Leaning into Risk....One Pinky at a Time

I’ve had the deep joy and honor of speaking and teaching nationally and internationally on topics such as trauma, betrayal, sexual compulsivity, mindfulness, guided visualization, business-building, writing, and creative work—connecting with rooms full of thoughtful, good-hearted humans who are often in the middle of doing something brave, inconvenient, and deeply personal.

A concept I created and keep circling back to—because life keeps confirming it—is what I call living and loving with open palms. Here’s the image:

If I move through life with everything clenched tightly in my fists, nothing escapes. Not my time. Not my knowledge. Not my love. Not my friendship. Not my money, ideas, or opportunities. Nothing leaks out. Nothing gets stolen. Nothing is risked.

Very efficient. Very guarded. Very safe.

But nothing gets in either.

No new ideas. No new friends. No unexpected support. No growth. No abundance. No magic. No healing. No surprise joy. Nothing can enter a heart, a relationship, a business, a group, a creative project, an organization, a family, a life, when fear, competition, hatred, envy or unresolved heartbreak have sealed every exit shut.

The only thing that opens that space is healing. And healing means we must risk.

Let’s keep it real—risk is really fucking hard. And, risk doesn’t come easier to some folks because they are braver or stronger or luckier than others. Risk doesn’t come with guarantees, applause, or a safety net. Risk asks you to move before you feel ready. To act without proof. To step out in faith. To stay open even when you’ve been burned.

And we have all been burned before. Sometimes by a person we thought was our truest love, sometimes by a friend we thought we’d grow old with, sometimes by a competitive co-worker, or a colleague who plagiarizes, sometimes by a family member we trusted, sometimes by a group who shuns us, sometimes by a deceptive stranger. Others have been burned by addiction, illness, racism, homophobia, sexism, or violence.

After being hurt—really hurt—most people don’t become risk takers. We become careful. Guarded. Sometimes cynical. We pull back. We protect what’s tender. We learn to hold ourselves a little tighter, hoping that if we need less, or expect less, it will hurt less. Or we might project our pain on to others, assuming the worst in people as a form of armoring up, of self protection.

No one is exempt from betrayal, sabotage, cruelty or abuse. Though some journeys are calmer than others, the sea of life has a way of doing its work—waves that test us, storms that strip us down, and sun that burns away what can’t come with us, leaving room for what needs to grow and heal.

Risk is the moment we stop fighting the water and trust ourselves to move with the waves, the storms, and the heat that shapes us into who we’re becoming.

I didn’t start out fearless, rather I was a reckless little rebel who was painfully shy, belligerent, ferocious and fiercely loyal. A former foster kid and then an emancipated minor on my own at sixteen—winging it on instinct and grit. I moved to Maui, couch-surfed during the day, surfed at midnight, worked at a head shop selling bongs, t-shirts, ankle bracelets, and cheap souvenirs to sun bleached tourists. A wild child trying my best to figure out next steps as a mohawk-wearing mermaid with a strong middle-finger attitude and absolutely no roadmap or mentors.

I learned how to do life without parents. Without family. Without backup plans. I went to cosmetology school at 18, hitchhiking between my studio apartment and various part time jobs. I opened a hair and makeup business at twenty-one, made plenty of mistakes while I cut my business teeth - long work days doing rich ladies hair and movie stars make up, and longer nights running around Hollywood and Orange County, dancing at the clubs ‘til dawn with my crew.

I kept it moving. I was a rolling stone in every way.

I once stayed too long in an abusive relationship with a deceptive drunk—then left when bones and confidence had been broken, and I rebuilt anyway. I created a fashion product inspired by vampires when people were certain it would fail (it didn’t—and it paid for my first home at twenty-seven). I finally went to therapy as I turned 30, no longer a girl, yet exhausted to my marrow from trying to outrun my pain. I healed the trauma, took a breath (learned to breathe), took a beat, found my voice, and found my spiritual heart. I kicked shame to the curb. I learned about observation, presence, mindfulness. I healed unhealthy attachments, and I stopped making myself small, or apologizing for my talents or attractiveness. I also stopped trying to sit at tables with mean girls whose insecurities couldn’t tolerate my own unique light. Hell no. I stopped throwing pearls before swine. And…I made lots more mistakes. I fell on my face. I fell into bed with men who did not matter. I broke hearts, my own included. I also broke free from wearing masks that didn’t fit. I unlearned. I learned again.

None of it was polished. None of it was brave in the Instagram sense. There was no social media for most of my journey. It was messy, awkward, terrifying, and profoundly human. Like all of us. Everyone has a story. Every last one of us.

So when I talk about risk, I don’t mean reckless leaps off cliffs or dramatic Wonder Woman spins. I mean the quieter, braver choices that don’t look heroic from the outside. Risk means different things to different people. For some, it’s walking away. For others, it’s staying. Sometimes it’s learning to forgive; sometimes it’s deciding not to. It can be trusting yourself when no one else does, or finding your voice after years of swallowing your truth. It can be marching for social justice. It can be posting a cause you are passionate about. It can be speaking truth to power. Telling the truth is a risk. Rescuing a pet is a risk. Asking for help is a risk. Putting an idea into the world—knowing it may be ignored, misunderstood, or criticized—is a risk. Leaving what looks fine on paper but feels soul-deadening is a risk. So is walking away from someone who has manipulated, minimized, or used you. Setting boundaries is a risk. Letting yourself be seen is a risk. Falling in love is a risk.

And sometimes, the biggest risk of all is choosing not to abandon yourself—again.

Recently, for me, risk means learning to tolerate what was once intolerable: uncertainty—and the fear of being hurt or alone. My love and mate of many years had a heart transplant last year due to a rare medical condition. The average life span for a person after a transplant is 10 years. I am grateful his life was spared. We are deeply grateful to the donor. And…I am also scared of the uncertainty of how long our journey together will last. I am learning at this age and stage what this kind of risk is about.

Yeah, risk is scary. Risk requires that I lean into the fear, ‘cause I don’t want to live a life with closed fists. That isn’t living—that is a careful kind of disappearance I can’t accept. I do not want to survive behind invisible prison bars forged in moments of heartbreak and then called “safety.” That is mistaking numbness for peace, control for security, and endurance for strength. Learning how to smile on cue, how to hold the pose, how to say the witty thing, how to dodge the ownership when we screw up, how to keep everything looking intact on the outside while something essential quietly starves is not risky. I don’t want to close my heart and hands to all the goodness yet to come trying to outsmart my future.

A life with closed fists may look composed from the outside, but inside it’s joyless. When we close ranks, nothing and no one new enters. We allow only those who look like us inside our clique, and even then, keep them at arms length while calling them “our tribe.” Nothing unexpected arrives. Joy knocks and finds no door. New friends attempt to reach out only to be met with exclusion. Wonder and magic circles and then moves on. The world keeps offering its strange, shimmering invitations, and closed hands keep saying no without ever meaning to. Without understanding that there are gifts in the wound, gifts in risking, gifts in opening our palms…even just a little bit.

I don’t want that life. I want one that breathes and bruises and occasionally stumbles into beauty. A life that risks being touched by magic without demanding proof it will stay. A life that allows love, meaning, laughter, and grief to move freely through open hands—knowing some of it will pass through, some of it will change me, and some of it will leave me altered in ways I couldn’t have planned.

I want a life that supports others without keeping score, that gives because it can, not because it expects a return. A life that assumes there is more good than not, even when people are complicated, wounded, or still finding their way. I want a life spacious enough to hold difference—to welcome a wide, messy, diverse circle of humans who say, come sit with us, without requiring sameness or performance or belonging badges where we are tap dancing for all our worth for the popularity prize.

And I want that openness to be rooted in discernment. Open palms don’t mean open doors to harm. Good boundaries are what make generosity sustainable and freedom possible—they protect what matters without closing the heart. Boundaries don’t cage me; they give me room to move. Risk means being authentically me knowing that I will not be everyones cup of coco. And, that’s OK.

I want a life that makes room. Room for stories that don’t match mine. Room for voices that haven’t been amplified yet. Room for curiosity over judgment, generosity over fear, and connection over competition. Room for hanging with people who laugh easily, lift each other up, and find happiness in kindness. That sort of life doesn’t harden the heart—it keeps it open, even when openness costs something.

That feels like living to me. Even when it’s terrifying. Even when it costs me something.

So I keep leaning into risk, imperfectly. I don’t freaking have it all figured out yet, and probably never will. When I look back across the years—across decades—I see that brave, wild, early mermaid version of me, surfing naked under the night sky with my motley crew. She reminds me to keep going when my now older, more measured, organized, and observant self makes up stories that I don’t want to step into. She nudges me with a carefree grin, tossing her wild mane back, duck diving under the waves, or lighting up a ciggy on the sand, telling me I can do it, whispering to my soul, “We got this Mari!”

Through out all of my eras, I’ve practiced living with open palms. When what I’ve been gifted with flows outward to others —knowledge, support, humor, honesty, friendship, time, creativity, money, encouragement, truth - something else flows back in. Always. More wisdom. More connection. More opportunity. More love. More laughter. More friendship. More abundance. More adventure.

More magic. More of what I call my higher power nurturance.

My fellow human, if this little message in a bottle has somehow washed up on your shore today from my soul to yours, and if something here hums in your heart, consider risking just a little. You don’t have to throw your hands wide open all at once. You can practice this…

By reaching out.
By supporting someone.
By including someone.
By answering a question kindly.
By sharing something you’ve been gifted with.
By extending grace.
By given an honest compliment.
By supporting.
By being kind.
By trusting your gifts.
By leaning into the first step, or the next step.
By leaving people, places and things that you know are harming you.
By giving without keeping score.
By healing.

That’s how the open palms practice begin. One pinky at a time.

Kindly,
Mari 

‪#‎youareworththerisk‬ #yourarestarlight
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