As I write this, it is the first Friday of Lent. For some, it may pass quietly. But as I sit down to write the final Sunday reflection of February, I feel invited into a kind of examen for this month.
February has always held weight for me.
It is my birth month. This year, I turned 56. Yet, I can still vividly remember my golden birthday, ten on the tenth, in 1980. I received a ten-speed bike. I can still see the handmade card my mom made: Hold your breath and look inside - You're going for a fantastic ride!  I remember throwing my hands in the air and screaming with excitement.
The limitlessness of life stretched out in front of me.
February is also the month my dad passed away unexpectedly fifteen years ago. I can also transport myself back to that moment instantly. The shock and the strange out-of-body feeling of grief remain with me.
As painful as that season was, I believe his passing set something in motion.
At the time, I started to carry a quiet belief that my dad could somehow see my internal struggle. The parts of my life I kept hidden, the fear and shame I was too afraid to name. His death marked the beginning of an unraveling I could not yet understand.
If I were to map out the last fifteen years, the changes would be undeniable. Sometimes even unbelievable. But what stands out most is not the events, but God's patience.
The end of Act II.
The long Intermission.
And now, stepping into Act III.
I can see clearly now that nothing was wasted. Everything was shaping me for a purpose I couldn’t yet see, and still don’t fully understand. God’s will is funny like that.
This morning I found myself reminded of a simple prayer:
Lord, empty me.
Lord, fill me.
Lord, use me.
When I sit with those words, I realize how deeply they echo my journey and the spirit of Untucked.
Living untucked has felt like dying and being reborn more than once. There were seasons of shedding the false self, the self I tucked, performed, and endured.
Now, choosing to live fully, I understand the paradox because I am no longer willing to shrink to fit someone else’s narrative.
This journey was never about elevating the ego.
It was about dying to it.
To live untucked is not self-indulgence. It is surrender. It is exposure without shame. It is standing fully seen, with nothing left to hide from my father or my Father.
February has been a month of courage.
Courage to rise.
Courage to arrive.
Courage to be seen.
To show up fully in strength and in weakness.
As we continue into this Lenten season and move slowly toward spring, I invite you into the same gentle practice: stillness. True Sabbath rest. An honest reflection of what is being emptied and what is being reborn.
Hold on tight.
You’re going for a fantastic ride!

​J~

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”
— Pema Chödrön
As I sit down to write this week’s reflection, I find myself returning to this quote by Pema Chödrön.
Last spring, I watched baby birds hatch just outside my window. I remember the day they first left the nest. I had grown used to seeing their tiny heads peeking over the edge, their mother returning faithfully with food. The nest felt safe. Contained. Certain.
And then one day, one by one, they were gone.
I remember the moment one of them hesitated at the edge, the runt of the group, small body, uncertain wings… and then he leapt. Even though he may not have been ready, he knew he could not stay. I was so lucky to watch it happen.
Now, as I write this, I think about the many times in my own life when I had to be pushed out of the nest. Times when I was stuck. Comfortable in patterns that no longer fit. Going through life with blinders on.
In February, I’ve been reflecting on the Courage to Rise and what it takes to find it.
But here’s the truth: sometimes you don’t “find” courage at all.
Sometimes you are thrust so abruptly out of the nest that courage grabs hold of you before you even realize it’s there.
That is how courage found me almost seven years ago.
I was on my knees, stuck in fear, trapped in patterns that kept me small. I didn’t feel brave or strong. I felt defeated, yet desperate to believe there had to be something on the other side of fear.
So I asked God for courage.
And then… the message came that shook me so fully awake that courage was the only thing left standing.
There are moments in life when awakening doesn’t feel gentle. It feels like falling. Like losing the safety of what you once called home.
Maybe that’s what Pema means.
To be fully alive is not to remain in the nest.
It is to risk the air.
To feel the wind.
To discover that wings were there all along.
Maybe courage isn’t something we manufacture.
Maybe it’s something that meets us mid-air.

“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.