Soul Lessons From God: The Grace of Fortitude
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Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
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Fortitude: When the Eagles Turn
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Owl Wakes, Wolf Howls
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Owl Wakes, Wolf Howls
Fortitude: The Hawks Freedom
Fortitude: Bella & the Lost Nest
Fortitude: Owl Wakes, Wolf Howls
Grace of Fortitude: When the Eagles Turn
When Sovereignty, Tenderness, and Communion Meet You in Transition
The Week That Wouldn’t Let Up
This week began under the weight of everything I’ve been carrying — the toxic people who drain me daily, the possibility of something new that could change everything, the looming decisions about a potential move, the stress of preparing to sell my home, and the uncertainty of whether my business is simply in a slow season or slipping through my fingers.
It has been a season of exhaustion, the kind that doesn’t just sit on the surface but settles deep into the bones, making even the smallest tasks feel heavy and the simplest decisions feel monumental. I’ve been stretched thin in every direction, trying to hold myself together while navigating a life that feels like it’s shifting under my feet.
And yet, in the middle of all that strain, the natural world kept meeting me with moments that felt intentional, almost orchestrated — as if God was stitching together a lesson through feathers, fur, and quiet glances. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle, steady, and persistent, arriving in the exact moments when I felt most worn. I didn’t realize at first that these encounters were connected, but by the end of the week, the thread was unmistakable.
The Loss That Opened the Week
Last weekend, I carried an injured goose from Fairmount to Greenwood Wildlife Rehabilitation. She was alone under a tree, freezing and struggling, and even though I knew her prognosis was guarded — especially after the seizure — I couldn’t leave her there. Geese are profoundly social animals; they live, travel, and grieve in community. To see her alone in subzero temperatures, separated from her flock, was heartbreaking. That is no way for any creature to leave this earth.
She passed that night from avian flu, and while I was sad, I was grateful she didn’t die alone. I was grateful she died warm, witnessed, and held by people who cared. That experience left a tenderness in me, a kind of emotional rawness that lingered into the week. It softened me in a way I didn’t fully understand at the time.
I didn’t realize then that this moment — this act of compassion — would become the emotional backdrop for everything that followed, shaping the way I saw each encounter and the way each encounter saw me.
Monday — Bluff Lake and the Eagle Who Survived
On Monday, I went to Bluff Lake and saw her — the female eagle who once nested with FSV44, the male who died last year from electrocution. I recognized her instantly. Her streaking was still visible, which surprised me, but it was her seriousness, her posture, her presence that confirmed it.
She looked worn, her tail feathers dirty and frayed, as if the year had carved itself into her body. There was a gravity to her, a quiet resilience that felt familiar. She looked like someone who had survived something — not untouched, but unbroken.
She kept turning to look at me. Not startled. Not threatened. Just aware. Present. Acknowledging. There was something in her gaze that felt steadying, almost grounding, as if she were meeting me exactly where I was — tired, stretched thin, and trying to hold myself together.
I told her I missed him too, that I hoped she would find a mate this year, even though the nest they had started was weak and worn thin. She stayed longer than eagles usually do, perched above the frozen creek, breathing through the sudden warmth of the day. It felt like a meeting, not a sighting — a moment of recognition between two beings who had both been through more than they expected, both carrying the marks of a hard year.
Fortitude: The Eagle & The Deer Family
Wednesday — The New Nest and the Eagle Who Watched Me Back
On Wednesday, the day I met new people that could potentially change my life, I stopped by the new southern nest and met the female there for the first time. She was far away, perched high, but no matter where I moved, she kept turning to look at me.
It wasn’t agitation — it was awareness. A steady, quiet acknowledgment that felt strangely grounding on a day when my nerves were stretched thin and my mind was spinning with possibilities and fears. Her gaze held a kind of clarity, as if she saw something in me, I couldn’t quite see in myself — a steadiness beneath the anxiety, a strength beneath the exhaustion.
There was something almost symbolic about seeing her on that particular day, a day that could shift the trajectory of my life. It felt like a reminder that even in moments of uncertainty, I am still seen, still held, still guided. Her presence lingered with me long after I left, a quiet echo of sovereignty on a day when I felt anything but sovereign.
Thursday — Star K Ranch, the Eagle, and the Deer Family
The next day at Star K Ranch, it happened again. The eagle perched in the tree kept looking back at me, repeatedly, with the same steady presence I had felt all week. There was a rhythm to it — she would look out over the landscape, then turn back toward me, as if checking in, as if acknowledging my presence in a way that felt intentional.
By this point, the pattern was undeniable. Three eagles in three days, all turning to look at me with the same quiet awareness. It felt like a thread being pulled through the week, stitching each moment into something larger.
And then, for the first time, I saw a family of deer — six of them — standing together in the winter light. The mother leaned into one of her young, grooming and comforting with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. They watched me without fear, without urgency, simply existing in a moment of quiet connection.
It was the softest thing I had seen in a long time, a reminder that not all strength looks like sovereignty. Sometimes it looks like nurture. Sometimes it looks like gentleness. Sometimes it looks like a mother leaning into her child in the cold, offering warmth in a world that can be harsh.
The deer brought a different kind of lesson — one of tenderness, of emotional grounding, of the quiet power of care. It balanced the intensity of the eagles, softening the edges of the week.
Friday — The St. Vrain Chorus and the Eagle Who Looked Back
Friday night, I noted that the St. Vrain eagle cam had finally came back online. At first, all I could do was listen — the geese were loud and constant in the background, their calls rising and falling like a winter chorus. Even without seeing them, the sound alone felt grounding, a reminder of continuity and community, of the way life keeps moving even when I feel stuck.
But then, for the first time this season, I saw the female eagle appeared at the nest. She stood there in the fading light, steady and alert, and even though I knew she was simply facing the camera, it felt like she was looking directly at me — the same way the other eagles had all week. It was the same quiet acknowledgment, the same presence, the same sense of being seen in a moment when I needed it most.
Through a screen, across distance, in the middle of everything else, that look felt connected to the entire thread of the week. Their presence felt grounding, as if the world was reminding me that I’m not alone in any of this.
Fortitude: The Geese at Fairmount Cemetery
Saturday — The Geese at Fairmount
And then Saturday, at Fairmount — exactly one week after the lone, sick goose I carried to Greenwood — the geese returned in numbers I rarely see midday. Usually they gather in the evening, but today they were everywhere. At least a hundred of them were spread across plots 110 and 111, moving in perfect lines, flying in sync, talking to each other with that familiar, comforting cadence that always feels like home.
They crossed the roads in long, orderly formations, following one another with a sense of unity that felt almost ceremonial. Their wings beat in rhythm, their calls echoed across the cemetery, and everywhere I looked, there were flocks — alive, connected, thriving.
Seeing so many together, exactly one week after losing one, felt deeply meaningful. It wasn’t about replacing the loss. It was about balancing it. It was about remembering that life continues, that the flock continues, that community holds its own kind of wisdom.
The geese reminded me that even when one soul leaves, the larger rhythm remains — a rhythm of movement, connection, and belonging. It felt like a closing note to the week, a final reminder that I am part of something larger than my stress, larger than my decisions, larger than my exhaustion.
The Soul Lesson — Grace of Fortitude
When I look back at this week, I can see the thread clearly. Every encounter — the worn eagle who survived a brutal year, the southern female who watched me with steady awareness, the Star K ranch eagle who kept turning back, the deer family offering tenderness, the geese gathering in joyful communion — reflected something I needed to understand.
This wasn’t a week of reassurance.
It was a week of recognition.
The eagles showed me sovereignty that doesn’t require perfection — the kind that stands even when worn.
The deer showed me tenderness in the midst of exhaustion.
The geese showed me continuity, belonging, and the quiet strength of community.
Together, they formed a lesson I didn’t know I needed:
Fortitude isn’t about being strong.
It’s about continuing with grace when you feel anything but strong.
It’s about being seen when you feel invisible.
It’s about being acknowledged when you feel worn.
It’s about being met exactly where you are.
This week wasn’t random.
It wasn’t coincidence.
It was God meeting me through the natural world, reminding me that even in transition — even in uncertainty, exhaustion, and overwhelm — I am still recognized, still guided, and still on my path.
This is the grace of fortitude.
This is the lesson
Soul Lessons from God: Bald Eagle & the Grace of Fortitude
Nature, The Bald Eagle and the Grace of Fortitude
Nature is the sacred text through which the divine whispers profound truths to our souls. Among its many messengers, the Bald Eagle carries powerful symbolism of motherhood, resilience, and spiritual renewal.
As we reflect on the journey of nesting season with this majestic bird, and the grace of fortitude, we are invited to journey inward, exploring the lessons of healing, transformation, and divine connection.
The Sacredness of the Bald Eagle’s Nest
The Bald Eagle is not merely a bird of power and freedom; it is a spiritual guide, reminding us of the divine protection that surrounds us.
In nesting season, the Eagle’s devotion to its offspring becomes a reflection of divine motherhood, the nurturing and protective spirit of creation itself. The Eagle’s nest, perched high among the branches or cliffs, symbolizes sanctuary, a sacred space where life begins and love is cultivated.
Yet, nature’s turbulence can disrupt even the sturdiest nests. When an Eagle’s nest collapses under high winds, the symbolism is striking, it reminds us of the impermanence of worldly forms.
Such an event can be seen as a divine message, a calling to rebuild not with regret or fear, but with wisdom and faith. The Eagle, undeterred, begins anew, embodying the strength and renewal that echoes in our own spiritual paths.
Nature’s Lessons: Renewal Through the Storm
The collapse of an Eagle’s nest is a metaphor for the storms of life that shake our foundations. Just as the wind challenges the structure of the nest, life challenges us to examine our spiritual grounding.
In the symbolic realm, the broken nest speaks of transformation—a call to release what no longer serves us and to embrace the divine process of renewal. This lesson is not about despair but about growth. The broken fragments of the nest are like the remnants of our past pains and struggles.
We are not meant to carry these burdens forever; instead, we are invited to let them go, retaining only the pearls of wisdom they offer. In this way, nature urges us toward spiritual evolution, guiding us to rise stronger, more rooted in grace.
The Grace of Fortitude: A Divine Companion
The grace of fortitude is a spiritual gift—a sacred strength that flows through us during times of hardship. It is the divine presence that lifts us when we falter, assuring us that we are never alone. In its quiet yet powerful embrace, fortitude speaks to us, saying, “You are held; you are loved; you will endure.”
Human suffering often feels overwhelming, yet the grace of fortitude transforms our perception. It reminds us that suffering is not punishment, but a divine invitation to grow.
Physical pain and emotional struggles are fleeting, yet we often cling to them, replaying their stories in our minds. Fortitude teaches us that the purpose of suffering is to learn, to release, and to transcend. It invites us to shed the burden of our painful experiences and embrace the wisdom they have revealed.
Through fortitude, we begin to understand the spiritual laws of cause and effect, action and consequence. We see that our choices and reactions shape our lives and our souls. In this awareness, we become co-creators of our spiritual journey, participating with the divine in the unfolding of our destiny.
Spiritual Wisdom from Nature and Grace
Spiritual Wisdom from Nature and Grace
The Bald Eagle’s nesting season and the grace of fortitude impart profound spiritual wisdom, teaching us resilience, healing, and transformation. These sacred symbols guide us to embrace challenges, release pain, and align with our divine purpose through renewal, offering sacred wisdom for our spiritual path:
Renewal: Rising from the Ashes
The Bald Eagle’s act of rebuilding its nest after its collapse is a testament to the divine principle of renewal. This sacred ritual reflects the resilience embedded within creation, reminding us that challenges, no matter how devastating, are never the end of the story.
The shattered nest represents the brokenness we experience in life—the losses, failures, and pain that can leave us feeling hopeless. However, just as the Eagle does not surrender to despair, we are called to rise from the ashes of our challenges. Renewal is not a mere reconstruction of what was lost; it is an opportunity for transformation and growth.
As we rebuild, we become stronger and more aligned with our divine purpose, trusting that every setback is a stepping stone toward the fulfillment of our spiritual destiny. Renewal invites us to embrace hope and faith, seeing every challenge as a divine invitation to soar higher than before.
Transformation: Embracing Spiritual Rebirth
The collapse of the Eagle’s nest in high winds serves as a potent symbol of spiritual rebirth. In the natural world, it is not uncommon for a nest to fall under the pressure of a storm, yet this seemingly destructive event carries profound spiritual significance. It reveals the necessity of releasing old patterns, beliefs, and attachments that no longer serve us.
Transformation is often uncomfortable, requiring us to face the rubble of our lives with courage. The eagle’s rebuilding process teaches us that destruction is not an end but a beginning—a chance to embrace new possibilities and align ourselves with a higher spiritual truth.
As we let go of what holds us back, we make space for divine grace to enter our lives, guiding us toward renewal and rebirth. Transformation is the process of shedding our old selves and stepping into the light of our divine potential, much like the eagle ascending to the skies after the storm has passed.
Healing: Courage Through Fortitude
The grace of fortitude is a divine balm for the wounds we carry. It empowers us to face suffering not with resistance or despair, but with courage and trust in the divine plan. Fortitude is not merely the absence of fear; it is the presence of a quiet strength that allows us to endure the storms of life and emerge with greater wisdom.
Healing through fortitude is a sacred journey, one that requires us to confront our pain with compassion and faith. The Bald Eagle’s resilience mirrors this truth, showing us that even amidst life’s hardships, we can find the strength to rise and heal. Fortitude transforms pain into growth, teaching us that suffering is not meaningless, it is a pathway to spiritual maturity.
As we embrace fortitude, we find that healing is not only possible but inevitable, for the divine presence within us cannot be extinguished by life’s trials. Through fortitude, we learn to carry the pearls of wisdom gleaned from our pain and to release the broken shells of our past.
Connection: Guided by Divine Grace
In moments of despair, when the weight of life feels unbearable, fortitude becomes our divine companion. It speaks to us not in grand gestures but in whispers of hope and assurance, reminding us that we are never truly alone. Connection through fortitude is an experience of divine intimacy—a moment when we realize that the grace of God is with us, even in our darkest hours.
The Bald Eagle’s flight, high above the storms, symbolizes this truth, urging us to lift our eyes toward the heavens and trust in the divine guidance that carries us forward. Fortitude illuminates the path ahead, showing us that even the deepest darkness can be pierced by the light of grace.
It connects us to the divine wisdom that sustains us, guiding us toward healing, growth, and renewal. This connection is the heart of our spiritual journey, a reminder that the grace of God is not distant but present, accompanying us through every trial and triumph.
Guidance from The Bald Eagle with the Grace of Fortitude
Nature serves as a divine guide, offering sacred symbols that resonate deeply within our spirits. Among its messengers, the Bald Eagle stands as a powerful emblem of resilience and renewal. As it soars above the storms, the eagle teaches us that challenges, though difficult, are opportunities to rise beyond our struggles.
In nesting season, the eagle embodies the sacred cycles of life, renewal, and transformation, mirroring the spiritual journey we are all called to undertake.
When storms destroy its nest, the Eagle does not lament the loss but rebuilds with unwavering determination. This act of resilience reminds us that setbacks are not the end of our story; they are moments that invite us to trust in the divine plan and to renew ourselves with courage and faith.
The lost nest becomes a symbol of transformation, urging us to release what no longer serves us and to embrace the grace that allows us to grow stronger.
Through the grace of fortitude, we find the strength to face life’s storms with courage. Fortitude is the divine companion that sustains us, lifting the veil of darkness and guiding us toward healing and wisdom.
It whispers to our souls that we are never truly alone, that we are held and loved by the divine presence. Like the Eagle, we are called to soar beyond the storms of life, to carry the pearls of wisdom from our trials, and to continue our spiritual journey with faith, love, and renewal.
Soul Lesson with God: Fortitude The Owl Wakes the Wolf Howls
When Sight, Power, and Sovereignty Meet You in Transition
The Weekend That Shifted the Ground
This trip to New Mexico wasn’t supposed to be a spiritual initiation. I went with a simple request in my heart — let me see my animal friends, let me know they will be there if I go there. I needed reassurance, grounding, a sense of continuity as my life tilts and reshapes itself under the weight of decisions I can no longer postpone.
But the moment I crossed into the state, I could feel it: this wasn’t going to be a repeat of last time. This wasn’t comfort. This wasn’t nostalgia. This was something deeper, heavier, more intentional. It felt as though the land itself had shifted since my last visit, as if it had been waiting for me to return so it could show me what I had missed before — not the dream of New Mexico, but the truth of it.
Because alongside the animals who answered me with recognition and presence, the land delivered a reality check I couldn’t ignore. The larger area I explored was simply not livable for me — not energetically, not physically, not emotionally.
The homes in the small town fell into two extremes that revealed the truth instantly: on one end, a beautifully renovated place with neighbors whose volatility made the entire environment feel unsafe; on the other, a stretch of land that was absolutely perfect but anchored by a home so neglected it carried the unmistakable smell of human waste the moment I stepped inside. There was no middle ground, no place where the land and the living conditions aligned.
The apartments weren’t any better. They were new, but only in the way a stage set is new — built like illusions rather than homes, with crooked doors, fake granite, mismatched paint, and floors peeling up as if they were trying to escape their own foundation. It was disorienting, disappointing, and necessary.
It was the kind of truth that strips away fantasy and forces you to see what is real, not what you hoped would be real. And as that truth settled in, I could feel the land shifting me, redirecting me, preparing me for what was coming next.
The land was correcting me.
The animals were holding me.
And God was preparing me.
I didn’t know yet what for.
Friday — Pueblo, Sugarite, and the Ones Who Answered
The first signs came gently, as if easing me into what was coming. Remi walked beautifully at Runyon Lake, calm and curious, as if he too felt the shift in the air. The osprey nest stood tall, the osprey perched beside it like a sentinel guarding the threshold of the journey.
At Sugarite, the welcome was immediate and overwhelming — a juvenile bald eagle circling above the water, a pack of five turkey vultures soaring in wide arcs overhead, geese grazing along the shoreline, towhees darting through the brush, chickadees flitting between branches, northern flickers calling from the trees, warblers and cowbirds weaving through the undergrowth. It was the whole familiar chorus, the ones who always meet me with recognition, the ones who remind me that I am not a stranger in the wild.
Even the ravens — always the ravens — began their thread the moment I reached Pueblo, their voices echoing across the sky like a reminder: We’re here. We see you. Keep going. Their presence felt like a promise, a reassurance that I was not walking into this weekend alone.
It was the answer I had asked for, the confirmation that my animal friends would be there when I arrived. But even as I felt that comfort, I could sense something else gathering beneath it — a deeper message, a heavier truth, a lesson that had not yet revealed itself.
It was the reassurance I asked for.
But it was only the beginning.
The Crows and the Ravens Speak
Saturday — The Land That Corrects You
Saturday was the day the truth arrived, not softly, but with the unmistakable clarity of a door closing. West of the small town was a much larger city and it was not my home. Not now. Not ever. The land felt wrong. The energy felt wrong. The housing felt wrong. Every place I stepped into felt like a warning disguised as a tour.
In the small town, the place that feels like home, had the perfect home with the wrong neighbors. The perfect land with a home that felt contaminated. The apartments that looked new but were built like afterthoughts — as if someone had assembled them with impatience instead of care, as if the buildings themselves were tired of pretending to be something they weren’t.
And through all of it, the ravens watched from telephone poles and fence posts, their dark eyes following me with a kind of knowing that felt both unsettling and protective. The vultures circled overhead, not as omens, but as witnesses — guardians of transition, escorts through endings.
The land whispered through every misaligned doorframe and peeling floorboard: Look deeper. Don’t settle. Don’t force what isn’t yours. It wasn’t rejection. It was redirection. It was the land saying, You are meant to be here — but not like this, not in this place, not in this way.
Sunday Morning — The Ravens and the Crows Speaking
Sunday morning in at Venus Park in Edgewood, the ravens returned — a pair this time, perched like guardians on the wooden beams near the trail. Their presence felt deliberate, as if they were stationed there to mark the next threshold.
The crows joined them, their voices weaving through the air in a conversation I couldn’t translate but could feel in my bones. It was the kind of communication that bypasses language and goes straight to instinct, straight to the part of you that recognizes meaning without needing explanation.
The beetles crawled across the land like tiny omens, their glossy bodies catching the morning light. The sparrow nest outside the hotel pulsed with quiet life, a reminder that even in the midst of uncertainty, something is always being built, always being tended, always being prepared. Everything was speaking. Everything was alive. Everything was watching. The world was preparing me for the altar I didn’t know I was walking toward.
The Wildlife Sanctuary - The Barn Owl and the Howling Wolf
The Wildlife Sanctuary as the Altar
I didn’t expect the wildlife sanctuary to be the place where the message would land. But the moment I stepped inside, the air shifted. It felt heavier, charged, almost ceremonial — as if something had been waiting for me, not for days, but for years.
The sanctuary didn’t feel like an enclosure. It felt like a threshold. The animals weren’t behind fences. They were stationed. They were positioned. They were ready. And the first to speak was the one who had slept through my last visit.
The Owl — The One Who Woke for Me
Last time, the barn owl never moved. She slept the entire time, still as stone, unreachable in her own world. But this time, the moment I approached, she woke. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and fixed her eyes on me — not startled, not curious, but aware. Present. Intentional. Her gaze was heavy, ancient, knowing. It felt like she was looking through me, not at me, as if she could see the parts of me I keep hidden even from myself.
There was a weight to her presence, a gravity that pulled me into stillness. I could feel her delivering a message I couldn’t yet translate — something about sight, about clarity, about seeing what lies beneath the surface of things. Owls don’t wake for just anyone. They wake when the message is ready. They wake when the seeker is ready. She was the first threshold, the first opening, the first sign that this was not a casual encounter but a spiritual summons.
She was telling me: See.
See what is real.
See what is hidden.
See what is coming.
The Wolf — The One Who Called Me
The wolf had been silent last time. This time, he howled. Not a casual howl. Not a bored howl. A summoning. The sound vibrated through the enclosure, through the air, through my chest. It felt like a call meant for me — a call to rise, to stand, to step into something larger than the fear and uncertainty that had been gripping me for weeks. His howl wasn’t just sound. It was energy. It was command. It was recognition.
And as he howled, the coyote began circling the enclosure in wide, deliberate arcs — ritualistic, rhythmic, almost trance‑like. He didn’t stop until the wolf did. The two of them moved in a choreography that felt ancient, instinctual, intentional. This wasn’t random. This was ceremony. This was initiation. This was the wild speaking in a language older than words.
He was telling me: Stand.
Stand in your strength.
Stand in your truth.
Stand in your path.
The Coyote — The Shadow in Motion
Coyotes don’t circle for no reason. They circle when energy is shifting. The coyote’s pacing wasn’t nervous. It was intentional. It was acknowledgment. It was participation. He was the shadow in motion — the one who moves energy, the one who dances at the edges of transformation, the one who responds when the wolf calls. His presence added a layer of complexity to the message, a reminder that transformation is never clean, never linear, never without paradox.
He was telling me: Hold the shadow.
Hold the paradox.
Hold the truth even when it’s uncomfortable.
Deshka — The Mother of All Things
And then Deshka the Bald Eagle spoke. Her call cut through the air — sharp, resonant, sovereign. She didn’t scream. She didn’t alarm‑call. She spoke. Her presence was immense, grounded, maternal in a way that felt ancient. Her name means “mother of all things.” Of course it does. She wasn’t just an eagle. She was the anchor. The overseer. The one who ties the triad together. She was the final piece, the final voice, the final confirmation.
She was telling me: Rise.
Rise above the noise.
Rise above the fear.
Rise into who you are becoming.
The Triad — See. Stand. Rise.
Only when I stepped back did I understand what had happened. The owl woke for me. The wolf called for me. The coyote circled for me. Deshka spoke to me. This wasn’t reassurance. This was fortification. This was God speaking through the wild, through the ones who have always known how to reach me.
Owl — See.
Wolf — Stand.
Coyote — Hold.
Eagle — Rise.
Together, they formed a message I didn’t know I was ready for:
Fortitude is awakened, not given.
The Soul Lesson — Grace of Fortitude
Looking back, the thread is unmistakable. Every encounter — the ravens, the vultures, the animal friends, the land correcting me, the triad at the altar — was preparing me for this moment. This wasn’t comfort. This wasn’t reassurance. This wasn’t ease. This was recognition. The owl strengthened my sight. The wolf strengthened my power. The coyote strengthened my capacity to hold shadow. Deshka strengthened my sovereignty.
Together, they delivered the lesson:
Fortitude isn’t about being unbreakable.
It’s about being strengthened by the divine exactly when you feel most fragile.
This weekend wasn’t random.
It wasn’t coincidence.
It was God meeting me through the wild —
reminding me that even in transition, uncertainty, and upheaval,
I am still seen, still guided, still fortified, and still on my path.
Soul Lessons From God: Fortitude The Hawk Who Freed Herself
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When Power, Courage, and Hope Converge in a Single Week
There are weeks when the world presses in from all sides — not with catastrophe, but with accumulation. A heavy heart. A restless mind. A sense of standing at the edge of a decision that feels too large and too fragile at the same time.
These are the weeks when the soul feels stretched thin, when clarity flickers in and out like a distant signal, when the body moves through the days with a quiet, constant brace. They are the weeks that test not your strength, but your center — the weeks that reveal what you stand on when everything around you begins to shift.
This was one of those weeks. And as it unfolded, the wild began to gather around me in a way that felt deliberate, orchestrated, and impossibly precise — as if each creature had been positioned to deliver a message I didn’t yet know I needed.
Thursday — The Red‑Tail at the Threshold
The first sign came at Bluff Lake, a place where the wild has spoken to me before. It is a place of thresholds, where the land feels thin and messages arrive with a clarity that bypasses the mind and goes straight to instinct.
The bonded pair of red‑tailed hawks that live there appeared first — the duo I’ve watched for years, the ones who have weathered storms, nest losses, territory shifts, and the relentless pressure of the eagles who claimed their old nest. They rose together at first, circling in wide, ceremonial arcs as if acknowledging my arrival. Then the male drifted off into the cottonwoods, leaving the female alone in the sky above me.
The air was still, the evening soft, and she rose with a kind of authority that made the world fall silent. She circled directly over me, her wings carving slow, deliberate paths through the sky. There was nothing casual about her presence. Red‑tails do not circle without purpose. They are the hawks of sovereignty — the ones who appear when you are being asked to reclaim your voice, your boundaries, your inner authority.
As she circled, something inside me shifted — not into certainty, but into recognition. She wasn’t telling me what to choose. She was reminding me who was choosing. Her presence carried the unmistakable message:
Stand in your power.
Do not shrink.
Do not abandon yourself.
It was the first note in a message I didn’t yet understand — a reminder that fortitude begins with identity, with remembering who you are before the world tries to tell you otherwise.
Breaking Open and the Vultures Who Opened the Door
Friday — The Blow That Shakes the Center
The next day carried its own kind of heaviness — the kind that comes from disappointment, from unmet expectations, from the quiet ache of wanting connection and receiving silence instead.
It wasn’t devastation. It was something subtler: the wobble of confidence, the tremor of doubt, the fear that maybe you misread something important. It was the kind of emotional bruise that makes the heart question itself, that makes the world feel slightly off‑balance, that makes the next step feel heavier than it should.
And that’s when the second red‑tail appeared.
This one circled closer, lower, almost directly above me as I monitored a nest I’ve watched for years. His presence was steady, grounded, unwavering — a counterweight to the emotional turbulence I was carrying. He wasn’t there to comfort me. He was there to fortify me.
This was not the hawk of identity.
This was the hawk of fortitude.
His message was different:
Do not collapse.
Do not retreat.
Hold your ground.
It was the reminder I needed — not to be unbreakable, but to stay present even when shaken. Fortitude is not the absence of vulnerability. Fortitude is the willingness to stay open even when you feel unsteady. It is the quiet courage to remain in your body, in your truth, in your path, even when the world feels uncertain.
The Night That Broke Something Open
That night was the breaking point — the kind of night where noise becomes assault, where exhaustion becomes despair, where the body reaches its limit and the mind whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.” It was the kind of night that strips you down to your most human edges, the kind that reveals how thin the line is between coping and collapsing.
But here is the truth of fortitude:
Fortitude is not the absence of breaking.
Fortitude is what you do after you break.
And so, in the middle of the night, I did what fortitude requires. I adapted. I protected my peace. I created a sanctuary. I reclaimed my space. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heroic. It was simply necessary. It was the quiet, determined act of someone who refuses to surrender to circumstances she cannot control.
And the wild responded.
Saturday — The Vultures Who Clear the Air
At Horseshoe Park, the world felt strangely hollow — the kind of hollow that comes after a storm, when the air is still heavy but the worst has passed. I walked slowly, my body tired, my mind raw, my heart still carrying the residue of the night before.
And then two turkey vultures rose into the sky and circled over me — close, low, deliberate.
Vultures are the purifiers of the wild. They appear when something heavy is being lifted, when something toxic is being released, when the worst is behind you. They are not omens of death. They are guardians of transition, escorts through endings, the ones who clear the emotional debris so the truth can rise.
Their message was simple and unmistakable:
The air is clearing.
You are stepping out of the heaviness.
Hope is returning.
They circled until the tightness in my chest began to loosen, until the world felt breathable again, until I could feel the faint but steady pulse of possibility returning.
And then she came.
The Red-Tailed Hawk That Lost Her Jesses
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Choosing Freedom Over Constraint
I recognized her instantly — the red‑tail with the jesses. The one who had once flown tethered. The one who had once represented everything I feared: being bound, being restricted, being trapped in circumstances I couldn’t escape. She had been a symbol of limitation, of captivity, of the parts of my life that felt constrained.
But this time?
No jesses.
No tether.
No restraint.
She was free.
And she circled over me — wings wide, body steady, sovereign in a way she had never been before. Her presence was electric, undeniable, almost overwhelming in its clarity. This was not coincidence. This was not subtle. This was not symbolic in a vague way.
This was mirroring.
This was the wild saying:
You freed yourself.
You reclaimed your power.
You are not trapped.
You are sovereign again.
She was me.
I was her.
The tether was gone — in her life and in mine.
The Altar in Feathers - Where the Wild Becomes Ceremony
Some encounters are not simply sightings. They are ceremonies. They are thresholds. They are altars built not by human hands, but by instinct, presence, and timing. This week, the altar was feathered — constructed in the sky, assembled by wings, delivered through flight.
The wild became the altar.
The hawks became the priests.
The vultures became the purifiers.
The freed hawk became the revelation.
The Red‑Tail — Sovereignty
She was the first to appear, circling above me on the day I questioned my strength. She returned on the day I questioned my worth. She appeared freed on the day I reclaimed my peace. Her presence was not random. It was ritual. It was initiation. It was the wild reminding me that sovereignty is not a title — it is a posture.
Her message was clear:
Remember your power.
Remember your voice.
Remember your freedom.
The Vultures — Purification
They arrived when the emotional debris was at its heaviest. They circled when the air needed clearing. They hovered when the past needed releasing. Their presence was not ominous. It was medicinal. It was the wild sweeping away what no longer belonged so the truth could rise.
Their message was simple:
Let the old fall away.
Let the heaviness lift.
Let hope return.
The Freed Hawk — Liberation
She was the culmination — the final sign, the final mirror, the final truth. She was the hawk who had once been tethered, now flying free. She was the embodiment of everything I had been fighting for, everything I had been afraid to believe, everything I had been trying to reclaim.
Her message was unmistakable:
You are not bound.
You are not trapped.
You are free to rise.
Together, they formed a triad of their own:
Sovereignty.
Clearing.
Freedom.
This was the altar in feathers — the wild speaking in a language older than words, delivering a message I didn’t know I was ready to receive.
The Soul Lesson — Grace of Fortitude
Looking back, the thread is unmistakable. The first red‑tail strengthened my identity. The second strengthened my resolve. The vultures cleared the emotional debris. The freed hawk reflected my own liberation. And woven through all of it were the quiet graces: Fortitude — to rise again after being shaken. Courage — to face what hurt. Hope — to believe the heaviness would lift.
This wasn’t a story about endurance. This was a story about rising.
Fortitude is not about being unbreakable.
Fortitude is about being strengthened by the divine
exactly when you feel most fragile.
This week wasn’t random.
It wasn’t coincidence.
It was God meeting me through the wild —
reminding me that even in uncertainty, upheaval, and transition,
I am still seen, still guided, still fortified, and still free.
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