There comes a point in any serious endeavor when energy and vision are no longer enough. What carried something through its early years, instinct, drive, and determination, must eventually give way to structure, clarity, and deliberate design. This is that point. The work has grown, the land has responded, the systems have taken shape, but growth without architecture is fragile. If something only stands because I am holding it up, then it is not yet strong enough. This next chapter is not about doing more. It is about building properly.

Recently a friend encouraged me to take a personality assessment, fully expecting that I would nod politely and add it to the queue of things to do “when there is time.” What she did not account for is that when something can be completed in the present moment, I rarely defer it. So I sat down and did it immediately.

The result was ENTJ-A, often called “The Commander.” Apparently, this type represents only a very small percentage of women, somewhere around one percent, which explains why I have often felt slightly out of sync with traditional expectations.

The breakdown was interesting. Extraverted at 64 percent, meaning I gain energy from engagement and movement rather than retreat. Intuitive at 68 percent, which reflects my tendency to think in patterns, systems, and long arcs rather than in isolated details. Thinking at 52 percent, suggesting that while I rely heavily on logic and structure, I am not devoid of feeling. Judging at 96 percent, which was perhaps the least surprising result. I prefer closure, planning, defined outcomes, and forward motion. I am not built for drifting. Assertive at 61 percent, which means once I decide, I move without excessive second-guessing.

This type is described as strategic, future-oriented, and driven to transform ideas into concrete results. It is often associated with organizing people and resources, setting direction, and building structures that endure. It values efficiency, clarity, and measurable progress. It also carries predictable blind spots: impatience with inefficiency, difficulty delegating, a tendency toward high standards, and sometimes overlooking the emotional climate in favor of the objective.

Reading the description felt less like flattery and more like explanation. It helps make sense of why I naturally move toward architecture rather than maintenance, toward long-term systems rather than short-term comfort, and why I rarely wait for permission before initiating something that needs to be built.

Knowing this does not excuse the rough edges. It simply clarifies them. And clarity, as always, is useful.There are phases in a life when activity must give way to architecture. Not because the work has failed, and not because momentum has been lost, but because building without structure eventually weakens what was created.

For years I have been building Living Ground from instinct, determination, and a willingness to carry what needed carrying. A piece of destroyed land became productive. A café became a meeting place and a creative expression of good food from the gardens. Harvesting, preserving, fermentation became products and education. Soil and microbes became language for health.

The work grew because I refused to let it stagnate.

But growth alone is not the same as coherence. And, it is time to raise and rise up now. It is time for me to take a good hard look at where we are at and what needs to be accomplished so the Project can continue without me.

If something only functions when I am personally holding every thread, then it is not yet strong enough.

The next chapter calls for consolidation rather than expansion for its own sake. What has been built through instinct and momentum now needs formal structure, the kind that holds steady without continual improvisation.

Living Ground must evolve from something carried primarily by personality and personal drive into something supported by clear systems, defined processes, and intentional design. The energy that once went into reacting and adapting in the moment now needs to be directed toward building frameworks that are thoughtful, durable, and repeatable.

So the focus now is clear…or I think it is clear. Hence why I am writing about this…. to share the process and the next intentions.

Living Ground must operate as an ecosystem, not as a collection of projects. The processes must be written. The workflows must be mapped. Recipes, soil practices, financial systems, and training pathways must be documented in ways that allow repetition and transfer. Roles must be defined with real authority and real accountability.

This is my next task. This is already in play as I have the manuals, the books, the courses and a computer file full of information not shared yet. This all has to come out and be shared and be shared in a way so others can reproduce it easily.

Durability is the goal.

Without sounding too egotistical, I am capable of doing nearly every task inside this project, and that competence has been necessary. It is no longer the primary contribution required. However, what is required now is architecture: designing systems, setting standards, mapping long-term trajectories, and cultivating leadership in others so that I can step away.

I have no intention of financially benefitting from the Project. My success will be its’ success without. Something I gift and give to a world that needs this information.

Two things I recognize at this point:

• If I remain at the level of operator, the project will remain small.
• If I step fully into the level of architect, it becomes transferable.

Transferability matters now. Knowledge that lives only in one person is fragile. The integration of soil biology, fermentation, terrain-based health, and land stewardship needs structure.

Scattered brilliance is not enough. Coherence is necessary.

The same level of discipline must extend to the financial structure. Vision without measurable stability eventually weakens under its own ambition. A project like this cannot rely on passion alone; it must reliably support wages, reinvestment, maintenance, and my own sustainability without constant pressure. Stability may not be the most exciting aspect of growth, but it is the ground everything else stands on.

For the first three years, I carried nearly all of the financial responsibility for the project and its development. Every repair, improvement, and expansion was underwritten personally. When the store and café opened, that burden began to ease, which was a significant shift. However, as revenue increased, so did operational complexity, and my workload intensified. We are closer now to equilibrium, but we are not yet fully self-sustaining.

Recently, I made the decision to share the financial reality with the team. I did not know how it would be received. Transparency at that level may not be common in Ecuadorian culture, where financial matters are often held privately, especially by the person leading a project. But the intention was not to create pressure or alarm. It was to invite awareness. To move from assumption to understanding. To ask for shared responsibility rather than silent expectation.

If we are building something collective, then the financial picture cannot belong to one person alone. It must be understood collectively. My hope in sharing those numbers was simple: to open a conversation about how we can think proactively, how each of us can contribute to strengthening the foundation, and how we can move forward not as individuals protecting our own positions, but as a team building something that supports us all..

Another shift concerns delegation, but to explain it honestly, I need to go back to the beginning.

In the early years, I was surrounded by a younger gringo team. I genuinely believed in shared voice and shared ownership. I encouraged each person to choose what they loved and run with it. I supported them as best I could. They lived on the property rent free. My home became the meeting place morning, noon, and night. It was communal, enthusiastic, full of ideas.

Yet movement was slow.

They believed in the vision, but they did not carry the weight of it in the same way. They were inspired, but they had not yet lived long enough to understand what sustained commitment requires. I could feel that difference. I understood the scale of what we were building and the cost attached to it. I held that awareness quietly. I also knew, even then, that most of them would eventually leave.

And they did.

When that season ended, the loans we had agreed to, the structural commitments, the unfinished pieces, all rested with me. There was no resentment in that. It was simply reality. And in the two months that followed that separation, I accomplished more tangible progress than in the previous two years combined. Decisions were made quickly. Work moved forward without endless discussion. Structure replaced conversation.

That phase was necessary. It clarified what could be done when responsibility was undivided.

But that season is complete.

Operating alone may be efficient, but it is not sustainable for the long term vision. The lesson was not that collaboration fails. The lesson was that collaboration without clear authority, defined responsibility, and mature commitment becomes diffusion rather than momentum.

This time, the shift must be different.

Delegation cannot mean communal idealism. It must mean clearly defined roles, measurable responsibility, and individuals who understand both the privilege and the weight of participation. Authority must match accountability. Contribution must match commitment.

The first phase required belief.
The second phase required solitary execution.
The next phase requires structured leadership.

That is the change.

I have always been wired to improve what does not function. I see inefficiencies quickly. I instinctively reorganize. Reforming broken systems is not something I learned; it is something I am. That strength has built much. It has also tempted me toward over-responsibility.

One of my ongoing lessons is distinguishing responsibility from carrying everything alone.

I do not create casually. I build with endurance in mind. If I plant, write, teach, or construct, it is because I want it to last. That seriousness gives the work weight. It can also make rest and lightness feel secondary.

Learning to hold both purpose and ease is part of my own growth into a new maturity.

There is a tension I have come to recognize within myself between discernment and compassion. I am naturally analytical. I look for structure, coherence, and clarity. I question assumptions and prefer things to make sense.

At the same time, I am deeply aware of human complexity. I understand that people are not systems to be optimized, but layered, emotional beings shaped by history, fear, hope, and experience. The real work has been learning how to hold both capacities at once, allowing clear judgment without becoming rigid, and allowing empathy without losing direction.

In relationships and in service, I have also learned how easily generosity can slip into self-erasure. Giving quietly, supporting others, holding space, and absorbing responsibility can look noble from the outside, yet slowly displace one’s own center.

It is possible to serve wholeheartedly and still remain visible within one’s own life. That balance is not optional. Any structure built on silent self-sacrifice eventually weakens from within. Endurance requires both contribution and self-definition.

Authority has been one of my central lessons.

For much of my life, I have sensed what needed to be said or done, yet hesitated to act until I felt it would be understood. Over time I have learned that waiting for universal agreement dilutes clarity. Acting from internal conviction is not arrogance; it is responsibility. Teaching openly, writing clearly, and stepping forward without apology are not performances of ego. They are expressions of alignment between what I know and what I am willing to stand behind.

Reinvention is another pattern that has followed me. I rarely remain in static structures. When something outgrows its form, I instinctively reshape it. That instinct has allowed growth. The discipline now is to refine rather than abandon, to strengthen what exists rather than constantly beginning again. Evolution must replace reaction.

These tendencies are not abstract traits. They shape the work directly.

If I am honest about what is required now, it looks like this:

• I must continue improving systems, but with patience rather than urgency.
• I must build structures that endure without becoming rigid or hardened in the process.
• I must distribute authority in ways that create competence rather than dependency.
• I must teach and speak without minimizing myself for the comfort of others.
• I must strengthen financial independence so that vision is not compromised by instability.
• I must treat health, energy, and emotional steadiness as core infrastructure, not secondary concerns.

Each of these is both a structural task and a personal discipline.

Authority without humility becomes dominance.
Compassion without boundaries becomes depletion.
Reinvention without refinement becomes instability.

The work now is integration.

This is not about expansion for the sake of visibility or growth metrics. It is about alignment. It is about ensuring that the structures I build reflect who I am and how I work, rather than constantly compensating for what they lack. Coherence between temperament and structure is the real measure of maturity.

The long view is not abstract. It is practical and grounded: a land-based educational center that functions smoothly; a cohesive body of written work that stands on its own; a local team trained to operate with competence and confidence; financial resilience that removes chronic strain; and a framework clear enough that it could be understood and replicated without myth or personality.

Progress does not require constant activity. It requires deliberate movement. Each month should strengthen one structural element. Not more noise. More depth. More clarity. More durability.

If something is worth building, it deserves proper foundations.

This next chapter is defined by disciplined architecture, distributed leadership, and systems designed to endure. Not heroic overextension. Not momentum driven by personality. But structures that remain steady, functional, and clear, whether I am in the room or not.

That is the direction and the direction for me is…..

My Year of Architecture

Do

• Finish what I have already started
• Document the systems clearly
• Step into architect, not operator
• Delegate and let others carry their weight
• Strengthen financial stability
• Protect my health and energy

Do Not

• Over-carry
• Start new things out of restlessness
• Minimize myself
• Rescue when structure is required

Focus

• Coherence
• Transferability
• Durability
• Leadership with boundaries

Reminder to myself:

I do not need to do more.
I need to build properly.