Your Words Are Maps, Not Destinations

How to guide readers to their own transformation

Most people avoid the unknown.

Julie Schmidt

made it her home.

In this soul stirring interview,

Julie Schmidt

strips away pretense, embraces paradox, and shows us what it really means to write from the edge; where truth lives, transformation begins, and courage has no algorithm.

Julie Schmidt

Q: What's the story behind your Substack? Walk us through the pivotal moments or experiences that shaped you into the writer you are today.

My Substack is rooted in over fifty years of spiritual journeying, healing, and deep inner work. It centers around the liminal, this sacred threshold where paradox blurs. I've come to love this space where the opposites dance together. But that wasn’t always the case.

For years I avoided the liminal, because it meant I had to face myself. I saw it as a place of limbo and a realm filled with uncertainty. Yet, I still found myself there, like when recovering from addiction, facing the pain of sexual abuse, meeting conditioning, confronting spiritual bypass and walking through darkness.

Over time, I eventually became more comfortable with the liminal. I learned how to navigate it and experience the magic it holds. Now, I see the liminal not as a void, but as a beautiful sacred place of transformation. Writing about it feels natural, and it includes confronting the polarizations that divide our world because they live in all of us. Opposites exist, but we don’t have to pit them against each other. I seek to soften those edges, to invite a different way of seeing and being.

Ironically, I never considered myself a writer. As a child, I struggled with grammar and undiagnosed dyslexia. But in my early fifties, I entered graduate school as part of my path into ministry, and writing became a central part of that journey. Some things just bloom later, which makes it more meaningful and precious! Today, I share about what I’ve found in the liminal, it’s a weaving of wounds and wisdom, a reclaimed voice that explores the mystery.

Q: Publishing is just the beginning. What's the most courageous creative or personal risk you've taken since starting your Substack—something that pushed you far beyond your comfort zone?

I would say writing without armor. I made a vow early on to speak from my soul, not from mind or strategy or to appease algorithms, but to share from what feels true to my heart even when that’s hard or vulnerable.

Sharing my spiritual and life journeys, especially the messier parts like grief, doubt, anger and longing, has been scary at times. There’s that voice that says, “Too much,” or “Not polished enough.” But I keep going. I’ve written about dreams that broke me open, initiations I never saw coming, and the ways I’ve wrestled with the Divine.

The greatest risk? Letting go of the need to placate. I don’t want to write to impress, I want to connect, to remember, to offer what’s real within me. That means trusting that the right people will find resonance with what I share. Yes, this has pushed me past my comfort zone, but it’s also deepened my courage, my voice, and my belonging.

Q: The blank page can feel like a judgment waiting to happen. For those writers sitting on the sidelines, paralyzed by the fear of criticism or failure, what would you say to help them take that first brave step into sharing their authentic voice?

Write anyways. Write for yourself, Write for the trash can. Write for the hummingbird that visits your window.

Fear of failure is part of the process. So is fear of criticism, both negative and positive. Write about that too! And remember just because you write something doesn’t mean you have to post or publish it.

AND… at some point you will need to take that courageous step and share your voice. You are not alone, so many of us have stood at that same edge, heart pounding, wondering if it’s worth it. IT IS!

For me, choosing to share a piece of writing doesn’t come from my mind, because my mind is a perfectionist and will incessantly tell me, “It’s not enough.” Instead, I listen to my body. When I proofread and feel a pit in my belly, I know it’s not ready. Sometimes I argue with that voice, try to push past it. But when I honor it by contemplating, then revising my essay, eventually, that pit softens into a warm glow. That’s when I know the piece is complete.

Even then, this doesn’t automatically correspond to likes, comments, or restacks. The post could totally bomb. As I stated in the prior question, if I show up with integrity and heart, then that’s what is most important. Maybe it wasn’t meant for the many, maybe it was for that one person who needed to hear exactly what I wrote.

And that’s enough.

Q: Reading can be passive, but transformation requires action. What's the most courageous step you believe a reader can take after being moved by something you've written?

Words on the page are like maps. They offer directionality and guidance, a glimpse of the terrain. Words can inspire and stir something within us, but true transformation comes from action and integration.

That’s why I often offer more than just reflection. I include questions to contemplate or journal with. I incorporate rituals for direct experience, tarot spreads for self-exploration and divination, and meditations that invite embodiment. To move the insight from the mind into the body and heart and into a lived reality.

The most important thing to do is take a step no matter the size. To do a practice. To sit with the question. To light the candle. To listen inwardly and respond. That’s where transformation lives, not just by feeling moved inside, but in moving with what has been ignited.

Q: There's a fine line between authentic vulnerability and emotional exhibitionism in public writing. How do you navigate sharing your truth while protecting your inner sanctuary?

Writing is a living inquiry! I ask myself:

• Is my mind centered on the outcome rather than the writing?

• Am I following my inner compass of lived truth?

• Am I at peace with what I’m sharing?

• Am I grounded in it, or am I still feeling too raw?

• Am I ready to share this or am I seeking validation or resolution?

Typically, if I’m not settled, it is best to wait. But I also know that vulnerability, even here, can ask me to stretch beyond what feels comfortable.

Vulnerability is at the core of my writing. I share from my lived experience, from the marrow of my deepest understandings. What I speak about isn’t doctrine, they’re invitations. Ways of being that I feel called to explore, embody and offer.

I write with my whole self, heart, soul, and body. But I also honor the sanctity of what is still unfolding within me. Not everything needs to be exposed for my writing to have value. Some truths are still tender, still becoming. And those I need to protect.

Q: Every meaningful piece of writing contains an element of risk—whether it's challenging popular opinion, revealing personal truths, or exploring uncharted territory. What's the biggest creative or personal risk you've taken through your writing, and how did it change you?

The closest Substack category that fits what I offer is Faith and Spirituality. But what I write about pushes the edges culturally, politically, and religiously. Every piece I publish carries an element of risk.

At times there’s a temptation to soften the message, to make it more palatable. But I do my best to resist that urge. I’ve written about the Divine Feminine, the Goddess, rewritten biblical stories, used divination, explored aging, dying and death. I invite reverence, while also provoking discomfort, for many of my pieces challenge patriarchy, capitalism, and our disconnection from Earth.

To speak out and question the status quo, is a risk. But it’s one I choose consciously. Because where do these so-called “norms” come from? And who do they truly serve? Writing from this place has not only deepened my clarity, but it’s also strengthened my voice by claiming my sacred No. I refuse to self-edit just to appease systems that reward silence and punish truth. Writing with this level of honesty has made me braver and more grounded in the path I’m walking.

Q: Reinvention requires dismantling the comfortable cage of who we used to be. For established professionals or thought leaders feeling trapped by their own success but afraid to evolve, what wisdom would you offer about the courage required to start over?

Reinvention is part of the journey. A few months ago, I renamed my Substack. On the surface it may have seemed like a subtle shift, but for me, it marked a new direction. A recalibration of focus and intention.

There's vulnerability in change, especially when others have come to know you in a certain way. Routine and familiarity can become its own kind of cage. Better to heed your own calling, however that shows up, than to follow someone else’s formula for success.

It’s okay to shift the surface if the substance within stays true. In fact, it’s necessary. Our creativity and writing must evolve and reflect the inner growth we’ve experienced. Reinvention takes courage. But that courage is also freedom. The freedom to honor your own becoming.

Q: If you could sit across from yourself on the day before you published your first piece, knowing everything you know now about this journey, what essential truth would you share?

This is the beginning of an amazing and wild journey. One that will stretch you in ways you can't yet imagine. There will be hardships, disappointments and doubts. At times you will want to end this whole endeavor. But that is only one side to the coin. And you already know there are two sides. There will also be excitement. Wondrous joy, discovery and unexpected magic. Best of all, are the collaborations you will engage in and the people you will meet along the way, some who will become dear friends.

Trust the unfolding. Let it shape you. Let it teach you. Show up, even when it feels raw and tender. Write anyway. This journey will ask everything of you…but it will offer even more in return.

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Julie Schmidt

way of being, subscribe and reach out! She would love to hear from you.

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