This week, the Sourciverse did not whisper. It assembled decades of my life into a single landscape and said: Look. Look at where I came from. Look at who I was. Look at what I survived. Look at what I built. Look at who I became. And most importantly: Look at who I already am.
The Week I Discovered Jencraft. This week began with too much. Too much grief. Too much responsibility. Too many truths. Too many things requiring something from me while I was already carrying more than I had ever carried before. I am grieving and I am happy. I am profoundly capable and profoundly tired. I can carry enormous responsibility and still wish someone would carry something for me. I am deeply independent and still desire care. I can know exactly who I am while sometimes only being able to access pieces of myself. I have become practiced at Triality—at holding apparently contradictory truths without requiring one to defeat the other. But this week, there were so many truths that even my trembling hand struggled to contain them. Because this wasn’t ordinary overwhelm. The problem wasn’t that my tools had stopped working. I needed different tools.
The Week I Learned to Govern My Energy. This week, I changed a number. For years, the folders on my computer reflected an order I understood without thinking much about it: 1 — Purple Gen | 2 — Tax Form Gals… This week, I quietly reversed them. There was no ceremony. No existential crisis. No declaration about what Purple Gen means or whether I will return to it. The order simply wasn’t true anymore. So I changed it. Something in my gravity has shifted. Tax Form Gals is where my attention belongs right now. It is where my leadership, creativity, care, and stewardship are being called. Purple Gen can fade into the background without disappearing. Nothing has to be permanent to be true. And right now, this is true.
This week began in the familiar landscape of grief. Monday, I worked from home and was able to get things done. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday brought me back to the office—to the busyness, the questions, the conversations with Sarah and Dawn, the lawyers and insurance agents and accountants, the decisions that seem to multiply faster than I can make them. And Patty’s empty chair. And some days, that fact is its own weather. The office still drains me. There is so much to hold there: grief and leadership, friendship and responsibility, memory and future. The overwhelm I felt so acutely last week did not simply disappear. But somewhere in the middle of this week, something changed.
The Weather Changes, But I Remain. This week, I learned something about consistency. I showed up. There were days when closing the blinds and staying in bed sounded infinitely better than participating in my own life. Everything felt slow. My body and mind seemed to be moving through thick slime. Grief sat heavily in my chest while responsibility loomed overhead. And still, I showed up.
There are weeks that build mountains. There are weeks that teach rivers. And then there are weeks that ask only one thing of us: Can you remain yourself while you wait? This week was that week. It began with a poem that arrived before I fully understood why it needed to be written…
This was a week so dense that Monday felt like another lifetime by the time Sunday arrived. Perhaps that is the nature of this season. Each morning seems to uncover another layer. Another challenge. Another emotion. Another opportunity to use what I know—not to discover some entirely new version of myself, but to embody the woman I have already become. Some days hurt. Some days are filled with ridiculous amounts of joy. Some days I lead. Some days I grieve. Some days I simply do my best to make it through.
But beneath every day, something has changed: I no longer have to wonder whether I can meet my life. I know who will meet it. Me.
There are weeks that ask us to endure. There are weeks that ask us to become. And then, every so often, there is a week that simply asks us to inhabit everything we have already become. This was that week. Just one week earlier, I stood at the edge of profound grief, preparing to lose someone who has shaped the course of my life. The sadness was real. It still is. But this week taught me something equally true: Grief does not disappear when joy arrives. It simply rests for a while as life reminds us why we continue walking. And life was generous.
There are weeks that move quickly, and there are weeks that seem to exist outside of time. This was the latter. It was a week where past, present, and future converged—not in collision, but in quiet, unmistakable convergence. The week began with creation. The Business Universe expanded into something far greater than strategy or planning. It revealed itself as a philosophy of stewardship, a living framework for creating the conditions where people and systems can flourish. What once felt like a business tool now feels like a reflection of who I have become. At the same time, life asked me to walk into one of the hardest moments I have ever faced.
Some weeks ask us to climb. Others ask us to carry. This week asked me to carry. It was a week woven with grief, brain fog, uncertainty, and the quiet ache of watching someone I love prepare to leave this world. Helping Patty walk out of the office—perhaps for the final time—felt like watching an entire chapter of my life slowly close behind her. There are no words that fully describe the weight of standing beside someone who has entrusted you with their legacy while knowing the time remaining is painfully short. I felt scattered. Fragmented. As though each day dissolved into the next without enough clarity to gather myself between them. And yet…In the middle of the heaviness, I chose to step outside of my familiar walls.