This poem was inspired by Dolly and her reminder to get to living.

Go Live

your life is not
waiting for you
somewhere in the future.

it is here.

right now.

in the morning light
coming through the trees.

in the eyes of a child
beaming with wonder.

in the soft orchestra
of the forest creatures.

in the ocean
calling you back
to yourself.

it is here
even when things are messy.

even when you don’t know
what will happen next.

even when the plan
falls apart.

especially then.

because maybe
the secret to a beautiful life
isn’t getting everything
you hoped for.

maybe it is learning
to love the life
that keeps arriving.

so take the trip.

write the book.

call that person.

go see music
and dance until you forget
the worries
that wear the cloak of importance.

hug your people.

forgive those you can.

release what you can’t.

watch the sunset
without taking a picture.

laugh.

cry.

say yes
when your whole body
says yes.

say no
when your soul
whispers no.

and remember
to breathe in the air
after the rain.

there will always be
something unfinished.

something uncertain.

something asking you
to wait.

i say don’t wait.

you are here now.

the trees are growing.

the tides are moving.

the seasons are changing.

and so are you.

this life
is asking you
to notice
how astonishing it is
that you are alive.

so darling,

go on
and get to living.

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A tightening in the chest
each time you abandon yourself.

And maybe at first
you call it exhaustion.
Stress.
Burnout.

Maybe you try harder.
Maybe you become smaller.

But the soul does not speak
through logic alone.
It sings to you through longing.
Through resentment.
Through the sudden urge
to walk into the woods
just to hear yourself think again.

And one day,
beneath the noise of everyone else’s needs,
you hear it.

Your own life
calling you back.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just honestly.

Like the ocean saying:
come closer.

Like the hawk circling overhead
as if to remind you
you were built for a wider sky.

Leaving is rarely one single decision.
It is thousands of tiny moments
where you choose
not to betray yourself again.

It is learning
that peace and fear
sometimes arrive together.

It is understanding
that grief can walk beside freedom.

And slowly,
after enough mornings
of choosing your own voice,
your nervous system begins to unclench.

The body softens.
The breath deepens.
The Earth feels steady beneath you again.

Then one morning
you realize something miraculous:

your real life
was waiting for you
on the other side
of listening.

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I wrote this after our weekend in Sea Ranch, CA. A place where nature does what it has always done. Soften. Steady. And heal. My girls and I returned to the beach and somewhere in between the waves and the wind, we found ourselves again. The rhythm of the ocean reset something deeper than thought.

When I First Saw You

The first time I saw you,
our eyes locked.

It felt ancient
and new
all at once.

Your fingers curled around mine
like you already knew
I was yours
and you were mine,
and we had agreed to this
long before we arrived here.

Your face was round like the moon.
Your blue eyes, deep as the ocean.

And something in me
went still.

As if the world paused.
I paid close attention.

That memory is still perfectly clear.

In those early days,
time moved differently.

Measured not in hours
but in breaths,
in rocking chairs,
in the soft weight of you
sleeping against my chest.

Then came the years
of small shoes by the door,
of sticky hands
and endless questions.

You built worlds
out of nothing.

A cardboard box
became a castle.
A stick
became a wand.
The backyard
a universe.

And I watched,
quietly in awe,
as you taught me again
how to see
that magic is everywhere.

Beauty is, too.

Elementary years arrived
with backpacks and lunchboxes,
spelling words and friendships,
tears over things
that felt so big
in such small bodies.

You began to step
just slightly away from me,
turning toward the world
with curiosity
and courage.

And I stood there
half proud,
half undone
learning the art
of letting go.

Somewhere along the way,
childhood
stopped being something we were in
and became something
we were leaving.

The toys disappeared
without announcement,
replaced by busy schedules,
by lives that stretched
far beyond the walls of home.

Now you come and go
like the tide.

Your days are stacked.
Your voices are stronger.

Your eyes still bright—
but different now.
Seeing more.
Carrying more.

And sometimes
I miss the little versions of you.

Not because I want to go back—
but because I didn’t know
those moments were already
becoming memories.

When that ache rises,
I take you to the ocean to remember.

We walk barefoot
across the sand,
the wind tangling our hair,
the rhythm of the waves
softening the edges of our days.

And for a moment
you are little again.

We build castles
with sand and stones.
We search for treasures
as if they are waiting
just for us.

And I see
the spark,
the imagination,
the part of you
that has never left.

And I realize
something:

I am raising you
to know how to return
to yourselves.

Again and again
and again.

So when the world feels heavy,
and your days feel too full,
and you forget
the magic that lives inside you—

come back to the water.

Feel your feet in the sand.
Breathe in the salty air.
Listen to the waves.

Let the rhythm of the Earth
bring you back to the part of you
that knows how to wonder,
imagine,
and be free.

And I will be here.
Always.

Not to lead,
not to follow,
but to walk beside you—

loving you
through every version
of who you become.

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Let’s begin here:
not by fixing the world
but by loosening our grip
on the story that says
it cannot change.

Reality is more pliable
than fear would have you believe.

Watch how morning
rearranges the dark.
Watch how the tide
rearranges the shore.
Watch how a single kind word
rearranges a stranger’s day.

We have been told
that power lives in control.
But power lives in attention —
in where we place
our thoughts,
our time,
our love.

Rearrange the conversation
by telling the truth.
Rearrange your life
by honoring the quiet yes
inside your heart.

The old maps were drawn
by people who feared the unknown.
They set sail anyway.

You can begin small.

Nothing changes all at once.
But everything changes
when one person
decides to stand inside hope
and call it home.

Let that person be you.

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The snowy egret and I share the same shoreline a few times a week. Every time I see her, something in me softens and shifts. The egret reminds me about the power of patience, stillness, intuition, and discernment. She teaches without effort. She waits for her meal without anxiety. She trusts the tide will deliver what is meant for her. I watch her stand ankle-deep in the water. Always firm and composed. She knows not everything requires chasing. Some things arrive only when we are peaceful enough to receive them.

Though egrets hunt alone, they are not lonely. They are sovereign. Their independence reveals that solitude can be empowering. A return to our own wisdom rather than a retreat from the world. Standing between land and sea, the known and the unknown, the egret embodies the art of transition.

As we enter 2026, I’m reminded that the dreams I’ve cast will be realized when the right tide carries them in. Hustling, forcing, or worrying does nothing to hasten their arrival. The beauty is this: I am planted exactly where I am meant to be. Striving is an old habit. Presence is the new one.

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Tonight
the dark whispers
what stillness knows.

This is the night
we lay down the stories
that no longer keep us warm.

This is the night
we stop forcing
and let the light find us.

It may arrive quietly,
like an old friend—
a promise kept.

And tomorrow,
the days will begin to lengthen.
Not enough to notice,
unless you are listening.

So listen.
I dare you.
Get quiet.

Tune into the hush beneath the cold.
Feel the courage it takes
to begin again, unseen.

If you feel tired,
you are in rhythm with the season.
If you feel hopeful,
you are remembering something ancient.

The earth is resting,
gathering its yes.

The sun is already on its way back.
And so are you.

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Hope knows the way
without needing the whole map.

It walks by noticing
doors opening,
listening for the yes
of what is still possible.

Hope will sit beside you
when you are too tired
to believe in anything else.

It says,
Stay.

It looks like the sun
finding its way through fog-
not all at once,
but enough to remind you
that the light still knows your name.

Hope is not the absence of grief.
It is grief
learning how to laugh again.

It is
the heart opening just enough
to let tomorrow in.

Hope lives in ordinary places-
a warm mug held between two hands,
a bird pausing at the water’s edge,
a child’s laughter rising
when you thought joy had left the room.

Hope is the heart-shaped rock you find on the beach,
smoothed by time,
shaped slowly over years,
still beaming
after everything.

Hope does not promise ease.
It simply asks this:
keep walking,
keep listening,
trust the unseen.

Know
your dreams
are walking towards you too.

And when you forget-
because you will-
hope will wait.

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Held by the redwoods, I began to remember what I’d forgotten. Presence. It often comes from being. From listening. From turning toward what is alive and rooted and ancient. The forest became my teacher. The silence was the voice I had longed for. I realized that if I place my attention on the Earth, on each breath, on the moment that was sitting right in front of me, then something within softens. A new alignment takes place as if I were inching closer to home. In that quiet, I remembered how to belong again. A tree never questions its belonging. It simply grows.

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We are so used to chasing the finished thing—
the book with its perfect spine,
the garden in full bloom,
the healed heart that never trembles.

But beauty lives inside transformation.

Creation asks us to show up messy—
ink-stained, heart-split,
uncertain and wandering,
without a clear direction, all at once.

The process is meant to rewire you.

It takes time to turn pain into wisdom,
fear into faith,
darkness into light.

How magnificent it is
to bow before the ordinary—
the cup of tea cooling beside your notebook,
a walk through a neighborhood
scattered with yellow leaves
that have already let go,
the way sunlight spills across the horizon at dusk,
how a single thought can open a field.

Because sometimes all it takes
is one shift inside you
to unlock the gate to an entirely new landscape.

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What if one thought could widen your world? What thought would you choose?

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My best friend, Shanan, and I created this retreat from an inner knowing that mothers and daughters need time and space to reconnect and strengthen their bond. We curated a week where we could come together not just to relax, but to remember. To remember what it feels like to be present. To be seen. To laugh until your sides hurt. To cry and feel safe doing so. To dance in unison. To walk barefoot in paradise. To be held by community, by nature, and by each other.

We chose Nosara, Costa Rica, with intention. It’s a place I once called home with my two daughters. It’s also one of the world’s five Blue Zones, which are regions where people live longer, healthier, more joyful lives. Well-being isn’t a trend. It’s a tradition. It’s found in the fruit of the papaya, the rhythm of slow mornings, the kindness of neighbors, the pura vida vibes, and the honoring of family and intergenerational living. In Blue Zones, elders are treasured. Their stories are the golden thread that weaves the tapestry of the community. This is something we long to remember and reclaim as women.

The flow of the week during the retreat mirrors the rhythm of nature herself. Each day holds a theme: gratitude, self-love, generosity, creativity, empowerment. As the week unfolds, we tell stories. We ask meaningful questions. We journal. We share. We witness. We remember that vulnerability is strength. Joy is medicine. Laughter is contagious. Presence is love. And transformation begins to take root.

You can see it in the way a daughter wraps her arms around her mother and holds her a little tighter or a little longer. In the way a mom opens up, breathes deeper, and laughs more freely. In the way new friendships form—while making jewelry, sipping smoothies, or helping each other through the waves. In the way someone who felt unsure on Day One suddenly walks taller, softer, or more at ease. By the end of the week, mothers feel resourced and daughters feel empowered. The bond feels rewoven. Stronger. Lined with compassion, awe, and unconditional love.

Life can be challenging. None of us are immune to heartbreak, rocky transitions, perceived setbacks, or unknowns. But when you know you have a pillar of strength and wisdom in your corner—whether it’s your mother, your daughter, a friend, or even the Earth herself—you feel like you can navigate any storm. You move through life differently. With more courage to feel it all and keep going.

We’re already planning the next Mother-Daughter Retreat, in the same beautiful location. If your heart is nudging you to join, reach out for more information. It will be a week you’ll treasure in your heart forever.

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It was then that I turned to writing as I stepped out of that arena of grief. Writing was cathartic. I wrote to find myself. It helped me stitch myself back together. Surprisingly, I saw it as a path that allowed me to hear my own thoughts and more importantly find my truth. Word by word, I found my way back to my heart. Writing revealed the dark corners along the way. It revealed the memories I was resisting to look at, but those I needed to tend to heal properly. It allowed me to break the silence. And once I started to hit “publish,” I noticed that it also helped me connect with others.

Then life grew full and at times overwhelming. A cross country move, a new job, family obligations, and countless demands tugged at my attention. As a result I stopped writing and I stopped sharing. I stopped putting myself “out there.” That silence never felt true. So here I am, several months later, choosing to reclaim this part of myself. Choosing to begin again.

Today, I begin again with a poem.

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Sovereignty

There was a time when my voice was silenced
by someone else’s storm—
when my heart forgot
it belonged to me.

But now,
I gather the broken pieces
and build a throne upon safety.

My soul sisters stand beside me—
to cheer me forward,
to remind me of my strength.

Sovereignty is not loud.
It does not beg to be believed.
It is the steady flame that whispers:
I choose my peace.
I choose my joy.
I choose my life.

No one rules here but me—
not the past,
not the pain,
not the echo of cruelty.
Only me.

I am remembering
that healing is an act of power,
that my no is powerful,
that my yes is freedom,
that my love for myself
is the law of this land.

And from this place,
I rise.

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It’s interesting how quickly something becomes a habit. How the simple act of walking outside, often barefoot, listening to the birds sing while pulling weeds, can drop you right into a meditative state. It’s a habit that my body and mind crave each and every day. 

The sun would meet me warming my shoulders while my hands worked through the soil. And without effort, I would feel a little more like myself. More alive. More grounded. A little stronger. More resilient. And definitely more clear and sure of the path forward, even when the destination remained hidden. That’s the thing about trust. It lives in the step, not always the view. The garden always offered me a perspective shift.

I’ll miss this garden. I’ll miss the lemon balm spilling over the stones, the rosemary that stood tall through every season, the lavender that whispered peace when I needed it most, the mint that took over with unapologetic confidence, the tulsi that smelled like a dream come true, and the anise hyssop constantly luring in the bees and butterflies with beauty and nourishment. 

California will have its own rhythm, but this little patch of Earth in Asheville steadied my soul. This little garden held me through seasons of change. It taught me how to listen and how to begin again. Every lesson it offered still lives in me.

Below are five of my favorite herbs that, in their own quiet ways, make life easier. You don’t need a degree in herbalism to love and tend them. Just a few pots on a windowsill, or a little patch of sunlight, a little care, and a willingness to listen.

If you are new to growing herbs, just start with one. Tend to it. Let it tend to you. The Earth always offers support—it’s just a matter of remembering to receive it.

*The video is from my last day in my garden. Guess what bird is singing?

1. Lemon Balm

The nervous system’s best friend.

Use it when: Your mind won’t stop racing and you’re desperate for a little peace.

This heart-shaped leaf has been called “the gladdening herb” for good reason. Lemon balm soothes anxiety, eases tension headaches, and supports digestion. A warm cup of tea at night quiets the mind and softens the edges of a long day. It’s gentle, but powerful. It is almost like someone rubbing your feet after a long day.

Try this:

— Steep fresh or dried leaves for a calming tea.

— Muddle into sparkling water with lemon and honey.

— Make a lemon balm honey syrup to drizzle over berries, yogurt, or toast.

It’s comfort in a cup. A hug in herb form.

2. Rosemary

The clarity bringer.

Use it when: You feel foggy, scattered, or low on energy.

Rosemary sharpens the mind, enhances memory, and brings blood flow to the brain. It’s been used for centuries in both medicine and ritual. Burned for purification, infused into oils for remembrance, steeped for mental clarity. It awakens what’s been dulled, restores what’s been lost, and calls your energy back to center.

Try this:

— Add a sprig to your morning shower for an herbal steam.

— Brew as tea when you need to focus.

— Infuse olive oil with rosemary and use it on roasted vegetables.

It’s not just for cooking. It’s for remembering who you are.

3.  Tulsi (Holy Basil)

The sacred stabilizer.

Use it when: Stress feels chronic and your spirit feels thin.

Tulsi is a revered plant in Ayurvedic Medicine, known as the Queen of Herbs. It’s an adaptogen, helping the body recalibrate in times of stress, while uplifting the mood and clearing emotional fog. It doesn’t just calm you, it centers you. 

Try this:

— Sip tulsi tea daily to support the nervous system and adrenal balance.

— Add fresh tulsi leaves to a warm bath for energetic cleansing.

— Burn dried tulsi like incense in a simple morning ritual.

It’s not just for stress. It’s for remembering your wholeness.

4. Mint

The fresh perspective.

Use it when: You feel stuck, sluggish, or heavy in the mind, body, or mood.

Mint is bright, bold, and awakening. It soothes digestive discomfort, cools inflammation, and clears mental fog. Just crushing a leaf between your fingers can shift the energy of a whole day. It’s the herb of clarity and movement. Of refreshment and relief.

Try this:

— Add fresh mint to water with cucumber and lime for a cooling tonic.

— Chew the leaves after a meal to support digestion.

— Inhale the scent when you need a reset—emotional or energetic.

It’s not just for flavor. It’s for finding your way forward.

5. Anise Hyssop

The gentle uplifter.

Use it when: You feel low, tender, or in need of something sweet but grounding.

Anise hyssop is a pollinator’s dream and a healer’s delight. With its soft purple blossoms and subtle licorice scent, this herb soothes the stomach, calms the nerves, and lifts the heart. It’s a mood-brightener with quiet joy tucked into every leaf.

Try this:

— Steep the leaves and flowers into tea for gentle emotional support.

— Sprinkle the petals into a salad for color and calm.

— Dry a bundle to hang in your kitchen or bedroom for a fragrant reminder of ease.

It’s not just for sweetness. It’s for softening sorrow into light.

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It is the quiet teacher
who shows up
when you’ve stayed too long
in the waiting room
of almost.

We fear it—
because we cannot name it,
cannot map it,
cannot pack a suitcase
for where it wants to take us.

But still—
it comes.

Change dares you
to stretch beyond the familiar,
to root deeper into truth,
to crack open,
so the light can find its way in.

So go on.
Let yourself outgrow
the container
you once called safe.

Let the unknown
be less of a threat
and more of a whispering song
leading you to the sunshine.

Once you feel change
on the horizon,
you can’t unknow it.

Truth will tap on your shoulder
until you answer.

Comfort may offer
perceived peace
but never expansion.

Change may bring chaos,
but it carries
the wild wind of possibility.

You are here
to grow,
to bloom,
and to rise.

Change is the beginning
masquerading as the end.

Be brave enough
to greet it
with an open heart,
eyes full of trust,
and a quiet kind of courage.

You are the only one
who knows
when it is time.

And when it is—
go.

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Dear Readers,

Big news! My girls and I are officially moving to California. It’s a big change. One that felt hard in many ways. And yet, all three of us kept feeling the pull. So we listened because the heart always knows the way forward even before the mind does. This next chapter has been unfolding with a sense of ease and alignment that feels nothing short of magical. Everything is falling into place.

As we say goodbye to Asheville, I’m holding so much gratitude in my heart.
This place has been a powerful chapter for us. Asheville gifted us dear friendships, soulful teachers, and moments in nature that felt synchronistic. We leave with full hearts, carrying every lesson forward into this next adventure.

With love,
Grace

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This has been our home for almost five years. We’ve grown and expanded in countless ways. I’ve watched my daughters fall more deeply in love with the Earth—thanks in large part to their school rooted in outdoor education. A place that values time in nature. Life in the country has also heightened their appreciation for the land. We garden and make tea from native plants. They wander through the neighbor’s fields to play in the creek and return with reports about the crawdads, the blue heron, the wild turkey, and the black bears. 

My oldest is graduating eighth grade this week. My youngest is saying goodbye to elementary school. We had every intention of staying in Asheville through high school. Then Hurricane Helene swept through our town and everything shifted. Our school closed indefinitely. We had no power, no water, no Wi-Fi, and no access to essentials like gas or food. Going to California to regroup, a place we once called home, felt like the best option. As our bodies and minds began to settle from the trauma, we felt something stir inside. That sensation reminded us that the golden California light was healing us individually. There was a lightness. A sense of freedom. A quiet renewal. A message from the sea. The ocean has always spoke to us.

My youngest heard it first. Then I smiled and nodded as the message became clear. Finally, my oldest got word. California was calling us back. We were ready to answer. Right on cue, serendipity stepped in. Opportunities began to appear. Subtle, unexpected, perfectly timed openings unfolded. Small miracles lined our path forward. 

There’s still an ache as we pack the boxes and prepare to move from another home. It’s like a pulled thread unraveling part of a tapestry that I have worked so hard to weave. However, alongside the grief is a not-so-quiet thrill. There is a bubble of excitement as I think about our future. New beginnings. Ocean breezes. Early morning surf. Redwood hikes. Fresh hope. Soul family. This isn’t just a move. It’s a return. A homecoming to the place where the girls were born, where their baby footprints pressed into the shoreline at Stinson Beach, and where we’d wander and daydream together through the redwood forests.

Every new chapter requires a letting go. Our family doesn’t look the way it once did. We’ve been rearranged and reshaped by circumstance. We’re learning to design a new kind of life. One rooted in intention, sprouting in courage, and blooming with audacity. 

The girls are watching me chart this course. And I want them to remember the moment life asked us to begin again. We listened. We let love lead. We trusted the unknown. We chose growth. We honored the voices of fear and doubt, but we knew those voices did not belong. 

Change isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the turning point. And the beauty is that we get to create our reality. Words will cast spells. Miracles happen. Dreams come true.

My kids are still barefoot and making their way towards me. At the ages of 14 and almost 12, I’m grateful they still play like children. Running wild and free was my vision for their childhood. A few unexpected turning points brought moments of heaviness. I have a deep sense that we’ll all be wild and free in California. We won’t be chasing fireflies, but we’ll keep moving towards the light.

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On weekends, we often frequent the local bookstore to browse and just be together. On our last visit, I found myself in the poetry section, soaking in the words, feeling seen by strangers on a page. Inspiration followed. I started writing again. And with the writing came remembering. 

Time is fleeting, slipping past me while my hands are full. The never ending to-do lists cloud what is truly important. The daily hustle to get the kids to after school activities, ensure homework is complete, make dinner, remind kids to bathe, read, help with chores, and somehow find time to go outside and play like a kid, can be overwhelming. The cycle is in a fast forward motion. 

When I finally get to rest my body at night, I can see the reel in my mind. The day my babies were born, taking their first steps by the oak tree, riding bikes with wind-blown hair, jumping through waves in the Pacific Ocean, building smoky campfires, and roasting marshmallows under starlit skies. And now, it’s as if the reel is spinning faster, scenes passing in a blur, but I long to still hold on. 

My girls are eleven and thirteen. Soon to be twelve and fourteen. In the busy rhythm of life, moments slip through my fingers. They dissolve before I can name them. I have to remind myself to pause. To stop the doing and start truly seeing. Observe. Soak in the moment. Be the witness. Because in the quiet presence, the magic lives. 

Watching my daughters grow, speak with courage, stumble and rise, question everything while staying endlessly curious, continues to awaken something in me. They’ve reminded me that every moment, even the still ones, holds a story or a poem, just waiting to be shaped. 

As I watch my girls boldly navigate their worlds, I find myself capturing words in the quiet, in the chaos, or when a flash of inspiration appears. The inspiration unknowingly lures me to secret places in my heart and in my mind. Clarity arrives. The path is clear. The light is shining through the tall pines urging me to be bold. 

Be Audacious

inspired by my daughters

Be bold enough to want more. More joy. More depth. More magic. More alignment.

This world may ask you to shrink, to smile politely, to ask for permission, to wait your turn. But you were not born for quiet corners. You were born to take up sacred space.

You were born to break patterns, to speak the words your grandmother swallowed, to live the life your younger self dreamed up in secret.

Audacity is not arrogance or disrespect. It is bold trust. Unapologetic trust. 

Trust in your voice, your timing, your becoming.

So go on. Dream a little louder. Walk a little taller. Love a little wilder.

Carry your truth like a crown.

The world needs your fire.

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The sunrise is not just the start of another day, it is an invitation. An invitation to begin again. To see the world with clear eyes. To meet ourselves with love and tenderness. To trust in the unfolding of our own path.

Morning arrives like a gentle hand resting on our shoulder, softly reminding us that whatever burdens we carried yesterday can be set down now. It is safe to let go.  

There is wisdom woven into the quiet moments that sit right before us, if we listen. We spend so much time searching outside of ourselves seeking answers, clarity, or direction from others. We forget that everything we need is already present, resting within our hearts.

Like the sunrise that follows the rhythm of the Earth, we too, have an inner rhythm that knows the way forward. Trust is the bridge. We must trust that the answers are not lost. We must trust that we already hold the knowing deep inside. And we must trust that if we do our part, the universe will guide, support, and lift us up.

So welcome it. All of it. Not just the light, but the lesson. Not just the morning, but the perspective it offers. Not just the day ahead, but the quiet knowing that we, too, are always rising. 

Everything is unfolding as it is meant to. There are no mistakes. Even the difficulties. The struggles. The waiting. The setbacks. The suffering. The painful moments. Those are not miscalculations. They are pieces of a greater story, shaping us in ways we cannot yet see. What feels like a detour may be the exact path leading us to where we are meant to be. 

Treat yourself and go outside. Watch the sky. Gaze at a sunrise, a sunset, or the planetary parade that is getting so much deserved attention. Look up. Put yourself in a state of awe. The beauty of the world is all around you. Allow nature to lure you towards wonder. And chances are you’ll remember that you are also part of something infinite.

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The Mother Daughter Retreat

Nosara, Costa Rica: July 12-17, 2025

Our fast paced world may prevent us from taking time to slow down and observe the beautiful moments, like a sunrise. I’m hosting a Mother Daughter Retreat again this summer. Together, we will tap into the healing powers of nature and allow ourselves to just be. A thoughtfully curated experience includes time to connect with your daughter, with other moms, and with yourself. Life is about collecting experiences. This will be a memory you will hold in your heart forever. We have one space remaining!

We grow during discomfort. It is also true that life can feel extra hard when our environment is stressful in a way that is beyond our control. Positive psychologists offer a reminder: “focus on what you can control.” Sage advice. We can be hypnotized by the chaos that we can’t control. 

How can we get better at seeing reality for what it is and then respond to ourselves and each other with kindness, peace, or love? Through a period of introspection, I discovered that both profound and subtle perspective shifts are possible.

Interestingly, I remembered what I had forgotten when I gave myself time to be alone. Hurricane Helene was a traumatic event in my hometown of Asheville, NC. Other personal events piled on. I phoned a friend and she invited me to her AirBNB that was sitting vacant. I asked, “is there running water?” This has become a standard question in Western North Carolina since the hurricane. Her response, “yes, we have a well. The water is clean. We also have a bathtub.” The excitement and relief came to me as the gift I unknowingly needed. 

I gathered my things and drove up the sketchy dirt road and landed in a place of stillness. Not even the trees spoke. Peace rolled in immediately. I went inside the home and found what I was seeking, the bathtub. I turned the water on, added a few drops of lavender and clary sage essential oils. Lavender has a soothing effect on the nervous system. And clary sage can significantly decrease cortisol levels, the hormone responsible for stress.

Next, I put the kettle on the stove to make some nettle tea. A nettle latte is my go to cup of warmth this time of year (recipe below). I went outside onto the deck, and took in the expansive north facing views. The mountains were dull in color, but the dark shadows revealed a raw beauty. 

The bath was ready. I love to soak. My daughters are also big soakers. Having no clean water since September 27th has changed our lifestyle in so many ways. Our self care routine of bathing has been missed. I allowed my body to soak until the water turned cold. The essential oils informed my nervous system that all was well. The herbal tea was coded for immune support. I soaked in the silence. 

My time in this space was so quiet. No music. No podcasts. No children. No responsibilities. I was alone with my own thoughts. My own wisdom. This may sound depressing or lonely, but that couldn’t be further from what I felt. 

The experience was nourishing and supportive. This was peacemaking. And all this time, I had been busy with peacekeeping. There is a subtle difference. I’ll explain and then I’ll share some tools for this season.

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I have friends who lost entire homes, businesses, and loved ones. The amount of devastation is unreal. Rivers flooded our town and homes were washed away. PBS reported 1,400 landslides which destroyed roads, bridges, and homes. Our water system was ruined. My community was living without power, water, cell service, or internet for two weeks. After week two, the power came back on. People rejoiced and stored the candles and flashlights away. We could finally use a refrigerator again. After week three cell service was restored and people purchased starlink to have internet access. Finally we didn’t have to trek to the Verizon truck that was parked outside of the local church for communication. After week four we had running water. This should be the biggest cause for celebration. Unfortunately, the water is so toxic it can only be used for flushing toilets and with the right detoxification systems we can also use it for laundry. Therefore, dishwashing, bathing, hand-washing, teeth-brushing, and face-washing is all done just how Laura Ingles Wilder described in her books. Except our little house on the prairie feels like a Climate Change war zone.

Asheville Strong is the rallying cry, and the community spirit is certainly felt. The south has a beautiful way of walking with love in their hearts. People look out for each other. They take the time to slow down and sincerely ask, “how are you?” or “do you need anything?” People are finding strength in togetherness. And there are many tears shared so people don’t feel so alone as they contemplate how to rebuild or relocate. 

Those of us that have remained are trying to find some normalcy again. My daughters started school last week. The video below is a snapshot of our commute to school. They are happy to be with friends and their teachers. The school is a stable, safe place amidst the chaos. After-school activities have started again, but the daily hustle feels harder. There are so many road closures because of the landslides, road damage, and bridges washed away. It takes extra time to drive alternate routes. Traffic is present on every road and it takes double the time to get to places. Our simple commute to school was 8 minutes and now we average 25 minutes. That’s just one way! 

People who have a well or live in south Asheville get the luxury of clean water. The rest of us must get creative. My form of creativity is calling upon friends who have well water. These generous people have opened their homes to both me and my girls so we can shower, cook meals, wash dishes, do laundry, and use wifi. There are services set up all over town to shower, wash laundry, and fill up buckets with potable water. Many churches and grocery store parking lots are hosting these services and the red cross is still serving free meals. 

The community is busy bulldozing debris, rebuilding roads and bridges, and people are trying to find their way. People must reframe thoughts and plans constantly for this new way of being. The volunteer efforts are beautiful. People are emerging out of the shock phase. No one expected a hurricane to destroy our town, located 300 miles from the coast. Many were not notified to evacuate until it was too late. It all happened so suddenly. The trauma is still in us. We each carry it differently.  

These traumatic events can lead many to ponder existential questions. People who feel pain, sadness, and navigate life with a heavy heart may root for change. Real growth happens in the painful pockets of discomfort. The falling apart and then the cracking open allows the light back in. 

It is certainly painful to take an honest look at the ecological collapse around us. When devastation becomes the new backdrop for your town, there is no avoiding the truth. Global warming, the destruction of topsoils and agricultural lands, the increase in extreme weather patterns, coral reef destruction, and the plastic pollution crisis — it’s all happening.

The Earth is speaking to us. I know we can listen. Humanity is being forced to hit pause after each and every Climate Crisis. In the pause, there is an opportunity to create a new radical future. We can co-create something different. The next expression of what life will look like is forming in the minds of our children. They see the collapse, but I see them behaving differently. They are visionaries with clear eyes and a huge mission before them. The adults are shepherding this wise generation forward.

 Western North Carolina will require a long time to recover and rebuild. There is no timeline for when the heaviness will leave. Community and connection is the remedy at the moment. The kindness from a neighbor or a friend is surprisingly the best medicine. The unexpected beauty is that now no one is a stranger in town because we endured this traumatic event together. We have an unspoken bond. Maybe that’s why I felt like I could cry to the waitress yesterday. Her kind eyes said, “I know how you feel, honey.” I sensed an invitation to talk. I let it out and her words coated with a southern accent soothed me. Each time I cry, I release another layer of grief. And just like the trees who are proud to let go of their brightly colored leaves, I too will stand tall and let go of the pain.

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My transformation is equally thrilling and uncomfortable. The cycle of letting go, surrender, and trust is on repeat. This metamorphosis process is shining a light on all areas of my life. I’m deciding who I am and where I am going. That’s what I’ve been up to since you last heard from me. I needed an extended period of time to go inwards. Process. Transmute big feelings. Commit to a consistent practice for my body, mind, and soul to feel strong and clear. I’m ready to launch my vision of the future. Doors are opening. Synchronicities are seen and felt. I’m allowing gratitude to step forward each day, which brings unexpected gifts and feelings worth exploring. I’m finally swimming with the cosmic current of life. 

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The bright yellow dandelion appears rapidly each spring, announcing to the world messages of hope, resilience, healing, and transformation. The Earth is constantly providing us with signs, our job is to observe and listen and remain curious. The messages we each gather and receive are unique to our individual Earth voyage. Before my divorce I would consistently see birds in groups of three. I felt a universal nod of approval to leave the marriage as my new family would be a group of three instead of four. The birds were flying free and freedom was what I was seeking. Paying attention to the signs nature gifts us feels like a treasure hunt and the good news is you can’t get it wrong. Things unfold in perfect timing. What’s meant for you won’t miss you, so the worry can be shelved. 

As the dandelion broadcasts messages in my yard, I’m reminded this plant is so misunderstood, overlooked, and undervalued. The potent plant holds medicinal properties originating from the taproots, which tunnel 10 to 15 feet below the Earth collecting nutrients in ancient soil. Dandelions are chock full of vitamins A, B, C, and D, as well as minerals, such as iron, potassium, and zinc. Herbalists and TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine) doctors rely on them for liver detoxification, improvement with kidney function, protection against cell damage, and reduction in oxidative stress. Additionally, the dandelion is used to support the immune system by reducing inflammation and cleansing the lymphatic system. The cosmetic companies even mix dandelion into products for anti-aging properties. 

 Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans all recognized the therapeutic properties of dandelions. In Greek mythology, Theseus ate dandelions for 30 days to fortify himself to fight the Minotaur, a half man-half bull that ate the young adults of Athens. Ancient civilizations were reliant on plants from the Earth to survive and thrive. Over time, people have forgotten the dynamic powers of plants scattered over landscapes. 

Not all communities have forgotten. Ikaria is a small village in Greece that I plan to visit. What piques my interest is that in this blue zone region, sections of the world generally live older than the average, the residents value edible plants. They know what wild plants to eat. Plants are consistently harvested for tea, meals, or made into medicinal tinctures or salves. Scientists and demographers claim consistent herbal medicine is one of the reasons why this community has such a large population of centenarians. 

Unfortunately, dandelions have developed a bad rap over the twentieth century. People view them as weeds and seek toxic herbicides to eradicate them. Glyphosate is one of the strongest weed killer chemicals available on the market and people are waking up to the truth about it and other  herbicides. However, it’s hard to wake up when reading conflicting stories. EPA scientists performed an independent evaluation on glyphosate and found no risks to human health from glyphosate. They claim glyphosate products used according to the directions do not result in risks to children or adults. This makes my blood boil because in January 2024, jurors in a Philadelphia state court awarded $2.2 billion to a man who said the weed killer product Roundup (glyphosate being the active ingredient) caused his cancer. As of March 2024, Monsanto has reached settlement agreements in nearly 100,000 Roundup lawsuits. Monsanto is the company that produced Roundup until Bayer acquired the company in 2018. 

Dandelions provide a bevy of blessings. If you have a field of dandelions in your yard, why not consider how you can incorporate them into your tea, salad, or medicine cabinet. Instructions on how to do so are below. A field of dandelions in spring could be an excellent invitation for a liver detox after winter. Additionally, contemplate the other messages the plant may want to share. The dandelion seeds don’t stay stuck to the stalk. Remaining stuck prevents growth. The seeds adhere to the law of buoyancy and float through the air, letting go in order to find a new beginning. This plant surrenders to the flow. A lesson humans need to revisit again and again. I certainly do.

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