Dear Universe, Per My Last Email

I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of manifestation.

Not the version that has become popular online, where you make a vision board, repeat affirmations into the mirror, and wait for the universe to deliver exactly what you asked for. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with those practices if they help you focus on your goals, but I tend to be more action-oriented.

My version of manifestation looks like recognizing that something in my life isn't working, imagining what could work instead - then making a thousand small decisions that slowly move me toward that reality. Less "speaking it into existence," and more deciding, over and over again, that I’m not willing to settle for a life that doesn't fit anymore.

If you've followed this blog for any length of time, you know that my life hasn't exactly followed a straight line. There have been career pivots, burnout, faith shifts, family heartbreak, unexpected opportunities, and plenty of valleys that I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen for myself. Looking back, it's tempting to see a storyline where every difficult season perfectly prepared me for where I am now.

Real life doesn't feel that tidy while you're living it.

But every now and then, I'll have a moment that reminds me just how far I've come. Usually, it's something completely ordinary.

I'll make my coffee, settle into my desk, open my laptop, and think, Past Ashley dreamed about this.

Not the specific job. Not this apartment. Not this exact company.

This life.

For years, I struggled with chronic migraines and what I affectionately call my "hot girl tummy issues." They were never severe enough to prevent me from working altogether, but they often made working in an office incredibly difficult. Anyone who has experienced chronic illness knows that there is a world of difference between being unable to work and being unable to function well in a particular environment.

When a migraine hit, I didn't necessarily need an entire day off. Most of the time, I needed medication, a dark room, and an hour or two to let everything settle. Once the worst of it passed, I could usually get back to work.

The same was true on the days when my digestive system decided to stage its own little protest. At home, I had privacy, comfort, and the ability to take care of myself without wondering whether I was spending too much time away from my desk or making another trip down the office hallway to the restroom.

The problem wasn't that I couldn't do my job.

The problem was that the environment made doing my job infinitely harder than it needed to be.

I remember thinking, over and over again, If I could just work from home, this wouldn't have to derail my entire day.

Not because I wanted to work less. Because I wanted the opportunity to work better.

I've always known that I'm a high performer. I enjoy solving problems, building systems, and getting things done. But I also know myself well enough to recognize the conditions where I do my best work. I focus better in quiet. I recover more quickly when I have flexibility. I'm more productive when I can structure my day around the realities of my health instead of pretending those realities don't exist.

Long before remote work became commonplace, I quietly wished for that kind of flexibility. At the time, it felt like an unrealistic dream. Most companies simply didn't operate that way, and the expectation was that if you were a "good employee," you showed up at the office no matter what.

Then, almost overnight, the world changed.

Like millions of other people, I found myself working from home because of a global pandemic. It was an awful reason for such a dramatic shift, and I don't romanticize the circumstances that brought it about.

But something important happened during that season.... I discovered I had been right.

The employee I imagined I could be in the right environment wasn't wishful thinking. She actually existed.

I wasn't less productive because I worked from home. I was more productive. I wasn't taking more time away from work. I was taking better care of myself, which meant I could contribute more consistently. Instead of losing entire days to a migraine, I could often recover and finish what needed to be done. Instead of forcing my body through an environment that wasn't serving me, I finally had one that worked with me instead of against me.

That realization changed something in me.

Remote work stopped being a temporary accommodation and became a requirement for the life I wanted to build.

From that point forward, I started making decisions with intention. Every job application, every interview, every career move was filtered through a simple question: Does this move me closer to the kind of life I know allows me to thrive?

The answer wasn't always immediate. There were still setbacks. There were jobs that weren't the right fit, seasons that felt uncertain, and plenty of moments where I wondered if I was asking for too much.

But I kept choosing that future anyway.

Looking back now, I suppose someone could call that manifestation. I think I'd call it paying attention.

Paying attention to what gave me energy instead of draining it. Paying attention to the environments where I flourished instead of merely survived. Paying attention to the quiet voice that kept insisting there had to be a better way to live than constantly forcing myself into spaces that didn't fit.

The reality I live today wasn't created by wishing hard enough.

It was built through hundreds of intentional decisions that, on their own, didn't seem particularly significant. One application. One interview. One hard conversation. One leap of faith. One opportunity after another until I found myself living the kind of life I used to imagine on the train ride to an office while nursing another migraine.

Sometimes I still catch myself in those ordinary moments.

I'll be sitting at my desk with my coffee, the morning sunlight coming through the window, and I'll realize that this version of my life once felt impossibly far away.

Past me wasn't dreaming about this specific job or this particular apartment. She wasn't trying to predict the details of the life she'd eventually build.

She was searching for something much simpler than that.

She wanted work that energized more than it depleted. She wanted room to care for her health without feeling like it made her less capable. She wanted relationships that felt safe. She wanted to trust herself again after seasons that had left her questioning everything. More than anything, she wanted a life that felt like it fit the person she was becoming instead of the person she thought she was supposed to be.

I don't think any of that happened because I wished hard enough.

It happened because every time I recognized something that was no longer serving me, I made a choice. Sometimes the choice was bold. More often, it was painfully ordinary. I updated my résumé. I applied for the job. I left the one that wasn't right. I had the uncomfortable conversation. I started over when starting over felt impossibly expensive.

None of those decisions transformed my life overnight.

Together, they transformed my life completely.

Maybe that's what manifestation has always been, at least for me. It's less about convincing the universe to hand you a different life and more about becoming the kind of person who keeps choosing it. You don't always know exactly what you're building, but you keep laying one brick after another until one ordinary morning you look around and realize you've been standing inside the life you once imagined.

And if that's true, I can't help but wonder what today's version of me is quietly building for the Ashley who will wake up five years from now.

Sometimes, when you work from home, a sweet baby orange steals your chair.