I was walking around my kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hand when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the rosebush outside was moving. I walked over to the back door and realized it was violently shaking — the whole bush moving like something inside it was fighting for its life.
I looked closer, and there was a Blue Jay, tearing it apart.
I’d found the nest a while before that morning — a beautiful, soft-looking little pouch made of moss, twigs, and spiderwebs, mostly green. It was woven so perfectly onto one of the branches of the rosebush that leaves naturally hid the entrance. All you could see was the sock shape itself. I took a few pictures. Then I decided I wanted to find out what kind of nest it was, and I learned it was most likely a Bushtit nest. I was totally thrilled — I’d even seen pictures online of what the babies would look like, these tiny, fluffy, ping-pong-ball-sized puffs — so adorable. I started watching that nest each day. When I watered my rose garden, I was careful to keep the water away from it. I was waiting for that precious moment when I’d get to see the little babies leave the nest. I never got the chance.
My husband ran out back to scare the Jay off. When he got closer, he found a bird that wasn’t alive — he couldn’t tell if it was one of the parents or one of the babies. There was no other sign of life. We both knew, without saying it, that scaring off the Jay wasn’t going to stop anything. It wasn’t afraid of us. It would be back. It was smart.
I felt immediately sick to my stomach. My heart was breaking for that little family — and for the babies I’d been hoping to watch leave that nest one day. Afterwards, the researcher in me kicked in, and I wanted to know why Blue Jays do this — mostly because I needed somewhere to put my helplessness. And that day, I held both of them in my heart — the Bushtits who lost everything in an instant, and the Jay who was only doing exactly what it was designed to do, naturally.
That morning was months ago.
Then early this morning, upon waking, I took note that — oh, I’m on day five of a coffee cleanse. It was then that the memory came back to me full circle. That morning, months ago, I’d been having my coffee just as I normally would, walking around the kitchen, when everything came apart with that nest. The same coffee I was now choosing not to have.
Because here’s what I didn’t see at the time: I am the Jay now. I am the one shaking my own rosebush, on purpose, shredding something that’s been quietly built into my morning routine for decades. And, absolutely, it doesn’t feel gentle from the inside. Some days it feels exactly like that violent shaking — my whole system being rattled, not clear on what will still be standing by the end of the day. However, in my heart, I know to keep moving forward.
I remembered something else in that moment from a Tai Chi class I took with Tess. She talked about how dogs naturally shake things off because they know, on a level deeper than thought, not to carry what they no longer need. In my mind, it’s simply their way of honoring themselves and remaining healthy.
It turns out it’s not just a dog thing. Bears do it. Horses do it. Even some birds do it. It’s a whole-body shake-off — after something stressful or activating, not just after getting wet from a bath, but after a scare, a hard encounter, too much excitement to hold. Something in that animal’s nervous system knows to rid itself of what it just went through, right then, on the spot, rather than carrying it forward into the next moment. And then it can move on — to run, to play, to nap, to really smell the roses — in a way that shows the moment is completed. There’s no lingering. Nothing left behind.
I’m not sure about you, but I don’t do this naturally. I believe most of us don’t. We learn along the way that holding on, analyzing, reliving, reviewing the shredding is part of the process. But it’s actually what keeps us carrying it in our bodies. We may carry it in our shoulders, our lower back, our stomachs, even our hearts — anywhere in our bodies, because it really does live in our nervous systems. We're wiring it in without realizing it. But in the moment, if we simply chose to shake it off, we could relieve our bodies of burdens carried for far too long.
But here's what I know in my own body — and I know it deeper than I know almost anything else: one of the greatest pains in life isn't the shredding. It's allowing the disconnection from our own truth — the wisdom within us, the knowing that can rebuild anything. Left unchecked, it's what creates true harm. Everything else — the Jay, the withdrawal, the days that rattle us — is simply the weather, the natural order of things, moving through a beautiful system built to withstand it naturally.
I think that's part of why building She Returns, even on the hardest days, fills me up more than a cup of coffee ever could. I'm birthing something brand new, entirely from my wisdom within — and the process gives back to me, the same way that little sock of a nest gave back to the Jay, even after it was shredded. It was woven with intention, and even torn apart, it still served its purpose. When I feel shredded or unsure, I can pause and see it as a signpost — signaling me to keep moving, to share more of what's true, not less. Trusting that this creative process will reach another woman in some positive way is enough to make my heart smile. The same way I'm learning to be at peace with watching that nest come apart — my heart crushed in the moment, knowing it was simply part of the natural process, and that everything was going to unfold perfectly.
The Bushtits, if they survived, are rebuilding somewhere right now — camouflaged, patient, doing exactly what they’re designed to do. The Jay will do what it’s designed to do too. Neither of them is wrong. They’re just both fully themselves.
I’m learning to let myself be fully expanded in the shredded moments too. Not perfect. Not finished. Just shaking it off, the way animals do, and returning — again — to what I know is true.
What has your body been carrying, long after the moments of shredding have passed?
And what would it look like to let your body lead the way — and ask your mind to simply move out of the way?