Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to be human right now, and what it means to be a woman trying to live a connected life in a world that often rewards distance, dominance, and self-sufficiency over care and belonging.

It is not lost on me that the country feels like it is burning in places. That there is grief, rage, fear, and disorientation moving through communities. That people are standing in the streets because systems built on hierarchy and exclusion continue to decide who belongs and who does not.

It is also not lost on me that I am of Hispanic origin. That my ancestors were indigenous to this land long before borders, documents, or permissions existed. That there have been moments, both subtle and explicit, when my belonging to this country has been questioned.

And still, beneath all of that, I hold a deeper truth. As humans, we are all indigenous to this planet.

We all belong here.

The idea that worth, safety, or value can be ranked and distributed through power structures is not only unjust, it is profoundly destabilizing to the human nervous system and to the collective soul of the world.

We are sick in many ways. And what we are lacking is not intelligence, technology, or productivity. What we are lacking is coherence, compassion, and collective love practiced in real time.

I am not writing this as someone who believes love is soft or naïve. I am writing as someone who has spent most of her life watching what happens when love, care, and belonging are absent, and what becomes possible when they are restored.

I’ve worked with teenagers and young women since I was fifteen years old. I didn’t start because I had a clear plan or a professional identity in mind. I started because I noticed something early on and I couldn’t unsee it.

I could see how much girls and women needed other women.

Not to be corrected, managed, or fixed, but to be witnessed, supported, and taken seriously as they were becoming who they were meant to be.

That knowing didn’t come from theory. It came from my own childhood.

From the time I was seven until I was twelve, I was part of the same afterschool and summer program with the same group of girls and the same women showing up year after year. They knew us. They remembered us. They noticed our personalities, our sensitivities, our growth. They adjusted how they related to us as we changed. They stayed.

Inside that space, learning felt alive. There were lessons and songs and skits and games and themed days and field trips, but what mattered most was the consistency.

It felt like a small, protected world where curiosity, creativity, and belonging were not exceptional experiences. They were the baseline.

As an adult, I understand how rare that is. To be known over time. To be seen becoming. To have adults who stay present instead of cycling through. I also know I felt the impact of that environment deeply because being seen mattered deeply to me. I didn’t just want to belong. I needed to.

One of the women who shaped me during that time was my afterschool and summer teacher, Vickie. She didn’t do anything dramatic or performative. She simply noticed me. She reflected my gifts. She made space for my growth without judgment or pressure. She accepted me as I was and trusted that becoming would unfold. That kind of care shapes a person.

As I grew older, mentorship continued to matter.

The first professional mentor who truly challenged me to grow was Barb Steinberg. She saw something in me early on and held me to a standard rooted in integrity, self-trust, and soul-level growth. Nearly twenty years later, she hired me to be a coach for teens on her team. That full-circle moment still humbles me. Her belief in me during seasons when I was discovering my own power, skill, and worth shaped me deeply and continues to guide me.

Another pivotal figure in my life is Laura Jack, now known as Laylani. She believed in me as a coach before I fully believed in myself. At a moment when I had briefly lost touch with my own voice and direction, her encouragement helped me remember who I was.

We all need people who serve as mirrors and lanterns, reminding us to rise when we forget ourselves.

Through coaching, graduate school, becoming a therapist, writing, music, retreats, and group leadership, I kept encountering the same truth in different forms. People do not grow because someone fixes them. They grow because they feel safe enough to tell the truth. Because someone stays curious instead of critical. Because they are met consistently, not conditionally.

Co-Love was created as a response to that knowing. Not as a brand or a feel-good idea, but as a structure. A container that protects what actually allows people to grow. A way of working that honors heart and skill, intuition and ethics, creativity and responsibility.

And it feels important to say this clearly. Even as someone who builds community, I still have moments of feeling alone. I still long to be known, included, needed, and celebrated. Building a village does not mean you outgrow your own need for one. If anything, it makes you more aware of it.

That longing is not a weakness. It is the point. Because it is the same longing that brings people to coaching, to retreats, to healing spaces, to creative communities.

It is what every teenager, every woman, every human is quietly seeking: safety, belonging, meaning, and connection.

I didn’t build Co-Love alone. It grew because people stepped in at different moments and added their care, belief, and presence. Mentors who challenged me. Women who reflected my voice back to me before I trusted it myself. Friends who mothered beside me. Creatives who showed me what collective leadership looks like when it is lived, not theorized.

Here in Austin, that creative village has been especially formative. Women in music, writing, healing, and mentorship who gather regularly, lift one another up, and build spaces that feel inclusive and alive have taught me as much as any formal training.

Watching women sing together, create together, and support one another publicly and privately has reinforced what I already knew. Villages do not happen accidentally. They are built through repeated presence.

When PAACK played at our teen girls retreat and sang the girls’ own words back to them as music, something landed for everyone in the room. The girls did not just hear encouragement. They felt themselves reflected. That moment captured the essence of this work.

Voice. Belonging. Being seen in real time.

The same is true of the coaches who said yes to Co-Love while it was still forming. Watching them step into their authority, support teens, work with clients, and build practices of their own has been one of the most grounding experiences of my life.

A village only exists when people are willing to build it together.

Even the physical home of Co-Love, the office space we are creating, is an extension of this belief. It is not about expansion for its own sake. It is about creating a place where people can gather in real life, be witnessed, and grow in community. A place where the work feels human, not transactional.

And through all of this, my husband has watched me keep refining, questioning, rebuilding, and recommitting to this vision. His belief in my integrity has anchored me through moments when leadership feels heavy. Purpose does not remove doubt. It gives you something worth staying with through it.

We are living in a time where compassion has often been co-opted into dogma, where superiority masquerades as certainty, and where belonging is treated as something to be earned rather than honored. I believe we are being asked to try something different.

To remember that love is not sentimental. It is a practice. A discipline. A form of collective responsibility.

I am trying to do my part.

Not because I think this work alone can heal everything, but because I know that care changes lives. That belonging restores nervous systems. That community gives people the courage to become who they already are.

If you recognize yourself anywhere in this, in the longing, the grief, the hope, or the desire to build something more humane, you are not alone. You never were.

That is the heart of Co-Love.

Not a program.

Not a hierarchy.

A village, built because we need one.

⸻ 

How To Stay Connected

If something in this reflection resonated with you, I want to make it simple to stay connected.

Co-Love is not one program or one path. It is a living village, and people enter it in different ways and at different seasons of their lives.

Some people connect through retreats. Some through coaching, either as clients or as coaches in training. Some through creative collaboration, community gatherings, or shared conversations about leadership, care, and belonging. Some simply stay close by reading, listening, and letting the work land over time.

If you feel curious about coaching, training, retreats, or community offerings, you are welcome to explore what is currently unfolding through Co-Love. If you are a woman who feels called to lead, mentor, create, or help build supportive spaces for others, I would genuinely love to hear from you. And if you are simply longing for deeper connection and belonging, please know that this work exists because of you too.

The easiest way to connect is to reach out through Co-Love, by email, through thewebsite, or instagram @colovecoaching @coloveretreats @colovepublishing. You can also join us at an upcoming gathering or event when the timing feels right. I read messages with care, and while I cannot always respond immediately, I stay in relationship intentionally and thoughtfully.

There is no right pace. No pressure to arrive fully formed. No expectation beyond honesty and care. 

This work grows through real relationships, through people who feel a quiet yes and are willing to follow it in their own way.

If that is you, I am glad you are here.

And I am grateful for whatever part you choose to play in this shared village.

With all the love I can collectively gather,

Miranda Dawn, Co-Love Founder