Welcome to the first edition of The Inspired Edit of the new year.

There’s something tender about beginnings—especially the quiet ones. This isn’t about resolutions or reinvention. It’s about noticing where you’ve been shrinking and gently choosing to come back to yourself instead.

This week’s reflection is an invitation to reclaim what’s always been yours: your voice, your boundaries, your truth, your space. Not all at once. Not loudly. Just honestly.

So pour your coffee, take a breath, and let’s start the year by coming home—seven minutes at a time.

I’m really glad you’re here.

As I sit here drinking coffee from my new Ursula mug—the one my son got me for Christmas—I’m thinking that I may be officially stepping into my Villain Era this year.

He bought it for me because he knows Ursula, the Sea Witch, is my favorite bad girl. She’s unapologetically voluptuous (like me). She has gorgeous short gray hair (also like me). Her makeup is flawless (like me… when I’m actually wearing makeup).

But is she really a villain? She gave Ariel exactly what she asked for—and she was very clear about the consequences.

I read somewhere that being in your Villain Era isn’t about being cruel or mean. It’s about being real. Honest. Unapologetically authentic. It’s about setting boundaries and actually keeping them.

No more people-pleasing.
No more shrinking.
No more softening myself to make others comfortable.
No more saying yes when everything in me is screaming no.

That feels like the real Villain Era to me. And as I sip my coffee from my favorite bad-girl mug, I’m choosing to step into that version of myself.

Care to join me?

Most women don’t wake up one day and decide to disappear.
We shrink slowly—quietly—often in ways that look like kindness or flexibility or “just being easygoing.”

We shrink when we:

For many of us, shrinking began as a survival strategy.
It kept the peace.
It kept us safe.
It helped us belong.

But what once protected us eventually starts to cost us.

Self-abandonment doesn’t always look dramatic. More often, it looks like exhaustion. Like resentment we don’t want to admit. Like feeling disconnected from ourselves without knowing why.

Reclaiming yourself doesn’t begin with a grand declaration or a burned bridge. It begins quietly—with awareness. With noticing where you soften, where you swallow your truth, where you disappear just a little to keep things comfortable.

And then—gently—choosing something different.

That’s where coming home to yourself begins.

Take a moment to sit with these—no fixing required.

Reclaiming yourself doesn’t require permission.
It starts the moment you notice.

When I joke about stepping into my Villain Era, I’m not talking about becoming cold or hardened or selfish in the way people like to warn us about. I’m talking about finally telling the truth—first to myself, and then to the world around me.

For a long time, shrinking felt normal to me. It felt polite. It felt safe. It felt like love. I learned how to soften my words, downplay my joy, and make myself smaller so other people could feel more comfortable. I didn’t even realize I was doing it most of the time. It was just how I survived.

But here’s the thing about shrinking—it doesn’t just make you smaller. It makes you tired. It disconnects you from your own voice. It leaves you wondering why you feel resentful or restless or vaguely unhappy when, on paper, everything looks fine.

That’s what this season is asking me to look at. Not in a harsh, judgmental way—but honestly. Where am I still saying yes when I mean no? Where am I still softening my edges so I don’t rock the boat? Where am I still apologizing for existing?

Sipping coffee from that Ursula mug was a small moment, but it felt symbolic. A reminder that I don’t need to trade my authenticity for approval. That I can be warm and boundaried. Kind and honest. Loving and unapologetically myself.

Reclaiming myself isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s choosing, over and over again, to take up the space that already belongs to me.

And honestly? That feels less like becoming a villain—and more like finally coming home.

If reclaiming yourself feels big—or even a little overwhelming—start smaller than you think.

Start with seven minutes.

One of the things I’ve learned (the hard way) is that coming home to yourself doesn’t happen through grand gestures. It happens through tiny, honest moments of truth—moments where you stop shrinking and choose yourself instead.

Inside The Inspired Vault, there’s a gentle tool designed specifically for this season called Seven Minutes of Truth. It’s meant to help you reclaim yourself seven minutes at a time—through reflection, awareness, micro-boundaries, and compassion rather than criticism.

This isn’t homework.
It isn’t a program to keep up with.
It isn’t something you can fail.

It’s a resource you return to when you need it.

The Vault itself is built the same way—an ever-growing archive of self-love, self-care, and personal growth tools that meet you where you are. You don’t have to do everything. You don’t even have to do anything right away. You just have to know it’s there.

If this feels like a season where you’re ready to stop shrinking—and start coming home to yourself—The Inspired Vault was created for you.

Sometimes the bravest next step isn’t doing more.
It’s giving yourself a place to tell the truth—one quiet seven-minute moment at a time.

Reclaiming yourself doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in moments—when you notice where you’ve been shrinking, when you pause instead of apologizing, when you choose honesty over comfort.

It’s a return.
A remembering.
A quiet refusal to disappear.

As writer Anaïs Nin so beautifully put it:

Reclaiming yourself is that moment—the moment staying small costs more than taking up space.

And even seven minutes of truth can be enough to begin blooming again.

As you move into this new year, I hope you’ll remember this: you don’t need to become someone else to be worthy of your own life.

You are allowed to take up space.
You are allowed to say no.
You are allowed to choose yourself without apology.

Reclaiming yourself doesn’t require permission—only presence.

I’ll be right here, walking this path alongside you.

Never Forget...

Much Love,
Lady Misty Gebhart