Ashley Frank: The Quiet Season Before the Next Chapter
📌 Note: This post shares personal reflections on identity, loss, and rebuilding. If you’re navigating something similar, I hope this gives you permission to meet yourself with grace — wherever you are. Everyone’s path looks different. This is just one story of finding my way forward.
Over the past several years, I’ve been known to go quiet — disappearing from social media for weeks (or months) at a time. Sometimes I’d even deactivate my accounts entirely. Other times, I’d just become a quiet observer, watching more than I shared.
The past few months — especially April — have definitely been one of those quiet seasons.
A few Instagram stories here and there. The occasional run photo. But not much else.
Even with a small online audience, it’s interesting how people notice. It’s a reminder that people are watching. I’ve had a handful of folks reach out to ask if I’m okay (thank you), and others continue to check in on my silent profile (thank you, analytics).
The truth?
Sometimes, sitting with yourself is more powerful than posting aimlessly online.
One of the reasons I stopped sharing daily run photos is because I found myself checking to see who watched the story — instead of enjoying the run itself. It became more about “look at me” and “who’s watching?” than being present with the moment.
Yes, I’m still running. But I’m more present now. Less concerned with the perfect photo op. More tuned in to my breath, my feet, and the road ahead.
I’ve been in a quiet season. One where I’ve been working on things instead of sharing about them in real time.
And in that space, I’ve gained something more valuable than likes or story views: clarity.
Because for the past five years, I’ve been rebuilding. Grasping for external validation. Surviving — instead of rooting myself in who I truly am and how I want to show up in the world.
So I finally took the space to focus.
Not to prove anything to anyone else — but to show up for me.
And now?
It’s go time.
Not the hustle kind — but the quiet, confident kind that says:
“Hello. I’m here now. This is me.”
(T.I.M. — This Is Me)
When Ego Takes a Shit-Kicking
Let me give you a little context.
I’ve had a good life. I was lucky to grow up in a home full of love — with two amazing parents, two younger siblings, and lots of good memories.
Of course, there were darker moments too. Early experiences that shaped me, but don’t define me. (Those stories are for another time.)
My teenage years? They were hard. I was a skinny, extremely anxious, confused kid trying to fit into a world that didn’t really see me.
Looking back, I was absolutely over-functioning — band, jazz band, theatre, yearbook, co-op, the volunteer fire department, part-time jobs... you name it. That pattern followed me well into adulthood. (And truthfully, still pops up now and then.)
At the time, I thought doing more made me valuable. But that relentless busyness was really just avoidance. It was how I coped with the parts of myself I didn’t want to face.
Deep down, I believed my worth was tied to how much I could give, do, or achieve.
By my early thirties, the weight of it all — emotionally and physically — caught up with me. I was clocking in at nearly 260 pounds, and walking up a single flight of stairs left me winded.
I didn’t just feel heavy. I was heavy.
Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
Me at nearly 260 lbs, smiling — but silently struggling more than I ever let on.
I knew I was gay from the time I was eight. But in those days, that wasn’t something you said out loud. So I spent most of my formative years silently struggling — riddled with anxiety, learning how to blend in, stay safe, and keep the peace.
I came out at 23. And from there, I did what many of us do when we finally feel a sense of freedom: I started building the life I thought I was supposed to want.
I went to college. Got into a long-term relationship. Landed a good-paying job. Climbed the ladder. Built a career.
From the outside, it looked like I had it all. But slowly, things started to misalign.
And then ego met reality — and everything began to unravel.
I left a long-term relationship that had turned toxic. Not at the fault of one person — because we were no longer aligned.
I walked away from a career that once defined me. I tried to rebuild from scratch in my mid-thirties, only to face more setbacks than I could’ve imagined.
In five years, I experienced crippling public shame at the hands of someone I trusted for almost 13 years, deep personal loss, and more plot twists than I ever expected — including losing both of my parents just 16 months apart.
I moved halfway across the country and back again. Took jobs. Lost jobs. Tried to build a business while still hiding from my story — which left me depleted and playing small.
I wrestled with grief, imposter syndrome, and self-doubt.
There were moments I didn’t know if I could keep going.
But I did.
And through therapy, self-compassion, reconciling past trauma, and showing up for myself — I’ve slowly started putting the pieces back together in a way that feels aligned.
This Season Was Never About Disappearing
It’s been about getting to know myself — the version of me who’s always been there, but the one I’ve spent years ignoring.
It’s been about becoming.
These past few weeks — and honestly, these past few years — haven’t been about quitting.
They’ve been about recommitting.
To myself.
To my voice.
To what I actually want to create in this next chapter.
From the outside, it may have looked like silence.
But behind the scenes, I was rebuilding something deeper.
Because when your identity crumbles — when the foundation cracks — you don’t just slap on new paint and move on.
You slow down.
You get honest.
You reset.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Truthfully.
That’s what this season has been for me: a hard but necessary reset.
Not just in business — but in how I live, lead, and show up in the world.
I’m not the same person I was six months ago — and definitely not the same person I was 20 years ago.
And I wouldn’t go back if you paid me.
This entire chapter of becoming reminds me of a moment from Sleeping Beauty.
(Yep — what gay man doesn’t love a good princess love story?)
It’s the scene where Princess Aurora sings Once Upon a Dream in the forest.
One line in particular always hits me:
“I know you… I walked with you once upon a dream.”
That’s what this feels like.
Like meeting the version of me I’ve always dreamed of becoming.
And finally — finally — walking beside him.
It’s a Lifetime of Becoming
This is officially a new chapter — one where I show up fully as me, in all areas of my life.
In short?
T.I.M. — This Is Me.
I’ve launched my podcast: Growth Conversations with Ashley Frank
Custom HTML/CSS/JAVASCRIPTMy website is nearly ready — stay tuned.
I’m writing again — something I was once told I sucked at. (Guess they were wrong.)
I’m working with individuals and teams in deeper, more aligned ways.
I’m starting to map out my book.
I'm committed to getting back to flying
I’m outlining a TED Talk.
And I’m building something that feels like me — not just what I can do, but what I must do.
My vision is big.
But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel overwhelming.
It feels real.
I’ll share more of that vision in future posts once the full site is live.
You’ll be seeing more of me now — but not the polished, always-on version.
The real one.
The one who believes business can change lives — starting with owning your story.
Because I’m not here to impress.
I’m here to impact.
And I’m not leaving any stone unturned this time —
Because now I know the real tragedy isn’t falling…
It’s getting to the final chapter and realizing you never fully lived.
To Anyone in a Quiet Season…
You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re becoming.
It might seem like you’re hiding — but what you’re really doing is the work of uncovering.
And that’s the most important work there is.
There’s no timeline for a quiet season.
You might have more than one.
That’s okay.
Just like winter gives nature space to rest and recharge —
your quiet season is a sacred reset.
Give yourself the grace to be where you are…
And the courage to step forward when you’re ready.
My quiet season is over.
(At least for now.)
The next chapter has just begun.
