I’ve made mistakes.
Big ones.
Public ones.
The kind that linger in your breath, hide in your bones, and echo in the middle of the night like a whisper that won’t quit.

I failed.
Not quietly.
Not neatly.
But in front of people. Messy. Stressful. HUGE (it felt huge to me)
With a business name on the door, in a community I love, and a heart full of hope that just couldn’t outpace the debt, the burnout, or the fallout of a global pandemic.

I let down so many good people, and the good in myself. Friendships were lost. Damaged beyond repair.

Hive Muskoka was my dream.
It was a space I created with one intention:
To make people feel safe. Supported as they are.
To give instructors a place where they felt respected and empowered.
To give clients a place where they were truly seen — not just for their fitness goals, but for who they are, in all their beautiful complexity.

I showed up for everyone.
But not for myself.

I didn’t know the difference between good and bad debt and did not handle it well.
I trusted people I shouldn’t have. Multiple times. I invited people in who took advantage of the questions I did not know to ask.
I stayed silent when I should’ve asked for help. Because it was easier than admitting I didn't know what to do and where to start.
The pandemic and the aftershocks magnified everything. The stress. The mistakes. The sleepless nights. The shame.

Can you relate?

Let’s talk about that for a moment — shame.
It’s not just a feeling.
It’s a full-body experience.
Your chest tightens.
Your breath gets shallow. Your eyes cannot meet others.
Your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to disappear.
You start to believe the whispers — maybe I am a failure. Maybe I can’t be trusted. Maybe I don’t deserve another shot.

And the worst part?
People don’t always see the full story.
They see a business close and draw conclusions.
They forget to ask.
They forget you’re human.

They remember to judge, to condemn to assume they would have done better. And maybe they're right about that. Knowing you did your best, and it was just not enough for that life chapter is hard to come to terms with.

However- some didn’t.
And to those people — you know who you are — I want to say this:

Thank you.
Thank you for the messages you sent.
For the hugs you gave. The hallway conversations. The offers of help, places to store, coffees to talk over.
For checking in when I disappeared into myself.
For reminding me that a closed business does not mean a closed heart.
For believing in me — not as a perfect leader, but as a whole person, still worthy of trust and respect.

You helped me rise.
Not in the shiny, Instagrammable way.
But slowly. With better boundaries. With financial mentorship. With rest. With practices in place. With a plan.
With truth-telling.
With a whole new nervous system learning how to stop running on adrenaline and start healing.

Here’s what I’ve learned — what I am still learning:

• Owning your story is painful but powerful.

• Starting again requires humility and hope.

• Failing publicly doesn’t mean you're broken.

• You can learn. You can adapt. You can rebuild.

• You can choose differently next time — and still hold your head high.

• Healing takes time, it's not overnight and checking in on it as you go on, is key

I’m building something wiser. Something stronger.
But never again at the cost of myself.

And maybe you’re reading this in your own mess.
Maybe you’re in the middle of your own “What now?” moment.

Let me tell you:
You are not your mistakes.
You are not your debt. You are not your judgement.
You are not what they whispered when they didn’t know the truth.

You are allowed to start again.
You are allowed to do it with better tools, better support, better planning and a body that finally knows what safety feels like.

And if you need someone to talk to — someone who truly gets it — I’m here.
Not as someone with all the answers, but as someone who’s done the hard work of sitting in the ruins… and slowly rebuilding something beautiful.

With grace, and so much gratitude,
Fyonna
Founder, Bees Knees Wellness Muskoka
Still rising. Still real. Still here.