A reflection from the Center for Nature and Leadership’s Courageous Conversation with Dr. Jennifer Simpson
Life is messy. And sometimes, it’s not just messy — it’s a full-on tsunami.
That’s the word Dr. Jennifer Simpson used to describe the year that took nearly everything: her business, her marriage, her home, her professional identity — all within a matter of months. When she joined us for our April Courageous Conversation, she didn’t come with a polished recovery story. She came as someone still in the middle of it, willing to be honest about what falling apart actually looks like — and what helped her find her footing again.
What happened in that virtual room was something we don’t always expect from a speaker series. It became a healing space.
You Are Not the Only One
Almost as soon as Jennifer began sharing, something shifted in the group. She invited everyone to name their own disruptions — the moments that knocked them off course. And the responses came quickly.
“Cancer, divorce, assault, addiction, child’s mental illness, getting fired,” Jennifer read aloud from the chat. “People have lost children, parents, jobs they thought were secure forever, career paths they thought were their calling.”
There was something quietly powerful about that moment — the simple act of naming it together. No one had to perform resilience. No one had to pretend the hard things hadn’t happened. The room held it all.
That’s what we’re trying to create at the Center for Nature and Leadership. Not a space where we have the answers, but a space where the questions are safe to ask out loud.
What Helps When Everything Falls Apart
Jennifer was generous in sharing what actually got her through — not as prescription, but as an honest accounting of what helped one person in one particular storm.
Nature was central. She took a ten-day pilgrimage through sacred sites in France. She spent six days in total silence on a solo in Baja, Mexico — alone with the sea, the sky, and whatever she had carried with her. “I cannot tell you what that does for your nervous system,” she said. “Many people never have that experience in their entire lives.”
She journaled — eventually crossing one million words. She deepened her meditation practice. She followed what she called “the glimmers” — the small sparks of aliveness that pointed toward the next right thing, even when the larger picture was unclear.
And she leaned on community. “It’s really hard to do this alone,” she said simply.
That’s not a throwaway line. It’s the whole thing. The nervous system regulation that helps us move through fear and grief — it happens faster, more completely, in the presence of others who aren’t afraid to be with us in it.
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
One of the most generative threads of the conversation was about story — specifically, the stories we use to make sense of our hardest moments.
Jennifer has been developing what she calls “story sculpting”: an invitation to examine the language we use to narrate our lives, and to ask how those stories open or close the futures available to us. The hero’s journey is one template, but it’s not the only one. Our lives can also be understood as spirals, as webs, as cycles and seasons.
“I truly believe that the stories we tell directly impact the futures we have available to live,” she said. “If we can’t imagine the future, we can’t realize it.”
This isn’t about toxic positivity or forcing a silver lining onto genuine pain. It’s about recognizing that the frame we put around an experience shapes what we can do with it. The wave that knocks us down can also be surfed — but only if we stop fighting it long enough to feel how it moves.
What the Room Made Together
One of the most moving moments of the conversation wasn’t a single insight — it was the way the group held each other near the end.
Participant after participant reflected not just on what they’d heard, but on what they were carrying. Someone named the bravery it takes just to get up in the morning when things are hard. Someone else spoke about being caught “in the hallway” — the in-between space where the old has ended and the new hasn’t arrived yet. Another talked about how the storm, in nature, is actually what clears the air.
Jennifer closed with an image that felt earned: “The surfer doesn’t ride the wave well because it’s the perfect wave. The surfer rides the wave well because they’ve learned to be present with the wave that arrives.”
That’s the invitation. Not to have a perfect life, or a perfect response to an imperfect one — but to practice showing up for whatever actually comes.
An Invitation for What’s Next
We believe this kind of conversation — honest, embodied, held in community — is exactly what our retreats are made for.
Imagine having this space not on a screen, but in person. In nature. With time to breathe, to walk, to sit in silence, to share a meal and a story. With enough spaciousness that the hard things can surface, be witnessed, and begin to move.
That’s what we’re building at the Center for Nature and Leadership. And we want you in it.
If Jennifer’s story moved something in you — if you recognized your own tsunami in hers, or felt the relief of knowing you’re not alone in the mess of this moment — we’d love for you to be part of what comes next. Whether that’s our upcoming Community Gathering on April 29th, our Courageous Conversation with Nancy Henjum on May 9th, or a future retreat, there is a place for you here.
Learn more and join our community at our website. Membership starts at $5/month. If this conversation was valuable to you, a one-time donation helps us keep creating spaces like this one.
Art Credit: Phil Lewis
