From Hiding Pain to Using It as Power: Reflections on My Bold Journey Interview
What Happens When You Finally Tell Your Whole Story
I just completed a feature interview with Bold Journey Magazine, and I’m still processing what it meant to articulate my entire journey in one conversation.
I’ve done interviews before, but this was different. This was the first time I dove deeply into my becoming and transformation—the messy, sacred work of releasing who I had to be and discovering who I’m meant to become.
For months, I’ve been building my work around embodiment, the sovereign soft life, and helping women transition from survival to sovereignty. But something about being asked the right questions—questions I didn’t know I needed to answer—crystallized everything I’ve been trying to say.
The interview covered five core questions:
- What are you most proud of building that nobody sees?
- Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
- What part of you has served its purpose and must now be released?
- When did you stop hiding your pain and start using it as power?
- When do you feel most at peace?
Each question cracked me open in a different way. And in answering them, I discovered something profound: I’m not still figuring out my message. I have my message.
Let me share what emerged.
What I’m Most Proud of Building That Nobody Sees
This question stopped me in my tracks.
My immediate answer: My capacity to choose myself.
For 16 years, I was a full-time caregiver to my mother while running a wedding and event planning business. I lost my husband James to sepsis in 2009—just six months after my mother moved in with us. My son was two weeks from prom and four weeks from graduating high school.
I became a widow and a caregiver overnight.
Then, in 2016, I survived sepsis myself for the first time. The same illness that took my husband nearly took me.
In 2020, I survived it again. Twice.
Three times total, I walked through death’s door. Three times, I had to choose life.
But the hardest choice came in September 2024 when I finally chose myself.
I was no longer physically able to care for my mother alone. My body—already broken from caregiving and sepsis—was telling me I couldn’t keep sacrificing myself.
So I left. I packed up my personal items, emptied our home, gave away most of my possessions, and drove to Denver. Eight weeks later, I knew it wasn’t home. In November 2024, I set out for Las Vegas.
The moment I hit the city limits, I knew. I was home.
What I’m most proud of building is something nobody can see: my relationship with my own body as sanctuary, not sacrifice.
For 57 years, I’ve only known my body as a responsibility. A vessel for serving others. A battleground during illness. A thing to manage, maintain, or push through.
I’ve never known what it’s like to inhabit my body as mine—to steward it, honor it, rest in it, feel powerful in it.
That’s what I’m building now.
Nobody sees the mornings I wake up and practice being in my body instead of immediately doing for someone else.
Nobody sees the grief I’m processing—not just the loss of James, but the grief of leaving my mother, the guilt of choosing myself, and the loss of the woman I could have been if I hadn’t spent decades postponing myself.
Nobody sees the courage it took to leave everything familiar and drive across the country at 57, not knowing where I’d land.
Nobody sees the small, sacred moments when I catch myself in the mirror and think, “I don’t know her yet. But I want to meet her.”
What I’m building is my becoming.
The Part of Me That Must Be Released: Caregiver Karen
The question “What part of you has served its purpose and must now be released?” felt like permission I didn’t know I was waiting for.
My answer: Caregiver Karen.
For 16 years, being a caregiver wasn’t just what I did—it was who I was. My entire identity was wrapped up in meeting someone else’s needs, anticipating problems before they happened, and making sure everyone around me was okay.
Caregiver Karen was devoted. She was selfless. She was strong. She showed up even when she was exhausted. She pushed through pain, postponed her own medical needs, and made herself last priority because someone else’s survival depended on her.
That version of me served her purpose.
She kept my mother alive. She kept my son stable. She kept our lives moving forward.
But Caregiver Karen also learned to silence her own needs. She learned that her body was a tool, not a temple. She learned that rest was selfish. She learned that choosing herself meant abandoning others.
And when I survived sepsis three times—when I was the one who needed care—Caregiver Karen didn’t know how to receive it. She didn’t know how to be still. She didn’t know how to let someone else carry the weight.
Now, at 57, I’m releasing her.
Not with bitterness. Not with resentment. But with gratitude for what she taught me and acknowledgment that her season is over.
I’m no longer the woman who has to be everything for everyone. I’m no longer the woman who equates her worth with how much she can endure. I’m no longer the woman whose body exists to serve others.
What I’m Becoming Instead
Embodied Karen. Sovereign Karen.
Karen who knows that choosing herself isn’t abandonment—it’s stewardship.
I’m learning that my body is a sanctuary I’m responsible for protecting, not a sacrifice I’m required to make.
I’m learning that rest is holy, not a reward I have to earn.
I’m learning that I can love others deeply and choose myself fiercely—that these aren’t opposites, they’re necessities.
Releasing Caregiver Karen means releasing:
- The belief that my value comes from how much I can give
- The guilt of putting my own oxygen mask on first
- The fear that if I’m not constantly doing, I’m not enough
- The identity of being the one who holds it all together while falling apart inside
It also means releasing the need to perform strength.
For years, I had to be strong because I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Now I’m discovering what it means to actually embody strength—not as performance, but as presence. Not as pushing through, but as knowing when to rest.
When I Stopped Hiding Pain and Started Using It as Power
This question required the most honesty.
September 2024. When I packed up my life and chose myself for the first time in 16 years.
Before that moment, I wasn’t just hiding my pain—I was performing through it.
When James died in 2009, I had a son two weeks from prom. I didn’t have time to fall apart. I had to hold it together.
When I survived sepsis the first time in 2016, I told myself I was lucky to be alive. I got back to caregiving as soon as I could stand.
When I survived it again—twice—in 2020, I still didn’t stop. I kept showing up. Kept pushing through. Kept making myself last priority because my mother needed me.
I wore my ability to keep going as a badge of honor.
Look how strong I am. Look how much I can endure. Look how I never complain, never quit, never ask for help.
But that wasn’t strength. That was survival. And survival mode doesn’t leave room for becoming.
The Shift
The shift happened when I finally admitted I couldn’t do it anymore.
In September 2024, I looked at myself in the mirror and said the words I’d been too afraid to say for 16 years:
“I can’t keep sacrificing myself. I have to choose me.”
That admission felt like failure. It felt like weakness. It felt like I was abandoning the one person who had always been there for me.
But it wasn’t failure. It was the first honest thing I’d said to myself in years.
I left. I drove to Denver. Then Vegas. And somewhere on that drive, something shifted.
I stopped seeing my pain as something to hide and started seeing it as something to use.
What My Pain Taught Me
Every moment of caregiving taught me about boundaries, stewardship, and the cost of self-abandonment.
Every moment of grief taught me about resilience, presence, and the sacredness of choosing life.
Every moment of surviving sepsis taught me about embodiment, mortality, and what it means to truly inhabit your body as sanctuary.
My pain wasn’t a weakness to hide. It was wisdom waiting to be shared.
So I started building my work around it.
I teach women how to heal from trauma—because I know what it’s like to carry pain you don’t know how to process.
I teach embodiment—because I know what it’s like to spend decades treating your body as a tool instead of a temple.
I teach the sovereign soft life—because I know what it’s like to build a life that requires constant hardness just to survive.
I’m not teaching theory. I’m teaching from the trenches.
And the women I work with don’t want someone who’s never been broken. They want someone who’s been shattered and is learning—in real time—how to put herself back together differently.
Using Pain as Power Doesn’t Mean the Pain is Gone
Some days I still grieve James. Some days I still feel guilt about my mother. Some days I wonder if I’m doing this “becoming” thing right.
But I’m not hiding anymore.
I’m not pretending I have it all figured out.
I’m not performing strength while falling apart inside.
I’m standing in my story and saying: “This broke me. And I’m using what broke me to build something that will help other women heal.”
That’s power.
Not the power to push through pain and pretend it doesn’t exist.
But the power to transform pain into purpose, trauma into testimony, survival into sovereignty.
I stopped hiding my pain when I realized hiding it was keeping other women trapped in theirs.
Because when we pretend we’re fine, we give everyone else permission to keep pretending too.
But when we stand in our truth—messy, imperfect, still becoming—we give other women permission to do the same.
The Biggest Lies the Wellness Industry Tells Itself
This question allowed me to speak truth to an industry that desperately needs it.
Lie #1: “Just change your mindset and your life will change.”
The coaching and wellness industry loves to sell mindset work as the cure-all. And yes, mindset matters. But you can’t “manifest” your way out of trauma that lives in your body.
You can’t “think positive” your way through burnout when your nervous system is dysregulated from years of survival mode.
You can’t “reframe” chronic pain, exhaustion, or the physiological impact of stress.
The body keeps the score. And most coaching completely ignores that.
I survived sepsis three times. I spent 16 years caregiving. My body holds that history. No amount of affirmations or vision boards will heal what needs to be processed somatically—through embodiment, through rest, through actually inhabiting my body instead of living from the neck up.
The truth: Transformation requires embodiment, not just mindset shifts.
Lie #2: “Hustle harder. You’re just not committed enough.”
The coaching industry—especially in the online business and entrepreneurship space—glorifies exhaustion. If you’re not working 60-hour weeks, posting daily, showing up constantly, you’re told you’re not serious about success.
Even in faith-based spaces, I see it: “God helps those who help themselves.” “You have to work like it depends on you and pray like it depends on God.”
But that’s not Kingdom living. That’s hustle culture with a scripture slapped on it.
God commanded Sabbath rest. He didn’t suggest it. He didn’t say, “Rest if you have time.” He said, “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.” (Exodus 20:8)
The Proverbs 31 woman wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t hustling herself into burnout. She was building from overflow, not depletion. She laughed without fear of the future because her foundation was solid.
The truth: You can build a thriving business and honor rest. Sustainable success requires rest, not relentless hustle.
Lie #3: “Self-care = bubble baths and face masks.”
The wellness industry has commodified self-care into consumption. Buy this product. Book this spa day. Take this vacation.
And while those things are nice, they don’t address the root issue: most women are living in self-abandonment.
Self-care isn’t a manicure when you’re running on fumes. It’s not signing up for things that deplete you in the first place. It’s setting boundaries. It’s saying no. It’s building a life that doesn’t require you to “recover” from it every weekend.
The truth: Real self-care is self-stewardship. It’s treating your body as a temple. It’s removing unnecessary weight from your life. It’s building the sovereign soft life where rest is integrated, not something you have to escape to find.
Lie #4: “You just need to ‘level up.'”
The constant message is: do more, be more, become more. Upgrade your business. Upgrade your life. Get to the next level.
But what if you’re already breaking under the weight of the current level?
What if “leveling up” just means adding more to a foundation that’s already cracked?
I don’t teach women to “level up.” I teach them to come home—to their bodies, to rest, to alignment.
Because sometimes the most powerful move isn’t addition. It’s subtraction. Removing what doesn’t serve you. Releasing who you had to be to survive. Building from a place of wholeness, not proving.
The truth: Becoming isn’t about doing more. It’s about being more fully yourself—embodied, rested, sovereign.
Lie #5: “Transformation is linear and fast.”
The coaching industry sells 90-day transformations, 6-week breakthroughs, instant results.
But real transformation—the kind that integrates body, mind, and spirit—is slow. It’s messy. It’s nonlinear.
I’ve been “becoming” for 57 years. And I’m just now discovering who I am when I’m not defined by survival, caregiving, or performance.
There’s no hack for that. There’s no shortcut. There’s just the slow, sacred work of inhabiting your life fully.
The truth: Transformation is a practice, not a destination. And the women who are ready for this work aren’t looking for quick fixes—they’re ready to do the deep, embodied work of truly becoming.
When I Feel Most at Peace
This final question brought me back to what matters most.
Saturday mornings. My true Sabbath.
For 16 years, Saturday wasn’t rest—it was just another day of caregiving. Another day of making sure someone else was okay. Another day of pushing through exhaustion because there was no one else to do it.
But now? Saturdays are sacred.
I wake up slowly. No alarm. No urgent needs pulling me out of bed. Just the quiet of honoring the Sabbath as God commanded—from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday.
I make my tea. I sit by the window. And I just breathe.
That’s when I feel most at peace—when I’m doing nothing and not feeling guilty about it.
For so long, my worth was tied to productivity. To how much I could do, how much I could endure, how much I could give. Rest felt like failure. Stillness felt like laziness.
But I’m learning that rest is worship.
God didn’t command Sabbath because we earn it. He commanded it because we need it. Because we’re human. Because we were never meant to run on empty.
Peace in My Body
I also feel peace when I’m in my body—not just occupying it, but actually present in it.
Some mornings I move—gently, intentionally. Not to punish my body or force it into a shape. But to inhabit it. To feel what it’s like to be strong, flexible, alive.
After surviving sepsis three times, after years of using my body as a tool for serving others, I’m finally learning what it means to treat my body as a temple. To honor it. To listen to it. To let it rest when it’s tired and move when it wants to.
That presence—being fully in my body, fully in the moment—that’s peace.
Peace as Baseline
But here’s what’s different now:
Peace isn’t something I have to find anymore. It’s not something I escape to on vacation or carve out in stolen moments between obligations.
Peace is becoming my baseline.
Because I’ve removed the unnecessary weight. I’ve released the roles that no longer serve me. I’ve built a life that doesn’t require constant hardness just to survive.
The sovereign soft life isn’t about luxury. It’s about ease.
Ease in my body. Ease in my spirit. Ease in my work. Ease in my relationships.
And when I feel that ease—when I’m sitting by my window on a Saturday morning, tea in hand, honoring the true Sabbath, doing absolutely nothing and feeling completely whole—that’s when I know I’m finally home.
Not just in Las Vegas. But in myself.
That’s peace.
What This Interview Taught Me About My Work
Answering these questions crystallized something I’ve been feeling but hadn’t fully articulated:
I’m not still figuring out my message. I have my message.
I teach women how to:
- Heal from trauma and embody their sovereignty
- Build Kingdom-aligned businesses that honor faith, rest, and legacy
- Create the sovereign soft life—where rest is integrated, bodies are sanctuaries, and peace is the baseline
This work is rooted in lived experience:
- I’m a 3x sepsis survivor
- I spent 16 years as a caregiver
- I’m a widow who chose herself at 57
- I’m a graduate of the Institute for Integrative Nutrition
- I’m a certified Christian life coach
- I bring 25+ years of luxury hospitality and high-touch service experience
I’m not teaching what I’ve mastered. I’m teaching what I’m living.
I’m documenting my metamorphosis in real time. And the women I work with don’t want someone who’s already “arrived.” They want someone who’s in the messy middle with them—someone who’s learning to choose herself, embody her strength, and build from rest instead of depletion.
The Invitation
If you’re a woman in your second act—navigating reinvention, healing from trauma, discovering yourself for the first time at midlife—I want you to know:
You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re not too late.
You’re exactly where you need to be.
The work I’m building is for women ready to:
- Release who they had to be to survive
- Embody who they’re becoming
- Build the sovereign soft life
If this resonates, I invite you to:
- Read the full Bold Journey interview
- Follow me on Instagram @kymlifestyle
- Visit karenymoore.com to learn more about my work
- Join my email list for weekly reflections on embodiment, sovereignty, and the sovereign soft life
Final Reflection
I’ve had the privilege of being featured and interviewed before, but this Bold Journey conversation will always be significant because it was the first time I fully dove into my becoming and transformation. It was the moment I stopped explaining my work and started embodying it in my words.
Every answer came from a place of presence, not performance.
Every story was told from truth, not strategy.
Every insight emerged from lived experience, not borrowed wisdom.
That’s what embodiment looks like in action.
And if you’re on this journey too—learning to stop hiding your pain, release who you had to be, and discover who you’re becoming—I’m cheering for you.
Keep going. Keep becoming. Keep choosing yourself.
The sovereign soft life is waiting.
Karen Y. Moore is a faith-based embodiment coach, 3x sepsis survivor, and Chief Legacy Architect helping women heal from trauma, embody their sovereignty, and build the sovereign soft life. Based in Las Vegas, she teaches Kingdom-aligned business building rooted in rest, embodiment, and Sabbath-honoring practices. Learn more at karenymoore.com.
