Category Archives: Communication

Communication, Community, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, Vulnerability

The Cry Beneath Conflict

CrisMarie introduced me to Gene Keys—a synthesis of practical wisdom meant to guide a deeper understanding of the self.
It’s a bit like astrology (rooted in birthdate and place), the Enneagram, psychology, philosophy—all woven together.

I was curious when I generated my free Gene Keys profile. What surprised me was how closely it mirrored my life’s purpose and path.

One line really spoke to me:

“Walk into conflict with an open heart—and peace will walk out with you.”

My life has been a long walk through conflict, crisis, and change.
Likely yours has been too.

Early on, I learned that when there is a cry for help—whether it sounds like grief, rage, accusation, or even war—I need to listen.
At first, I believed my role was to solve the cry, to eliminate its source. I spent years living inside that idea.

What saved me, I think, was that nature and spirit, laughter and play, music and movement were woven into my days. They seemed to know something I didn’t yet understand: that solving or silencing pain isn’t the only option.

Pain became something strangely familiar—intriguing even. A reminder that I existed. That I was alive.

What was much harder was finding ways to be heard.
My voice didn’t fit the dominant narrative. I didn’t fit the norm. So I learned where I could fit, where I could belong.

Oddly, I’ve often preferred people being upset rather than calm and quiet. Because in my world, calm and quiet were often layered over deep pain, fear, rage, and doubt—and I could hear it humming underneath. When I named what I heard, I was shut down. Told I was making it up. So I learned to share with trees and animals instead. Or through songs—where the truth could scatter, land softly, and not rattle the thick armor of the adults around me.

And now—I am one of those adults.
I have armor. I know how to numb. I know how to block the sounds and vibrations.

And still, I feel the elements calling: earth, fire, water, air.
I feel the larger web. The unified field that holds us all.

We are terrified of that web—those arms, those roots.
And yet we long to rest in them.

Here’s the deeper truth I hesitate to admit: if I stand fully in that field, the separate “me” begins to dissolve. And that scares the hell out of me.

And it calls to me.

That unified field often shows itself right in the middle of battle. Not in the shouting—but in the quiet pulse of the person beside me. In the ones standing hand in hand at the front. No words. No frantic movement. Sometimes just a soft song that reaches the heart:

We are one.
We are love.
It is how we treat each other—nothing more.

Beneath the rage that has surfaced, that song is still there.
You can hear it—if you listen.

That is how peace walks out with me.
With you.

Communication, Community, Connection, Leadership, Valuing Differences

Finding Truth In The Chaos

There are many roads to travel.
Lately, I keep trying to find a thread that isn’t all ache, rage, or worry.

There’s a lot of that these days.

I don’t want to be someone who simply looks away while my country feels like it’s sliding toward something darker—something closer to a dictatorship than a democracy. And what unsettles me most is not just what I see, but how unsure I am about what to believe.

The news.
The scrolls.
The certainty with which everyone seems to know exactly what’s happening—and exactly who’s to blame.

In my world of connection—real conversations, eye contact, shared meals—people are concerned. They’re worried. They’re tired. And yet, walking down the streets in Oregon, through airports, sitting next to strangers, listening to their fears and stories, I’m not encountering the same apocalyptic certainty that fills my screens.

That dissonance messes with me.

I know the history. I know the comparisons people make—Germany, other moments when horrifying acts were sanctioned while everyday life continued and people didn’t act soon enough. I don’t want to be that person. The one who says later, I didn’t know or I thought it would turn out differently.

I just finished a Louise Penny novel that felt uncomfortably close to our current reality. I’m rewatching The West Wing—loving the idealism, aching for that version of leadership—while also noticing how even there, politics slide so easily into sides, certainty, and storylines that leave little room for real collaboration.

So I keep asking:
What does all of this actually mean for me?

Yes, I can call my senators.
I can voice my concerns about a government that seems increasingly unaccountable, a Supreme Court that feels overtly political, a justice system that appears uneven and sided.

And I do believe those actions matter.

But I’m also deeply aware of another truth I live by: I am not separate from the world I’m critiquing. I am participating in it—through my fear, my projections, my righteousness, my silence, my love.

I believe that beneath all this separation, we are connected. Not as an idea, but as a lived reality. And I believe in love—or something divine, or intelligent, or larger than me—that I don’t get to own, define, or control.

That belief doesn’t let me off the hook.
It actually puts me more squarely on it.

Because if connection is real, then the work isn’t only “out there.” It’s also in how I listen. How I stay curious. How I resist the urge to collapse people into villains or heroes. How I choose presence over numbness and relationship over retreat.

I don’t have a clean conclusion.
I’m not offering certainty or a solution.

What I have is a commitment—to not look away, and also not harden. To stay engaged without letting fear be the only voice at the table. To keep choosing connection as a form of responsibility, not avoidance.

Maybe that’s the thread I’m following right now.

Not certainty.
Not righteousness.
But relationship.

And the willingness to keep asking:
How do I want to be in this moment—while the road is still unfolding?

Communication, Community, Connecting, Connection, Life Experiences, Vision, Vulnerability

Forgiveness

I’ve never been particularly comfortable with the word forgiveness.

Yet here I am considering it my word for 2026.

Here’s a popular definition of forgiveness:

Forgiveness is the conscious, voluntary decision to let go of resentment, anger, and vengeful thoughts toward someone who has wronged you, freeing yourself from the pain of the offense rather than condoning or excusing the act.

It sounds reasonable.
Even generous.

But I get stuck on one idea:
“toward someone who has wronged you.”

Because as long as forgiveness is organized around they wronged me, it stays trapped inside a courtroom.
Someone is right.
Someone is wrong.
And someone has to rise above it.

Real forgiveness—at least the kind that actually changes something—doesn’t live there.

For me, forgiveness begins when I’m willing to question my certainty.
Not erase my experience—but loosen my grip on the story I’m telling about it.

I don’t actually know what the other person intended.
I don’t know what they were seeing, hearing, or feeling in that moment.
I don’t know what shaped their choices or what fear, pain, or blindness might have been operating.

When I truly own that, something shifts.

The work of forgiveness stops being about them
and becomes about my willingness to step out of righteousness and victimhood.

What I’ve discovered is that suffering is real—but blame only hardens it.

Forgiveness happens when I stop insisting on being right
and start telling the truth about what I cannot know.

In those moments—when I land there in real presence—
my heart opens, but my spine doesn’t disappear.

There’s clarity.
There’s connection.
And there’s a surprising strength in not needing anyone to be the villain.

It doesn’t feel passive.
It feels liberating.

Which is why I don’t think forgiveness can be thought through or performed correctly.

Forgiveness is experiential.
It arrives in moments of curiosity rather than collapse,
innocence rather than innocence lost,
wisdom that comes from letting a rigid story soften into something truer.

And when it’s real,
the freedom moves both ways.

Communication, Community, Connecting, Family, Life Experiences

Carrying What Matters

A year-end reflection

This past year held a lot.

I said goodbye to my mom—at least to her human form—and discovered that grief doesn’t arrive in a straight line. It comes as an undertow. Quiet at first. Then suddenly pulling up old family currents I didn’t know were still alive in me.

It was also a year of aliveness.
We returned to Finding Your Mojo in Montana.
We launched Pop-Ups for People.
Worked with new and old clients in new forms.
Traveled, taught, learned, loved.
Studied together. Studied Apart. Created. Said yes to what was alive.

And somewhere in the middle of all that living, my body slowed me down.

An extended stretch now of being sick.
No skiing. No Peloton. No real movement.
At first, I didn’t care.
And then—when the fog lifted—I noticed something surprising.

I wasn’t rushing back to the discipline I usually rely on to “keep myself in check.”

Instead, I found myself reaching for comfort:
Mochas.
Craft beer.
Pizza.

Not because I don’t know what supports my body—but because sometimes comfort feels like a small shelter in a world that feels loud, divided, and relentlessly intense.

Recently, in a Tarot reading, the card that landed in the physical position was Burden.

I realized how much I’ve been carrying:
Grief.
Concern for the world.
The desire for connection without always knowing how to create it consistently.
The tension between what nourishes me and what soothes me.

And yet—here’s the other truth. In this seeming world of rage.

Up close. Face to face. In real conversation.
I’ve experienced genuine connection with people who hold very different views.
I’ve found common fears. Shared hopes. A longing for understanding.
That part gives me hope.

Still, the headlines keep coming.
And some days, that part is hard.

As this year comes to a close, I find myself asking quieter questions:

  • Where was I touched and changed?
  • Where did I show up with my full heart?
  • Where did I hold back?
  • What actually mattered?
  • What no longer needs to be carried into the next year?

This season—of lights and darkness, tradition and reinvention—seems to invite both grief and possibility.
Promise and pain.
Joy and uncertainty.

Maybe that’s the work right now:
Not fixing.
Not resolving.
But noticing what we’re carrying—and choosing what’s worth bringing forward.

So I’m curious about you.

What touched your heart this year?
What feels heavy—and what feels essential?
What are you ready to set down?

May this season offer you moments of peace.
May the questions that rise lead you toward connection.
And may whatever you’re carrying be met with kindness.

Communication, Community, Connecting, Connection, Life Experiences, Vision, writing

I Don’t Want a Platform—I Want a Campfire

Sometimes I get caught in spinning.

I want to do something—
move toward something purposeful, meaningful, alive.

But I don’t have a job like that.
I don’t work from an office or keep set hours.
I try to stay in service to our work, and sometimes that starts to feel like marketing or overselling, when really I just want to connect.
To share.
To see what might be offered—or received—in relationship.

Instead, I’m in my house in Montana.

I could go downtown and sit in a café and write.
Have a coffee. Maybe chat with people doing their thing.

I could go to the mountain—
ride the chairlift, talk about life and politics, take a few runs, eat curly fries.

I could walk the dogs and exchange small, human moments with people I pass in the woods.

I’d love to share more online.
But honestly, there’s so much noise there.
Ads. Rants. Performance.
So where do heartfelt words belong?
Who is really listening?

I’ve explored platforms—Substack, Mighty Networks, and the ever-growing list of “the next best thing.”
I’m not looking for big.
And I’m not looking for viral.

What I want is simpler—and maybe harder.

Camp Connection wants to become a small, human-scale space.
A place for stories, questions, and unfinished thoughts.
Not a funnel.
Not a brand.

More like a campfire—
where people wander in, sit down for a while, listen, speak when something feels true, and leave a little more connected than when they arrived.

As an Enneagram 5, I know I can get stuck in thinking and refining.
Coming close, then pulling back.
Wanting to share, then needing more quiet first.

Sometimes it’s hard being me.
And—this is me.

If you’d sit down at this campfire, let me know in the comments.
That’s enough to start.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, Valuing Differences, Vulnerability

Fear, Love, and the Risk of Reducing Aliveness

I recently came across a research abstract suggesting that Virginia Satir’s experiential family systems approach might be “integrated” with models like Emotion-Focused Therapy. The intent: give her work more structure, theory, and replicability.

It stopped me in my tracks.
Could Satir’s profound body of work—rooted in presence, creativity, and relational aliveness—be reduced to “mere creative techniques”? Sadly, yes.

And it’s not just Satir. Many programs born of humanistic psychology have been distilled into measurable techniques, slotted neatly into systems that can be studied and standardized. Relevant, yes. But at what cost?

When we prize only what can be researched or proven, we lose something vital. Aliveness. Creativity. Connection. We flatten the very field where transformation emerges.

Creation vs. Consumption

What I long for isn’t consumption of another “evidence-based” tool. It’s creation. Taking an idea and living in it—moving, playing, risking. Not applying theory with rigid gestures, but engaging the unpredictable edge where life actually shifts.

Evidence-based living too often traps us in right/wrong, safe/unsafe. The result? A shrinking space for wonder, possibility, and connection.

What Haven Taught Me

As part of The Haven Faculty, I’ve witnessed again and again the raw, alive field where healing happens—not through protocols, but through presence. Haven’s roots were never built on the theoretical. They grew from two physicians—one working with teens, one with elders—who noticed transformation simply by bringing people together.

Of course they developed models to support learning but they also made presence and connection the bottomline.

What drew me to Haven, and originally to Satir, wasn’t a model to be replicated. It was the power of human beings meeting each other without guarantees, without smoothing over, without management.

Haven has always been about leaning into conflict, discomfort, intensity—not to retraumatize, but to discover. To find more of ourselves and more of each other than we thought possible.

The Trouble with Safety

When frameworks and protocols become the defining lens, the focus shifts. The energy becomes about safety, prevention, containment. Safety matters—but transformation doesn’t live in managed safety. It lives in risk, in storm, in staying connected when it would be easier to retreat.

True safety is born in presence, not control. In the messy, unpredictable space of being human together.

The Larger Gift

Yes, trauma walks through our doors. It always has. And we hold it with care. But I refuse to let trauma—or the management of it—define transformation.

Satir’s gift, and Haven’s, is larger: a space that is alive, not managed. A space where fear and love meet, and in that meeting, choice becomes possible.

Communication, Community, Connecting, Life Experiences

From Scroll To Soul

I find myself struggling in this moment. I want to be productive—yet I don’t know what to work on.

Here’s the possible To Do List:

There’s the garden; I could go out and pull up weeds, harvest what’s ready.
I could go for a bike ride—it’s beautiful outside.
I could read. I could write.
I could even reach out to the folks I’ll be leading with later this month to start building our connection.

Indeed, there is much I could do.

And yet, here I sit. Scrolling, then thinking. Scrolling, then thinking.

Recently, in an intuitive session, I was told something that stuck with me:
Maybe I don’t need to be “creating opportunities.” Maybe I need to let them evolve. In my business, when I push to “make it happen,” I may be missing what’s already right in front of me.

That message echoed during our Find Your Mojo in Montana weekend. On the final morning, we went out to the pasture together. Each woman was asked to connect with a horse and bring them back to the arena.

Of course, in my mind, the “real” work would happen once we were back in the arena. So I charged ahead, intent on finding the herd.

But Bobbi, who owns and lives on the ranch, reminded us to slow down.
Not to beeline to a horse. Not to treat them like a task to complete. Horses sense us long before we reach them, and it matters how we enter their world. To notice. To listen. To respect the herd before engaging.

That moment stays with me.

So often, purpose on a given day looks like a to-do list:

  • Go to the store.
  • Walk the dogs.
  • Write the blog post.

The focus is on getting it done. Which means I miss the trees swaying overhead, the sound of paws on leaves, or the spark of an unexpected idea.

What if I didn’t narrow in on just the task or the outcome?
What if I stayed present in the unfolding of the moment—curious about what else might want to emerge?

Writing is much the same for me. It takes time to settle. I’ll meander—scrolling Facebook, reading a few pages of a book, playing music, even bouncing on the trampoline. Back and forth I go—writing a bit, wandering away, then circling back.

And then, at some point, something shifts. I drop into a current. The words begin to flow. My focus narrows, not in a forced way, but like sliding into a slipstream.

I’ve learned to appreciate both—the wandering off-road and the ease of finally being carried by the current.

Maybe that’s the real invitation:
To trust the meandering.
To let go of forcing productivity.
And to remember that sometimes the most important thing is already happening—if I just stay present enough to notice.

Communication, Connecting, Connection, Leadership, Valuing Differences, Vulnerability

The Power — and Challenge — of Being Immediate in Community

When I’m in the middle of a rich, real community moment, I want to be all in. I want to name what’s happening, address it, and keep the connection alive right now.
That urgency can be a gift — and sometimes, a challenge.

I’m a very immediate person.
Sometimes that comes across as pressure or like it’s “all about me.”

At the recent Haven Faculty meeting — a deep, rich, and swirly experience — I threw myself into what I call a “pop-up community.” For me, the Haven is the best place to strengthen my skills in real, relational, and self-responsible living. It happens in programs, leadership, weekend meetings, and even online. But it takes intention — being present with what’s visible and invisible, owning mistakes, laughing, crying, and practicing patience.

That patience is my growth edge. In the moment, I often feel a strong urge to address issues right away, fearing they’ll grow if left alone. I’ve learned to speak my truth, then step back if others aren’t ready, leaving with clarity when I’ve invited full exchange.

Not everyone processes instantly. Sometimes insights or tensions surface later, away from the group. As a leader, I want to get better at supporting that — whether through a follow-up process, online sharing, or other ways to integrate after the fact. It’s one reason I’m developing Camp Connection.

I left the weekend with a few incompletes, so I’m reaching out, reflecting, and staying connected to that community energy as long as I can — to integrate, to strengthen both the branches and the heart of Haven, and to keep showing up real, relational, and self-responsible.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Leadership, Vulnerability

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

On a morning walk during our recent faculty weekend, I passed this small campground with a curious sign:

AREA QUESTIONABLE – See Supervisor Before Entry

It made me laugh—and then it made me think. Later in the day as we gathered as a faculty, I realized it was the perfect metaphor for our topic: The Haven’s Code of Ethics.

The intent of the code is good—to offer process and clarity, to provide a path for complaints, and to protect the Haven, its faculty, and participants. But here’s the challenge: our real purpose is to create a community where people can Come Alive and be fully themselves. And “protecting” that? I’m not sure it’s possible—or even helpful.

Which brings me back to that sign. Maybe, I thought, ours should read:

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

What if a code of ethics wasn’t a rigid set of right/wrong rules, but an invitation into dialogue? Legal language tends to close doors with absolutes. Coming alive is messier—it lives in the grey, the “questionable area.” And maybe that’s okay.

That campground, after all, was a beautiful, vibrant place for kids and adults. Yes, there were risks. But life—real, alive life—always carries risk.

I’ll admit, I’ve had a complicated history with codes of ethics. As a therapist, patient, healthcare provider, and business owner, I’ve mostly seen them as legal shields—documents crafted to prevent lawsuits rather than foster connection. So when I first heard The Haven was deep-diving into a new code, my walls went up. This place I love for its realness, mistakes, and growth suddenly sounded like it was drafting hospital paperwork.

But thanks to Jane K and the commitment of our faculty to wrestle with this, something shifted. I started to hear that this wasn’t about legal cover—it was about creating a shared path through conflict, a way to open dialogue before we ever head toward litigation.

It won’t be perfect. No document can guarantee safety or resolve every dispute. But if we keep it living, breathing, and grounded in relationship rather than bureaucracy, it can serve our purpose: to support people in the vulnerable, risky, beautiful work of Coming Alive.

The sign still says it best: safety not guaranteed—enter at your own risk. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

Communication, Connection, Faith, Family, Vulnerability

Remembering Mom: Grief, Energy, and the Deeper Connection Beyond Form

Lately, I’ve been deep in the process of putting together a video for my mom’s memorial. It’s been emotional, tender, overwhelming — and surprisingly, expansive.

My sisters, Penny and Melissa, and I have each been weaving together pieces of the celebration for Bernie’s life. Alongside family, friends, and partners, we’re building something that’s both a tribute and a revelation.

As I move through photos, memories, and stories — I find myself feeling my mom’s presence more clearly than ever. Not as a body, not even just as my mother, but as energy. A field of love and impact still vibrating through all of us.

It reminds me how easy it is to forget that we are more than our bodies. We spend so much of life becoming “someone” — chasing meaning, purpose, and a sense of fulfillment — only to realize, eventually, that none of those identities matter as much as the connections we share, the presence we hold, and the love we carry.

This journey of grief is also a journey of remembering. Of feeling, more than ever, that we are not separate.

My mom is still here — not in form, but in frequency. In creativity, in laughter, in the light my sisters and I carry forward. In every connection that pulses with love.

We came from energy. We are energy. And in those moments of openness, when I stop trying to hold or define it, I feel her. I remember.

Mom — thank you for helping me re-member that we are not separate. That we never were.