“I have arrived. I am home. In the here, in the now.”— Thich Nhat Hanh

As I sit down to write this week’s reflection, these words from Thich Nhat Hanh speak directly to the courage it takes to arrive. I chose this quote several weeks ago, but only now am I truly sitting with it.
Waiting for my coffee to steep, I find myself staring at a small sketched card on my refrigerator. I bought it in Santiago de Compostela, at the end of the Camino. The image stopped me when I first saw it in a shop, a woman with short hair and a ballcap, seated beneath an arch I had just walked through myself. It felt like a picture of me.
This morning I was transported back to that moment. 

A Quiet Arrival ~
Untucked was released into the world one week ago. A week full of beautiful moments. And with that fullness came an equally real sense of vulnerability.
I’d like to think I’ve been preparing for this for a long time, which is true in some ways. And still, I noticed the familiar hum of insecurity in the background, the subtle habit of pre-judging what people might think, how it might land, what could be said or left unsaid.
What I was reminded of is this: I am following the courage God has given me, not just to write this book, but to live fully. No matter what.
As I reflect on the week, especially on the Soul Sisters event where I spoke yesterday, I’m realizing that the courage to arrive and be seen isn't about validation. It is about presence without reaching for anything.
This is the message I am speaking to myself today and offering to you.
Most of us know how to prepare and perform. But fewer of us know how to arrive and remain present. This is where the real practice begins. And if deeply seated patterns live in us this practice can feel slow and even unsettling.
Tying this back to my Camino experience, I’m reminded that arriving was part of the journey every single day. The walking was only part of the process. I was present in each step, in the clarity the physical movement brought, but there was also the daily arrival.
Some days, the endpoint offered a moment to release, to unpack both physically and mentally. I would arrive exhausted, and the only thing that sounded good was a bottle of Coke. I’m not a pop drinker, but there it was, cold, sweet and oddly nostalgic. The glass bottle and the first sip. It wasn’t really about the drink at all. It was the moment it created. The realization: another day done. I was here. Taking it all in.

I am here.
Here, I am.
Now I find myself asking, Where will I arrive today?
Not as a measure of accomplishment, but as an invitation to presence.
How will I show up?
And do I have the courage to show up without proving or performing?
I am choosing to arrive where I am.
Not waiting for certainty or approval.
Not postponing presence.
Just this moment, as it is.
I have arrived.
I am home.
 

February holds a lot of emotion for me. My birthday falls this month, and it is also the month my dad passed away 15 years ago. Now, February holds another milestone, the arrival of my book into the world.
In January, Untucked: Reflections for the Soul’s Unfolding was published. But I felt the need to keep it close for a while. I listened to the pull to be present and to bond with the book before releasing it. I allowed myself to be still and let the words I had been so intimate with for so long speak back to me.
Now, I am letting her out into the world, which feels both vulnerable and liberating.
Untucked is entering the world quietly. That is how she is meant to be received, and it takes courage not to rush but simply to be.
Joshua 1:9 ~ A Hidden Gem
While listening to a podcast this week, I was reminded of Joshua 1:9
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
I knew immediately I wanted to write a reflection around this verse, and when I opened my Bible to study it further, I noticed I had already highlighted those words years ago.
Why was I not surprised?
These small nudges have been everywhere this month. I think they are always there, but we miss them when we aren’t still enough to notice. Because January became a deeper practice of stillness for me, I became more aware.
What I experienced that morning is something woven throughout my life and my writing: a remembering of what I already knew.
A decade ago, an earlier version of me needed those exact words. I marked them because they mattered. Because courage was required then, too. And now, here I am, not circling back out of fear, but arriving with courage.
Joshua 1:9 didn’t change.
I did.
Back then, the verse may have been about survival courage; getting through, staying steady, enduring.
Now, it reads as arrival courage; the bravery to stand where I am without armor, without apology, and without rushing ahead.
There was something deeply reassuring about that highlighted verse waiting for me. Almost like a whisper, you’re not off course. You’ve been walking this way all along.
As I read from the beginning of the chapter, I felt a deeper meaning of the words. Joshua is spoken to at the edge of crossing into something unknown yet promised. That feels very real for where I am right now, and for where I have found myself many times in recent years: standing on the edge of not knowing and knowing at the same time.
The difference now is I am no longer being asked to endure or to conquer. I am being asked to have the courage to trust.
The words were already there.
I just had to grow into them.
Today, I sit with and honor the version of myself who underlined those words all those years ago, and I give her permission to rest. She has done her part.
I didn’t just highlight those words; they were planted in me. And now, I am standing in the season where they are fully lived.
Today, Untucked enters the world rooted in stillness, courage, and belonging. And I am grateful.
Prompt:
Where in your life are you being asked to trust rather than endure?

“Be still and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
Many years ago, I created a meditation for my yoga class based on this verse. It was simple and spacious.
Be still and know.
Ten years later, this has become my January rhythm.
This year, January arrived not as a launch but as a pause. I allowed the new year to come without requiring it to be anything other than a time to be still.
As I shared with my Untucked community on the first Sunday of the month, my intention was not only to enter the year in peace but also to let my book arrive quietly into the world as well. I wanted it simply to be with me. Held close. Honored. Before releasing it.
The first section of Untucked is titled Stillness Speaks. It feels fitting to live those words rather than rush past them.
As we move through the final week of January, I find myself returning to the verse again, this time letting it soften and open:
Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know.
Be still.
Be.
Stillness, I’ve learned, is about remembering.
To be still is not to freeze or disappear, but to stop running from ourselves long enough to notice what is already true. Stillness is where the untucked parts of us finally exhale.
In the quiet, I don’t have to perform or edit my heart. I can bring all of me into the stillness and know…
January is the perfect time to practice this stillness. It invites surrender and trust. It gives the body time to catch up with the soul and space for what has been awakening within us to settle.
When I am still, I know I am not behind.
I am becoming.
Perhaps this is what the verse has been whispering all along:
Stop striving long enough to remember who you belong to.
Stop tucking yourself away long enough to feel what is sacred within you.
As January comes to a close, I am not rushing ahead. I am letting the quiet do its work. I am choosing to be still and to trust what is being prepared, even if I cannot yet imagine it.
Peace be with you in stillness.
J~
 

Welcome and Happy New Year!
Thank you for subscribing to Untucked: Monthly Reflections. I’m honored to share this space with you. You are here from the very beginning, and I hold that close to my heart.
When a new year begins, inspiration is never in short supply. Everywhere we turn, we’re invited to begin with intention and purpose. A clean slate and a plan.
And while there is something meaningful about the turning of the calendar, when I let my soul truly settle into the new year, what meets me is not urgency, but peace.
Last year, one of my favorite authors, Emily P. Freeman, asked a simple question:
What if January were the week between Christmas and New Year’s?
That in-between week carries a different energy. Our culture asks us to use it to decide everything: goals, visions, timelines.
Where do you want to be this time next year?
What will it take to get you there?
But who decided all of that had to happen at once?
What if the entire month of January were an invitation to pause, to reflect gently, to let the year begin slowly?
Not with fireworks, but with a deep breath.
That question stayed with me. And for the first time I can remember, I didn’t create a blueprint for my year. I simply allowed it to unfold. For a recovering overachiever, this felt unfamiliar.
What surprised me was how much peace that slow beginning carried into the months that followed. This year, I’m continuing that practice and taking it one step further by living intentionally, without intentions.
Let me explain.
Living this way, I’m experiencing something I’ve written about for years finally coming fully alive. I’m noticing what it feels like when my soul exhales.
Living without a list or plan keeps me connected to the gifts God has given me.
This season is asking me to release the need to learn more, fix more, or consume more. I’m no longer healing toward wholeness, I’m living from it.
And that feels like a holy experience.
So I invite you to begin 2026 with this prayer:
May we begin this year slowly.
May we resist the rush to define ourselves.
May we trust that God is not waiting for our plans, but for our presence.
May our souls exhale.
And may we live untucked, held and at home in love.
Reflection Prompt
If January were not a beginning to manage, but a pause to inhabit,
what might gently fall away and what might naturally remain?
Allow your soul to rest with this.
​Peace be with you,
J~

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These words were inspired by a recent chat with a friend.

Wild Horses Run Free
Reins tighten with every pull
She holds steady
Compassion for the animals
And a heaviness in her chest

They want to move
But she is too sad to let them go
She loosens her grip just enough
They move forward
But not too far

She can’t handle full speed
Tired and tense
How much longer can she hold tight

She stiffens and readjusts
Her body lengthens
Feet braced
Arms locked

Not too fast
She speaks softly, carefully
But the horses are wild
And want to run

How much longer can she stay in control
Does she really want to

What if~

She is preventing these beautiful animals from their destiny
Pulling them away
From what God created them for

Her mind wanders
Her breath loosens
Her arms bend just enough
Her feet relax
The animals surge forward
Panic
Then release

The grip is gone
And slowly
Their run becomes steady
Grace
Beauty

Her body soft
Hands open
Reins falling

The horses guide her
Protect her
Love her
​
She is free
Wild
And free
 

“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” Isaiah 30:21
I feel this verse in so many ways. It brings me back to the Camino, The Way. Markers guided my steps, but just as important was the clarity of mind that came from walking. There was a deep sense of trust in that clarity.
Now, with the first two weeks of the year behind me, I can see where I am being guided to listen rather than decide. That, in itself, has been a conscious choice.
As I listen, my inner world has grown quiet, even as the outside world continues to scream.
I’ve allowed myself to hear the voice that says, This is the way. Walk in it. Do not be afraid.
In these first fifteen days, stillness has spoken. What keeps showing up are aligned nudges. Small synchronicities I might have missed if I weren’t allowing myself to listen.
A sermon led me to a verse.
A lecture led me to a book.
A book led me to my friend.
And so it goes.
Whether I turn to the right or to the left,
this is the way.
Reflection Prompt:
Where in your life are you being asked to listen rather than decide?

This morning, as I settled into my morning rhythm, I decided to turn on my fireplace.
I’ve lived in this townhome for three winters now. The fireplace is electric, activated by a light switch, and I’ve always loved the warmth and glow it brings. But this morning, from the angle I was sitting, I noticed something I had never seen before within the crevice at the top where the fan blows: a small red button.
I wondered, could this be a way to turn off the blower while keeping the fire’s glow?
Curious, I walked over with a pen, nudged the button to the side, and suddenly the blower shut off. The fire remained, quietly glowing.
I laughed out loud. Three winters. And only now did I discover that I could have the ambiance without the noise.
It felt like a small revelation. One of those moments that seems insignificant, but really isn’t.
That discovery brought my attention to fire itself. The element.
When I think back across the homes of my life, from childhood through adulthood, many of them had fireplaces. I was taught at an early age how to build a proper fire: how to stack the wood, coax the flame, and be patient. I’ve joked before that being a good fire starter is part of my lineage.
After my divorce, when I moved into a small apartment and my life felt turned upside down, there was a wood-burning fireplace. I remember thinking how comforting it was to stack a little pile of wood on the patio. That fireplace made the space feel like home at a time when very little felt settled. It anchored me.
So when I moved here, even though the fireplace was electric, I appreciated its presence. Fire, whether real or simulated, has always brought me calm. A sense of being held.
Reflecting on the service of fire from the beginning of time, it was warmth and protection, a gathering place, a center. It was where stories were told, and meals were prepared, where prayers rose like smoke. Transforming whatever is offered.
I love an outdoor fire on a cool fall night, a fire pit where conversation slows and something ancient stirs. Or where I can sit in solitude, staring into the flames, mesmerized by the dance. Before I left for the Camino, I held a fire ceremony to release anything that no longer belonged on that pilgrimage, anything that weighed on my heart and kept me tethered to old stories. I trusted the fire to take it as a symbolic prayer.
And then this morning, standing there with my pen still in hand, I realized something else.
I didn’t turn the fire off. I simply turned off the noise.
The glow remained. The essence remained, just quieter.
That feels like a mirror for this season of my life.
I am less drawn to the kind of fire that demands constant tending. I’m learning to recognize the quiet fire.
There is time for the blaze. And there is time for the ember.
Both are sacred.
A Blessing & Simple Fire Ritual
If you feel called, here is a small ritual you might try.
Sit near a fire if you can, a fireplace, a fire pit, or even the imagined warmth of one. If not, simply place your hands over your heart.
Take a few slow breaths.
Ask yourself gently:
What in my life needs warmth right now, not noise?
What can I let burn quietly instead of loudly?
If there is something you are ready to release, imagine placing it into the fire.
No explanation. Just trust.
Then offer a blessing:
May what no longer serves me be transformed.
May what remains bring warmth.
May I tend the fire of my life with wisdom and care.
Sit for a moment longer. Let the glow do its work.

​This morning, my prayer was simple:
Lord, thank you for this day of peace and stillness. Let me embrace the slowness of being present in each moment.
As the world rushes around me, I feel the pull to join in the chaos, and at the same time, it feels inauthentic to do anything other than to sit quietly with God.
This time of year is full of invitations: pop-up shops, holiday parties, and photo ops. I see others celebrating the holiday, participating in all the ways we’re told we should. Still, the only pull I feel is toward retreat.
That raises a quiet, honest question in me:
Why don’t I want to join in?
Am I missing something by choosing stillness?
Is retreat a way of avoiding the human experience or a way of honoring it?
This stillness brings an awareness of the season I am in. I’ve just come off an intense year and a very demanding work season. I’m standing at the edge of publishing a book that involves deep emotional and spiritual presence. And perhaps most importantly, I’m learning to listen to my body in a new way, learning what it means to slow down before exhaustion demands it.
The Advent season reminds us that not every sacred moment happens in celebration. Some happen in waiting. Mary carried something sacred that demanded stillness. Before anything is born, there is a long season of becoming.
I hold this tension gently. I don’t want to confuse solitude with isolation. I know how easy it can be to disappear under the guise of rest. So I’m paying attention and not forcing myself outward, nor closing myself off.
Presence doesn’t always look like showing up everywhere.
Sometimes it looks like choosing what is nourishing, honest, and sustainable.
For me, right now, that means fewer obligations and deeper listening. Less doing, more being.
If you find yourself out of step with the season, you’re not alone. Stillness may be your way of participating more fully than you realize.
There is wisdom in honoring the pace your soul asks for.
And there is grace in trusting that this, too, belongs.
Peace be with you.
J~

As this year draws to a close, I notice something different in myself.
In years past, December often carried a strong desire to craft a clear narrative for what would come next. I believe in the power of intention, and I’ve experienced the quiet miracle of manifestation. Words matter. Vision matters. I trust that.
But this year feels quieter.
Instead of a pull to declare what the next year should look like, I feel something softer. Peace and a gentle wondering, What’s next? Asked with reverence and openness.
This past year did not unfold as I imagined, and still, it was extraordinary. I walked the Camino. I wrote a book. Both happened not through force or perfect planning, but through divine invitations to listen and respond, one step and one sentence at a time.
Now, standing at the edge of a new year, I find myself less interested in authoring the future and more interested in true presence.

Letting Life Unfold
There is a season for setting intentions, for naming what we long for, and for writing it into being. There is a time for goals and vision boards.
But there is also another season. One that asks us to loosen our grip on control. To allow.
Right now, writing a narrative feels less sacred. It feels like speaking too loudly over something that is still forming. I don’t feel called to make plans or decide outcomes. I feel called to stay present enough to recognize direction when it appears.
When I look back at how both the Camino and my book came to be, it was trust, not certainty, that brought everything together.

Letting the Book Find Its Way
I’m preparing to release a book into the world, and what surprises me most is the tenderness I feel around it. I’ve spent so much time inside these words that I feel like I'm letting go of part of my heart. 
I don’t know how far this book will travel or who it will reach, and that uncertainty feels okay.
Maybe it doesn’t need to be pushed.
Maybe it needs to be placed gently and allowed to find its way, in its own time, to the people it’s meant for.

Entering a Hermit Season
As I look at the final two weeks on the calendar, I feel more drawn toward solitude than ever, not as withdrawal, but as nourishment.
Fewer conversations. Quiet mornings. Long moments of simply looking out the window.
The hermit archetype isn’t about avoiding life. It’s about tending the inner fire so it doesn’t go out. As a writer, a pilgrim, and a woman in a season of integration, this quieter rhythm feels not only natural, but necessary.

What’s Next?
I don’t have answers about what comes next, where I’ll be, what shape my work will take, or what relationships may unfold. And for the first time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel like failure.
It feels like a sacred pause.
As this year ends, I’m choosing contemplation over conclusion. I’m allowing the next chapter to reveal itself.

I invite you into contemplation.
What if this new year doesn’t need a plan?
What if it only needs your presence?

A Permission Slip for the Final Days of the Year
You are allowed to slow down.
You are allowed to rest without earning it.
You are allowed to let the year close without extracting a lesson from every moment.
You are allowed to enter the new year without a plan, a word, or a list.
You are allowed to listen instead of decide.
You are allowed to trust that clarity will come when it’s time.
Nothing is lost in stillness.
Some things can only be found there.

Peace be with you!
J~
​

This morning, before my feet even hit the floor, a familiar phrase rose in my mind:
“Creator of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.”
This phrase from the Creed, even though it’s worded differently now, is one I’ve heard my entire life in the Mass tradition. But it has never surfaced quite like this, waking me before I was fully awake. Could something so old be speaking a truth for me today?
After listening to my Advent meditation, I found myself writing down a simple question:
What is my Magnificat?
Where are the places in my life that God has met me in the obvious, unmistakable moments, and in the quiet, hidden ones? In the seen and the unseen?
There were seasons when God’s presence was so clear I could feel it in my bones. One in particular: the morning I found myself on the floor, praying with everything I had for the courage to leave my marriage. That was a moment of the seen, the kind of moment you can never un-remember. The kind that redirects a life.
But there were far more years when the unseen work of God was unfolding behind the curtain of my busy, hypervigilant life. On the surface, everything looked fine. I prayed, I functioned, I smiled. But internally, my life was fragmented and chaotic. I tried to manage everything on my own, believing that if I worked hard enough, I could somehow make my way out of the mess I had created.
I felt ashamed of where I had ended up, even though God already knew every corner of my story. I was the one hiding, not Him.
Looking back now, I can see how present God was in those unseen years. Not in ways I recognized at the time, but in the quiet nudges, the subtle protections, the intuition that whispered, Not this… not anymore. God was never absent. I was just too distracted to notice.
Lately, I’ve been returning to the image of my inner mentor, the woman I’ve written about before. She is the version of myself in her seventies, standing outside her cottage by the lake. I see her clearly: calm, grounded, wise. She looks back at the life I am living now with a kind of gentle assurance, as if to say, You’re learning. Keep going. Trust what you cannot yet see.
She is the embodiment of the unseen wisdom already planted in me.
As I reflect on this Advent season and that phrase from the Creed, I’m reminded that faith is not just believing in what is visible. It is trusting the slow, patient work happening beneath the surface. It is remembering the times when God carried me through the dark, even when I didn’t recognize His presence. The unseen.
Maybe that’s my Magnificat these days:
A quiet song of gratitude for the God who moves in both the seen and unseen places of my life.
And maybe that’s why journaling has been such a lifeline for me all these years. It is where the unseen becomes seen. Where the messy, honest parts of my story finally have a place to land.
God has always been there, in the moments I recognized and in the ones I missed.
Seen and unseen.
Always present.
I invite you to take a quiet moment and reflect on your own life.
Where can you trace God’s presence?
The seen, the clear, defining moments you can name.
The unseen, subtle nudges, the quiet protection, the hidden ways you were carried.
Write about one moment from each.
What do these experiences reveal to you about how God moves in your life today?