From Different Rooms, the Same Door

“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.”
— Proverbs 31:25–26 (NIV)

The other night, I was on a group Zoom call with a Christian group—a men’s and women’s fellowship. It’s the first few weeks of a 12-week training session, and while I don’t fully know what their broader mission is yet, it appears to be a fellowship focused on spiritual growth and leadership. Still, I’ve sat in enough rooms with strong leaders to recognize when people are organized around a single purpose. That’s how the best teams execute.

During the session, one of the facilitators—someone I imagine has been with the fellowship for a while—asked me to introduce myself. Many others had already been called on to share who they were and what they hoped to get out of these training sessions. When it was my turn, I said, “My name is Jacqueline Session Ausby.” Then I froze. I stopped to think.

As I sat there trying to figure out what to say, I thought about everything the others had shared. Most talked about their ministries and professions and included significant titles: pastor, minister, life coach, counselor, musician, mother, married. I am none of those things. Titles don’t define who we are. Introductions are not about accolades; they should focus on who you are. Anything else is just works—external roles and actions that don’t define the soul.

If I had to say who I am—not based on what I do, but on who I am in spirit—I would say, first, that I am a child of God. Second, I would say God has given me the spirit of a writer. That has always been my destiny. Writing is always on my mind. Even when I’m not writing, I’m shaping ideas in my head. When I imagine standing before Christ, I see myself as someone He hand-selected to write. This is important to me because Jesus is the Word, and there is nothing greater than Christ. To write—wise, knowing, shaped by truth—keeps me aligned with the Word.

Somehow, what I wanted to say felt like a check—not on me, but on them. As if by naming myself first as a child of God, I was unintentionally casting judgment. No one else had said that, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying to trump their introductions. Still, I am those things. I am a child of God, and writing has always been my destiny. In that moment, though, I chose silence. Not because the words weren’t true, but because I wasn’t sure how they would be received.

During the Zoom call, I didn’t say any of that. I just skipped the question and moved on.

It would have been easy to say that, at my core, I am a visionary. I build bridges and execute with force and focus. I could have added that I am a mother of two, a grandmother, a widow, and an Executive Assistant at a pharmaceutical company. I could have said I worked for one of the top consulting firms in the world and that I have sat in rooms with some of the most influential CEOs, mayors, and government officials. I could have said I have a master’s degree and that I live in New Jersey. In those few seconds, I understood none of those things define who I am.

I like to paint, though I am not a painter. That comes second nature. I enjoy painting, yet it’s not who I am. I am a writer. It’s in my very nature. I remember being young and writing my name over and over: Jacqueline Marie Session. I loved the shapes, the loops, the way a fancy J curved or how an S looked like a figure-eight. That was me unknowingly connecting with my calling.

In those moments on the call, I also noticed something else—not about the group, but about myself. The vibe was different. I am not a minister. I am not a pastor. I am not religious. For a second, I felt that difference in the room. Those words are just titles and don’t carry any weight. No one person can be all of them at once. Just because I am not those things does not mean I don’t belong.

Normally, I would walk away from that kind of energy. I would have shut down and closed the door on this experience. I would have thought, “I’m not like that, and I don’t want to be.” This time, I sat still. I told myself the vibe is different, yes, yet nobody is wrong or right. We all experience life differently. We all come to God from different rooms and yet arrive at the same Door.

So I made the decision in those few seconds not to walk away. I am going to stay with these 12 weeks of training, get to know people, learn from them, and listen to their stories. Because more than anything, I am a visionary. I am a bridge. I can help get people over troubled waters.

The older I get, the more I grapple with relationships. Some relationships matter deeply. They will last until the end of time, while others were meant to last only for a season—moments in time. Then there are new relationships—the ones that develop and can be cultivated even in situations I find nearly unbearable. Instead of casting things aside, I am learning to give them a chance. I am not certain how much I can stand, yet in this moment, I am willing to try.

Most importantly, I have learned there are so many moments in life when the vibe is different—at home, at work, in a parking lot or grocery store, even in small groups like this one.

Instead of shutting down or walking away, staying the course, being open, listening, and learning might just be the way to navigate those moments. That is how we continue to grow—even when we think we are already grown. That is how we meet each other across the distance of our differences.

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