Why are Questions so Threatening?
Jennie and Ryan explore why questions can feel so threatening, how they unsettle inherited beliefs and relationships, and what trust, curiosity, and safety make possible when we become open to change.
The Man Against the Wall
We had been given just enough information to become furious and nowhere near enough information to understand what we were furious about. Looking back, I wonder if that night was one of the first cracks.
Learning to Live the Questions
What happens when certainty stops working? In our first episode of On Unfolding, we talk about the questions that have followed us through faith, marriage,
One Wild Life
There was something healing about it. To let joy stay joy and freedom feel alive even when sadness brushed against it. To look out the window in awe without demanding that everything inside me be settled first.
Thirteen
At thirteen, I knew how to be respectful. I knew how to listen to adults. I knew not to cause a scene. What I didn’t know was that fear could be enough. That I didn’t need permission to pull away. That my body was allowed to know something before I had words for it.
Weightless
I was a good swimmer. I knew how to keep myself above water. But somewhere along the way, I had learned that being good meant carrying a weight that was never mine to begin with.
Permission
As a child, I disappeared into stories where girls were loud, curious, brave, and fully alive. It took me years to realize I wasn’t escaping into someone else’s life. I was catching glimpses of my own.
Interpretation
After the Zoom window disappeared, the words from the conversation followed me down the stairs. Somewhere between the black screen and the kitchen, I could no longer tell which judgments had been spoken aloud—and which ones I had been carrying for years.
Undertone
We don't all learn the same first language. Some of us grow up speaking words. Others grow up speaking subtext.
Yellow Tulips
I don't remember much from that season. Trauma has a way of stealing the details. But I remember the yellow tulips. I remember the woman who stood on my porch and silently reminded me that I wasn't alone. This is that story.