just jill, writer.

I have a confession. It’s a tough one to swallow but this is about stripping all-the-things bare.

See, I would rather throw the baby out with the bathwater than try to figure out how to unravel what I receive as a mess. 

Even if that mess is simply to change the water, my go-to way of showing up is to toss it all—the good and the bad. 

“Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater” is a German idiomatic expression dating back to 1512 and the meaning behind the most graphic phrase is “don’t discard something valuable along with something undesirable.”

And yes, even though I do not have one, I find babies desirable and would never truly toss one. 

However, my baby of a website that became a mammoth beast of an unruly thing . . .

Toss it, I say. 

Which some may think is a bit insane. 

What one might find foolish and down right insane, I find quite natural, normal and a needed part of my untangling of self. 

But it does come with a cost. 

I often feel the need to nix something and start again (only to stuff my face). 

Habit. Pattern. Waste of precious time, resources and energy. 

Because when this is one’s way of being
about something external, 

like a book half done, 
a website spun too big, 
a cottage under construction way past its expiration date, 
that same way of being can also apply internally. 

And lead to a tossing of self. 

For some it’s a self-deprecation humor, 
a proverbial tossing of oneself under the bus, 
a conscious no to self care. 

The negating of all the good within 
by focusing and saying good-bye to all there is 
simply because there is also bad. 

And I must admit this is a most painful way to be, but in all transparency, this is me. 

See I have always been a bit of a spider playing at creating the most intricate of webs.

And currently, here I am with a book in Formatting Land, 
my amazing editor busy reviewing pages, 
a release date just two weeks away, 
a list a mile and a half long, 
a desire to get my first-look readers on board and informed . . .  

and yet the itch to strip bare is there. 

Taking over. Almost all consuming in it’s Now, because it’s literally time I fully do this thing my way. 

Just as I am doing a new book my way. 

This is me spinning a new web with intention. Not tossing the baby, but pulling the drain plug that needs to be undone so that I can rebuild . . .

with the whisper of less is more in my head. 

Stripping back to the words, not the design. 

Shedding what doesn’t fit this new Just Jill, Writer version of me. 

I am Just Jill, Writer. 

And so much more that it’s finally time to fully let go. 

Letting go of the part of me who is a Jill (sorry Jack) of all trades and saying no more

to over designed pages, 
to much time in Canva (gosh-darn, love that space) 
and instead focusing on my zone of me— 

words. 

So while nobody puts this baby in a corner (but me), I am saying no to that way of being while also learning I can change my mind. 

I can make a change and not toss myself when the need to expand into less grows within me. 

Just Jill, Writer. Stripping bare for all to see. 

It won’t always be pretty, definitely never curated, but it will be fully, honestly, totally me. 

💜 

[ If you like this message, you’ll probably go gaga over my new book. ]

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The Art of Letting Go

What we believe determines our life,
like paints determine the color of art.

Or threads become a pattern on the fabric of our life. 

Your stories create the color and pattern of your All.

From the emotions you feel
to all you attract
to you.

It begins with the stories
you choose to spin
and hold onto.

And how you choose
to let go
of those you no longer
need. 

You now have so much freedom –
because you have choice. 

You can stay trapped
in the programmed version of you,

or you can delete delete delete
and recode a new delicious one. 

But here’s the secret universal law
that makes this so much flipping fun . . . 

Whatever choice you make,
it will get you just where you are meant to go.

You can end that self-imposed suffering—
wondering is this the wrong choice?

Is there a better one to make? 

Imagine all the energy you can reclaim
when you breathe in,
breathe out
and choose. 

When you choose to let go,
of the old stories, the old ways of being,
the patterns and habits that take you
down,
down,
down 

there is forgiveness, growth, a new awareness.

In allowing yourself to let go, you tap into your own greatness.  

In letting go, you find your best self and begin to create your most delicious life. 

This is what happens when you no longer push on the pull door of life. 

In other words, when you do all with JOY.

When you play in
curiosity,
childlike wonder,

Or whatever word floats your little rowboat,
or big-ass yacht,
All shifts.

As your energy rises,
as you smile,
as your spirit lifts. 

When you let go of being your story-version of adult and allow yourself to live in play, possibility, purpose, potential, passion . . .

something magical happens. 

That’s not a license to ignore responsibilities,
to not pay your bills,
care for the kiddos,
or do those things you’ve committed to.

But encouragement to look closely at
what works,
what doesn’t.

What IS, simply
because of all the stories
you’ve chosen to buy into
in the past. 

Because as you unravel one story, you will soon discover
10,
100,
1,000 more. 

And it can freak you out
or it can be a freaking treat.

A hide-and-seek game to the you
underneath.   

A you that perhaps doesn’t need to focus on the why but on creating a most delicious life.

One so uniquely yours
what anyone else has to say
matters not.

We’ll save worrying about what others think as a story to dive deep into another day, but for now simply lean into what it costs you to remain trapped in the why—if that’s your tendency.

If it makes you feel delicious, by all means, please do sink into why. 

But if it leaves you feeling a bit lost, confused—like it does so many— 
consider, today, letting why go and breathing in new uplifting possibilities.

Focus instead on creating that new story in your head. 

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Letting go of the old.

Just like the lungs expand,
your new story will too

as in releasing the old comes the space for new.

You get to choose.

You can only focus on one thing at a time.
Focus on the past, wrapped up in asking why
Focus on your now, this moment in time. 

For this moment dictates what your future will look like. 

In what sandbox do you wish to play? 

It comes down to two things: awareness and choice. 

If you have awareness of a story, you now have a choice,
one that can fill you with wonder—

to let go . . .

Do you even want to? That is the only question.

As it may feel uncomfortable to shed that thing you’ve been attached to for a day, a year, a decade, gasp, more. 

And we tend to bury our heads in the known-sands when in discomfort, even when it’s the very thing irritating our delicate, thin skin. 

At least, that was big-time me, me, me.

When I learned to
acknowledge the story,

no longer pretending it wasn’t a part of me,
no longer hiding from the truth of it—the good, the bad, the ugly.

In lifting my head out of the weighty sands of me,
in seeing that story and how it ruled me, controlled me,
shaped the very life I lived,
hated or loved mattered not . . . 

I now had the choice to take responsibility.
To keep the spin of it,
to ask if it even served me.
To judge it—harshly
or simply to let it go . . . 

A Marie Kondo release with JOY moment—
not of the physical stuff, of which most have aplenty.

But of the often even heavier, more cluttered load
carried upon one’s shoulders
in the form of tale after tale after tale. 

For some it’s a simple moment of
this no longer serves me
and thus, an easy letting go moment. 

For some people and stories, we dig in.
Are tempted perhaps to travel down that Why Way

but see the flashing red lights
I’m shining your way. 

Asking why is a serious misstep out of JOY,
a never ending tunnel,
one that twists and turns
sharper than James Brown did.

Just as why leads to more questions
and keeps you stuck in a never ending loop, 

taking time to think about the story,
to stew in that tale,
instead of simply asking—
does it serve me?—

Now that is a waste of your most precious resource.
Time. 

The old proverb of when you pray, move your feet, comes to mind. I love that as so many think

If I just pray . . .
If I just meditate . . .
If I just ‘om’ . . .
If I just think about it . . .

No! This is your life, and life is meant to be lived.
A delicious verb. 

Because time is never returned to you.
Because to stay in the now bemoaning what was 

last week
last year
a decade ago

is simply staying stuck in the continuing saga of that story.

The one you say no longer serves you.

You must, and yes, I say must as it’s #truth, show up and do your part.

You must move the needle of what you say you want.
Delicious life? Cool. Get moving and create it.

And it starts with letting shit go. 

It’s no longer enough just to sit and think about it.
Humming or not.

You can live in the comfortable-discomfort of a now-known story—
no judgment here.

Or you can do the work and change your story—
with ease, JOY, delight.

Or with a flat attitude of
Another damn story, good God, I swear! 

Your most delicious life is created your way . . .
And it begins with 

do you make it easy? 

or do you make it oh-so hard?

Do you sit in the spin,
consumed by shame, pain, blame?

Replaying convos over and over in your head
Wishing, praying, demanding a different outcome
to something long past dead?

If you’re ready to live in JOY,
it takes jumping the rails of the worn out stories in your head. 

When you’re ready to free yourself of the weight,
and craft a new tale,
pick up a purple pen—
or any color will do

and spin a new web,
a new tale that serves you. 

Sometimes the excitement of creating that most delicious life,
on paper, right in front of you, is the very thing that will enable you to simply, finally, forever let go. 

💜

---

Want to get your hands on a first-look copy?
Get on the waitlist today!

---

Post Photo Credit: Deborah L Carlson @ratlady

why asking why doesn't serve you

This was an essay I wrote that ended up on the editing room floor under my desk and was nearly chewed on by Haiku, the pup. 

See, much of what I wrote didn’t make it into my new book being released this month nor any of the books to come. 

But given the month of January I just had, it seems fitting to share it here and now.

And if you missed my Wednesday Words article where I shared just how the shit-it-the-fan and I was all but covered in sewerage, a restraining order and bandages, well, you might want to get yourself on my email list today.

Keep reading if you’ve ever yourself stared into the rabbit hole of why? and felt yourself start to sink down, down . . .  down.

---

inner-connected 

It’s important to tap into this three letter word—why?
As it’s a trap I myself have fallen victim to for decades. 

A deep sinkhole with a never ending spin. 

One that spirals
down
down
down. 

So many to focus on. 

Why did this happen?
Why me? 

Which often leads to more questions that, if you stop a beat, you too will see have no answer. 

What’s wrong with me?

Imagine if you could see
a blueprint
of why some event happened
laid out before you. 

It would blanket the state you're in, the country, perhaps even the entire continent. 

Who are you to even attempt to read it let alone understand its inner-connectedness to all? 

All things are connected. 

When I got that, I saw that why has no understandable answer to me in the larger-than-me scale of all things. 

Asking Why? wastes my energy, drains me, forces me to tap out of creating what I desire in my life. 

When I uncovered, discovered that the past no longer exists—it’s gone, done, finito—and only lives on within me if, how and when I choose to see it, feel it, express it . . . 

I had freedom to begin to let go.

More on that seldom practiced, yet so very important, art to come. 

But for now, let’s sink in together and imagine for a moment, a crossroads.

One direction you have Why Way and the other you have Delicious Life Lane.

They don’t tend to intersect, but run on opposite tracks.

One may have you looking back, back, back even as you press forward.
Only you know if that feels heavy or light. 

The other may have you
floating,
stumbling,
skipping,
succeeding.

A path less traveled, as Robert Frost would likely say,
As this DL Lane is specific to you and only you. 

Simply step forward and enJOY the journey.
And allow this path to be one for you—
a Down Low Lane
where you don’t need permission to just be you.

One perhaps more rocky than the other—
You may assume Why Way is the road unpaved

But is it?
There is only one way to see . . .
Choose 

Either path is divinely laid out for you.
There is no right
no wrong

There is simply your way. 

And hey,
you may say screw it,
cut through the field
in front of you,
the one with no signs,
no already-paved path.

Doing it completely,
Utterly
your way. 

Good on you.
That’s all I have to say.

---

If you enJOYed this editing-room essay,
you may just want to dive deep into my new book.
It’s coming out this month and you can get first dips by joining the waitlist today.
You might even have the opportunity to become a first-look reader.

---

Post Image By Johannes Plenio @jplenio

The Art of Masked Communication

I have to first say that I’ve lived in a bubble, 

choosing to see the world as good. 

Choosing to see possibility even in a time such as now. 

I’ve actually always lived in a bubble, but this bubble has extended to my location, a small island in the middle of a tropical blue sea. 

And even though most people have been hit over the head with COVID-this, COVID-that, I have been extremely fortunate. 

Able to tune most of it out. 

Able to walk about freely. 

Able to enJOY my life. 

Yes, there was a lockdown. 

Yes, there are new standards, rules, ways of being a part of a community. 

However, we have had less than a handful of cases on this little slice of paradise, until recently. 

So back to that bubble, both self-imposed and my reality as COVID has simply not impacted me to the extent it has so many.

Until I traveled. 

I’m not normally masked up but for much of this time period my face was half covered, and so was everyone else's. 

In fact, I just had a conversation for ten minutes with someone I know and it literally took me eight minutes to figure out who the hell I was talking to.

For the life of me I could not place this man. 

I found myself wracking my brain as I tried to keep up.

I obviously knew I knew this man. 

I recognized his voice. 

He knew me.

He even said my name immediately. 

Not a problem for him to figure out who I am, yet for me . . . 

as half his face was covered, I had a hard time figuring out who the hell it was I was chatting with as I waited for my takeout order. 

And I felt horrible for a hot second, but had to forgive myself because I am SO visual. 

And for me, this is new. Not seeing people. Not connecting fully. Not experiencing all the facial expressions. 

If you didn’t know, I’m very expressive. I don’t have a poker face, thus I don’t play. 

[Kidding. But when I do play, I win, so watch out!]

But back to this man, not being able to identify him quickly without seeing his face made me curious. . . 

Has this ever happened to you? 

Really sink into this ask, and what impact not seeing a co-worker’s, friend’s, stranger’s face may be having on how you connect with them. 

In a world that’s already a bit disconnected, polarized, 

toss in this communication hardship . . . 

that perhaps should have engaged my other senses 

but simply triggered my mind to spin asking, who the hell is this . . ? 

And people could really start to feel
misunderstood, even with someone you know.
Alone, even in a crowded room. 

That moment, and my recent travel encouraged me
to find a new way to smile 
to acknowledge 
to communicate 

And it all came down to my eyes. 

Did you know you can say thank you with your eyes? 

Smile with your eyes? 

Flirt with your eyes?

I didn’t do that this past trip as my Frenchman wasn’t present, and I am after all a rather loyal soul . . . but I know it’s possible. 

How do you think I snagged that ooh-la-la hot man?!

So let’s talk eyes and how we focus with intention to improve how we connect with people during this rather interesting time.

Here’s three tips to improve your communication skills and help you connect with those you come into eye-contact with. 

Warning, if you are used to shying away from staring another in the eyes, I feel your sudden pain. 

We have an entire generation or two who would rather look down, but even they need to look eye-to-eye upon occasion. 

Start small. Start in your very own mirror each and every morning as you wake up. 

Wanna get good at it? 

Cover the lower part of your face (with that mask) or put a sticky note on your mirror so your sole focus is staring into your own eyes. 

Work your way up to five full minutes of eye-to-eye combat, I mean connection, and see how deeply you feel. 

Register what it is you see and feel when you
widen your eyes,
squint your eyes,
smile with your lips and your eyes. 

Then try a frown and notice only your eyes. They speak volumes if you are but aware. 

Doing this—communicating a thought, feel, emotion with your eyes as you brush your teeth morning, noon and night—will get you Tyra Banks perfect in no time flat. 

Just have fun and be you. 

Not a nervous version of you, you’re alone! So let down your hair and your guard and get your eye-play on for five minutes, three times a day. 

Soon you and those you communicate with will be thanking me! 

One. 

Smile with your eyes. 

We get laugh lines for a reason. 

The eyes are part of the smile that’s unique to you. 

So now be aware that your eyes can smile and up the wattage to account for your fabulous upturned lips not being visible. 

I pretend I’m on the Broadway stage of my life and everything must be just a little bit bigger, bolder, more for the person in the very back row.

Two. 

Say thank you with your eyes. 

Play and say the words out loud to yourself. What happens with your eyes? 

Self awareness right now is key in elevating your somewhat limited facial communication skills. 

When you say thank you, watch what your eyes do when you mean it, when you take the time, when you feel gratitude.

The eyes move, they crinkle, they light up. 

Your eyes speak volumes if you focus on them. Add a head nod in for extra effect. 

Personally, I channel my grandfather and his generation. The last to wear a hat and reach to lift it, chin dipping down in a head nod when they allowed a woman to pass. 

So incredibly old-school polite, respectful, dapper dare I say. 

So smile behind that dang mask, saying thank you with heartfelt meaning, and simply exaggerate the eyes. 

Add in that optional head nod if it works for you. 

Three.

Widen your eyes, not with deer-in-headlights intensity,
but with excitement if that’s what you feel,
surprise if that’s what is in you.  

When we speak, our eyes change shape.
They can shine when excited. 

Go back to that mirror the next time you brush your teeth and look surprised, see what your eyes do.

It’s actually a fun way to get to know yourself and if willing, laugh at your own reflection. And if you have kids, a great way to be silly while teaching them the importance of getting to know thyself. 

You might think this is premeditating your expressions and I hear that. And respectfully disagree. 

What if it’s simply being aware of new ways you can communicate given half your face may not be visible much of the time?

And in my opinion, the half that most people focus on because we love a great smile. 

Just as if you broke an arm, you’d find new ways to pull that jacket closer around your fine-self to keep you warm. Heck, new ways to do a hell of a lot of things, would you not? 

And that’s what this time calls for in my humble opinion. 

Not a focus on what’s wrong, but a focus on how we can reconnect and enJOY our lives during this somewhat or very trying time. 

Even goats recognize, and appreciate, a smile. A study done years ago had photos of smiling people hung on one side of a pen and non-smiling faces on the other. 

Guess which side of the pen the goats gravitated toward, hung out in? Even when the photos were switched. 

A smile matters to animals. 

Imagine how much a smile or lack of seeing one over time impacts a human. You. 

In fact, the smile is so important in conveying emotion and communicating that there was a seminar I used to go to and the front row was always asked to stand at one point and turn to face the rest of the audience. 

As this was pre-COVID times, masks weren’t even a part of our reality, the presenter would ask the front row, now facing the audience, to smile. 

And the audience, without fail, would automatically start to smile back. Even laugh. 

Then the front row would be asked to not smile. To frown or simply look stern or not-so-happy. 

No joke, you could feel the energy in the room shift. Dampen. Smiles fading from all the faces. And rather quickly.

A smile, like a picture, is worth a thousand words. 

And not seeing people’s smiles right now, in this trying time of COVID, it’s having an impact that’s not yet fully understood. 

We need smiles. 

We thrive on smiles. 

We bloom inside and out when someone smiles. 

Whether at us or not simply doesn’t matter. 

So let me end on a note that can benefit you in a most delicious way. 

Smile at yourself in the mirror each evening before you go to bed. 

Smile at yourself in the mirror each morning when you rise and shine. 

Give yourself the gift of your own radiant smile and remember that even with half your face covered, if you are masked up during the day, your smile is still felt, internally and externally, because everything is energy. 

And the eyes tell the story and those are still very much visible.  

P.S. Take off those shades and express yourself!

💜

---

One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

---

Post Photo Credit Pascal Bernardon @pbernardon

What If Words Could Change Your Life?

What if words could change your life? 

You’d be all in, would you not?

Well, here’s the deal. Words can change your life.

And you’re saying a sh*t-ton of words to yourself on the daily, oftentimes without even realizing it.

See our thoughts are made up of words. What we feel comes from what we think about—again, words.

And what we end up doing in our life, feeling each day we live, and experiencing every moment, is in direct correlation to yep, you guessed it, the words we think, speak and lean into.

So, what words are you saying? 

What words are you thinking? 

What words are you feeling?

What words does that critical voice in your head whisper (or shout) to you on repeat?

You know that voice, 99.9% of us have it, and it’s that negative, broken-ass-record that never shuts up.

Until now . . .

Silencing all those words and discovering a way to say, hear, and listen for empowering words—well, that’s what I’m all about.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—Words Are My SuperPower. 

Period. Mic-drop.

And my words shift lives.

In fact, in learning just how powerful my words are, I was able to change my entire life—from award-winning Ms. Perfect . . .

Feeling broken,
always searching for me,
running from myself.

(Ah, yeah, that’s a good one, no?)

Often depressed—
overwhelmed,
swimming in overthinking,
over-analyzing every-little-thing,
obsessed with getting it right . . .

(God forbid, failure is me!)

To discovering a place of BEingness, peace, JOY and ease.

And it’s absolutely f-ing delicious.

It is my work, my dharma, and my honor to share this message with you . . . 

Three ways words changed all for me and will for you when you’re ready to go all in. 

ONE: The Most Profound Three Little Words

After reading a very small book that took me less than two hours to consume, I was hooked. 

The premise was simple. 

Three little words changed this author’s life, and those words I knew but forever reserved for others with a slight external shift on the last. 

I love myself.

I was so good at saying I love you, but myself? Hell to the no. And I didn’t realize just how much I didn’t until I began this daily practice. 

I love myself. On repeat in my head, over and over and over again. 

When a thought would come in . . .

I love myself. 

When my mood would dip . . .  

I love myself.

When I brushed my teeth. 

I love myself.

But the point, to keep this short and sweet, is that I love myself began to replace all other thoughts in my head. 

I love myself became the reply to all the negative sh*t rattling around inside me. Those thoughts, stories, beliefs that were robbing me of the very thing I wanted. 

A life I loved
A body I loved
A man I loved
A work I loved

Love. Full stop.

Imagine if you woke up each day and simply felt love in your heart. Not for the one laying beside you–

okay, for them too.

Not just for the fur baby possibly curled up nearby . . .

But you felt it for you, boo.

Deeply, completely, utterly true love of you.

It took time for me to believe I love myself but when I did, it was like a new technicolor life. 

And that is delicious. 

TWO: Start Up Empowered

We’ve all heard it and thought, yeah. But do you embody it? The it in question is gratitude. 

When I learned to start each day empowered with not a single thought of gratitude but a constant stream that touched on as many areas of my life as possible, my inner dialogue changed and my outer world became a delicious reflection of that change. 

I am grateful for (fill in the blank over and over again)
as you take a beat
to breathe,
to smile,
to stretch,
to grant yourself that first (step one)
I love myself moment.

I am grateful for the tropical air I breathe in.
So I do. Deeply.

I am grateful for a new day
to serve, to impact, to play, to feel JOY.
So I focus on all that.

It is a choice to start your day at a run. It is a choice to start your day in JOY. 

I choose to start JOYfully slow. 

To focus on how I want to feel each and every moment of the next 24-hours. 

As I move about and do those things that start my day, I give thanks and sink into thoughts of gratitude for

My feet on the cool tiles
My hair as I run a brush through it
My shapely thighs as I give them a good scrub. 

I no longer point out that which does not appeal to me. But focus on all that works to support me. 

Like my feet on the shower floor, my face upturned to the steaming shower. 

The hot water I get to enJOY in this moment. 

And my thoughts continue as I focus on starting my day with a healthy dose of self-care, self-love and self-empowerment talk deeply rooted in gratitude. 

I am grateful that I am limber enough to make my bed. 

I am grateful for the water that nourishes my body and soul with each sip from the full glass I down before anything else. 

I am filled with gratitude for the stirring sounds of my baby goats, those endearing Maahs, that yes, can get loud . . .

And then I focus instead on being oh-so thankful for noise,
the crowing rooster,
the chicks looking for their cracked corn. 

I sink into a moment taking in the glory of a rising sun over the still ocean waters. 

And I am grateful for what is to come. 

A productive day—
A lazy day of rest. 

I am grateful for the persistence, the habitual way of showing up, as that is what makes my life easily enJOYable. 

What would be possible if you added a touch of gratitude each morning for a week? 

Hmm, I betcha everything.

Which leads me to the last important word-moment of my day, outside of writing 2,500 words to start my morn. 

THREE. Indulge in the 15-Minute But...Box

No, I’m not talking squats nor glutes. I’m talking those buts followed by worry thoughts. 

That silent-night voice in your head
shooting your ideas,
your self-love,
you
down, down, down. 

That nagging habit of saying things like

But we don’t have the money.

But what if it doesn't work out?

But how will I know?

But what’s the next step?

And on and on we can go. 

If you feel me, can I get an amen?! 

What has allowed me to tap into so much JOY is to But-Box my worry with a timer. 

When I started this practice, I gave myself 15-minutes a day. Now I give myself 15-minutes when I notice that but conversations, what if thoughts, the oh-no feelings creep back in to steal my JOYful peace.

I no longer need 15-minutes a day to But-Box worry and that is a delicious thing. 

But if you’re anything like how I used to be, worry was a standard practice, as easy as walking ten feet. 

It was my normal go-to, so of course it took time to let it go. 

But I ziplock that time into a But-Box moment so my new habit of I love myself on constant repeat could begin. 

And drown out all those other disempowering thoughts. 

When I did this with ferocious intention I noticed how much easier gratitude came, how much lighter I felt, how much more energy I suddenly had. 

I realized the profound fact that my worry-wart ways of thinking, speaking, acting were heavy 

weighing me down
keeping me stuck
spinning
failing again and again and again. 

Now when I fail, which I do often, I learn from it. 

I give it no heavy-meaningful weight. But that’s a convo for another post, is it not? 

For now, dive into these three easy to implement ways of showing up for you and your life will radically change in this most delicious new year. 

If you found these words helpful share, them now with another then leave a comment below with your biggest take away. You never know who may be impacted when you do.

---

This is the year to live deliciously.
Want more JOY? It’s so there for you.
Dive into a Clarity Call and access it today.

---

Post Photo Credit: Andreas Fickl @afafa

This Year, Choose Intention Over Resolution

What if instead of setting a resolution come the end of this week, you set an intention for who you wish to be? 

My editor shared a convo about New Year’s Resolutions between her and her sister recently that made me so proud . . . 

and that I found so profound. 

The sister said: “I’m going to lose weight.”

Autumn, my editor said: “I’m going to be kinder to myself.”

Can I just say: Mic. Drop. Moment.

Consider what it would mean for you to be “kinder to yourself” or to “love yourself more deeply” or to “think only positive thoughts about your body, your life, your finances.”

Hot damn, but your entire life would change. 

When I started to intentionally think ONE thought, “I love myself” and say it on repeat mentally and out loud as needed. 

A hundred
A thousand 

times a day, my life changed. 

I didn’t focus on not eating sugar—as I once would have.

I didn’t focus on the extra weight I’d gained and should lose.

I didn’t focus on the ankle pain that creeps in every now and then from some injury I simply don’t remember. 

I didn’t focus on the thoughts of lack, of fear, of frustration of anything but 

“I love myself.”

That was my way of being “kinder to myself” and it worked. My life flipped on a dime and I started to wake up in love with each day— 

in love with me. 

Resolutions are all well and good when one has the habit in place to support the new way of being, however, what most of us know from experience is that we don’t. 

Have the habit(s) at the ready. 

To work out five days a week when we haven’t scheduled it in . . .

To eat healthy when we don’t yet track our food or know what’s healthy for us specifically . . . 

The path is forever lined with all the good intentions but is that enough to get one past January 19th and into seeing a change for the better?

Consider this:

I am _______ (to myself) in 2022. 

Now fill in the blank.

For Autumn, she naturally said “kinder” and once again I’ll say that’s profound. 

Imagine what all will change in her world when THAT intention is her sole focus. 

I am more loving to myself in 2022.

That works for me. 

I am impacting hundreds of thousands of people globally with my books in 2022. 

That also works for me. 

Now you. Share this blog and YOUR I AM in 2022 statement.

When you do, you begin co-creating your most delicious life. 

And who doesn’t want more of that! 

---

Step Into Your Most Delicious Life
Apply for a Clarity Call today

---

Post Photo Credit: Nathan Dumlao @nate_dumlao

Giving Myself the Gift of Self-care: How My Home Finally Got Its Heart

When was the last time you gave yourself a gift? 

Tis' the season, as the saying goes. 

I was reading an article from a client, who’s also a colleague and friend. An awesome dude from Down Under who sent out an email to his list asking that very question. 

It made me press pause for a second as I have gifted others so much. 

From my mentor to my coach, to pulling off my JoLo hoops and handing them over to a lady who loved them so much and asked to “try them on” 

I have always loved to give.

When the voice within says, give those now.
I listen. And do.

When the voice within shouts, this person needs this from you.
I hear it and act.

Yet, I didn’t always. Listen. Act.

To that voice that said, Give that man with the dog, sitting there huddled up and obviously without a home, the last $20 in your wallet. 

When I’d walk by and not listen, the ache I felt was deep, profound. 

Disappointment in self, perhaps. 

And it just hit me how often I have walked past my own self.
My own inner call to
slow down,
take ten,
write that other book,
finish that damn kitchen,
dance more. 

Yet, when it comes to giving myself an important thing,
like a working kitchen,

much like not listening to that call
to hand over my last $20 bill . . .

I haven’t always listened.


And in fact, I haven't for the last three and a half years. 

Instead, I made it a joke. 

Not having a kitchen. Using a skillet, a hotplate and roughing it.

I mean people do that everyday.
I’m thankful, damn it.

Suffering in my laughing silence. 

I made not having a full-kitchen an excuse.
To go to my favorite island restaurants. 

A pathway to not taking the most delicious care of myself. 

Head. Meet. Desk. Hard. 

The heart of the home,
most would say,
is the kitchen. 

Is it not? 

It’s where the family gathers. 

Where food is prepared and nurturing takes place. 

Where intentionality can play with day-to-day tasks
like washing (friggin’) dishes. 

Where loving of self resides

in a physical sense,

with that prepared plate of food . . . 

With time spend in conversation with another

over that cup of tea . . . 

Where the nurturing of self

begins and grows

within. 

Yet, for me, not having a kitchen—

tossing the years gone by without as a joke.

Making the building of goat houses, 

walls and fences 

more important,

than creating a space for myself,

a space that nurtures me— 

now that makes me go hmmm for a hot second. 

Thanks to that wake up call of an email from my Aussie friend. 

And I’m tickled purple to share that I have an almost working kitchen as of Saturday at 4PM island time. 

And by the time I hit publish on these words, the sink should have running water and thankfully I’ll be back to washing dishes out of a lush space and not a bucket filled with tepid water. 

Or too-small half-bath sink where more water ends up on the floor. 

And what perfect timing. . .

to set my end of year up with a space where selfcare is easy. 

Where the nourishment of me is a given, 

not an afterthought, 

never again a maybe, if able. 

How often do we do that? 

Put ourselves last, put our care off for some other day. 

Well, I say no more!

Once that stovetop is installed, and my new magnetic pots received, I’ll be cooking up a storm. 

Not to overindulge but to feed my soul. 

To do a thing I love. 

A thing that fills me with such JOY. . . 

So long denied. 

How silly to deny myself that which makes me smile and feel oh-so good inside.

I betcha you can relate. 

And it please me to no end to already have a line of those who want a home-cooked meal from little old me already forming. 

Starting with my two amazing installers who did the work of creating this beautiful space over a three day period

and left me with a mountain of stone-dust to sweep up. 

Can’t be helped and I tell you what . . . 

I’m sweeping and cleaning and rearranging with such gratitude and JOY that even the dirt is being blessed as it exits my cottage door. 

So let me ask you, what are you giving yourself as we round out this year? 

It’s time to give yourself a gift of NOW 

not wait for January 1st to roll around. 

What one thing can you gift yourself that will change all? 

My kitchen, 

the heart of my little island cottage, 

that’s going to change so much for me. 

In fact, it already has. 

And I love it. 

And I love me. 

Can you say the same? 

Let me know in a comment below. 

---

If that question gives you pause,
if you can't say (yet) those all important words, I love myself!,
it might be time to see yourself more clearly.

A Clarity Call with me is your chance to deep-dive into you.

Apply now and if you dare to before the end-of-year
use the code MOREJOY to receive my gift to you. 

---

One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

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Photo Credit: freestocks

Farm Girl, me? Pleease!

I never thought of myself as a farm girl – until now. 

I was always too afraid to just be me – Just Jill.

Simple.
JOYful.
Animal loving.
Quiet mostly. Me. 

The girl who loved to smile but forever dimmed her light. 

Until now. 

If you didn’t catch it, I’m currently living my childhood dream. 

A little cottage, on a hill, surrounded by secret gardens, overlooking the sea where I sit all day and write. 

I have that, plus goats. 

And so much more JOY because of that delicious addition to what I once considered only the imaginings of a child. 

Silly. Stupid. Not for real. 

How often have you blown off your dreams, friend?

And the secret gardens, well ‘tis the year for them now that construction is all but – pretty please – done. 

So this childhood dream that I literally scoffed at after sharing with the Frenchman over coffee one day . . . 

It’s now my reality. 

Including the new adds of farm girl duties. Like bottle feeding Snow White. We’re down to three a day. Progress! 

And mucking out “stalls”. 

No stalls here, just goat poop everywhere. 

They really are messy beasts. 

And then they give kisses
and nibble on my shirt
and want hugs
and well, I’ll shuck goat poop till my very last breath. 

Because they are worth it. 

Because I am worth it. 

Living my dream – finally. 

And this year, 2022, is the year I actually do the action (for real) that my childhood dream stated . . . 

“Sit all day and write.”

I am a writer. And yet, how often have I gotten sidetracked. 

While The Farmette is also a sidetrack distraction, it’s a choice
and one I will do over and over again,
as I’m sure there will be more goat rescues to come. 

It’s who I am. It’s in my blood. It’s what I do.

Like writing. 

So in 2022, you’ll be seeing books and more books galore. 

And it’s rumbling within, 

a book about The Farmette
and all the goat lessons learned. 

I’ll be sharing the journey to Just Jill, Writer as that’s what I seem to be doing now. 

Who knew?! Open book is me. 

[ shaking head at the years spent hiding in plain sight ]

Yet, they served me. 

And now, there’s no longer a need to dim it down . . . 

So why not join me and make the coming year the most delicious one. 

Where you to step fully into your slice of sunlight. 

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the waitlist and be the first
to access all the details.
Plus, a few delicious sweet-treats.

---

Post Photo Credit:

Comforting Voices And The Things We Do For Love

There is a little girl in my life, an Angel, and at four she feels much. 

I remember being small and having bigger than life feelings. 

It was scary not knowing what to do with them,
not understanding them and
not having a safe space to simply feel them. 

To learn from them. 

Instead, I ended up terrified by my own emotions
and learned to turn the dial on them way, way, way
down. 

Yet, now in watching my little Angel navigate her feelings,
be allowed to feel anything, in any moment,

in not labeling it right or wrong
I am learning so much. 

And she, she’s learning how to be herself—
comfortable in her own skin,
in her own feels
at age four.

Not forty. 

How magical is that? 

During 2021, I wrote a book. (cough)
What will become four books. 

Yep, prolific as all those stuffed feels had to go somewhere
and the pages of journals and diaries was my stomping ground for years. 

Until all those words, powered by unchecked emotions, became books. 

And speaking of books, this is a piece, an essay, that landed on the cutting room floor. 

It won’t be in my new book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, but the message it holds will lead you to just that. 

Living a most delicious life.

---

comforting voices

Shhhh. Don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s not so bad.

Imagine hearing those same lines in a mother’s or father’s comforting tone. 

And I call bullshit,
lovingly . . .

How uncomfortable is it to allow someone to cry their heart out? 

To just be present in someone’s discomfort? 

Especially a child. 

It used to make my skin crawl. I’d run in to save the day with a box of tissues and a smile, a joke, anything to get them to stop sobbing. 

Ah, did you catch that?

It wasn’t about comforting them but making myself feel better.

Getting my anxious skin to stop crawling, to not want to be sucked into their vortex of feelings simply because I didn’t yet know how to have solid boundaries for not my feelings to feel. 

Instead, I was too sensitive.
Instead, I blamed being empathic.
Instead of owning that ick feeling of discomfort and allowing another to suffer and not making it mine— 

a choice

I chose to be responsible for all. 

I chose to take on all their feelings, often times ten, and exhaust myself carrying the weight of everyone’s pain. 

When no one ever asked me to. 

Nope, I chose to suffer and take on another’s suffering as those it was my own burden to bear.  

As a child I developed the ability to stuff what I was feeling way down.

To judge it as wrong—mostly.

And quickly lost track
of what it was I was feeling,
what it was I was snuffing out. 

It became easier to feel for another than to deal with my own knotted emotional baggage. 

Instead, I packed that shit way,
locking it up tight.

I even went so far as to
bury it, all the feelings, in the backyard of me. 

And tossed away the key— 
until recently. 

For me, when I hold my breath, I cannot cry.
I perfected that art as a child.

Becoming very proficient at holding my breath, often. 

Stifling my ability to breathe deeply.
Perfecting shallow.

Because the other thing I learned
during my darker, more unhealthy teen years
is that when you hold your breath,
you kind of cease to exist

for just a beat. 

Ponder that for a beat, if you dare, as I’d ask if you can relate.
If you apologize, minimize, hold your breath
so as not to take up too much space. 

It all begins with learning how to not feel all of the feelings.

The dis-ease and disharmony created in the body that builds and builds until there must be a crescendo moment in time. 

It begins with well-meaning, most often, parents. 

They do what was done to them.

They repeat words uttered to them when they themselves felt too out loud. 

I like to believe that it’s mostly misplaced,
well-intentioned sayings
shared without thought
of how they may do more harm
than good. 

Shh.
It’s okay.
Calm down. 

Instead of allowing one to scream it out.
Get it out. 

Express yourself.

And not make it wrong to do so loud, dramatic, full out
because is that not how we find our way?

To discovering what it is we feel . . .
To not stuff it done,
Not shh it out
Not be told it’s okay when it feels oh-so not. 

To instead be allowed to wallow in all that ugly cry,
snot-infested mess. 

To be able to beat the hell out of a pillow
and not be judged.

To feel the full spectrum of all the delicious emotions
and to learn to name them, claim them, understand them. 

What a gift, the freedom to be utterly, totally allowed to be self-expressive. 

In fact, my Frenchman and I were just talking about this. . .

For him, this is good parenting. . . 
to comfort,
to soothe,
to say shh, it’s okay. 

For him, this is what it means to teach a child what it is to be safe.
To feel safe. 

And it’s how he raised his two.

Yet, for me, I see that it can be a detriment.

For me, it was a detriment.
An, it’s not safe to cry, to express, to be me. 

Interesting, is it not?
How varied two people can be?

For me, as a child, it was
a stuffing down of what bubbled to the surface,
often not put into words. 

So often not understood. . .

Emotions so needing to erupt and spill forth with abandon, but instead became trapped, not safe to sink into naturally. Instead there is a damning up of all those unfelt feels for so many.

A lack of understanding them as they well up. . .
as they begin to bubble to the surface of you,
one day, some day
unchecked. 

Yet, imagine if you, the adult,
allow another man, woman, child
the space,
the grace,
the place
to feel anything
and everything. 

What would be possible if you embraced your own discomfort in the face of their outpouring . . .  

As tears,
as a tantrum,
as we have no other
known-to-us, in that moment,
way to express, be. . . 

as a child
as a too often shh-ed adult. 

Just as a tide is not restrained
by the hug of the ocean . . .

The power of not tamping down the crashing wave
of an emotional outpour from another
man
woman
child
is a gift of empowerment 

To feel,
to express,
to release
for them.

Even as it may make the hugger wildly, wind-tossed uncomfortable.

I say so be it. 

For not feeling those feels in the moment means damming them up for a future moment in time 

When they erupt with volcanic force.
Makes little sense. 

Today, allow yourself to feel safe to be you,
to express what you feel,
to let it out,
however it comes
and learn to name those feels one by one. 

That which we tamper down, dan up, we deal with another day. 

Make today the day it’s okay to feel what you feel. 

---

One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

---

Photo credit: Gabby Orcutt @monroefiles

Give Yourself Permission To Do That Thing . . .Whatever it is

Imagine for a moment you stopped asking for permission to do that thing, whatever it is . . .

From starting a business, 
being in a relationship, 
leaving a marriage, 
having a child, 
not having a child, 
quitting a job,

Changing your major, 
(gasp) saying bye-bye-bye to college
before you earn the degree.

Dating that guy . . . 
that girl.

Not dating anyone.
Taking time for you.

I have an ask of you, if you’re willing to play.

Who are you wanting permission from right now to live your life?

Most people seem to do it.
Wait.

For.
Permission.

To live.

And so many of us fail to see the trap till we hit our (head meet desk) 40s. 

So, who is it you seek to please? 

Mom and Dad?
A partner?
A boss?

Some guru who knows all the things?
Knows what’s best for you?

Can anybody but you ever truly fit that bill?

It should be laughable
to think another could fully know you
better than you do. 

But sadly, for most, that is simply not the case.

In fact, if you’re anything like I once was, you run from that very thought. 

Getting to know you.
Spending time with the one who matters most. 

Me, myself and I. 

So let’s dish on this way so many of us, women especially, show up in life. 

A way we’re taught in the classroom,
maybe even in the home. 

Because if this is you,
this right here could be your secret wakeup call,  

to well—you. 

To living your life, for you. 

Finally. 

Are you secretly waiting for the
I Grant Thee Rights To Live Your Life faerie 

To wave her delightful wand and deem you worthy—

enough?

It’s so ingrained to look around for
the teachers,
the adult,
the well-meaning someone . . .

for permission to live our own flipping lives. 

From simple decisions—What do you crave for dinner?

To the hard core asks— 

What do I even want?
What’s my purpose?
Dharma? 

What makes me happy, damn it?!

While if you're anything like so many I come across, internally you may often be screaming,

I can’t decide.
What do I even want?
I have no clue.
Just tell me what to do already! 

We are under so much pressure that even deciding what to wear can cause decision fatigue. 

Making all-the-decisions, big and small, each and every day can be exhausting, yet here’s what I know intimately. 

Not making a decision is even more tiring. 

And the perfect way to waste a life. 

We are trained to look outside ourselves for answers. 

For someone who can decide for us. 

Tell us what to do.

Even share how to do it. 

We are raised in a society, mostly, where we are praised for following directions.

We are patted on the back for asking for permission, 

to use the bathroom even.

And get in trouble when we forget . . .

to ask. 

We are told to wait your turn.

Not be too demanding, too sure or god-forbid you might seem cocky, arrogant, full-of-yourself. 

So, fascinating, to be schooled that being full-of-oneself is wrong! 

Imagine if you were instead taught to see yourself as your very best friend. The one you will spend the most time with . . . 

An entire lifetime getting to know. Intimately. 

Which when broken down is Into Me I See.

What a powerful focus to have, to look within for permission, for answers, for all the things. 

But if you’re anything like most, you’ve been conditioned to ask externally for all the things. 

Even how best to know yourself.
As if another can offer you that. 

Yet, if we only got quiet for a beat,

we’d see we already know all we need to . . .
within. 

It might be a quiet knowing at first. 

But with a regular tapping in, checking in, moment of self-reflection, 

that inner knowing will grow. 

Will become loud and oh-so on point. 

Consider letting go of what you too many have learned. . .
To play a game of hurry up and wait.

But wait for what? 

To live? 

And then wonder why decades pass you by and dreams lie trampled underfoot, seen and pondered but still not acted upon. 

I say stop being one of the many who are simply passing the time til they die. 

Instead of taking one small step forward each and every day, we tend to sink into a black hole of questioning all the things.

Blaming those who give us advice,
advice so not aligned
because we never fully share who we are
with them. 

Stop expecting another to know you, 
get you, 
tell you what to do 

And you will access more JOY.

When you let go of not knowing yourselves,
not trusting yourselves
without external validation.

Without the approval of another, 
from another.

When you stop releasing that lone cry for permission
to do something, anything.
To be good enough, pretty please.

Who am I even? 

Am I even enough to do that thing? 

Are these questions you too may have asked?

Timidly
or maybe at a full cry.

Yet, ask three people the same thing
and prepare yourself. 

Confusion awaits as you’ll receive three different answers,
at least two will be contradictory. 

I guarantee it. 

Yet, ask we do, over and over again.
Expecting what, someone to truly get us?

Which is insanity, is it not? 

To wait for someone outside yourself to deem you enough when all you have to do is own that knowing for yourself.

Because the biggest reason we seek permission outside ourselves is a lack of self worth, a lack of knowing you are a badass and there is no if-ands-or-butts about it. 

We look outside ourselves when we don’t trust ourselves. 

What if you knew in all your trillion cells that you were unique, enough, brilliant and perfectly imperfect just as you are?

You are.

You are one-of-a-kind and there is no mistake that you are here for a reason. 

Simply to be.
To experience this life.
The ups, the downs, the JOYs, the sorrows.

That is the key. 

Stop searching for that why and give yourself permission today to just be.

Be you.

It doesn’t need to be a struggle.

Seek that answer from within, because once you know who you are, well all shifts in your world and you realize you need no one to tell you how to live your best life. 

You know. 

Like you know your name. 

You trust.

Like you trust that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west each day.

And dare I say that right there, that knowing mixed with trust of you, leads to creating a most delicious life. 

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

---

Photo Credit: Brooke Cagle @brookecagle 

paint by word — a sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

The more power in a system, the more work it can do. 

Add fuel to the gas tank, you can go go go. 

Eat healthy foods, your body will feel and be strong, powerful, able to best support you.

The mind requires fuel, too. What feeds your mind? 

Stories. 

Specifically, the ones you tell yourself over and over again. 

If you're feeding your brain tales of lack, of I can't, of victim-is-me, don't be surprised when that's all you experience. 

What you feed grows. 

I share more about how words fuel your reality and paint your life in my upcoming book, Create Most Delicious Life. 

Let's dive into a little sneak peek here . . . 

paint by word

When you think, the universe listens. 

When you speak, the universe hears.

When you ask, the universe responds. 

This is law. 

Don’t like the word universe? Sub in whatever resonates with you, for words are only words, yet the energy, your energy, behind those words does matter. 

Your words are your paint-by-numbers guide to creating all you desire in this life. See, you are more powerful than you can even begin to fathom. 

Heck, just one cell in our fabulous body has enough energy and know-how to power an entire aircraft carrier. 

“I have a need . . . a need . . . for speed.” 

If you’ve yet to see Top Gun, please do, for me. There’s a sequel coming out more than two decades after the original even as I write these words. 

But the point is not flying fast planes
but that one of your cells is capable,
has the ability to, the energy to
power the entire ship
those jets land on. 

And when I say power that aircraft carrier, I’m not talking about just steering the boat but all the systems on said vessel. 

One of your trillions of cells can power the engines, the navigation, the communication coms, the many dozens of planes that take off and land, while also supporting a crew of more than 1,000 souls and seeing to all their needs. 

Can you even fathom that for a moment? 

One cell.
Just one.
Of your—too numerous to count—delicious cells
could run that, all of that. 

What power?! 

And yet, what are your cells, all of your cells, doing in a regular, average-Joe day? 

Besides naturally and effortlessly running all the systems of your body? 

Sitting stagnant.

Worrying. Wondering. Wishing.

Debating. Do-do-doing all the
perhaps not-so-important things.

Praying. 

Leaking, leaking, leaking
all the power you have in just one cell.

The infinite ability
to run such a magnificent,
complex structure as an aircraft carrier. 

If you but channeled the power, the energy, the intention of one cell. 

If you perfected, mastered –
using your will . . . 

Even if it took a lifetime
of practicing the art . . . 

Never full obtained,
imagine what would be gained.

And yet, if you are like so many, you are unaware of just how much of your own abilities, power, essence circles the drain before you even fully start your day. 

Imagine if you stopped leaking your personal power and started to harness all the energy you are naturally granted in this amazing life. 

Saying no more to spinning negative stories . . . 

To people pleasing, caring what others think,
hating yourself, shaming your body,
focusing on another’s drama instead of your own delicious journey. 

If one of your beautiful cells can run such an intricate vessel parked in the middle of the sea where so many systems are being used simultaneously . . . 

Then what’s possible for you,
in your day-to-day life,
harnessing the power
of even half your fabulous cellular energy?

You, my friend, would be a force unstoppable.
You would be focused forward.

You would be a master storyteller of tales that support you in all systems go. 

You would focus on your delicious path. 

No distractions.
No more drama.

---

If You’re Ready For That
You’ll Want To Read My New Book

---

Post Photo Credit: Taelynn Christopher @taelynnmae

Eleven — My First Memoir & Finding My SuperPower

Back when I was eleven years old, I had no clue my life was about to change on every level. 

From another cross-country move
to moving in with the other parent
to finding my calling in life

it was quite the year of change for me. 

Much like this last year has been.  

In the blink of an eye, due to the dedicated influence of just one kind person, I started down the path of writer is me.

And, unbeknownst to me, started to pen my very first memoir. 

And this year, well, having my name as my word of the year, that right there has been a delicious discovery that has unearthed all the tender, raw, torn, divine parts of me that I’ve intentionally kept hidden till now. 

More on that to come, along with news about my first soon-to-be-released in my name book, but today’s words are a trip down memory lane. 

An excerpt from that new book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, written by me, as me. A first and yet not.

A story I recently shared a bit on in my free Facebook group, Write Your Book Already!

But today, let’s dive into this blast-from my past essay entitled eleven. 

eleven

When I was in the 5th grade, I entered my third fifth-grade classroom, after moving across the country to live with my Dad. It was unexpected, as was the entire topsy-turvy year, but that’s another story.

See my teacher, I’ll never forget him. He met my father at the classroom door to welcome the new student (me again). And unlike my last teacher that year, his smile was real and kind.    

My last teacher, number two for the year, even though she randomly shared my last name, did not have the same compassion, kindness and care as I did. In fact, at times, I’d often felt she downright hated me.

This teacher—he seemed fun even, with glasses,
a grin that turned his lip up on one side,
almost hidden
but seen by me,
behind a trim,
close-cut beard.    

As the students craned their necks, leaning to and fro in their seats to get a look at the “new kid,” I stared unflinchingly back.   

Being the new kid can go one of two ways. 

With you on the top,
Queen B.

Or you sucking wind by day’s end
like you took a few swift kicks. 

This time, I was determined to end the day on top,
as I’d had it both ways already
this year. 

And to be honest, I was tired of being someone’s punching bag, another reason I was here, now living with my father at eleven.   

So, this teacher, Mr. R. let’s call him, took me by the hand and walked me to the front of the classroom after a quick side hug with my so-not old man.    

At first, I thought, Crap, a desk in the front row. 

I preferred to observe. Hard to do from the head of the room. 

But then we stopped by his desk and my heart dropped into my stomach, creating a ripple of nauseating waves that threatened to erupt out of me if I didn’t suck that shit down.   

He turned to me and said, “Tell me your story.”  

I nearly passed out as I forgot yet again to breathe.   

First minute, first day, and he was going to make me stand in front of the 40+ eyeballs already trained on my back and share who I was while all sat in judgment of me.   

Seconds from my vision dimming to black, I remember resisting the urge to push up my too-big-for- my-face glasses and instead began to count backward from 99. 

Sometimes that worked. I’d never once fainted, yet knew there was a first time for everything.   

He repeated the words, “Tell me your story.” 

But this time he stood behind his desk chair and pulled it out with a scrape of legs against old, worn linoleum floors. A palm up offering of his hand encouraged me to focus on the paper and pencil already set neatly...

for me?   

The relief was a wave so glorious, I smiled — an uncomfortable upturn of my normally straight-line, at that time, lips.   

I quickly sat, before he could change his mind,
like adults tended to do,
and scooted closer to the desk.

When he nodded, I picked up the pencil, turned to the blank page and felt such peace and JOY at being left the hell alone. 

I got to work writing the waves of thoughts, words, sentences, paragraphs that were my life. 

Fragments and tales and all the many shoved down emotions. Feelings that had been bottling up within me for days, weeks, years… a lifetime.   

That teacher, that man, gave me a gift that day. An outlet. 

And I often dream of crossing paths with him.

To thank him with a hug,
a handshake,
a kind word for taking the time,
for knowing just what I needed
in that moment
to thrive.   

Survive.

Plus, it made me the must-have lunch companion when the time came, as everyone wanted to know why I was at the teacher’s desk in the front of the class, not doing the assignments but busy working on something that seemed super-important.   

And it was. Important. Vital. Everything to me. 

It was the first time I wrote the story of me.   

My first memoir. 

---

If  you liked this share, an excerpt from Create Your Most Delicious Life, and want to sink into more words with me . . .  Get on the waitlist for my latest book today. 

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

---

Post Photo Credit: Юлія Дубина @yulia_dubyna

Ring My Bell - Work

Tomorrow in America, is the Great American Teach-In Day. It’s a day when adults speak to children in the classroom about what they do. 

A day we may consider the most important day of school for a child, as it’s a model of what’s possible. 

The day is tolled as being a day when children are exposed to local business owners, employees, parents of classmates who stand up and share a bit about their work. 

But to me, this day is so much more than about a potential career path. 

It’s about inspiring a child. 

It’s about opening a young mind to possibilities as yet unexplored. 

It’s an opportunity for sharing, discussion, listening and actually hearing each other. 

But more than all that, it’s a time to dive into who do you want to be in your life?

If you have one shot, not one career path, but one shot at this thing called life, how is it you want to show up each day?

Now adding that to today’s conversations would be powerful. 

We could literally change a child’s life by sharing that as an adult you don’t have to be serious, mad, stressed, upset, unhappy...

Because honestly, that’s what children are led to believe when moms and dads are running to and fro, no time to just be. 

What if today was a moment to press-pause and say,

Who do you want to be? 

How do you want to feel?

What if today children learned it was okay to do what they loved?

Imagine if they were encouraged to follow a path that made their heart beat faster and their lips smile wide. 

I’ll jump down from my passionate soap box now, but as you may recognize, I am passionate about the next generation, perhaps because I was once the Education Lady.

And I guess, internally, I still am. 

Did I mention I taught middle and high school for four and a half years in the public school system? 

Well, now you know. 

When I first started teaching, I had two responsibilities—teaching English to 8th graders and 10th graders. 

And it was a big deal. Luckily, I didn’t really know much about the state test nor how the future of our very poorly graded school hinged on the outcome of the reading, writing and math scores come the end of year.

But that’s another story for another time.  

Let me just say, I love teenagers. I love their energy. 

And teaching was not my chosen path but something I fell into on a dare and ten days later, I was handed keys to a bare classroom. 

No books at the ready. No budget to work with. No lesson plan guides. Nada. 

It was feet to the hot coals—ready, fire, then aim.

I had literally no clue what I was supposed to do with these students. As they filed in on that first day, all loud and excited or pissy and quiet for the start of a new school year, I knew I needed a moment to get my bearings.

Twenty to thirty pre- and full-blown teens herding in, all at once. That’s stampede-of-buffalo impressive and took my breath away each new period that day. 

They had expectations. Some even had pleading eyes that screamed, please don’t be a bore. 

So, that very first day, for each new period, I wrote my name on the board, as I’d seen every teacher in every movie do. 

But I didn’t stop there, as that would have meant turning around and literally meeting twenty-plus pairs of eyes and coming up with something to actually say. 

Instead, I wrote another line. The chalk slapping and flaking in snowflake bits to the patchwork, old-as-dirt, linoleum floor.

Who do you want to be this school year? 

I remember turning to look at all the faces staring blankly back at me. It was my do or die moment. Never letting on that my stomach was a knotted mess and my mouth, cotton-field dry.  

I shared they were to write one page, double-spaced, answering the topic on the board.

To say most of those sitting in the too-hard seats were horrified would be an understatement, but I projected confidence outwardly (even while internally quaking in my slip-on flats, missing my flip flops and yoga pants). 

Putting no attention on the moans, the groans, the Come on, lady, it’s only the first day of school! conversation.  

Instead, I planted myself behind my scratched, dented, written-on metal desk and proceeded to take roll while getting my heart-rate under control. 

And sinking into what the hell to do with these students next. 

And that’s how bellwork came to be. 

And reading those first pages of some 90 students that evening enabled me to get to know these kids better than anything I could have imagined. 

To say this was planned would be a lie. 

To say I was sure of what I was doing would be a joke.

To say I was scared sh*tless, now that would be the truth. 

But I stumbled on a win and grabbed it with both hands. That’s what I ask you to do, even when you feel like a fraud. 

Because guess what? 

Most people feel like a fraud each and every day.

But in that moment, on the very first day of school playing the part of teacher for the very first time, I created something that became magical. 

Bellwork. A daily assignment. And soon my students knew to come in, where they were greeted by name and with a smile. No stress on my part, rushing to prepare. Instead, time to meet and greet with focused attention. 

And those kids, they’d smile back, high-fiving me as they passed, just like you see in the corniest student-teacher-rom-com. Then magic. They’d sit down, dare I say orderly, and get right to work as the prompt was always at the ready on the board.  

And most were a-writing before the class bell even tolled. 

How beautiful was that? And honestly completely unexpected on my part as just like I said above, each day I showed up in that classroom, I still felt a bit like a fraud. 

But show up I did anyway. 

And I got to know my students inside and out.

Sometimes the topics were easy, lighthearted:

What makes you smile? or What do you like about yourself?

Other times they were more expository, detailing steps like making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich...

As the point, after all in school, was not to get to know yourself—
God forbid—

but to learn without thought
that which could be
regurgitated on a test. 

Head meet metal desk–back then,
and now,
hard.

At first, the kids whined and complained. Many hated it to begin. But day after day of the routine, the expectation, those moans settled into acceptance.  

But soon, I started to dread it. 

Daily bell work for 90 kids meant 90 pages of reading.
Every-single-day. 

Plus, weekend essays to grade, and whatever real work was assigned and let’s not forget the standardized testing. 

I was forever behind.
Constantly grading papers. 

Caught in a never-ending snare,
a trap of my own creation. 

Then another teacher gave me a simple and oh-so-brilliant tip, "Don't read them all." 

I went back to share with my students that I would read random days only for a weekly grade.

And in sharing and asking for their feedback on this new plan, a discussion unfolded. OMG, I learned teenagers actually had much to say. 

One girl , actually a writer in the making in my opinion, asked, What if I don’t want you to read a day? Can I choose what to turn in and not turn in? 

This led to a debate and imagine my surprise when all the students jumped into pros and cons, discussing possibilities and as one we came to an agreement. 

Each student was allowed to place a star at the top of their page if they didn’t want me to read that day's bellwork. Each day was still handed in for accountability and impact to their overall grade—don’t even get me started on that topic! 

Grades. Much like giving a kid an award simply for showing up, irks me. A chat for another time...

And this is where magic really began to unfold. 

From that moment on, when my students sat down to write their bellwork, they went inside themselves. 

There was no holding back, no hiding, no tampering of expression. 

They wrote for themselves.
Not for me.
Not for the grade.

I could feel the energy in the room shift. I could feel what kind of day each one was having just by watching them write it out at the start of class.

That ten minutes became the highlight of many students’ day, some later shared. 

This became their free space to create, to be themselves, to express anything bottled within. 

This bellwork allowed many of them to find their voice, own their voice, love their voice, use their voice. 

Even out loud.  

If the energy was right, we'd move onto whatever I had planned for that day. 

If not, we didn't. 

I didn't use the traditional syllabus—big surprise—good girl, rule breaker was I. 

But seriously, who wants to spend three months on grammar?!

When we were studying poetry, I brought in lyrics by Bob Dylan, Eminem, Dr. Dre. We discussed Madonna and Prince songs, comparing them to “known poets.” 

I added poetry from Edgar Allan Poe (creepy) and made Emily Dickinson (fun) but not always easy for them to follow.

I knew from my own struggles in school, and with learning, that when I was engaged I was more receptive, more able to absorb. 

So my daily intention was all about adding JOY to each students’ day. And providing a safe space, place where they were able to express themselves.

Written or verbal, that was up to them. 

Life is heavy enough, is it not? 

And I learned from those students and from my own past, being a teenager was no joke. Especially if the voice inside your head was flipping-forever negative.  

When something big happened at school or out in the "real world," the kids were granted the space to share, ask, to talk about it in my classroom. 

We had conversations and used our words to communicate, not alienate. 

The year I started, the school earned a D based on writing and math scores. 

The following year? An A. 

My students, half the 8th grade class and half the 10th grade class, learned to write, to communicate and that impacted their reading/writing scores. 

Dare I say their lives.

I’d even be so bold as to say my classroom allowed many to gain confidence in their own abilities and that confidence had a ripple effect into all their subjects—even math.  

This off-the-cuff idea of bellwork continued to give and give as kids stopped me years later, in the supermarket, post office, at a restaurant, to share things like 

"Oh my god, Miss Stevens, thank you for making me write a page a day. You have no idea. I can write anything. No fear of a blank page, because of you.”

Another would add something like, 

“I can articulate my thoughts. That was such a great lesson. Thank you so much!" 

And when one shared, 

“Because of you, I journal every single day and I swear it saved my life!” 

Yes, I did break down and cry because that is the power of words, of expressing yourself.

When done in present tense, positive you are actually drafting the story of your life. 

And that’s what my new book, Creating Your Most Delicious Life, is actually about. 

Some of the best things in your life are not scripted, much like I did not script nor plan bellwork. 

I simply allowed all to unfold. 

Magic will explode in your life when you focus on allowing—and in my opinion write a page a day. 

If you want to tap into that way of showing up in your life, you’ll want to get on the waitlist for my new book. 

And today, make it a point to do that thing that scares you anyway. Simply showing up, even when you may feel like you have no clue, that’s more than half the work, and more than half the population will ever do today.

When you do this, your children, if you have any, see this and are impacted. Your actions often speak just as loud, if not louder, than your words.

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

---

Post Photo Credit: Arturo Rey @arturorey

Frigging Dishes — A tasty sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

Let’s dive right into an essay within my new soon-to-be released book. My first book written as me...

So kinda a big deal because while I’ve been writing forever, I’ve not yet published as little old me– till now. I talk about that, writing and the deliciousness that can be life in the upcoming book. 

But for now...

As I get ready to finally add a kitchen in my cottage writer’s retreat...I want to take you back.

Back nearly five years to a temporary kitchen and the essay loving entitled

Frigging Dishes 

In my early years, I grew up in an environment where arguing was communicating. Now I see just how ineffective, inefficient, and back-assward that is. 

But back then I was simply modeling what I knew with my own Frenchman. 

We were on an island, much like how we met but no longer full of that honeymoon-like, island-hopping awesomeness. 

Instead, we were in life, a life we had created together and one I resisted at each and every turn.

Let me take you to that moment in time, my hands in water, banging dishes as I washed them with force. 

Frigging dishes.

Steaming internally.
Flushed externally.
Mumbling outwardly.
Screaming silently inward. 

So much happens when my hands are in water. 

Water is a conduit for much as everything is energy and water transfers that energy. 

For me, typically water gives me ideas and characters to write, stories to tell, and awareness around something that’s being processed. 

Well, I was wrist-deep
in a shit-ton of awareness
and I was choosing to be unhappy about it all.

Catch that—to be unhappy in a moment is nothing more than a choice. 

The dish soap that came with the place was vivid blue. 

Something I’d never buy and typically would not use,
but we had just arrived and this was our very first night together. 

And first fight. Again. 

His voice soft. Unsure. Struggling to understand.
My voice loud. Harsh. Feeling angry and unheard. 

This damn soap,
so strong,
overpowering me,
much like my over-the-top emotions. 

I remember this putrid chemical (to me) odor surrounding us like a thick, too-fragrant cloud. 

My body, senses, intolerant to most chemicals.
Much like I was being that evening. 

So I’m arguing with the husband and the smell of the detergent permeates the entire conversation. 

We go through the highs and lows—the disconnect—forever misunderstanding. 

Sighs (on my part),
Head shakes (on his).

Tears (on my end),
Pleading looks (on his).

Lack of connection.
Incapable of understanding.
All the emotional overload
Bubble-Wrapped in sudsy chemicals.

Dishes, half-washed, forgotten. 

The argument, eventually, brushed away,
never forgotten.

But worked through
like so much
these last few years. 

Acceptance.
Allowing.
My new middle names–
competing, of course, with more JOY. 

Pass the detachment, pretty please.

And then years later,
from this new state of being,
where JOY is my default setting,
I find myself squirting a stream of blue on a sponge,
the only option at hand.

And immediately, shockingly, I’m transported through time.

Hands once again sinking in doing the—shout it out, yo—
Frigging dishes! 

The smell, which lived within my memory banks
on a cellular level,
took me right back to
that night,
that fight. 

All of a sudden I was angry.
Fuming mad.

Steam arising from the hot water
and my scalding temper.

The glass in my hand in serious jeopardy of a good old tossing. 

I didn’t, but man, upon occasion, I so want to . . . 

To break the tension erupting within me.
To hear the shattering of glass,
of something, anything
but me.

If you please. 

Because even though that
misunderstanding, disagreement, argument
was now years in my rearview mirror,
it was a good thing The Frenchman wasn’t present in that new moment
as he could have been in the crosshairs of my

—welcome back—

short-tempered,
emotional
overloaded
fuse.

Brought to the surface
by sensory memory.

Crazy, no? 

---

Want more Delicious Life book excerpts
and to be the first in the know?

Get your ass on the waitlist now.

There’s no time to delay. This book-puppy is in final edits... and ready for a forever home soon–on your bookshelf or happily in your e-reader!

---

And if you’ve ever wanted to write your own book,
you now have two options

Book a 1-on-1 Clarity Call with me today

Join my free group on Facebook: Write Your Book Already! with Jill

---

One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

Photo Credit: Brooke Lark @brookelark

Create Most Delicious Life - An Excerpt: the delicious reward

the delicious reward

Did you know that when a hen lays an egg, she clucks? It’s true! 

She’ll strut around,
ruffling her feathers,
flapping her wings,
clucking to the heavens,
celebrating the amazing thing she just did.

And the rest of the flock will follow suit, clucking and celebrating her accomplishment. 

Imagine if you started to celebrate your accomplishments too. Daily.

Hens know what humans have forgotten—there’s enough sunshine for everyone. One hen’s accomplishment does not diminish another’s. 

They never think it’s selfish to toot their own horn.

In fact, the louder the better. 

Yet when a human sings her praises, what does that make her?

Arrogant

Selfish

Stuck up

Egotistical

Hearing words like, 

Don’t brag. It’s not polite.

Be a lady.

Tone it down.

No one likes a show-off.

Ego much?!

Well, aren’t we full of ourselves?

Look at all the messed-up stories we have.

Stories that we pass down from generation to generation. 

And these stories continue on
because we allow them to grow
and take root within us. 

When you stop caring what another person thinks . . . 

When you do what you do because it feels right to you in this moment . . . 

You will be free.
You will feel JOY.

You will be living your most delicious life,
one you have created . . . 
and that right there is divine. 

And you will stop the cycle of passing those stories down.
Down to your children,
grandchildren, a friend,
a stranger on the street.

This is the ripple of you knowing you, loving you, living your most delicious life—unapologetically.

Not everyone will dance it out,
loud and proud,
in front of a large crowd
on the tabletop of their life.

And that’s more than alright.

This is your life to live your way.

Simply stop looking to others before you choose how to be.
Be you. This is your opportunity.

My way of celebrating has always been to do so solo . . . 
a giggle caught by my own hand.

Hidden away to warm my heart on a day
when I perhaps wanted to give up.

Yet where is the ability to receive in that?
Lacking  . . . perhaps. 

And something I’ve personally been working on. 

Even in writing these pages as me,
in my voice . . . 
with my story-shares.

Personal.
Perhaps profound.

Open, willing to receive.
From you, my delightful reader.

Not because I need to hear what you have to say.

Not because it feeds my soul to hear you celebrate these pages, these words.

Just as it will not tear me down to hear nothing,
because to me crickets are one of the most beautiful of sounds.

Yet when we liken them to what we hear when no one shows,
we diss mother nature,
we dismiss our own self-worth.

And that for me is a no-go.

I know, in my soul, this book, these pages will impact one. Thus, I have won. 

Yet I am not attached to that outcome. 

Before it’s even released,
before I even finish writing these words.

In fact, my rooted intention as I write is that these words be like a rushing tide of awakening for hundreds, thousands, millions . . . 

The impact felt for decades to come. 

A sweeping across a land,
a soft breeze touching upturned faces. 

Opening the hearts of all who are exposed,
a ripple effect more profound
than that of The Butterfly Effect. 

Yet again, I am not attached to this outcome.
My work is to write, to release, to allow the book room to freely breath. 

The reader the space to enJOY
or pass on by. 

The one who’s ready will sink in and love these pages
or toss them aside,
and either way is fine by me. 

For I am not attached to an external, outside-of-me outcome. 

Hear that and tap into your own knowing. 

My value, my worth does not come from the recognition of my work.

My value, my worth is present
because I take the time daily to own it, celebrate it,
skinny-dip in it with delicious intention. 

My celebration, my ruckus raised, my clucking
is in writing each and every word.

---

If you liked this excerpt from my up and coming book

Create Your Most Delicious Life
Life’s A Bitch (especially now) Make It A JOY.

Get your fine self on my waitlist for more deets and treats.

---

Photo Credit: @danieltuttle

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Staying Stuck or Small Stepping Toward a Dream

Some days, weeks are a study in creativity, in flow.

In all the pieces falling together.

And other weeks, just no. Ever experienced this ebb and flow?

A feeling of being on, then not.

I don’t think this is simply a thang creatives feel.

What if this is life?

A change of seasons, a shifting of the gears.

A rotation of the guards.

If one is forever productive, where is the moment for rest?

The beat to celebrate?

I wrote about learning to truly celebrate listening to hens. And it’s actually an essay in my new book. One of 88, oh how I love numbers.

I wrote about learning to truly celebrate listening to hens. And it’s actually an essay in my new book. One of 88, oh how I love numbers.

[ If you’re not yet on the waitlist, what’s the dealio? Get on now! ]

Want to read that excerpt from my book?
If you're a JOY! Subscriber, you can right now. Or become one.

Either option is a seriously delicious read as the animals they teach me so much.

Like feeling overwhelmed or out of sorts… how to simply shrug it off, let it go. When I sit with a little rescue baby all of that nonsense fades away.

Especially when this happens.

[click on image from my IG account]

play video

Yet, how many mothers tend to have a child on one hip and bemoan the lack of time to dive into their side hustle, their JOY, their dreams.

How many tend to spin in but the job, I can’t possibly write that book now.

Yet, if not now, when?

What is it, in our nature that doesn’t want to sink into the now..? But instead, so deeply believe the happy lies just over there.

Whenever someone steps into overwhelm, I wish I could hand deliver a baby goat like the one who 2x4ed me.

(Her name's Snow White, a name that came so easily)

Because when a baby goat headbutts you, it’s no joke.

And it seriously puts “pay attention to the now, to me” in bold, bright perspective.

But for some a tap from this little princess wouldn’t be enough to shake loose that hold of stubborn overwhelm – is it that ingrained in you it’s become your go-to?

Well, I bet a headbutt from Moo Baah, my big ass, intimidating goat, might change your mind.

Ask yourself today, what’s more important…

Staying stuck or taking one small step at a time toward your dream?

If you don’t even know what you want, I feel your pain.

Swimming in that pond once brought up feelings of shame for me.
I wrote about it here and here and here.

Plus, a three part series on Living Your Most Delicious Life.

Check it out and after you do, if writing is part of your single step plan, consider joining me in my free Facebook Group – Write Your Book Already!

---

When You’re Ready
to Let the Words Bubbling Within Out to Play

This is the safest, most JOYful place to step into and begin.
Absolutely free – right now.

---

Post Photo Credit: JRS

What’s In a Name? A Naming Challenge

So this year has been an eye opening experience. 

And not even due to the pandemic as I simply refuse to give it any more credit for the good and bad of daily life. 

Instead, this year has been a deep-dive into getting to know me. 

Getting up close and personal, uncomfortably so, with who I am and who I desire to be. Of imprinting into my DNA like an inkless stamp that never expires – I am enough. Just as I am. 

This year has been about stepping out from behind my self-imposed shadows and being seen.

And it’s been a doozy. 

See each year I choose a word and that word becomes my focus for how I desire to grow,
change,
open,
become more aware,

be. 

It’s a powerful tradition that I’ve done now for decades and I’m not even sure where I first heard, found, stumbled upon or outright thought up the idea. 

[ I’m all about giving credit where credit is due. High up on my food-chain of values. ]

Well, soon I’ll share more about the massive impact my word for 2021 has had on me, but it may have to wait until it’s a was… 

[ Watch for that word-nugget to come once we ring in the new. ]

But I will share this. 

My word for 2021
was my name.

Jill. 

Just Jill. 

And that’s been so incredibly impactful for me because I’ve literally had to look at all of me. 

See I’ve been a hider-in-plain sight for most of my life.
Ghosting my way though.

Often giggling behind my fisted hand, a secret only I knew.
Yet, also solely in my wins. Easily able to discredit them. 

Often calling it being introverted,
too sensitive,
needing space…

I kept myself back,
distant,
alone
more than connected.

Connection, in more than small doses was hard.
As was receiving love,
which I just wrote words on
which you can also read. 

Which is actually the point of this here must-read. 

What’s in a name?

I’ve this delightful new addition to my farmette.

A little cottage, on a hill, overlooking the sea where I seem to become an enchanted version of Snow White…

All the little creatures coming to me. 

And my latest is a pup, not a goat. I’ve rescued 9 of those to date and am still bottle feeding 5 when not writing words and enJOYing my new nameless treasure. 

We, humans, are so often given a name before we even emerge with a soft or victorious cry. 

We are labeled before we leave the sterile walls by a word or series of words – a name.

One that has meaning.
One we give meaning. 

So one week in, as I sit here pondering names for my new English Bulldog pup, now 16 weeks young, I can’t help but think… What’s in a name? 

Let me toss it out to you as this is me now willing to receive.
A former hider-in-plain sight, stepping out and being seen as me.

Just Jill. 

Names have come to me for all 9 goats. My flock, not herd.

I know, right?
I’m confused as well.
Flock, say what?

Sometimes those names come quick as the rising red-gold sun breaking through the tropical dawn. 

Like Moo Baah my very first baby goat,
who looks like a cow
but sounds like a – 
say it with me now – 
baah!

Sometimes a drip, dip – molasses smooth inching at a wee crawl toward the held-at-ready silver spoon. 

And that seems to be the case with this new right-now snoring under-my-chair one.

A cuddly, sharped tooth bear of a beast who deserves the very best “label” I can provide. 

Because a name does matter, does it not? 

In some cases it sets us apart. Unique.
In others, it raises an eyebrow. Hard to pronounce. 

What’s in a name?

I’m curious to know, as for me, names often circle back around, giving depth and unexpected color. Like the uncommon name uttered when I was eleven that changed my life. A name that has suddenly resurfaced in another and fills me with a shiver. 

I feel the delicious weight of responsibility for each name I bestow on those four legged fur-babies and hoofed beasts I rescue.

Hell, even the gecko who stalks my desk and bookshelf while I write.

What’s in a name?

Such a fun question to ponder and if you have a thought – do tell. 

Leave me a comment, as right now my sole focus is name-debating about this new pup. If you want to play, give it a go in a comment below… 

And if you want to learn more about naming characters, pups or telling a story, join my in my Free Facebook Group

Dare I say it’s delicious!

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When You’re Ready
to Let the Words Bubbling Within Out to Play

This is the safest, most JOYful place to step into and begin.
Absolutely free – right now.

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No one completes me, Jerry Maguire, but me!

I stopped waiting for permission. 

It just happened suddenly. 

Or not so suddenly, as I’m currently in my forties and it’s been a slow build the last decade to get to the point where OMG, I need no one’s permission to live my life. 

To do me.
Be me. 

And it all started with a little cottage on a hill,
where one day there will be secret gardens,
but for now a delicious place that overlooks the sea
where I sit all day and write.

And so I do. 

I stopped asking permission to do what I love to do. 
I stopped hiding it so I wouldn’t have to. 

I started to own all the pieces of me I’ve let fly 
fly away since childhood. 

Since the four harsh walls of someone’s classroom told me to color within a set of lines. 

Hmm, just hell no. 

My strokes are meant to be big, bold, brash at times.
My words are meant to sucker punch you with the feels. 

My tales are meant to engage your hidden spaces … 
encourage you to think outside the box you say you hate yet are oh-so comfortable in. 

Want to know how I know I’m no longer asking for permission to live my life?

To show up daily in utter JOY?

It’s really two-fold. 

First, I’m owning my nicknamed title,
Snow White. 

You know the Disney classic—a girl with dark short hair in a blue dress. Forever in a forest, butterflies and birds a-twirl around her head.
All the little furred, hoofed and pawed friends, at loving attention.  

While my hair is more Viking blonde and recently braided to one side, I do have blue overalls that fit my role as lover of all the little creatures. 

See, I’ve all but started a farmette. 

A French word for a petite farm that I just love. 

So my little cottage is now totally
The Farmette. 

And I love it. 

Rescuing all the little baby goats, some who make it, some who don’t. I’ve currently got nine and five girls still bottle feeding. 

And just this weekend added two baby rabbits to the collection. 

The week before an English Bulldog,
who at the time of me writing these words is still nameless. 

Last month, a kitten who desperately needed a cheeseburger. 
Ah, little Cricket Moss …

I could go on with more rescues both new and old. I mean I do have 9 not-so-baby-anymore rescue goats …

So here I am, a woman who values her freedom, her independence, collecting animals in need without asking the man in my life if it’s okay…

How will I travel?
How can I be free when tied down by all this…
love?

Hmm, rescuing animals brings me so much JOY…
And JOY is my number one way of showing up in this life. 

My default setting.
When I rev my engine first in JOY, all flows freely, smoothly, perfectly.  

When he says he wants me happy …
well, this too we shall see. 

Because, let’s face it, rescuing all the little creatures makes me so bloody happy! 

Which leads me to point two.

I’m calling the shots in my life. 

I’m finally owning up to
what I need,
what I want
and if that doesn’t align with you or yours ….

So be it. 

Walk away.
Turn the station.
Game over. 

Even if that someone is my other half. 

Because honestly, what does that mean?

My other half.
My better half. 

Ppp-lease! 

We need to stop repeating this shit and I’ll start right now. 

No one completes me, Jerry Maguire, but me! 

I am no one’s half.
My ribs are my own. 
[ No disrespect ]

And I stand rooted, firmly, lovingly me. 

To know myself, to own my frequency does not make me a bitch, as some might choose to see. 

It means I have freedom 
of choice. 

And the responsibility to own all the shit I do. 

A choice to live my life as I desire. 
Even if that means, he, you, another won’t like what I have to say or do. 

See I’ve done the people-pleasing route. 
And lost myself in that mix,
feeling so not enough. 

Can’t please them all.
No matter how hard one tries. 

Believe me, it’s like beating yourself black and blue. 

I’ve been the woman in the room,
studied behind a one-way mirror
as I put the puzzle pieces spread before me

together. 

Forever coming up short.

Never questioning the actual game. 
Never doubting the puzzle itself. 

Never believing for one moment it might actually be intentionally flawed. 

Instead, forever casting self-blame. 
Until now. 

That shit is tired, old and done. 

And that puzzle, the one never in question, was at fault all along. 

The point of that there game. 

The one where 99% of women do exactly have done my entire life. 
Until now...

Make it all about me. 
Believe I was in the wrong. 

Yet, when a man puts together that same puzzle, he does not sink into self-doubt. Time and time again, men got to the end and pushed back from the table declaring “something’s wrong with the puzzle.”

And never with he. 

Fascinating, no? 

Well, in this case, I’m pulling up my big girl panties and tapping into my own testosterone. 

My inner knowing of me. 

My new belief that it’s damn skippy straight to live my life exactly how I please. 

I’m living my fucking life my way.
Do or die. 

Because what else is there but regret? 

And that’s a hard pass 
for me. 

What about you?  

If you’re ready to live your own life and no longer seek permission outside yourself, let me know in a comment below. 

And if you want more like this let me know. 

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WHEN YOU’RE READY FOR MORE
apply & get on my calendar

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