Hello there

My inner weather feels clear today.

Last week, I was abundantly aware of how I treat myself.

In ordinary moments… that carried weight.

One of them happened in a parking lot.

I arrived in Denver on Wednesday night, parked the car, and opened the back door. My backpack was there. My duffel was not. I closed the door. Opened it again. Still gone.

The first thing I said to myself was, “You idiot…”

I felt it immediately in my gut and shook my head side to side. At the same time, I could see exactly where I had left it.

Sitting on a table in the hotel breakfast area in Cheyenne. I had set it down while gathering a to-go breakfast, already moving ahead in my mind. 

The next drive.

Coffee with a mentor.

A gathering with books and conversation.

Three back-to-back facilitation sessions with short breaks in between.

I stood there for a moment, replaying it. Setting the bag down. Walking away. Being present… elsewhere.

I closed the car door again and noticed how quickly the judgment arrived. How practiced it felt.

Then something else followed just as quickly.

I moved into fixing it. Not frantically. Just steadily. A text message, a phone call, and a buddy being there for me.

I remember saying out loud, quietly, “Be good to you, JW.”

My body softened. The tightness in my gut eased. That night, I slept well. I knew I had made a mistake. I knew it was being handled. I knew I could move on.

Another moment from the week unfolded in a very different place.

I got to facilitate six sessions for leaders of an incredible, important, no-fail mission. At one point, I invited people to write silently in response to a prompt. Heads down. Pens moving. The room went still.

While they wrote, I breathed deeply. I felt my feet on the floor, gently shifting my weight to sense my position and stay grounded. I scanned the room. And a familiar question passed through me.

Does what I do matter?

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t interrupt. It was persistent.

What surprised me was that it didn’t feel like doubt. 

It felt like care.

There was a sense of responsibility in that quiet. Heavy and energizing at the same time. 

Chosen. 

I watched people write and felt my heart pump. I knew what was coming next in the facilitation, but in that pause, I let the question move through me rather than trying to answer it. 

Then I stepped back into the work.

I’ve noticed that this is often where self-judgment tries to sneak in. Not as criticism of competence, but as a quiet pressure to make something meaningful for other people. 

To not waste the time they’ve given me. To be worthy of the responsibility I keep choosing.

Later, back in the hotel room after a long day with multiple groups, that question wasn’t there anymore. I felt all in. I had given what I had to give. The preparation I carried with me. The attention in the room. The willingness to stay present.

I felt accomplished. I let myself feel proud of the work, without qualifying it. 

As I sit with the last week now, what stands out to me isn’t the forgotten bag or the sessions themselves. It’s the way self-judgment appeared, and how briefly it stayed. 

How easily I returned to care.

That judgmental voice is not new to me. It’s been around for a long time. It still shows up too quickly for my liking. Sometimes, before I even realize it’s there. I don’t experience it as something to defeat. More like something to notice, acknowledge, and then work with.

“The way out is through,” I was taught.

What feels different now is how I respond. I don’t linger in it. I don’t punish myself with it. I recognize it, and then I choose how I talk to myself next.

There’s an emotion underneath all of this that I recognize more clearly now. Responsibility. Not as a burden. Not as performance. As fidelity to the work I’ve chosen and the people I’m with when I do it.

That responsibility has been forming me for a long time. Through teaching.

Through coaching. Through moments when I’ve been present, and moments when I’ve been somewhere else entirely. It’s still shaping me. I don’t feel finished with it.

I think again of that car door. 

Closed. 

Opened. 

Closed again. 

The pause between those movements feels like the heart of the week for me. A small space where I noticed how quickly I judge myself, and how quickly I can return to care.

As I write this, I feel calm. Not resolved. Steady.

I feel clear. I feel ready. I feel called to do big things, and I’m willing to meet them without being hard on myself along the way.

That’s where I’m standing today.

Sending a lot of love your way from Pasadena,

JW

PS: I'll be in COS tomorrow night and Tuesday morning...