Ash Wednesday: The Courage to Look Within
Today’s reflection arrives at a meaningful threshold. Today marks the 100th Chrysalis Constant Contact posting—a quiet milestone that mirrors the spirit of the upcoming Advent season itself. One hundred offerings of reflection, invitation, and presence. Not to impress. Not to accumulate. But to create space—again and again—for honesty, healing, and holy reflection. Like Lent, Chrysalis has never been about having all the answers, but about returning to the inner work that forms us over time.
Ash Wednesday arrives quietly, marked not by fanfare but by ashes—dust traced on foreheads, ancient words whispered: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is a day that invites honesty. Not performance. Not productivity. Honesty.
In Matthew 6, Jesus speaks directly to the temptation to perform our faith for others. He names the subtle ways we seek validation—through generosity that is noticed, prayers that impress, fasting that draws admiration. Again and again, Jesus says: go inward. Pray in secret. Give quietly. Fast without display. Not because these practices are unimportant, but because their power is lost when they become masks.
Ash Wednesday echoes that call. The ashes remind us that beneath every role we play—leader, caregiver, achiever, helper—we are human. Finite. Vulnerable. In mental health language, this is a day that gently disrupts our coping strategies of perfectionism, people-pleasing, and emotional over-functioning. It asks: Who are you when no one is watching? How are you really doing?
Jesus’ invitation to secret practices is not about isolation – it is about integrity. It is about creating space where our inner life can tell the truth. For many of us, especially those accustomed to caring for others, the inner world is often ignored until it demands attention through exhaustion, anxiety, or numbness. Lent begins not with self-improvement but with self-awareness.
When Jesus says, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” he is not issuing a moral threat but offering a diagnostic tool. Our treasure is what we cling to when we feel afraid or depleted. Ash Wednesday invites us to notice what we have been storing up as emotional insurance, and whether it is actually sustaining us.
The ashes do not shame us. They free us. They tell the truth without condemnation – you are limited, and you are loved. You do not have to prove your worth. You do not have to carry everything alone. Lent is not about adding more spiritual tasks; it is about releasing what no longer gives life.
This season begins with a pause, a deep breath, and a willingness to look inward with compassion. In that quiet place, Jesus meets us not with demands, but with grace enough for the journey.
Blessings,
Kelly
Life Is Not Always What We Planned…
Life is not always what we plan – this is a mantra and life wisdom which has proven to be true in my life again and again! In fact, more often than not, the carefully drawn maps we create for our lives are disrupted—by detours we didn’t anticipate, losses we didn’t choose, or invitations we never imagined accepting. From an early age, many of us are taught to equate success with control: set the goal, follow the steps, arrive on time. Yet lived experience tells a more honest and tender story. Life is rarely linear. And sometimes—often, even—it turns out better.
Better doesn’t mean easier. It doesn’t mean pain-free or without disappointment. Better means deeper. It means more expansive, more honest, and more aligned with who we are becoming rather than who we thought we had to be. The plans we make are usually shaped by limited information: what we know at the time, what we’ve been told to value, what feels safe or expected. But growth requires us to outgrow those early frameworks. When plans unravel, something else is given space to emerge—wisdom, resilience, compassion, and a clearer sense of purpose.
Many of the most meaningful moments in life arrive unannounced. A career path changes after an incident or situation forces us to listen to our bodies (I know this one well!). A relationship ends, opening room for healing and ultimately healthier love. A diagnosis reframes what truly matters. A loss cracks us open, and in the breaking, our capacity for empathy expands. These moments are rarely welcomed at first. They can feel like failure, disruption, or even betrayal of the life we were supposed to have. Yet, over time, they often reveal themselves as turning points—thresholds into a more authentic way of living.
There is a spiritual wisdom spoken here. Faith traditions remind us that we are not the sole authors of our stories. There is mystery at work—what some call grace, others call providence, or simply the unfolding of life itself. Letting go of rigid plans is not a sign of weakness – it is an act of trust. Trust that we are being shaped, not just tested. Trust that meaning can be made even from what we did not choose.
Psychologically, this reframing matters. When we cling too tightly to a single version of how life should look, we risk missing the life that is actually happening. Flexibility, curiosity, and self-compassion allow us to adapt and to find goodness even in uncertainty. Research on post-traumatic growth reminds us that while adversity can wound us, it can also strengthen our sense of self, deepen relationships, and clarify values. Not because suffering is good—but because humans are remarkably capable of growth.
Life is not always what we plan – And thank God for that! Some of the best gifts come disguised as interruptions. Some of the most faithful steps forward are taken only after the old path disappears. When we look back, we may realize that the life we’re living now—shaped by detours and surprises—is richer, more honest, and more meaningful than the one we originally imagined. Sometimes, better doesn’t look like the plan – It looks like grace.
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When Plans Change
Most of us are planners—whether we admit it or not. We sketch out timelines, set intentions, imagine how the story will unfold. Even when we hold those plans lightly, they give us a sense of direction, control, and hope. Plans tell us who we think we are and where we believe we are headed.
And then… plans change.
Sometimes the shift is dramatic and sudden—a diagnosis, a loss, a call we never expected, a door that closes without warning. Other times, the change is quieter: a slow realization that what once fit no longer does, that the path we’re on is misaligned, or that the dream we were chasing has gently but firmly evolved.
The week of January 25th, I had a plan. I was scheduled to leave Albuquerque early Wednesday morning to attend a conference where I would be speaking about clergy mental health and the work of Chrysalis. I was excited, prepared, and packed. And then plans changed. The day before my departure, I had a diagnostic mammogram that indicated an issue. Instead of getting on a plane Wednesday morning, I had a biopsy. By Friday, I received the results: an intraductal papilloma—a noncancerous tumor. While surgery is still ahead to have it removed, the news itself brought relief. Enough relief, in fact, that I took myself out for a celebratory coffee and a cookie!
When plans change, it can feel deeply disorienting. In these moments, our instinct is often to rush toward resolution: What’s next? How do I fix this? How do I get back on track? But perhaps the invitation is not to rush, but to pause. To sit with the discomfort. To acknowledge the disappointment, the fear, the anger—or even the unexpected relief—that can surface when plans fall apart.
Scripture is full of people whose lives did not unfold according to plan. Moses did not plan to lead a people through the wilderness. Ruth did not plan to leave her homeland. Peter did not plan to deny Jesus—or to become the rock on which the church would be built. Again and again, God seems to work not through perfectly executed plans, but through open hearts willing to respond when plans change.
There is a difference between having no direction and being open to redirection. When plans change, we are often invited to loosen our grip—on certainty, on control, on the belief that we know exactly how the story should go. With time and perspective, many of us can look back and see that the unplanned detours shaped us in ways our original plans never could. They expanded our compassion, clarified our values, and deepened our trust—not because the disruption was easy, but because we stayed present to it.
When plans change, it doesn’t mean we have failed. It may mean we are being formed. The question is not whether our plans will change—they will—but whether we can remain open, curious, and grounded when they do. Sometimes the truest path forward only becomes visible after the map we were following no longer applies. And sometimes, grace meets us not at our intended destination, but in the quiet pause—coffee and cookie in hand—where we realize we are still held, still guided, and still very much on the journey.
Blessings to you in the unplanned…
Kelly
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Finding Our Collective Voice
In recent weeks and months, the steady stream of headlines has felt relentless and left us breathless. Communities fractured by violence, policies that disproportionately harm the most vulnerable, and the quiet and systematic erosion of dignity that seems to have embedded itself in our day-to-day. For many of us, the weight of it all is suffocating. We feel the pull to stay informed and the temptation to turn away. Somewhere between outrage and numbness, our voices tremble.
And yet, this is precisely the moment when finding our voice matters most.
Justice is rarely advanced by a single, heroic voice. More often, it emerges when ordinary people choose to speak together—naming what is happening, refusing silence, and insisting that the suffering we witness is not inevitable or acceptable. Finding our voice in times like these is less about having the perfect words and more about refusing to let harm go unchallenged.
Too often, silence is framed as neutrality or wisdom. But perpetual silence, especially in the face of injustice, has a way of aligning itself with what some have deemed the status quo. When communities are targeted, when systems fail to protect the vulnerable, when truth is distorted or erased, choosing not to speak is still a choice. Advocacy invites us to examine whose voices are missing—and why.
Finding a collective voice requires humility. It asks us to listen deeply to those most affected by injustice, rather than rushing to speak over or for them. It challenges us to recognize how our own comfort, privilege, or fear may keep us quiet. Collective advocacy is not about centering ourselves – it is about standing in solidarity and amplifying the voices that are too often dismissed or ignored.
Faith traditions remind us that justice is not abstract. It is embodied, relational, and deeply human. The prophets spoke not only as individuals, but as part of a larger movement calling people back to covenant, compassion, and accountability. Jesus did not confront injustice alone – he gathered a community shaped by shared values, shared risk, and shared hope.
Finding our collective voice does not require uniformity. We will not all speak in the same way or from the same place. Some will write, some will march, some will organize, some will offer care and healing where harm has already been done. What matters is that we resist isolation and choose connection—that we remember our voices carry more power when joined with others.
In times of deep division and ongoing injustice, advocacy becomes an outpouring of faith. It is a declaration that suffering is not invisible, that dignity is non-negotiable, and that hope is sustained not by silence, but by shared courage. When we find our voice together, we participate in the sacred work of justice—trusting that collective truth-telling can still bend the world toward healing.
Blessings to you on this collective journey,
Kelly
Photo Credit: TheSceneABQ
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The Value–Action Gap
This past week, I had the privilege of spending time with a group of clergy from across the United States—TX, AZ, CA, NY, FL, NM, KS, MI, WI, OK, and MT. During our time together, we talked about alignment: the alignment of who we are, where we come from, the stories that shape us, and how we move toward a fuller, more integrated sense of self. We talked about value—how values guide us best when we are grounded and living in alignment with them.
Most of us know what we value. We can name it quickly—health, faith, family, justice, rest, integrity, compassion. These values show up in mission statements, sermons, presentations, strategic plans, and even our social media bios. And yet, if we’re honest, our daily choices don’t always reflect them. That space between what we say matters and how we actually live is known as the value–action gap.
The value–action gap isn’t about hypocrisy or bad intentions. More often, it’s about being human. We live in a world of constant demands, limited energy, and competing priorities. Even deeply held values can be crowded out by urgency, exhaustion, or fear. We value rest, but reward busyness. We value relationships, yet overbook our calendars. We value wellbeing, but postpone care until we’re already depleted.
In caregiving professions, this gap can widen quickly. We preach grace while practicing self-criticism. We encourage boundaries while ignoring our own. We advocate for wholeness while quietly accepting burnout as the cost of faithfulness. Over time, the gap becomes not just uncomfortable, but unsustainable.
What makes the value–action gap especially tricky is that it often hides in plain sight. We don’t abandon our values—we defer them. We tell ourselves, When things slow down… When this season ends… When the needs aren’t so urgent… But seasons have a way of overlapping, and the pause we’re waiting for rarely arrives.
Bridging the value–action gap doesn’t require dramatic life overhauls. It begins with awareness and small, intentional shifts. Instead of asking, What do I value? a more honest question might be, What do my choices reveal that I value right now? This question isn’t meant to shame us; it’s meant to ground us in reality.
From there, we can begin to experiment with alignment. If we value connection, what is one relationship we can nurture this week? If we value rest, what is one boundary we can honor today? If we value justice or compassion, where can we take a concrete, sustainable step instead of carrying the weight of everything?
Values become real not through intention alone, but through repeated action—however small. Each aligned choice narrows the gap just a little, reminding us that integrity is not perfection, but practice. Closing the value–action gap is less about trying harder and more about living more honestly. When our actions begin to echo our values, we experience not just consistency, but peace—the quiet relief of living from the inside out.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Kelly
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Keeping the Soul Ajar
There is a difference between leaving the metaphoric door wide open and keeping it ajar. An open door can feel exposed, vulnerable to every passing force. A closed door can provide a feeling of safety, but is sealed tight. Keeping the soul ajar, however, is an act of quiet courage—a deliberate choice to remain receptive without becoming overwhelmed.
Life has a way of teaching us to shut doors. Disappointment, grief, betrayal, exhaustion—each experience can whisper the same message: protect yourself. And often, that instinct is wise. Boundaries matter. Rest matters. Healing requires shelter. Yet when protection hardens into closure, something vital is lost. The soul, when sealed too tightly, forgets how to breathe.
Keeping the soul ajar means allowing small openings for wonder, compassion, and possibility. It is not a demand for constant optimism or spiritual bravado. It is a gentle posture that says, I am still willing to be moved. It acknowledges that while pain has shaped us, it does not get the final word.
This posture shows up in subtle ways. It looks like listening when someone shares their story, even if it stirs our own. It looks like praying with honesty instead of polish – naming both hope and doubt in the same breath. It looks like allowing beauty to interrupt us – a piece of music, a line of poetry, laughter at an unexpected moment.
Keeping the soul ajar also means resisting the urge to rush toward certainty. We often crave answers that will close the door on discomfort once and for all. But faith, growth, and healing are rarely that tidy. An ajar soul makes room for questions without insisting on immediate resolution. It trusts that meaning can emerge over time.
There is tenderness in this way of living. To keep the soul ajar is to accept that we may feel again—deeply, honestly, even painfully. Yet it is also how we experience connection. Love cannot enter a locked room – Neither can grace – Neither can joy.
In a world that rewards armor and applause for self-sufficiency, keeping the soul ajar is a countercultural practice. It is a refusal to become numb. It is choosing presence over protection, curiosity over cynicism. Not because the world is always safe, but because our souls are resilient enough to risk opening, even a little.
Perhaps the invitation today is not to fling the door open or to slam it shut, but simply to loosen the latch. To let in a breath of fresh air. To trust that what enters may heal more than it harms.
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Life Is Not Always What We Planned…
Life is not always what we plan – this is a mantra and life wisdom which has proven to be true in my life again and again! In fact, more often than not, the carefully drawn maps we create for our lives are disrupted—by detours we didn’t anticipate, losses we didn’t choose, or invitations we never imagined accepting. From an early age, many of us are taught to equate success with control: set the goal, follow the steps, arrive on time. Yet lived experience tells a more honest and tender story. Life is rarely linear. And sometimes—often, even—it turns out better.
Better doesn’t mean easier. It doesn’t mean pain-free or without disappointment. Better means deeper. It means more expansive, more honest, and more aligned with who we are becoming rather than who we thought we had to be. The plans we make are usually shaped by limited information: what we know at the time, what we’ve been told to value, what feels safe or expected. But growth requires us to outgrow those early frameworks. When plans unravel, something else is given space to emerge—wisdom, resilience, compassion, and a clearer sense of purpose.
Many of the most meaningful moments in life arrive unannounced. A career path changes after an incident or situation forces us to listen to our bodies (I know this one well!). A relationship ends, opening room for healing and ultimately healthier love. A diagnosis reframes what truly matters. A loss cracks us open, and in the breaking, our capacity for empathy expands. These moments are rarely welcomed at first. They can feel like failure, disruption, or even betrayal of the life we were supposed to have. Yet, over time, they often reveal themselves as turning points—thresholds into a more authentic way of living.
There is a spiritual wisdom spoken here. Faith traditions remind us that we are not the sole authors of our stories. There is mystery at work—what some call grace, others call providence, or simply the unfolding of life itself. Letting go of rigid plans is not a sign of weakness – it is an act of trust. Trust that we are being shaped, not just tested. Trust that meaning can be made even from what we did not choose.
Psychologically, this reframing matters. When we cling too tightly to a single version of how life should look, we risk missing the life that is actually happening. Flexibility, curiosity, and self-compassion allow us to adapt and to find goodness even in uncertainty. Research on post-traumatic growth reminds us that while adversity can wound us, it can also strengthen our sense of self, deepen relationships, and clarify values. Not because suffering is good—but because humans are remarkably capable of growth.
Life is not always what we plan – And thank God for that! Some of the best gifts come disguised as interruptions. Some of the most faithful steps forward are taken only after the old path disappears. When we look back, we may realize that the life we’re living now—shaped by detours and surprises—is richer, more honest, and more meaningful than the one we originally imagined. Sometimes, better doesn’t look like the plan – It looks like grace.
Learn More
It’s a Wrap! – 2025 Year in Review
As 2025 comes to a close, we pause to reflect with deep gratitude on a year shaped by rest, renewal, and faithful presence. At Chrysalis Counseling for Clergy, our work is rooted in a simple but vital truth: those who care for others also deserve care. This year, that commitment continued to take shape in meaningful and measurable ways.
Rest & Renewal Retreats remained a cornerstone of our ministry. In 2025, 36 clergy participated in Sea and Land Retreats, creating space to step away from constant demands and reconnect with body, mind, and spirit. Since Chrysalis’ inception in 2019, we have now served a total of 205 individual clergy members through these retreat experiences—each one a reminder that rest is not a luxury, but a spiritual necessity.
We also expanded access to care through telemental health services. This year, 156 telemental health sessions were completed, offering confidential, compassionate support to clergy navigating burnout, transition, grief, and the emotional complexities of ministry. These sessions often meet clergy in the quiet spaces where healing begins—one conversation at a time.
Community and accountability continue to be essential for sustainable ministry.
Chrysalis provided constant care for 8 clergy who participated in Clergy Covenant Groups, bringing our total to 41 clergy served through these ongoing, trust-centered communities. Covenant groups provide space for honesty, mutual support, and shared wisdom—reminding clergy they do not have to walk alone.
And let us not forget that 32 mental health therapists received Continuing Education Units (CEUs) through Chrysalis knowledge and skill-based workshops. By equipping therapists with deeper understanding of clergy culture and vocational stress, we help ensure that clergy across the country receive informed, compassionate mental health care.
As we wrap up 2025, these numbers tell a story of impact—but more importantly, they represent real lives, real rest, and real moments of renewal. We are profoundly grateful to our supporters, partners, and participants who make this work possible.
Thank you for journeying with us! We look ahead with hope, trusting that the work of care, healing, and renewal will continue to unfold in the year to come.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC, CEAP
Executive Director
If you feel called to support this work, we invite you to make a year-end or ongoing donation through our website: www.ChrysalisCounselingForClergy.org
Your generosity directly supports clergy rest, mental health care, and sustainable ministry. Thank you for being part of this journey of healing and hope as we look toward the year ahead.
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’Tis the Season!
Lessons in Gratitude for a New Year
’Tis the season—of lists and lights, endings and beginnings. A season when the calendar tells us one thing is ending and another is about to begin, even if our hearts are still catching up.
Gratitude often shows up this time of year as something we are supposed to feel. We are encouraged to name blessings, count joys, and move quickly toward optimism. But real gratitude is rarely rushed. It is quieter than celebration and deeper than positivity. True gratitude requires us to pause long enough to notice what has shaped us.
As a therapist and ordained pastor, I have learned that gratitude does not deny pain; it tells the truth about it. Gratitude acknowledges that some seasons stretched us beyond what felt comfortable or fair, and still, something meaningful was formed within us. It allows us to say, This mattered, regardless of the circumstances.
As we approach a new year, gratitude invites reflection rather than resolution. Instead of asking, What should I change? we might ask, What carried me? Instead of focusing only on what is ahead, we honor what brought us here.
Perhaps gratitude looks like naming the relationships that held us steady—friends who listened, family who stayed, colleagues who showed up when we were tired. Perhaps it looks like honoring growth we did not choose but gained nonetheless: stronger boundaries, deeper compassion, or a clearer sense of purpose.
Gratitude also helps us release what no longer fits. When we give thanks, we loosen our grip on resentment and regret—not because those feelings were wrong, but because they have already taught us what they could. Gratitude allows us to move forward lighter, not by forgetting, but by integrating.
In the Christian tradition, gratitude is not just an emotion; it is a practice. It is a way of paying attention to grace—often prevenient, sometimes surprising, always present. Even now. Especially now.
As the new year approaches, you might consider a simple practice:
- Light a candle and name three moments from the past year that shaped you.
- Gently release one thing you are no longer meant to carry into the new year.
- Offer gratitude for one hope you are carrying forward.
’Tis the season—not just to celebrate, but to reflect. To look back with honesty, to look ahead with humility, and to step into the new year grounded in gratitude—not because everything was easy, but because grace met us along the way.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC, CEAP
Executive Director
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Advent 4
For the next several weeks, we welcome guest writers from the Chrysalis Board of Directors as they share their thoughts and perspectives from the Gospel writers during this Season of Advent. Enjoy!
There is a moment in every life of faith when circumstances cause words to rise from deep within the soul — not in the form of doctrine or duty, but from the heart as a song. For Mary, like many of us, that song comes at the threshold of uncertainty. Her body carries both promise and risk. Her future is unclear. And yet, when she speaks in Luke 1:46b-55, what pours out is not fear or calculation, but worship:
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”
The Magnificat is more than poetry. It is embodied resilience. It is what it sounds like when a person dares to hold both the weight of the world and the wonder of God at the same time.
As a chaplain and a therapist, I hear echoes of Mary’s voice every week — sometimes trembling, sometimes weary, but always reaching toward faith in the midst of emotional complexity.
For clergy, that complexity is often intensified. We live in the tension between divine calling and human fragility. There is the anxiety of holding another’s pain while neglecting our own, the exhaustion of continuing to show up when the soul feels quiet or even numb, and the guilt that arises when we acknowledge our need for rest, space, or care — even as others still need us.
In the therapy room, I often invite clients to practice “holding two things.” It is a form of dual-attention awareness that allows a memory, image, feeling, or bodily sensation from an earlier experience to be held alongside present-moment awareness — with the assurance that right now, you are safe, grounded, and here.
In a way, Mary’s song gives us permission to hold two things at once. It invites us to pause long enough to notice what is happening within us and to speak honestly about it. Mary does not minimize the fear or uncertainty she faces; she tells the truth about her situation while anchoring herself in what God has revealed about God’s own faithfulness. In doing so, Mary’s song gives us permission to slow down and speak honestly about both the weight of what we are carrying and the hope God is stirring within us.
Mary does not minimize her reality — she magnifies God. There is a difference. Minimizing denies emotion. Magnifying integrates it. Her soul does not shrink around the struggle; it expands around the presence of God in the middle of it.
Mary’s song grows not out of certainty, but out of trust formed by grace in the middle of uncertainty.
In the language of trauma-informed care, we might describe this as regulation through connection — a re-centering of the nervous system through relationship, meaning, and presence. In theological language, we call it incarnation — God choosing to dwell in human vulnerability.
Mary speaks in verbs of action and remembrance. God has looked upon the humble. God has done great things. Mercy moves from generation to generation. The proud are scattered. The lowly are lifted. The hungry are filled. The language is not abstract. It is concrete, embodied, and relational. God’s mercy is not imagined, it is remembered and named.
The Magnificat is not a song sung after everything has been resolved; it is a song for the present moment. Mary names what God has done and what God is still doing in the midst of the unfolding. Her praise is rooted in trust, not certainty. Her faith does not wait for clarity; it responds to presence.
For those of us navigating emotional fatigue, compassion burnout, or grief in ministry, Mary’s posture becomes a quiet roadmap. Before her song ever changed the world, it changed her. It restored her sense of belonging and purpose. The Magnificat begins in solitude and moves toward solidarity — “He has helped his servant Israel.” The journey from isolation to belonging is itself an act of healing.
Perhaps the invitation this Advent is to let your own soul find its Magnificat — not a perfect song, but an honest one. Could you ask yourself: “what is my soul magnifying these days — fear, obligation, weariness?” And when you name that, is there still room to hold what you know to be true about God?
Advent reminds us that faith is not spoken after everything is resolved, but from within it. Mary’s song rises before the future is secure, naming trust even while the way ahead remains uncertain. In therapy, we call this integration. In faith, we call it surrender. In both, it is holy.
For Reflection
Set aside ten minutes this week to write your own Magnificat.
Begin with the words, “My soul magnifies…”
Do not edit. Do not correct. Let it be prayer, lament, gratitude — whatever your soul is carrying.
Prayer
May this be your prayer as you “hold two things” in this season: God who magnifies mercy in the midst of fear,
teach me to sing again.
When my heart is tired,
remind me that worship can also be a form of healing.
May my soul magnify You — not by denying my pain,
but by discovering Your presence within it.
And in every trembling “yes,”
birth something holy through me again.
Amen.
With gratitude for your faithfulness and grace for the season ahead,
Rev. Chaplain (MAJ) Brandon Johnson, LMFT
Board Member
