And Then She Started Running….

It was 3:30 a.m. on March 10th, 2022, when I woke up.

I don’t keep a clock or phone in my bedroom, so I walked to the kitchen to check the time. It felt later—closer to 5 a.m.—because I’d gone to bed at 7:30 p.m. after returning from Oakland for a jaw adjustment. I’d been so exhausted, I thought surely I got eight hours.

God, we’re so fixated on time.

At Rama Business School, we often referenced Gary Vaynerchuk’s classic entrepreneurial line:

“What are you doing between the hours of 7 and midnight?”

But for the spiritually inclined—the ones who wake up during Amrit Vela—the better question is: “What are you doing between 3 a.m. and 8 a.m.?”

So I thought, why not? I turned on the hot water.

The first thing I noticed was a sadness in my chest… then frustration. Groundhog Day again. I had thought I was ready to make a move nearly a year ago, but here I was, March 2022, still without a strong impulse of where to go next. I’d been waiting for that “yes”—that energy shift or download—but after all my traveling and exploring, nothing had clicked.

At 3:45 a.m., I made my first cup of coffee and played Cosmic Love in the background. I’ve been into this instant organic coffee blended with alkaline greens—acid-free, delicious, and anxiety-free. I’m always trying to manipulate coffee just enough so I can enjoy it more. It’s one of my favorite things.

I follow a few teachers to support my morning meditations. One is deeply feminine, focusing on the mysteries of the earth and its ascending energy. Another is more masculine, guiding awareness into the upper chakras and mystical realms.

That morning, I chose the latter: Joe Dispenza’s Synchronize to Love meditation. It starts with this gorgeous heart-opening music, then expands into the vastness of frequency. Sometimes I connect to the quantum field, sometimes not. But this morning… I hit it.

I don’t know if it was the frequency of love, but it pulled me into another dimension. By the 20-minute mark, my sadness and frustration had completely melted.

Now close to 6 a.m., I started puttering—a word I love because it gently grounds women in their bodies. I was washing dishes, vacuuming, watching the sunrise, and even dancing a little. It was a beautiful morning, but not quite warm enough yet to head to the beach—where I had something exciting to share.

One of my core values has always been: feel as good as I can, as often as I can. I’ve lost too much time not feeling good in this body, and I don’t want to waste another moment.

Recently, I started working with an incredible healer—though “healer” doesn’t even do him justice. He’s a Japanese chiropractor who goes far beyond physical adjustments. He works with energy, emotions, and spirit. I found him through a respected colleague, and we’d just completed a full blood panel to assess where I needed support.

When I walked into his office one Wednesday morning, he greeted me with a grin—almost like a teenager.

“So, tell me about your exercise routine.”

Ugh. That question—the one that always haunts me.

“Well,” I said, “I’m very active. I walk daily, rebound on my trampoline, use a tuning fork system to tone my body, do kundalini yoga, and dance as much as I can.”

He looked at me, tilted his head, and said: “You need to MOVE. You’re an athlete. A real one. Your strength, your endurance—I haven’t seen anything like this in a long time.”

At first, I panicked.

What does that even mean? I don’t do gyms. I don’t want to sign up for something that cages me. I flow. I wander. I dance. I even picked up skateboarding at 41!

He smiled, “Exactly. You can do anything, and do it well. You’re built for it.”

Memories came rushing back—childhood, track meets, volleyball, swimming. I was always one of the first picked, and I won the camp decathlon with a perfect score one year. But I also remembered how much I grew to hate competition. My sensitivity made me anxious about winning, losing, and letting others down. I started avoiding sports altogether. By high school, I had swapped competition for cheerleading—because my boyfriend was the football captain.

Back to the present, the healer continued, “You’re active, but you need to get your heart pumping—your cardiovascular system needs engagement. You should be huffing and puffing.”

I asked, “Can I run on the beach?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“20 to 30 minutes is all you need.”

“Barefoot?”

“Yes, barefoot!”

“Sold.”

And that’s when I became a runner.

Of course, we know most doctors recommend movement. But this was different—specific to my genetic makeup. Running would get my subsystems communicating, regulate neurotransmitters, and give me the euphoria my spiritual side often craved.

20 minutes a day to create bliss, regulate my system, and open my creative channels? Yes. I was in.

We agreed: I’d run and dance more—not from force, but from desire.

He loved the plan. We had a wild, eccentric rapport. He saw me. Called me a warrior. He was right.

7:30 a.m. on the beach. I’m in shorts, sweatshirt, ponytail tucked under a baseball cap. My EMF-free headset is in, phone safely in my radiation-proof fanny pack. Channeling my inner Rocky, I start running—all the way down to the Getty. About 12 minutes. Three songs.

As I turned to head back, Walking on Sunshine started playing—one of my favorite camp songs. I didn’t walk. I danced. Full-body, beachside, barefoot joy.

Then I ran again.

Then danced again.

What began as an obligatory run became a euphoric, endorphin-filled experience. Dopamine. Serotonin. Creativity bursting through.

I had found my way in.

I ran every day that week. I was wildly productive. Until I twisted my ankle (note to self: stretch).

Now, I’m dancing and doing HIIT until I heal. But the creativity hasn’t stopped. The fire’s still lit.

Spring Equinox. Love in the air. Water Tiger energy rising. It’s all happening.

Penny Lane. Almost Famous.