NAKEDJEN

Category: Heartwork

  • Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

    (or why my nausea finally makes sense)

    Yesterday, I did one of the hardest things I’ve done in a long time.
    I walked into the clinic where I have poured more than a decade of my life—my heart, my care, my precision, my sparkle—and I walked out for the last time.

    Just me. My bag. My dignity.
    And Clyde waiting for me at home like the good boy he is.

    I left my keys.
    I left a thank you note.
    And I left behind every single one of my crystals—my crystals, the ones that have been tucked gently in spaces there and through a thousand seasons of patients and stories and healing and heartbreak.

    But those crystals were humming with the clinic’s energy now, not mine.
    They vibrated with all the unspoken tension and the gaslighting and the quiet “it’s not you, it’s me” nonsense that became the soundtrack of too many broken promises.
    They weren’t mine anymore.

    I walked out without them.
    A conscious uncoupling from quartz.

    Here’s the part that feels like a cosmic joke: I had nausea before I went.
    The kind where you feel like your throat is closing and your stomach is in a fist and your body is whispering:

    “We don’t belong here anymore.”

    My body knew.
    It always knows.

    By the time I returned the keys, I felt everything—
    the heartbreak, the betrayal, the relief, the exhaustion, the “finally.”

    And then this morning—because the Universe has the comedic timing of a drunk circus clown—I got a text from the clinic upstairs.

    They were confused. People were showing up for a Tai Chi class that wasn’t happening at the clinic—because why would it be? It’s happening at the new qigong school.
    And they didn’t have my boss’s number.
    OF COURSE THEY DIDN’T.

    They texted me, because even without me there, I’m still the one who fixes everything. The one who knows. The one with the answers.

    I had to tell them, “I don’t work there anymore.”
    And then, because I’m me, I gently guided the lost Tai Chi humans to the correct location.
    Because kindness costs nothing and I refuse to abandon confused people in a parking lot.

    But I didn’t forward anything to him.
    Not my problem.
    Not my circus.
    Not my qigong monkeys.

    My professor joked this morning that he’s waiting for the inevitable front-page New York Times feature, because, well… the last time a man blindsided me and walked out, it did end up splashed across the national news.

    But this? No.
    He doesn’t get that kind of press.
    He doesn’t get a think piece.
    He doesn’t get a photo.
    He doesn’t get my rage or my heartbreak or my spotlight.

    He gets… silence.

    The same silence he gave me.

    What he does get is a tiny footnote in the book of my life:
    a bad-juju boyfriend I should have broken up with earlier,
    a lesson in boundaries I clearly needed,
    and the reminder that when the Universe wants you out, it will make you sick to your stomach until you listen.

    So here I am.
    Waking up today without keys, without crystals, without the weight of a place that could not hold me.
    My nausea is gone.
    My anxiety is quiet.
    Clyde snored on my feet all night in full approval.

    I know this much now:
    I didn’t lose anything.
    I got my freedom back.
    This is the messy, painful, holy part of the story where the door closes so loudly you jump…
    and then realize you’re already walking toward the door that’s opening.

    I’m okay.
    Better than okay.
    I’m free.

    xo,
    nakedjen

  • Come See Me In The Good Light

    Come See Me In The Good Light

    Before Sundance officially cracked open this year, those of us who volunteer were ushered into a whisper-level pre-festival screening. A special showing. A quiet gathering in the dark. The kind that makes you feel like the universe nudged you in early on purpose.

    The film was Come See Me In the Good Light, directed with exquisite tenderness by Ryan White, anchored by Andrea Gibson and their life partner, Megan Falley.

    From the very first moments, something inside my ribcage shifted. I held my breath through the entire film. Even while simultaneously laughing and crying. When the lights came up, I turned to my sister—still stunned and breathless—and said,
    “This is the most transformative documentary I’ve ever experienced. A gift. Ten stars. This film will change people.”

    A few days later, at the official Sundance premiere, the room rose in a standing ovation that felt like a wave with no shoreline. The entire film team was there, filling the theatre with a kind of love and presence usually reserved for sacred spaces. It was electric and gentle all at once—poetry in the shape of applause. Andrea sharing a poem right off the of their head. Pure light and magic.

    Then they came to my green room.

    All of them.

    Andrea. Meg. Ryan. Tig. The whole magnificent constellation that shaped this film.

    I tried to be my usual Sundance faerie self, the one who’s seen it all for 25 years and floats around like it’s no big deal. But let’s be honest:
    I was NOT cool.
    Not for one second.
    I was a happy, messy, overjoyed fangirl puddle.
    I hugged everyone twice.
    I spoke too many feelings and used way too many words.
    I told them the truth:
    “I’ve been at Sundance for 25 years. I have seen hundreds of first screenings. This film changed the shape of my heart. You need to know that.
    You also need to believe me when I tell you, right now, that it will also save lives and win all the awards. Thank you for sharing every bit of both of you with all of us.”

    They were kind. Gentle. Human. We laughed. We shared. We breathed the same gratitude-filled air.

    And then—my favorite Sundance moment of all—
    they all came back.

    Later in the week, the whole team quietly returned to my theatre to sneak into another film together. Not their own. Someone else’s. Not for applause. Not for press. Not for spotlight.

    Just to be people again.
    To sit in the dark with strangers.
    To watch a movie like regular festival-goers, shoulder-to-shoulder, no fanfare required.

    And I helped them do it.

    I tucked them into that anonymity.
    Found them a path in the chaos.
    Gave them the dignity of being unseen, while knowing—
    they were deeply, reverently SEEN.
    Not by cameras.
    Not by crowds.
    But by community.
    By Sundance itself, which always saves a quiet corner for the artists who give us so much of their hearts.

    That—right there—is the heartbeat and essence of Come See Me In The Good Light.
    The sacred act of being witnessed.
    The tenderness of being ordinary.
    The courage of showing up exactly as you are.
    And the miracle of having someone love you through it.

    Ryan White’s direction allows Andrea’s language to land where it always lands—inside you—and Meg’s love to hold the shape of the whole film. It is a portrait of devotion, mortality, artistry, partnership, and the radical act of telling the truth beautifully.

    If you do nothing else this week, please:
    watch this film on Apple TV.
    Let it remind you that love is brave, art is necessary, and being human together is still the point.

    Ten stars.
    Every single one glowing.

    xo,
    nakedjen

  • Orange and Pink Skies

    Orange and Pink Skies

    Yesterday I walked Clyde down to the Coffee Garden. Late afternoon, sweatshirt weather, solid EDM beats in my ears. Not exercise—just a wander for my heart and my dog.

    What we weren’t expecting was to find Lil Salty behind the counter. I skipped the line, leaned in close, and whispered,
“Hey—will you make me a chai? Clyde’s waiting outside.”

    He grinned like a Cheshire cat, asked about the new chai, confirmed hot with oat milk (always), and slid the cup across like it was a secret handshake.
Then he ducked out from behind the counter to where his girlfriend sat, and the afternoon turned into a small, golden love-fest on the sidewalk. Clyde lapped up every bit of attention while I traded easy chatter before heading back up the hill.

    It wasn’t a workout. It wasn’t even really a walk.
Just a stroll under an orange-pink sky that looked like the world was blushing for us.

    Lately the skies have been wild—solar flares, auroras, Mercury being her usual Retrobabe self.
I can feel the static of it all in my bones.
And if I’m honest, that same energy sometimes slips into a low hum of sadness.
The kind that whispers, stay home, close the curtains, disappear for a bit.

    But I know better.
What I need isn’t isolation—it’s communion.
People. Eye contact. Shared laughter over chai foam. A reminder that connection is the medicine.

    So here’s my tiny revolution for this retrograde season:
one human connection every day.


    A walk, a hello, a message, a small act that breaks the seal between me and the world.


    To hand someone a sandwich instead of just filling a fridge.


    To look someone in the eyes and remember that only love can fill the empty cups.

    The skies are flaring, the planets are misbehaving, and I’m still here—heart open, dog at my side, hands ready to give something warm away.

    Only love can fill.
And I intend to keep pouring.

    ❦