The sound of your voice echoes still.
Truth like incense wafting through the ages.
Thoughts manifest real; Hearts healed whole. Destinies lived out loud.

The power of your voice roots strong.
A mighty oak shading a bubbling brook.
Faulty foundations stabilized. Addictions broken. Insecurities overcome.

The source of your voice rings true.
Divinity itself sounds the universal tone.
Souls lifted high. Energy amplified wide. Universal expansion fulfilled.

Your voice still speaks when you aren't in the room.
Encouragements with wisdom and compassion building communities.
We proclaim what you taught us to hear in the whispers of our hearts.
When you return, you'll bring new realms of insight.
And find us singing
beautiful songs you didn't even know.

I wrote this poem last year for a spiritual leader who was going on a few months leave. As I thought about how much growth would take place in his life and the congregation's, I imagined the legacy of extraordinary spiritual teachers. I thought about the people whose words continue to echo through generations, whose wisdom takes root in human hearts long after they've left the room.

This week, I experienced a tiny glimpse of what that legacy really means in an unexpected way.

I arrived at the center for our usual meditation. Instead, we learned that our meditation leader was home sick in bed. Someone looked around the room. Then another. Then, all eyes turned toward me.

"Would you lead?"

There was no time to prepare. No carefully chosen reading. No polished script.

Just a quiet invitation to trust.

As I let that invitation sink in, it dawned on me that, years ago, I might have wondered whether I knew enough, whether I would do it "right", whether I was qualified. But these days, when I encounter something surprising, I simply become present.

I wasn't trying to impress anyone or teach something profound. I wasn't searching for the perfect meditation. I simply settled into that familiar place I've been practicing every day, the place beneath the noise where Spirit has always been waiting.

And from that place, the words came. And I allowed the silence to come through me and elevate the energy on the planet.

You see, something has shifted.

For much of my life, I thought leadership meant having answers. Delivering inspiring messages. Saying wise things. But now I know that leadership - spiritual or otherwise - begins much earlier than that.

It begins with learning to steady our own hearts.

To return to center when life feels uncertain.

To choose love when fear would be easier.

To become so familiar with the presence of God that, when life unexpectedly calls our name, we naturally respond from groundedness instead of insecurity.

The more I tend my own spiritual practice, the more often I'm invited to hold space for others. Not because I seek the role but because people can feel the steadiness.

There is something deeply comforting about someone who doesn't rush to fix, persuade, or perform. Someone willing simply to be present. Presence, after all, is contagious.

It reminds us that we, too, can become still.

Perhaps this is the highest calling of every leader. Not to create followers or deliver clever speeches, but to cultivate such an authentic relationship with the Divine that our very presence becomes an invitation for others to discover their own.

That's the legacy my poem points toward.

Your voice still speaks when you aren't in the room.

Could that be because it awakened another voice?

The whisper already living in someone else's heart.

This morning, I invite you to ask yourself, "When I leave the room, what messages do I leave in the hearts of the people I encountered? As for me, I want people to get present to how to become still and touch their Source. How to listen and to trust. My intention is to live so deeply in harmony with the Divine that others begin discovering the music that has been within them all along.

This is why I'm so drawn to creating transformational retreats for women. My intention is that each seeker will leave having encountered something enduring: the quiet, steady voice of wisdom already within themselves. 

Together, we'll slow down enough to remember who we are beneath the demands of work, family, achievement, and expectation. We'll practice becoming grounded, present, and deeply connected so that when life inevitably asks us to lead, love, or persevere, we won't have to search for the answers. They'll already be alive within us.

And long after the retreat ends, long after we've hugged goodbye and returned home, my greatest hope is that each woman will continue singing beautiful songs she didn't even know were waiting inside her all along.