Member since July 2026
MegJenkins Locke is the founder of Living InJoy®, an entrepreneur, keynote speaker, and creator of The Architecture of Identity™, a transformational framework that helps individuals and organizations move from chronic stress and burnout to intentional leadership, authentic relationships, and sustainable performance.
After surviving two life-changing strokes, MegJenkins chose not to return to the life she had before. Instead, she rebuilt it from the inside out. That journey became Living InJoy®—a philosophy grounded in neuroscience, lived experience, leadership, belief, and the deep devotion to the present.
Known for her engaging storytelling, practical wisdom, and ability to connect with diverse audiences, MegJenkins inspires people to examine not only what they do, but who they are becoming. Her message resonates across corporate organizations, healthcare systems, educational institutions, mental health communities, nonprofit organizations, faith communities, and entrepreneurial leaders because every audience shares the same challenge:
How do we perform at our highest level without sacrificing our health, our relationships, or ourselves?
MegJenkins’ answer is both practical and transformative:
Presence creates clarity.
Clarity shapes identity.
Identity drives performance.
Performance aligned with purpose becomes Living InJoy®.
Signature Keynotes
• I Love You. I Hate You. — Relationships, Identity & the Courage to Stop Losing Yourself
• Presence = Productivity — Why Your Greatest Competitive Advantage Is Your Attention
• Living InJoy®: The Architecture of Identity — Building the Foundation for Leadership, Well-Being & Sustainable Performance
A slow morning, a journal, and a cup of coffee. That's where I remember who I am before the world tells me who I should be.
Being fully present with people I love. Deep conversations, long walks, shared meals, uncontrollable laughter, and those moments where everyone feels seen, safe, and known.
Moving my body outdoors. Hiking a trail, practicing yoga, weight training, or simply breathing fresh air reminds me that health is a gift and every day is, in fact, a day.
Creating something that brings hope. Whether it's telling a story, building Living InJoy, speaking on a stage, developing a community, or creating beautiful spaces, I come alive when my work helps someone come home to themselves.
Beauty that invites me to slow down. Fresh flowers, thoughtful design, a beautiful table, meaningful travel, a peaceful spa, great food, and the little details that whisper, life is meant to be enjoyed.
At the end of the day, joy isn't something I stumble into—it's something I practice. It's my deep devotion to the present. And when I choose presence, I almost always find joy waiting there.
There was a season in my life when I thought I was making a film about my sister, Mary Mallette.
I thought the film was for her. I thought it was a way to honor her life, preserve her story, and somehow make sense of the grief that had settled into my heart. Like so many people who experience loss, I kept moving. I stayed busy. I worked. I produced. I checked the boxes. From the outside, life looked like it was continuing. But inside, I was living somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. I was carrying memories of what had been and fears of what was coming next, and I wasn't really living in today.
When Mary Mallette became ill, everything changed. Watching someone you love slip away has a way of stripping life down to what actually matters. But even then, I don't think I understood the lesson. I was still trying to fix things, understand things, and hold on to things that couldn't be held.
When Mary Mallette died on July 7th, 2021, I already knew how grief worked. It would be carried for the remainder of my life. Some days pulling me under, some days bearable; I knew I would never the same.
Then I began writing and filming Sister.
What surprised me was that filmmaking demanded something I hadn't been practicing. Presence. Every scene required me to remember. Every conversation invited me back into moments I thought had passed forever. Every decision forced me to slow down and ask, "What is true here?" I couldn't rush through it. I couldn't numb it. I couldn't multitask my way through grief. The film insisted that I be fully present—with my memories, my emotions, and ultimately with myself.
Somewhere in that process, something unexpected happened. The project stopped being about documenting Mary Mallette's life. It started changing mine.
The question quietly shifted. I was no longer asking, "How do I honor my sister?" Instead, I found myself asking, "How do I honor the life she no longer gets to live?"
That question changed everything.
I realized that joy isn't something we find after life gets easier. Joy isn't the absence of grief, pain, or uncertainty. Joy is found in paying attention. It lives in the ordinary moments we are so often rushing past. It lives in the conversations we don't postpone, the sunsets we actually stop to watch, the hugs we don't rush through, and the people sitting right in front of us.
Mary Mallette's life taught me that none of us are promised another ordinary day. Making Sister taught me that the greatest gift we can give ourselves—and the people we love—is our presence.
Today, people often ask me why I talk so much about joy. The answer is simple. Because joy is not the opposite of grief.
Joy is what grief taught me to notice. Making Sister didn't help me leave my sister behind. It brought me back to my own life.
That experience became the foundation of everything I teach today. It became Living InJoy. It became what I call a deep devotion to the present.
Because as Mary Mallette taught me "every day is a day."
And this moment—the one we're living right now—is the only place where love can actually be experienced. If Mary Mallette's story has taught me anything, it's this: Don't wait for the perfect season to begin living. Don't postpone joy until the pain disappears.
Be here.
Love the people in front of you.
Notice the beauty that still exists.
Because the present moment is not just where life happens.
It's where joy has been waiting for us all along.
The Aha Moment
For years, I thought I had lived many different lives. I worked in education because I believed knowledge could change people. I built restaurants and hospitality experiences because I believed a meal could become a place where people felt seen, safe, and restored. I entered health and wellness because I realized people don't simply want to live longer—they want to age intentionally, with vitality, confidence, and joy. I became a writer because stories preserve what matters. I became a filmmaker because some stories deserve to be felt, not just read.
But it wasn't until I made SISTER that everything finally connected. I thought I was making a film about my sister. Instead, the film became the mirror that showed me my own life.
I discovered that joy isn't something we find after life gets easier. Joy is something we choose while life is still unfolding. Presence—not perfection—is what heals us. That realization became the foundation of Living InJoy and my deep devotion to the present.
Suddenly every chapter of my career made sense. Education was never about teaching. It was about transformation.
Hospitality was never about food. It was about belonging. Health and wellness was never about appearance. It was about restoring hope and helping people honor the years they have left. Writing was never about publishing. It was about preserving wisdom. Filmmaking was never about entertainment. It was about revealing truth. And speaking isn't about standing on a stage. It's about creating the moment where someone in the audience quietly says,
"That's me."
That same realization gave me the courage to say yes to becoming an Executive Producer and actor in Mattress Mack. It reminded me that creativity doesn't have an expiration date. Every new project became evidence that life keeps expanding when we stop letting age, fear, or past expectations define what's possible.
Today I no longer see myself as someone with many careers.
I see one purpose expressed through many platforms.
Whether I'm leading a classroom, welcoming guests, building wellness experiences, writing a book, producing a film, or delivering a keynote, I'm doing the same work:
Helping people remember who they are. Helping them reclaim joy. Helping them believe that their best chapter may still be ahead.
Because the truest sentence I've ever written isn't just a slogan.
It's my life.
I'm not done, yet.
There was a season in my life when I thought I was making a film about my sister, Mary Mallette.
I thought the film was for her. I thought it was a way to honor her life, preserve her story, and somehow make sense of the grief that had settled into my heart. Like so many people who experience loss, I kept moving. I stayed busy. I worked. I produced. I checked the boxes. From the outside, life looked like it was continuing. But inside, I was living somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. I was carrying memories of what had been and fears of what was coming next, and I wasn't really living in today.
When Mary Mallette became ill, everything changed. Watching someone you love slip away has a way of stripping life down to what actually matters. But even then, I don't think I understood the lesson. I was still trying to fix things, understand things, and hold on to things that couldn't be held.
When Mary Mallette died on July 7th, 2021, I already knew how grief worked. It would be carried for the remainder of my life. Some days pulling me under, some days bearable; I knew I would never the same.
Then I began writing and filming Sister.
What surprised me was that filmmaking demanded something I hadn't been practicing. Presence. Every scene required me to remember. Every conversation invited me back into moments I thought had passed forever. Every decision forced me to slow down and ask, "What is true here?" I couldn't rush through it. I couldn't numb it. I couldn't multitask my way through grief. The film insisted that I be fully present—with my memories, my emotions, and ultimately with myself.
Somewhere in that process, something unexpected happened. The project stopped being about documenting Mary Mallette's life. It started changing mine.
The question quietly shifted. I was no longer asking, "How do I honor my sister?" Instead, I found myself asking, "How do I honor the life she no longer gets to live?"
That question changed everything.
I realized that joy isn't something we find after life gets easier. Joy isn't the absence of grief, pain, or uncertainty. Joy is found in paying attention. It lives in the ordinary moments we are so often rushing past. It lives in the conversations we don't postpone, the sunsets we actually stop to watch, the hugs we don't rush through, and the people sitting right in front of us.
Mary Mallette's life taught me that none of us are promised another ordinary day. Making Sister taught me that the greatest gift we can give ourselves—and the people we love—is our presence.
Today, people often ask me why I talk so much about joy. The answer is simple. Because joy is not the opposite of grief.
Joy is what grief taught me to notice. Making Sister didn't help me leave my sister behind. It brought me back to my own life.
That experience became the foundation of everything I teach today. It became Living InJoy. It became what I call a deep devotion to the present.
Because as Mary Mallette taught me "every day is a day."
And this moment—the one we're living right now—is the only place where love can actually be experienced. If Mary Mallette's story has taught me anything, it's this: Don't wait for the perfect season to begin living. Don't postpone joy until the pain disappears.
Be here.
Love the people in front of you.
Notice the beauty that still exists.
Because the present moment is not just where life happens.
It's where joy has been waiting for us all along.
The Aha Moment
For years, I thought I had lived many different lives. I worked in education because I believed knowledge could change people. I built restaurants and hospitality experiences because I believed a meal could become a place where people felt seen, safe, and restored. I entered health and wellness because I realized people don't simply want to live longer—they want to age intentionally, with vitality, confidence, and joy. I became a writer because stories preserve what matters. I became a filmmaker because some stories deserve to be felt, not just read.
But it wasn't until I made SISTER that everything finally connected. I thought I was making a film about my sister. Instead, the film became the mirror that showed me my own life.
I discovered that joy isn't something we find after life gets easier. Joy is something we choose while life is still unfolding. Presence—not perfection—is what heals us. That realization became the foundation of Living InJoy and my deep devotion to the present.
Suddenly every chapter of my career made sense. Education was never about teaching. It was about transformation.
Hospitality was never about food. It was about belonging. Health and wellness was never about appearance. It was about restoring hope and helping people honor the years they have left. Writing was never about publishing. It was about preserving wisdom. Filmmaking was never about entertainment. It was about revealing truth. And speaking isn't about standing on a stage. It's about creating the moment where someone in the audience quietly says,
"That's me."
That same realization gave me the courage to say yes to becoming an Executive Producer and actor in Mattress Mack. It reminded me that creativity doesn't have an expiration date. Every new project became evidence that life keeps expanding when we stop letting age, fear, or past expectations define what's possible.
Today I no longer see myself as someone with many careers.
I see one purpose expressed through many platforms.
Whether I'm leading a classroom, welcoming guests, building wellness experiences, writing a book, producing a film, or delivering a keynote, I'm doing the same work:
Helping people remember who they are. Helping them reclaim joy. Helping them believe that their best chapter may still be ahead.
Because the truest sentence I've ever written isn't just a slogan.
It's my life.
I'm not done, yet.