Still here. Now writing from Amsterdam.

Some of you may have noticed my silence over the past year. Life moved fast — and intentionally.

In December, my family relocated to the Netherlands. Five months in, we received our residency cards this week. The kids are thriving. And I am more grounded in this vocation than I have ever been.

Living here has clarified something for me.

After years inside systems built on urgency, fear, and performance — systems that told me what to believe, who to be, and what faithfulness required — I needed to find out what remained when all of that fell away.

What I found wasn't emptiness. It was something older. Quieter. More honest.

That's the work I want to do with you.

The Greenhouse Collective

I want to name something before I go further, because I think it deserves to be named.

Before we left, Parker and I were building the Greenhouse Collective — a nonprofit oriented around the values that have always driven this work: community, healing, sustainable life, and care for one another. It was real. It had roots. And after the election, as the infrastructure around us began to unravel with a speed that felt almost incomprehensible, we had to make the painful decision to put it on hold.

That grief is still with me. The vision isn't gone — but the ground shifted beneath it, and we had to be honest about that.

I say this because I think a lot of us are carrying a version of this grief right now. The loss not just of what was, but of what we were in the middle of building. The projects, the communities, the futures we had mapped out — interrupted by forces larger than any of us anticipated. That's a particular kind of loss, and it deserves acknowledgment.

For those of us in deconstruction — this is for you.

Maybe you grew up in the church and something broke. Maybe it was gradual — a slow erosion of trust — or maybe it was sudden and shattering. Maybe you experienced spiritual abuse, religious trauma, or simply woke up one day and realized the framework you'd been handed no longer fit the person you were becoming.

And now you're sitting with questions that feel almost too large to hold:

What does it mean to be a Christian — if I even am one anymore?

What does it mean to be an American, when the country I believed in looks unrecognizable?

What does faith even mean, when everything I built it on has shifted?

These aren't questions to be answered quickly. They're questions to be accompanied.

Brian McLaren writes about a kind of faith that doesn't require you to check your doubts at the door — a faith that can hold deconstruction not as failure, but as deepening. I believe that. I've lived it.

But I also know that the path through is rarely walked alone. And that spiritual direction — real accompaniment — isn't about giving you answers. It's about helping you reconnect with the truest thing in you. That inner knowing. That design spark. The self that was present before the institution got hold of it.

Whether you stay Christian, find something new, or simply need to grieve what was — you deserve a companion for that journey.

I want to be clear about something: this work is not exclusively for Christians, or for people with any particular religious background at all.

I work with people across the full spectrum — Christians navigating deconstruction, people who have left faith entirely, atheists and agnostics doing the quiet work of meaning-making, Buddhists, spiritual-but-not-religious seekers, and those who simply don't have a category for what they are right now. What matters isn't where you land theologically. What matters is that you're doing the honest, interior work — and that you want company for it.

I'm opening space for new directees. Sessions are held online and in person.

This work is especially for those navigating:

• Religious deconstruction and spiritual trauma

• Loss of faith community or institutional belonging

• Questions of identity at the intersection of faith, culture, and politics

• The slow, honest work of rebuilding from the inside out — whatever that looks like for you

• 
  

If something here landed — reach out. I'd be honored to walk with you.

More soon on new offerings and what this work looks like in practice.