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation, supporting the mental health of young people nationwide.

Susan brings strategic clarity, fierce compassion, and a deep refusal to look away. Whether she’s coordinating care, building community, or calling bullshit with love, she’s here to help us build systems that actually care for the people inside them.

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So yup – that’s the news!

WE are relaunching The Healing Lab!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (17 exclamation points - yup, for all the ones I originally took out of that damn text because, I am this damn stoked about it).

Set stoke.

Can’t wait to be back with you all next week. Until then, I wish you a day. For a day, just like you, is always enough.

Kindly,

Kate