“If your everyday practice is open to all your emotions, to all the people you meet, to all the situations you encounter, without closing down, trusting that you can do that – then that will take you as far as you can go.”—Pema Chödrön
In the middle of nowhere NV, on my route back to CO from CA
November 2nd, 2026
📍House of Loto—Salida, Colorado, USA 🇺🇸
Greetings from the wilderness!
Imagine a raft of sea otters floating together in the ocean, their bodies gently drifting and swirling around one another. Sometimes holding on, sometimes letting go, but somehow remaining connected. That's about the closest I can come to describing one of my favorite experiences from this past weekend.
Thirty-six human beings, floating together in warm water, moving in and out of one another's space. Sometimes we were dancing together; sometimes we were simply allowing the water to carry us. There was laughter, playfulness, tenderness, and this incredible sense of freedom. I loved it!
And what made the experience even more remarkable was realizing how much had shifted in me to be able to enjoy it. Because just a few days earlier, during our first time in the water, I was having a very different experience.
Every time my body brushed against someone else's, I instinctively pulled away. Oh! Sorry! I didn't mean to touch you.
I was so conscious of respecting everyone else's personal space that I hadn't quite figured out how to comfortably share my own.
And there I was, at a touch-positive retreat devoted to aquatic dance, surrounded by people who had gathered specifically to explore connection through movement and consensual platonic touch. The irony wasn't lost on me—It was one of the reasons I was there.
sunset in the NV desert on my way home
Over the last six years of deep healing, I've become increasingly comfortable showing up in the fullness of who I am. Dancing, singing, creating, expressing myself, allowing myself to be seen. I don't have much trouble taking up space on my own these days.
But as I reflected on my initial instinct to pull away, I began to recognize something familiar.
In my past, I've had experiences where my consent wasn't sought, where physical boundaries were crossed without my permission. Those traumatic experiences brought me face-to-face with something I'd begun recognizing in myself: a deeply ingrained protective response, sometimes called fawning—a tendency to accommodate others or make myself smaller when I feel unsafe.
Rather than speaking the no I feel in my body, I sometimes withdraw, accommodate, or go quiet.
And I want to be clear about something. The responsibility for crossing a boundary belongs to the person who crosses it, whether or not someone manages to speak up. And I also began recognizing a pattern in myself that I wanted to change.
Since the incident in San Miguel in 2024, I've been learning how to honor my body’s no. Not just intellectually. Not just after the fact, when I had time to process what happened. I've been learning to recognize it in my body. To trust it. To express it.
And perhaps most importantly, I've rediscovered what it feels like to remain open without abandoning myself in the process.
Spencer Hot Springs in NV
One of the most beautiful aspects of this aquatic dance retreat was the intentionality around consent. We didn't simply discuss boundaries and agree to respect them. We practiced.
In the water, there were clearly established spaces for those who welcomed touch and those who preferred not to be touched. We learned to communicate through movement, gesture, and the gentle language of our bodies.
A person could move toward connection or away from it. A non-sexual hand could be welcomed or redirected. Someone could change their mind at any moment. And none of that had to mean rejection. It simply meant we were listening to one another.
The more familiar I became with the people around me, and the more I trusted the agreements we had made together, the more my body began to relax. I stopped apologizing every time I brushed against another person. I began allowing myself to experience the simple pleasure of human connection without attaching an expectation to it.
One of my favorite practices involved wearing a blindfold, surrendering the need to know exactly who was beside me and allowing myself to experience the water, movement, and non-sexual connection through my other senses.
There was something extraordinary about discovering that I could be fully present in my body, open to connection, and still have boundaries.
I didn't have to choose between openness and safety. In fact, the safety of the container was precisely what made that openness possible.
Shameless
But there was another discovery waiting for me. I began to recognize how thirsty I was for human touch, especially since my ex-husband and I separated two years ago.
Human touch, not as a means to an end, not with an expectation of what might come next, but simply for the pleasure of connection itself.
A hug. A cuddle. The warmth of another human being. And so I started asking for a "drink."
One evening, before returning to my very cold truck (where I was camping), I turned to a couple of people and announced that I needed a really good hug or cuddle.
And they welcomed me with open arms. Not reluctantly. Not out of obligation. Enthusiastically. They wanted that human connection, too.
And oh, how good that felt.
My mini bubbler named “Penelope Bush Baby”
Over the following days, I continued practicing asking for what I wanted, discovering again and again the joy of being met by people who genuinely wanted to share those experiences. What made it so beautiful wasn't simply that my desire for connection was being met. It was that the pleasure was mutual.
There was no need to convince someone to give me something they didn't want to give. No need to interpret their response as a reflection of my worth. We were simply two (or three or four) human beings choosing to share a moment of non-sexual connection.
My no was honored. And my yes was received with enthusiasm. And because the same was true for the people around me, our connection became stronger.
My nervous system was rediscovering that consent doesn't diminish intimacy. It creates the conditions for intimacy to flourish.
This Pendleton poncho is one of the best clothing investments that I have made
As I've continued reflecting on this experience on the long drive back from California, another layer has begun to emerge.
What does it mean to be fully ourselves while remaining deeply connected to others?
How do we celebrate our differences without turning them into comparison or competition?
How do we remain connected without losing ourselves?
These aren't questions I've finished answering. But floating in that great raft of human beings, I experienced something that felt like a glimpse of an answer. We were distinct bodies, each with our own boundaries, preferences, and freedom to choose. And yet we were moving together, participating in something none of us could have created alone.
No one needed to become smaller for someone else to be fully present. We could move toward one another and away from one another without losing the connection. We could give and receive, lead and follow, hold on and let go.
There was room for all of us.
And perhaps that's one of the most beautiful expressions of oneness I've experienced. Not the erasure of individuality, but the freedom to be fully ourselves in relationship with one another.
Sunset at Spencer Hot Spring
Almost exactly a year ago, standing at the Grand Canyon, the word Freedom began taking shape as my word for 2026.
I've spent much of this year exploring what I wanted freedom from—Freedom from fear. From perfectionism. From limiting beliefs. From old patterns of thinking that have kept me separated from my Self, from others, and from the fullness of a deeply fulfilling life.
In doing so, I also realized that I needed to focus on what all this freedom was for. Because freedom isn't simply about what we're leaving behind. It's also about how we choose to live out of that freedom.
And during this retreat, I began sensing the word that will guide me into 2027: Liberated. Not liberation as some distant destination I hope to reach. Liberated. As in, I am free now.
There's something about the past tense of that word that feels significant to me. Freedom has been a process of recognizing, releasing, and reclaiming. Liberated feels like an invitation to live from what has already been reclaimed.
I don't yet know all that this word will reveal. I'm already curious about where liberation is something we accomplish, where it's something we receive, and where it emerges through participation and co-creation.
I have a whole year ahead to explore those questions. But for now, I have a sense of what embodied freedom feels like—being able to ask for what I want without shame. Trusting my body when it says no. Receiving another person's yes with delight, and honoring their no without interpreting it as rejection.
It feels like being fully myself while making room for someone else to be fully themselves. And perhaps most of all, it feels like remaining open.
One of the wild burros at Spencer Hot Spring
I've been sitting with this idea of openness since returning from California. Because I've learned how easily disappointment, rejection, fear, and hurt can tempt us to close ourselves off. To withdraw. To become smaller. To protect ourselves by allowing less of Life to reach us.
And sometimes, withdrawing is exactly what we need. Boundaries matter. Rest matters. Safety matters.
But I'm discovering that I don't have to close my heart to honor my boundaries. I can remain open without making myself available to everything. I can welcome connection without demanding that it be reciprocated. I can honor another person's freedom without abandoning my own.
And I can continue participating in the beautiful, unpredictable dance of being human. That's the freedom I want to embody.
Not a life without boundaries, vulnerability, or the possibility of disappointment. But a life in which I trust myself enough to remain open to love, connection, pleasure, and all the beautiful things that become possible when we meet one another freely.
My no matters. My full-bodied yes matters. And so does yours.
And when those choices are honored, something extraordinary becomes possible. We don't have to shrink or compete for space. We can be fully ourselves, together.
Over the past two years, I’ve been discovering what it means to live this way. To remain open, even when life doesn't unfold as I'd hoped. To trust myself, honor my boundaries, and continue welcoming all that Life has to offer.
And as I step into this next chapter of my love affair with Life, I keep returning to two beautifully simple words.
Stay open.
With love, unconditionally—
Jennifer
P.S.—To my fellow aquatic dancers: If you're reading this, thank you. From the depths of my heart, thank you for the beautiful gift of your presence, your openness, your playfulness, and your willingness to explore alongside me.
What we experienced in the water wasn't something any one of us could have created alone. We co-created a space where we could practice trust, honor one another's boundaries, and delight in the simple joy of being human together.
Each of you contributed to making that possible, and I hope you know how deeply meaningful this experience was for me. I carry a little piece of our floating otter raft with me now, and I hope you do, too.
Thank you for reminding me what it feels like to stay open. I can't wait to dance with you again.
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