Welcome
Welcome back to Letters from the Body, my space for reflections on love, intimacy, and humanness, the tender edges of becoming, the places where we wrestle with the unknown, and the practices that help us return home to ourselves.
This month, I’ve been thinking about control, how tightly I grip it when life feels uncertain, and what happens when I finally let go.
It all started with a snake.
The Encounter
I was on the phone with my therapist when I saw it…a flash of motion at the edge of the patio.
A snake slithering from the concrete into the shed.
Initially I froze. My stomach clenched. Then curiosity crept in, the kind that makes you want to lean closer even though every instinct says don’t move.
I’ve been taking my therapy calls outside lately because Colorado’s been giving us the most gorgeous, drawn-out fall, longer than any I’ve experienced since moving to Boulder in 2019.
The snake appeared at the exact moment I had asked my therapist for practices to “tie a bow on autumn.”
Autumn, the luteal of the seasons. A time of completion. A time to tie up loose ends, slow down, and listen for what’s closing.
This week, a lot of the thorn-in-my-side things; the adulting, paperwork, bureaucratic, shitty side-of-capitalism things, finally came to completion.
On Control & The Black Hole
When life makes me feel out of control, I can’t always see why it’s happening, let alone find the beauty in it. The truth is, I’ve felt under-resourced for so long I forgot what being resourced even feels like.
And when I’m under-resourced, my M.O. is to do everything myself. I don’t “waste time” asking for help because I assume it’ll take longer to explain than to just do it. Classic control pattern.
But the dust is finally starting to settle, and I can feel myself coming back to presence.
Lately, I’ve also noticed this tendency, a persnickety little reflex, to try and make choices before they even need to be made. As if by staying one step ahead, I can outwit uncertainty.
My grandpa used to always say, “Sometimes I have to stop and remember I’m not the general manager of the universe.”
I think about that line a lot lately.
A dear sister recently told me I was being Dom’d by life, and that I was resisting it. That I needed to stop fighting and remember how to surrender.
She’s not wrong…
When I’m free-falling through a lack-of-control black hole, drowning in documents, instead of letting it take me, I grip harder to the pen I’m signing with, to the illusion of order, to the faint familiar smell of ease, like my life depends on it.
I can’t possibly find comfort in the unknown.
And in doing so, I’ve developed this terrible habit of being anywhere but where I am. Constantly trying to solve unsolvable problems, as if I’m back in chemistry class, banging my head against the table without ever raising my hand.
The Medicine of Shedding
Now, sitting here on what feels like the beginning of being on “the other side,” I keep thinking about the snake.
The snake, a symbol of rebirth. She sheds her skin only to emerge raw and vulnerable, new and alive, before her next layer of protection grows in.
Ted Andrews, in Animal Speak, calls the snake a “universal symbol of the exploration of the mysteries of life.”
Today, she reminds me to get deliciously intimate with that mystery.
To me, the mystery is all about letting go of control.
Letting myself be driven by life instead of trying to backseat-drive the universe. (How annoying for life!)
Andrews also says the snake is fire medicine, the medicine of transmutation. The symbol of transformation and healing.
She’s carved into the Caduceus, the symbol of modern medicine, reminding me that I’m changing and healing on a deeper level than I can see. That I have to allow the transformation if I want to heal.
When snakes don’t shed their skin properly, it’s called retained shed, a dangerous condition that can make them blind, infected, or even kill them. They have to release the old to stay alive.
So do we.
We can’t stay the same. It’s impossible. Our discomfort with change just delays the natural unfolding of transformation.
Instead of gripping the wheel, I have to unclench, breathe, and look around long enough to notice that life’s still happening, even when I’m not steering it. That’s where healing begins.
The Life / Death / Life Cycle
The snake must shed her skin to survive, death and rebirth, again and again.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés, in Women Who Run With the Wolves, calls this the life / death / life cycle, the wild, natural rhythm of all things that must die in order to keep living. The snake knows this. She doesn’t resist the decay; she leans into it.
Not only must I surrender control, I must be willing to let go of what once was. To release the expectations of what I thought things should look like.
Only when I let the past truly die can I be reborn, emerging into a world more beautiful than I ever thought possible.
It’s the hero’s journey: to let the story be interesting, messy, even catastrophic. To let old versions of reality decompose into fertile soil.
That’s the compost where rebirth grows.
For me, rebirth feels like the moment I finally take responsibility for my life. When I move out of victimhood and into that holy-fuck realization that every scar, every detour, every speed bump was perfectly placed. Every one built the scar tissue I needed to see the magic of life…
well fuck, at least they make a hell of a story!
Cosmic Consciousness
“The snake is cosmic consciousness — the ability to experience all things without resistance, and the knowledge that all things are equal in creation.”
Could it be any clearer?
Like the Borg said: Resistance is futile.
So here I am, trying to stop resisting my most cherished Dom, the mystery of life itself. Holding the snake in my awareness as my North Star of cosmic consciousness.
If all things are equal in creation, then everything becomes subjective. The part of me allergic to right and wrong, good and evil, loves that ethos. It’s innately tantric, divinity in everything.
The holiness of a subway rat is no less sacred than that of a church pastor.
A radical, gorgeous notion. A compass for unconditional love.
A Season of Transition
“It signals a great transition in life through new opportunities and changes.”
And so I sit back in the mystery-car of life, watching this turbulent season unfold:
A time when I unexpectedly moved in with my partner during a big transition for his kids, sparked by my house flood. A time that gifted us a low-stakes trial run of living together before finding a new home.
A time when uncomfortable shifts at work cracked open more space for my creativity to flow.
A time when chapters finally closed so new pages could begin.
What a fucking gift.
Thank you, snake, for your fire medicine, for reminding me that surrender is essential, that control is a myth, and that every skin I shed increases my ability to experience the magic of life.
Reflection Prompt
Where are you still gripping the wheel instead of letting life drive?
What skin is asking to be shed before winter?
Offerings & Invitations
As I write about surrender, I keep thinking about how we orient to cycles, personal, seasonal, lunar. The snake teaches us to shed what’s complete; the moon teaches us how to live that rhythm every month.
Align with the Rhythms of Nature
If you’re craving a way to slow down and reconnect with nature’s pulse, check out the 2026 Moon Calendar, a project I’m proud to support.
Lovingly created by a circle of women from around the world, the Moon Calendar helps you organize life around the moon’s cycles rather than the artificial pace of the Gregorian month. Each “moon-th” invites reflection through original art, journaling prompts, astrological insights, and space to track your own cycles and intentions.
The 2026 theme is Ancestry, and proceeds support an incredible project bringing the traditional Maya Calendar back to Yucatán schools, teaching children how to live in harmony with the Sun, Moon, and Stars.
Together, we’re remembering what it means to live in rhythm with sacred time.
Brave Boundaries: a Class for Teen Girls
This Sunday, I’ll be teaching my first ever class for teenagers with Hey Birdie: Brave Boundaries, an embodied consent workshop for 15- to 16-year-old girls.
It’s always been a dream of mine to bring this work to teens, to give young women language for their boundaries, tools for self-trust, and a felt sense of safety in their own bodies. I’m thrilled (and honestly a little emotional) to see this dream becoming real.
If you have kids, nieces, students, or other young humans in your life who could benefit from learning embodied consent, I’d love to hear how I can support them.
Closing
As we edge toward winter, may you find the courage to loosen your grip, the softness to let what’s dying fall away, and the trust to believe that every ending is just another beginning.
May we all keep shedding, together.
With love & truth,
Jade