How I Changed My Tune: A Woman's Journey to Singing My Way to Success

How I Changed My Tune: A Woman's Journey to Singing My Way to Success

I was slumped in a corner booth at my favorite café, the bitter taste of my coffee lingering as I stared out the window. Rain streaked the glass, mirroring the mess inside my head. At 28, I felt like I was running in circles—stuck in a job that drained me, scrolling through social media where everyone else seemed to have it all figured out, and beating myself up for every little misstep. I'd just gotten passed over for a promotion, and the sting of it hit hard. I remember wiping away a tear, hoping no one noticed, and thinking, "Why can't I get it together?" That's when I realized I was singing the wrong song—a tired, cranky tune of self-doubt and scarcity that was holding me back. This is the story of how I learned to change my tune and sing my way to a mindset for success, one shaky, hopeful note at a time.

It started with a moment that felt like a wake-up call. I was walking home from that café, my sneakers splashing through puddles, when I caught myself replaying the rejection in my head. "You're not good enough," the voice whispered. It wasn't new—I'd been humming that tune since high school, when I'd flubbed a speech in front of the whole class and swore I'd never be a "leader." But that day, something shifted. I was tired of feeling small, tired of letting that old song define me. I'd heard about the Law of Attraction—that what you feel and believe gets mirrored back to you by the universe. It sounded a bit woo-woo, but I was desperate enough to try. If my emotions were my "song," I wanted to sing one that made me feel alive, worthy, and unstoppable.

So, I decided to get conscious about what I was putting out there. I grabbed a journal—one with a soft leather cover that felt like a hug—and started scribbling down how I felt each day. It was brutal at first. I wrote things like, "I feel like a failure," or "I'm scared I'll never make it." But seeing those words on paper was like shining a light on the shadows. I realized I was stuck in a loop of negativity, singing a song of lack that kept me feeling trapped. I didn't want that anymore. I wanted a tune that lifted me up, one that said I was enough, that I could create a life I loved. It wasn't about faking it—it was about choosing to focus on what felt better, even just a little.

One of the first things I did was pay attention to my feelings, like really notice them. I'd always rushed through my days, ignoring the knot in my stomach or the way my shoulders slumped after a tough meeting. But I started checking in with myself, like a friend asking, "Hey, how's it going?" I'd sit on my balcony at night, the soft glow of fairy lights casting shadows, and ask, "Does this thought make me feel good?" If it didn't—like when I'd obsess over a coworker's snarky comment—I'd try to shift to something that felt lighter, like remembering a kind email from a client. It was like flipping through lenses at the eye doctor, asking, "Is this better, or this?" Over time, I got better at choosing thoughts that felt like relief, and my whole vibe started to shift.

Rewriting my song, one hopeful thought at a time.

Choosing a better "song" wasn't always easy. There were days when life threw curveballs—a missed deadline, a fight with a friend—and I'd slip back into that old, cranky tune. But I learned to catch myself faster. I'd take a deep breath, maybe put on a playlist that made me want to dance, and focus on something that sparked joy. Like the time I nailed a project at work, or how I made my sister laugh so hard she snorted. Those moments became my new notes, the building blocks of a song that felt like me at my best. I started to believe that I could choose abundance over scarcity, confidence over doubt, and the universe seemed to notice.

One trick that helped was finding my ground, even when things got rough. I remember this one week when everything went wrong—my car broke down, a client canceled, and I was convinced I was cursed. I wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. But I tried something new: I sat with my journal and wrote down one thing that felt okay, like how I still had a roof over my head or how my dog curled up next to me. It wasn't much, but it was a start. From there, I'd inch toward something a little better, like gratitude for a sunny day or excitement for a new project. It was like tuning a guitar—one small adjustment at a time until the sound was right. That shift didn't fix my car, but it gave me the energy to keep going.

I also started choosing feelings that served me. I'd always been a worrier, replaying worst-case scenarios like a broken record. But I began asking, "Does this feel good?" If I was stressing about a presentation, I'd swap the fear for excitement, imagining how it could go well. It sounds simple, but it was powerful. I'd picture myself speaking confidently, connecting with the room, and it changed how I showed up. I read somewhere that the universe responds to your inner feelings, like it's dancing to your song. So, I decided to sing one that felt like hope, even when I wasn't sure it would work. Spoiler: it did. That presentation? I crushed it, and I got a new client out of it.

Changing my tune wasn't about ignoring the hard stuff—it was about choosing how I responded. I started small, like celebrating tiny wins or pausing to notice the warmth of my tea mug in my hands. I'd remind myself that I was the composer of my life, like Mozart with a pen and a wild imagination. Some days, my song was loud and bold; others, it was soft, like a whisper of possibility. But every note mattered. I noticed changes—better opportunities at work, deeper conversations with friends, a quiet confidence I hadn't felt before. My life wasn't perfect, but it was unfolding in ways I hadn't expected, like a melody I didn't know I could write.

If you're feeling stuck, try tuning into your own song. Notice what you're feeling, what you're putting out there. Is it lifting you up or dragging you down? You don't have to change everything at once—just pick one thought that feels a little better, like a new note in your melody. Maybe it's gratitude for a small moment or excitement for something coming up. What's one thing you can do today to sing a song that feels like you? Share it in the comments—I'd love to hear how you're rewriting your tune.