Today we’d like to introduce you to Breeanna Smith.
Breeanna, we appreciate you taking the time to share your story with us today. Where does your story begin?
Hi, I’m Breeanna (she/her), living in Salt Lake City, Utah as a queer, cis, neurodivergent woman with my beloved partner and our two angel baby dogs. As a word alchemist and leadership coach, I help people speak what’s true, feel what’s real, and lead from the inside out. My work lives at the intersection of story, soul, and self-leadership—guiding people back to their truth through language that liberates.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m not interested in sharing surface-level niceties of “hi, how are you and what do you do?” I joke that I was born into a conservative bubble, but I came into the world holding a pair of scissors, with a life mission to pop it.
For much of my adult life, though, I was numb. I had forgotten who I was at my core. Creativity was what reminded me who I was—and who I’m meant to be.
When I look back at childhood, I think about the things that brought me into flow before I even had words for it. For me, it was writing. Lists, journals, scraps of stories. That was my joy. But somewhere along the way, I was taught that creativity had to look a certain way—that it had to be a natural talent you could show off. My sister could hear a song once and play it on the piano, or belt out notes that shook the room. Other kids could paint, or draw. I couldn’t do those things, so I decided I wasn’t creative.
That belief followed me like a shadow: I wasn’t a writer because I didn’t have a degree. I wasn’t a poet because I couldn’t rhyme (still can’t, and won’t attempt it). I wasn’t an artist because I wasn’t “naturally talented.” Over and over, I learned to stuff down my voice, to shrink my expression, to believe that if it didn’t look effortless, it wasn’t worth sharing.
Fast forward to the height of COVID-19. Clawing for anything to hold onto besides dread, I accepted a friend’s challenge to try 27 days of free-writing—fifteen minutes a day, pen to paper, no edits, no rules. Somewhere along those pages, I found myself again. I looked back at what I had written and thought: “Holy shit, that came from me?”
Writing became my way home. And the more I found my truth, the more I spoke it, the freer I felt. Truth-telling through creativity was liberation. And when I began sharing my art—my he(art)—something even more beautiful happened: community. People met me in that place. They cried, they nodded, they said, “me too.” I realized connection doesn’t come from perfection—it comes from honesty.
And that’s where storytelling comes in. Storytelling isn’t just a little anecdote at the dinner table—it’s the way we shine a light on our humanity. It’s how we say, “this is what it means to be alive, to endure, to hope.” Storytelling is how we remember we’re not alone, and it’s why I’ve become just as passionate about creating spaces for people to share their stories as I am about sharing my own.
Since then, that seed has blossomed into so many branches: publishing a book, hosting writing classes, leading retreats, and coaching people to reclaim their voice. And still, at the core, it all comes back to that seed: the practice of putting the inner critic aside and tapping into the creative unconscious.
For me, writing isn’t just an art form. Storytelling isn’t just a performance. Creativity isn’t just a human right—it’s a birthright. And my deepest hope is to keep creating spaces where people can remember that too.
We all face challenges, but looking back would you describe it as a relatively smooth road?
Ha! If I said it’s been a smooth road, you’d probably see water come flying out of my nose right now. It’s exactly because it hasn’t been smooth that I do what I do today.
I joke that I was born into a conservative bubble with a pair of scissors in my hand and a life mission to pop it. Oldest child, oldest grandchild, raised in a very conservative household, neighborhood, family. From the time I was six, it felt like I was living a double life: the good girl in the pew with shiny shoes every Sunday morning, and the kid with a fire in her belly that no one knew what to do with. Instead of feeding that flame, people tried to extinguish it. I wasn’t a “bad kid,” but because I wasn’t allowed to express myself, I got cast in the role of rebel. And honestly, sometimes it really did feel like that little flame in me could set off a forest fire.
At 21, I left the church. And leaving wasn’t just leaving a religion — it meant losing my whole identity, my whole community, my whole framework for how life worked. I didn’t have anyone to turn to, so instead of seeking help, I ran.
Then, in true “good girl doing things my way” fashion, I built the picture-perfect life anyway: I married a man, became a stepmom, bought the literal white picket fence house. And all the while, I was deeply closeted. At 29, I came out. Which meant, once again, everything I thought was solid crumbled beneath me.
Looking back, it feels like my life fell apart in cycles — at 21, and again at 29. And each time, what I learned was this: the very things we’re most ashamed of, the things we don’t think anyone else will understand, are the exact places we need to tell the truth. Divorce, identity shifts, faith transitions, mental health struggles — these aren’t rare experiences, but we treat them like they’re taboo. Half the population gets divorced, and yet no one talks about it. That’s when I realized: okay, if no one else is going to tell the truth, I will.
And that’s why I do the work I do now. Storytelling, writing, coaching, creating spaces for people to be seen in their messy, real, human experiences. Because the road may not be smooth, but smooth roads don’t grow much. Give me the cracked, tangled, messy ones — the ones that break open the ground and make space for new life to come through.
Thanks for sharing that. So, maybe next you can tell us a bit more about your business?
At its heart, Words from Within is a community space built around one simple belief: creativity isn’t just a human right, it’s a birthright. I host writing classes, storytelling events, and retreats where people are invited to set aside their inner critic, pick up a pen, and discover what’s been waiting inside them all along. These aren’t workshops where you’re graded or critiqued. They’re spaces where we say, “we already love you,” and when someone shares their words, the only response is, “thank you.” I believe in making creativity feel safe, accessible, and communal — a place where people leave feeling braver than when they arrived.
Alongside this, my work in Heart-Centered Leadership bridges my background in corporate leadership development with my love of story and creativity. I coach individuals and teams in self-leadership, emotional intelligence, and authentic communication. I also lead storytelling workshops for organizations, because I believe stories are what transform culture — they remind us of our shared humanity far more than a slide deck ever could.
What sets me apart? I don’t split myself into compartments. I bring my whole self — the poet, the coach, the queer woman, the truth-teller — into every space I hold. I’m not interested in polished performance. I’m interested in presence. And that’s what people feel when they step into my classes or workshops: the freedom to stop performing, to speak what’s true, and to be met with belonging.
Brand-wise, I’m most proud of the fact that people come back again and again — not just for the writing, but for the container. They describe it as healing, magnetic, safe. My storytelling nights in Salt Lake City have grown from living room gatherings to events with 50+ people, and I dream of expanding them into venues that hold hundreds. My poetry has found its way into a book, into classrooms, into strangers’ hearts. And my coaching has helped leaders and creatives alike reclaim their voices.
If there’s one thing I’d want readers to know, it’s this: I don’t offer quick fixes or cookie-cutter programs. What I offer are spaces of truth — where story, soul, and self-leadership come together. Whether it’s through a poem, a class, a corporate workshop, or a retreat, my work is about helping people remember who they are and reconnect with the power already within them.
We all have a different way of looking at and defining success. How do you define success?
I spent over a decade in the corporate world, so I’ve seen every flavor of “success” tied to OKRs, KPIs, and performance trackers. And honestly? I have a bit of disdain for that version of success. I’m not interested in reducing my life or my work to numbers on a spreadsheet.
For me, success is when someone leaves one of my classes a little braver than when they walked in. Success is when a room full of strangers nods, cries, or laughs because someone dared to tell the truth in a story. Success is when a poem I almost didn’t share makes someone feel less alone.
On a personal level, success looks like living in alignment with who I am — queer, neurodivergent, witchy, playful, real — instead of contorting myself to fit an image of who I think I “should” be. It looks like being able to rest when I need rest, create when I feel pulled, and love the people (and pups) in my life deeply.
So yes, I’ve walked the corporate road of metrics and milestones, but I’ve learned that real success is presence. It’s the ability to meet yourself honestly, to offer that honesty to others, and to create spaces where people can do the same. The world doesn’t need more polished performers — it needs more people willing to show up as their whole selves. If I can do that, and invite others to do it too, that feels like success to me.
Pricing:
- $20/writing class
- $30/storytelling events
- $120/1:1 coaching
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.wordsfromwithin.co
- Instagram: wordsfromwithin_bree
- LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/bree-smith444
