Between Chapters
IN THIS LESSON
"You do not have to be the same person you were in the room where it started."
— Jedidiah Jenkins
Coming home for the summer can feel… complicated.
You’ve grown in ways that maybe no one at home saw happening. You’ve stretched, softened, questioned, become — and now, you’re back in a space that might still expect the version of you who left months ago. And even if you love your family, even if you’re glad to be back — it’s okay if this return still feels disorienting.
You are not doing it wrong if there’s tension between who you’ve become and who you used to be.
This chapter is a space to acknowledge the strange, in-between world of returning: to the bedroom you once called yours, the routines that feel both familiar and foreign, the people who may not see how much you've changed. We’ll explore what it looks like to stay connected to your growth, even in places that might not recognize it.
You’ll reflect on what it means to carry yourself home — to bring with you the strength, softness, curiosity, and courage that has taken root in you, even if no one else names it.
Because your growth is real. And it’s yours to keep.
Let’s hold space for that together.
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Where do I feel tension between who I was and who I am now?
Where do I feel most like myself this summer?
Where do I feel most tempted to hide, shrink, or edit who I am?
What would it look like to stay connected to who I’ve become, even in a space that feels familiar and foreign all at once?
What qualities, strengths, or truths about myself do I want to carry into these spaces
A Blessing for the One Returning Home
May you enter this season with tenderness,
knowing that it’s okay to feel the ache
of being both new and known
in a place that hasn’t seen all of your becoming.
May you honor the parts of you that rise up here—
the quiet one, the helper, the peacemaker, the rebel—
and greet them not with shame,
but with understanding.
You are not going backwards.
You are simply remembering who you’ve been
while holding who you are now.
May your voice stay steady,
even if it quivers.
May your boundaries hold firm,
even in rooms where they once bent.
May your presence speak louder than any explanation.
And when you feel the pull to shrink,
may you take a deep breath,
place a hand on your heart,
and return to your center.
You do not have to prove your growth.
You do not have to explain your becoming.
You are allowed to take up space
as the whole of who you are.
This summer, may you carry home within you—
not as a place to return to,
but as a truth you live from.