Ahmad and I met in 2011, when we went through the Coaches Training Institute (CTI) together. He made quite an impression on me from the start.

He was quiet, but he had this commanding, open, approachable—and just wonderful—presence.

He didn’t say a lot. But when Ahmad did speak, we listened. I remember wanting to hold onto all of his words because they tended to be thoughtful and wise.

We stayed in touch over the years. Last November, Kelly O’Connor, of Society of Certified Senior Advisors, posted on LinkedIn that the CSA Conference was looking for a female keynote speaker who was also a hiker.

Ahmad thought of me and shared my name with Kelly. And that ultimately led to me delivering the Trailhead Keynote at the CSA Conference in Denver a couple of weeks ago.

On August 12, while preparing for that keynote, I was thinking about how the opportunity had come to me and remembered Ahmad’s role in it. I wrote him a note thanking him for the referral and promising him I’d give my very best to the CSAs.

I know it’s a small thing, but I hope he got that message.

Ahmad was a good man. He was a light in the world! He was doing important, difference-making work, and I am better for having known him.

Thank you, Ahmad.

I was in Denver last weekend to give a keynote. I came home with such a full heart. ❤️

I had the honor of delivering the “Trailhead Keynote” at the annual Society of Certified Senior Advisors conference, sharing stories and lessons from Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.

Before I began, I told the audience about someone I love very much: my mom.

My mom has lived with multiple sclerosis for more than 45 years, and today has dementia.

Over the past few years, my family and I have found ourselves navigating a wilderness we never imagined—hospitalizations, falls, infections, questions about care, and the constantly-changing terrain as we’ve tried to figure things out.

When you’re walking through an unfamiliar wilderness, it matters enormously to have someone in your corner who knows the trail.

Certified Senior Advisors are those people.

CSAs come from many different professions, but share a commitment to serving older adults and their families. Earning the credential requires multidisciplinary knowledge of aging, passing a rigorous examination, and committing to high professional and ethical standards. They are the guides who know what questions to ask, what resources exist, and what to expect around the next bend.

I had the privilege of getting to know many of them. I met people working in senior living and home health, real estate, financial services, insurance, caregiving, decluttering and downsizing, end-of-life care, and so many other professions—all choosing, in their own ways, to serve older adults and their families.

I attended breakout sessions and listened to other speakers. I learned so much, and made new friendships.

We’re living in a time when so many of us are yearning for more human and meaningful connection. The CSA conference reminded me just how much we need gatherings like this.

We need to sit across the table from each other, and to share our stories.

This conference gave me all of that in abundance.

In the months leading up to the conference, I worked hard on my keynote. I wanted to provide something of value to this community of people who have chosen to do work that matters so much.

And still, I got more out of it than I put in. This community gave me so much.

To everyone I met at the CSA Conference—and to the wonderful people who worked so hard to bring us all together—thank you.

You filled my heart! ❤️

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By the time I boarded my commuter flight from Denver to Riverton last Wednesday, I had one goal: listen to a podcast and, if I was lucky, take a nap.

While boarding the plane, there was a seat mix-up. Once it was sorted out, I found myself sitting next to a man named Darryl.

We exchanged greetings, and when I asked where he was headed, he told me he was on his way to the Trial Lawyers College in Dubois. Curious, I asked if he was an attorney.

“No,” he said.

He told me he was going as a speaker.

Curious, I asked him what he would be speaking about.

That’s when he told me his story.

Darryl was wrongly convicted of murder and spent 24 years in prison—most of it at the old Missouri State Penitentiary, once called the “47 bloodiest Acres in America.”

Twenty-four years.

His life, from age 22 to 46, taken from him.

For the rest of the flight, I asked questions and listened.

When we landed in Riverton, I found myself deeply grateful our paths had crossed.

And to think, I almost missed it.

Had the seat mix-up not happened, we might have done nothing more than exchange a polite greeting. Had I stayed in my own little world, I would have missed one of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had in a long time.

It reminded me that every person we cross paths with is carrying a story we know nothing about.

I wonder how many meaningful conversations—and remarkable people—we miss because we’re looking down at our phones instead of up at each other.

I couldn’t wait to tell Jerry and our three boys about Darryl. I’ve thought about him often since our flight and have shared his story with many others.

Today, Darryl is a pastor, sought-after speaker, and co-founder of Miracle of Innocence, an organization that advocates for people who have been wrongfully convicted and helps exonerees rebuild their lives.

His story is one of hope, forgiveness, resilience, justice, and extraordinary grace.

I hope our paths cross again someday. I’d love to introduce him to my family—and maybe even take him on an epic hike in Wyoming’s Wind River Range.

To learn more about Darryl and his work, visit DarrylBurton.org, and MiracleofInnocence.org/

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(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

Sixteen years ago, I was working on a jigsaw puzzle in our family room, half-listening to a podcast, when the guest — a man who had survived a near-death experience — described, in vivid detail, the life review he was presented. His whole life passed before him, a sort of slideshow that included thousands of individual experiences and interactions. I listened intently as he explained that he re-experienced those moments at a much more granular level — not only his own experience of them, but the feelings of everyone who was part of them. It wasn’t a harsh judgment. It was simply a re-experiencing, from all sides.

It was a fascinating story, and I remember sitting at my puzzle table, thinking: I don’t want to wait until my death to have such a review.

I didn’t know it then, but that thought became a seed. And some particular events that followed seemed to water and nurture it.

There was my epic experience in the Grand Canyon in May of 2010 — a 46-mile, single-day hike from the South Rim down to the Colorado River, up to the North Rim, and back again. Deep in the canyon for the second time that day, depleted and broken open, I met parts of myself I’d never met before. I emerged hours later as not the same person who had entered.

Then, in 2011, we lost a family friend, Lori — a woman who lived a vibrant, full life until she died suddenly, at the age of 52, from an aneurysm. Her death made me think of my own mortality, and was a heavy reminder that we don’t know how long we have. As I left her beautiful service and celebration of her life, I was inspired to live more intentionally.

And there was the period leading up to the sale of our first business, and after it. Overwhelmed with the stresses of operating and growing a business during the early years of raising a family, I had stopped paying close attention to my life. Not to the people I loved — our three young sons and my husband were the light of my life through all of it — but to myself: my physical and mental health, and my sense of aliveness.

I unexpectedly found myself in quite a rut, one that sent me on a journey from 2009 to 2011 to transform my health and “reinvent” myself. (Quotes = irony)

These awakenings shaped my philosophy for how to live, and the work I’ve been called to do ever since. It’s why I named my company Epic Life, and it’s why the work I do with others — whether I’m coaching, adventure guiding, keynote presenting, or facilitating leadership — tends to be deeply personal work.

It’s also at the heart of my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life, which holds this philosophy and the most valuable things I’ve learned from working so personally with individuals, leaders, and over the last 15 years.

The same period sparked a love affair with what my friend Jamie refers to as “dying books.” I’m fascinated by books written, and stories shared, by people approaching the end of their lives — whether they’ve been given a terminal diagnosis, survived a near-death experience, or are simply later in life. Some of my favorites include When Breath Becomes Air, The Bright Hour, Chasing Daylight, Being Mortal, The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Life After Life, Tuesdays with Morrie, To Heaven and Back, Tuesdays with Morrie, and so many others.

I’m inspired by what people have to say when they know their death is near, and for this reason, the dying have become some of my greatest teachers.

I’ve learned that the top regret of the dying is that they didn’t have the courage to live the life they wanted to live. As we age, we tend to regret our inactions more than our actions. Many of our regrets are due to a failure of courage — and in fact, probably the most important thing I’ve learned from working with so many people during the last 15 years is that we risk our life when we don’t live it.

Most of the dying wish they’d lightened up and had more fun along the way. And very importantly, most of the dying will tell us that people are the most important thing — that nothing matters as much as the people and relationships in our lives. I think most of us know this intuitively, but if you’re like me — human and imperfect — you sometimes take the people you love the most for granted.

I’ve been reviewing my life in some form ever since. I’ve tried, almost daily, to remember that today could be my last, and to live it accordingly. Because I’ve made this a practice for more than fifteen years, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

Those fifteen years have also included thousands of miles on foot — roughly half of them walked alone, in solitude. Walking is how I’ve cultivated my inner life, and where I’ve learned to sit with the difficult parts that arise — including what Carl Jung called our shadow — the parts of ourselves that tend to surface in midlife and beyond, often without our looking for them. I’ve spent a lot of time walking with my shadow. The more I walk, the closer I get to myself.

Three years ago, I went further. I quietly began my own life review — a deliberate journey back over the whole of my life: its chapters, pivotal experiences, relationships, setbacks and failures, and threshold experiences — what Jim Collins calls “cliffs” — that changed the trajectory of my life or how I lived it. The moments when I’ve felt most alive. The parts of myself I set down along the way, and the masks I’ve worn and accumulated.

It has been some of the most difficult, but also meaningful and clarifying, work I have ever done. I’m still very much in it. It’s helping me understand why I am the way I am, why I respond the way I do in certain situations, and more. It’s also bringing me clarity about my next chapter.

Now I’m ready to help guide others down this path.

The offering is called Epic Life Review, and it moves through three stages:

Remembering — traveling back through the whole of your life and making meaning of it.

Reclaiming — retrieving the parts of yourself that were set down, buried, or forgotten, and removing the masks you no longer need or want to wear.

Returning — coming home with the treasure: knowing who and what are most important, discovering the gifts your particular life has produced, and letting your hard-won wisdom inform and inspire your next chapter — wisdom we can then turn into something meaningful to share with loved ones, and others.

This isn't therapy. It's a practice backed by decades of research. The pioneering gerontologist Robert Butler named it "life review" in 1963, confirming what we've known for generations: looking back on one’s life can be an enriching experience. Conducting a life review has been shown to bring greater peace, meaning, and fulfillment.

I’ll offer the Epic Life Review in four formats:

A 12-month virtual journey — a guided, unhurried passage through all three stages, facilitated in community.

A 3-day retreat — the immersive version, complete with time in nature, ceremony, and celebration.

A “popup” retreat — gather your circle of friends or your team, choose the destination, and I’ll bring the Epic Life Review to you.

A half-day workshop or breakout session — an abbreviated introduction that is perfect for organizations, teams, and conferences.

The Epic Life Review is a standalone offering, but parts of it will be folded into my other new offerings, including Wild Woman Comes Back, created specifically for women, and The Return, created for men — both designed for those who find themselves in a new season of life (midlife and beyond). Parts of it will also be woven, when relevant, into my coaching, virtual programs, and Epic experiences.

If something in you stirred while reading this, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment or email me.

Because, why wait?

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(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

Today is the birthday of one of my dearest friends, Kathy Browning Kramer—my beloved "SoX." Two years have passed since she died while mountain biking in southern Colorado, and I think about her every day.

Our friendship first blossomed when Kathy brought my family a pan of lasagne and some brownies after my youngest son was born. That was nearly twenty years ago, and ours became one of the great friendships of my life.

"SoX" was the trail name friends and I gave Kathy during a 2013 backpacking trip in Wyoming's Wind River Range because every day she surprised us with a different pair of colorful, decorative knee-high socks that she wore proudly with her shorts and hiking boots.

Among many other things, Kathy and I shared a deep love of nature. For several springs and early summers, we'd wake before dawn and drive into the mountains to greet the sunrise and wander among wildflowers as their colors came alive in the first light. We shared countless adventures in the wilderness, "happy hour" walkabouts, sunset coaster bike rides, road trips, reggae concerts, and conversations I'll never forget.

Even before her hearing loss became significant, we could lie in the cool grass of City Park, beneath the towering cottonwoods, hike, bike, or ski up a trail, ride quietly in her truck, or simply watch the light change—and there would be long stretches without a word. There was never any need to fill the silence. We both enjoyed the quiet.

A couple of weeks before her passing, we spent two and a half hours on FaceTime. We laughed until my stomach muscles hurt. We cried. We talked deeply about life. Kathy had endured unimaginable challenges over the previous few years, yet on that call she told me she felt at peace. She was light. Happy. Inspired by her life.

That conversation has become one of my greatest gifts.

I miss her terribly.

There are still moments when the loss catches me unexpectedly and takes my breath away. But over these past two years, grief has slowly made room for gratitude. Gratitude that I was lucky enough to love someone like Kathy.

And besides, I still feel her.

Sometimes I'll be thinking of SoX when a blue heron suddenly glides overhead. Sometimes a butterfly lands on my leg. Sometimes I'll see shadows flickering and dancing on my covered wagon's top. Sometimes, while wandering in my beloved Wind Rivers, I'll hear the unmistakable song of the hermit thrush—a bird we both loved—and I know it's a gift she sent.

Some people might call these coincidences. Not me.

Whenever Kathy was outside, she wore the gentlest smile. I can picture her on that July day, riding her mountain bike through the beauty of southern Colorado, doing something she loved with all her heart.

Of course her final rest was in a field of wildflowers.

Happy Birthday, dear SoX. I love you forever.

(Adapted from a story in my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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Building and maintaining muscle is one of the greatest investments we can make in our long-term health. As we age—especially for women during and after menopause—strength training becomes less about looking fit and more about remaining capable. It helps us stay strong, capable, resilient, and independent. It allows us to recover from setbacks, continue doing the things we love, and keep saying yes to adventures for decades to come.

I’m 58 years old and have been lifting weights for most of my adult life. For the past 15 years, strength training has been a consistent part of my weekly routine, with most of my workouts centered around functional movements like goblet squats, dumbbell thrusters, kettlebell swings and snatches, deadlift, chest press, and planks.

About eight months ago, I decided to become a little more intentional about building muscle in my arms and shoulders. Yes, I enjoy having stronger, more defined arms, but that’s not really the point. The point is building and maintaining a body that can carry a backpack deep into the mountains, shoulder a stand-up paddleboard, haul heavy luggage through airports, play pickleball, and keep saying yes to epic adventures for years to come.

Over the past several months, I’ve been traveling the country on my Breathtaking book tour, and often, women have asked if I’d share more of my workouts. So I’m finally doing it.

One of my favorite shoulder exercises is the bottoms-up single-arm kettlebell press. It is an advanced exercise. Because the kettlebell is balanced upside down, every repetition demands focus and constant, almost invisible adjustments. It develops shoulder stability, grip and core strength, balance, coordination, and proprioception—your body's awareness of where it is in space. It’s a wonderful reminder that strength isn’t just about producing force. It’s also about awareness, control, and moving well.

A quick note: this is a more advanced exercise and probably isn’t the best place to begin if you’re new to strength training. Start with a standard overhead press, build a solid foundation of strength and shoulder stability, and then progress to bottoms-up presses when you’re ready.

If you’d like to see the full arm and shoulder routine this exercise is part of, you can find it here.

In the weeks and months ahead, I’ll continue sharing some of the lifts, drills, and training practices that help me prepare for long mountain hikes, pickleball, and an active life outdoors.

I hope some of these ideas inspire and help you become stronger—and more able to live your own epic life.

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If you’d like to learn about my book: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.

I’m 58 years old, and strength training has been part of my life for most of my adult years. For the past 15 years, it’s been a consistent part of my weekly routine, with most of my workouts centered around functional movements such as goblet squats, dumbbell thrusters, kettlebell swings, Turkish get-ups, snatches, deadlifts, chest presses, and planks.

About eight months ago, I decided to become a little more intentional about building muscle in my arms and shoulders.

Over the past several months, I’ve been traveling the country on my Breathtaking book tour, with stops in Atlanta, Seattle, New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Next up are Jackson Hole and Detroit, with more cities still being added.

Along the way, a number of women have asked me about my arm and shoulder routine and whether I’d share it. Rather than trying to explain it one conversation at a time, I decided to record a video.

While I do enjoy having stronger, more toned arms, this is about much more than appearance. For me, it’s about building a body that can carry a backpack into the mountains, lift a paddleboard, play pickleball, shoulder heavy luggage, and keep saying yes to adventure—and to life—for decades to come.

Building and maintaining muscle is one of the greatest investments we can make in our long-term health. It helps us stay strong, capable, resilient, and independent. It allows us to recover from setbacks, continue doing the things we love, and remain fully engaged in the lives we want to live.

I’m not a personal trainer—this is simply what’s been working for me. Take whatever’s useful and adapt it to your own needs.

I hope this provides a little inspiration to incorporate some strength training into your own life.

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If you’d like to learn about my book: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.

I met so many people — new people, plus people I’ve known for years but had never met in person before, and of course friends who are lucky enough to live in the area.

I experienced so many meaningful conversations, one-on-one and in rooms full of people.

What I’m finding is this Breathtaking Book Tour is something more than a book tour. It’s more like one great, unfolding conversation that is happening. These kinds of interactions, the ones so many are longing for to have. Human to human conversations about about what actually matters.

I’m deeply grateful to the organizations who brought me in — Razorfish, Saatchi & Saatchi, and DSPlus — and to Molly Cody and Kirsten Jones for hosting Breathtaking gatherings and introducing me to their people.

And to the many other inspiring humans and leaders I met up with while in Los Angeles–thank you!

Up next: Chicago, May 15–21.

If you’d like to connect — or have me join your organization, team, book club, or event — I’d love to hear from you.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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For three years, I've been shaping a new offering — one born from my own season of reckoning, reflection, and return.

It's called Wild Woman Comes Back.

It's for women in a particular season — midlife, between chapters, standing at a crossroads — who feel a pull toward less striving and more meaning. Who want to reflect on the whole of their life, not just optimize the next chapter.

Drawing on Clarissa Pinkola Estés' work and the wild woman archetype, this is a journey of life review, reflection, and threshold-crossing. Intimate by design. It is the fullest expression of what I have to offer.

It will be offered in several forms: as an in-person retreat, as part of an Epic Adventure offering, as a 12-month virtual journey — with a guided wilderness threshold experience at the midpoint, and as a “pop-up” experience for custom circles where a woman gathers her people, chooses the destination, and I bring the journey to you.

If something in you stirred — I'd love to hear from you. You can DM me directly or let me know you're interested here.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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Do you know? I know I do. We all have this knowing in us.

Tend to the pebble in your shoe.

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There’s a story in my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life, called Woods Shock.

If you’re in the wilderness and suddenly realize you might be off-course or lost—when your surroundings don’t match your mental map—you’re not likely to respond well. You’re likely to experience what psychologists call “woods shock.”

When we experience woods shock, we don’t respond rationally. We panic.

A lost person may thrash about, trying to get back to familiar terrain. But in doing so, they often become only more lost.

Woods shock isn’t something that only happens in the wilderness. It can happen in our lives, too.

Right now, we’re in a wilderness unlike any other. We’re in new, unfamiliar terrain for which we have no map or guidebook. There is no path laid out for us to follow.

The temptation is to just keep going while we try to figure it out. But we can’t chart a course if we don’t first know our location.

That’s why, especially when we’re unsure, it’s critical that we pause and reflect. Only then can we determine our location and choose a path forward.

I see this everywhere right now.

It can look like a leader suddenly responsible for helping an entire organization adapt to AI—while the ground is shifting faster than any strategy can keep up. The old playbook doesn’t quite work anymore. The old maps are no longer relevant. They’re not necessarily lost—but they’re not fully oriented either.

It can look like a 60-year-old woman executive with a remarkable track record, standing at a crossroads. The opportunities are there. Recruiters are calling. She could jump back onto a familiar path tomorrow. But something in her knows that rushing would be a mistake. She’s holding steady long enough to really know her location—to figure out not just what she can do next, but what feels right for her.

It can look like a 26-year-old who’s just been laid off, trying to find his footing in a world where career paths are disappearing. The path he was on no longer exists. He’s not just looking for a new job—he’s trying to orient himself and his passion and skills in a vast and uncharted wilderness.

Different lives. Different ages. Different stakes. But the same human experience.

This is why the first compass point in Breathtaking is so simple—and important: Know your location. Before you choose a direction. Before you make a big decision. Before you try to fix or flee your life. Be honest with yourself about where you are.

In the wilderness, this isn’t philosophical. It’s practical. If you don’t know your location, you’re lost. And if you’re lost, the most dangerous thing you can do is keep going.

This is the heart of Breathtaking: you can’t determine a path forward if you don’t first know where you are.

Related good next story to read: Know Your Location.

Next up on the Breathtaking Book Tour will be Los Angeles and Chicago, with many more cities to come in 2026.

(To learn more about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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Some conversations unfold the way a meandering walk in the wilderness does—with no destination, and with room to wander.

This is not an interview so much as a meandering conversation between friends.

Scott L. Christensen is a world-renowned, award-winning artist and educator based in Teton Valley, Idaho, known for his luminous landscape paintings in oil and gouache and for the deep emotion his work evokes. He has been painting and teaching for more than forty years, and his work is held in high regard by artists and collectors alike.

As a teacher, Scott has mentored hundreds of artists through his Signature Course, Adventure of Painting (AOP)—a rich, process-driven community grounded in curiosity, patience, and practice.

Scott is also a longtime friend of mine. We were high school classmates in Lander, Wyoming, back in the day. I find Scott endlessly interesting—especially the way he thinks, his creative process, and the questions he asks.

As Scott writes:

“I’ve spent my entire life learning and discovering what I didn’t know, and the key to loving that learning is partnering with your process. Your work always asks questions of you, and answering those questions is at the heart of what being an artist is all about.”

In this conversation—recorded and facilitated by Scott to share with his artist community—we talk about painting and writing, but mostly about process. We talk about paying attention, the parts of life we don’t record or think to name, and the discipline of staying with what we don’t yet fully understand.

It’s a conversation about experimenting, staying curious, and continuing to learn.

If you listen, I hope you find a gem or two along the way.

Thank you, Scott, for the opportunity to engage in a conversation I found deeply interesting, insightful, and inspiring.

(If you’d like to learn more about my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life, you can find it here.)

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On Sunday, in the middle of a winter blizzard, nearly 30 people made their way to a gathering for the very first New York stop of the Breathtaking book tour. It was so special, and my heart feels so full!

This gathering was hosted by three Epic Sisters, Doreen, Mia, and Ilana, from my May 2025 Epic Women Zion adventure who live in the area. These women opened their arms and their hearts to help elevate me, my book, and my work. Another Epic Sister from that same group, Susan, the connective force behind our group of 13, flew in from Atlanta just to be there.

Most of the people who attended were new to me. They were friends and family invited by the hosts. Alongside those new faces, and the Epic Sisters who hosted, were a few familiar ones as well, including Ben, whom I hadn’t seen in 19 years, and Chrissy, who traveled from Connecticut and had been part of my 2021 Epic Women Zion cohort.

By the way, there are roughly 8.2 billion people on this planet. The odds of this particular combination of humans, and me, colliding in a single room in Westchester, New York, on that winter morning are essentially zero. And yet, there we were. I find that breathtaking.

By the end of the gathering, through so many meaningful one-on-one conversations before and after my presentation, I had connected with people I would never otherwise have had the pleasure of meeting. I can’t tell you how much that touches me and fills my cup.

The room had huge windows showing giant snowflakes falling and swirling outside. It felt like we were inside a snow globe. And the food! An abundant, soulful, wildly delicious spread—most of it lovingly prepared by Doreen, an epic human and truly exceptional chef, with beautiful contributions baked and brought by others as well.

For my part, I shared my backstory and the long, winding path that led to writing Breathtaking, followed by a reading from the book—Find Your Way Back to Yourself.

And then came the questions. I was asked so many thoughtful, wide-ranging questions. Most of them were questions I haven’t been asked before on the book tour. As I’ve reflected over the last couple of days, I’ve realized that some of them were questions I’ve been waiting, and hoping, to be asked. What an unexpected gift that was.

This book tour means so much, largely because it’s carrying me from the quiet frontier of Wyoming into the cities, homes, and organizations of people who have been, or are, part of my Epic and Breathtaking journey.

In my 15th year of this work, it feels like a full-circle moment and a celebration of so much more than a book or a body of work. It’s a celebration of relationships—and of what it means to connect genuinely with others and to stay connected over time.

I am more than I was before as a result of Sunday’s breathtakingly beautiful gathering. My heart is full, and I’m overflowing with gratitude.

Next up: this afternoon and evening—gatherings with a law firm and a bank in Midtown Manhattan.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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This particular incense is handmade and ethically sourced, and has a strong, earthy, scent made from pure vetiver essential oil.

It’s designed for aromatherapy to ground, balance, and reduce stress, using natural ingredients like bamboo sticks, with no synthetic fragrances or charcoal, and offering powerful, long-lasting aroma that’s perfect for meditation.

I wish you could smell it. At least you can hear the river.

Thanks for stopping by.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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I met Jerry in Omaha on August 9, 1990, at a wedding rehearsal. It was the wedding of Jody and Kathy—two people dear to us—and Jerry was a groomsman while I was a bridesmaid.

I noticed him while chatting with the other bridesmaids. Jerry was talking loudly with the other groomsmen, almost as if he wanted my attention. Which he got.

As is so often the case with weddings, love was in the air, and Jody and Kathy’s was no exception. Friends and family filled the room, and the celebration was epic. After the wedding, Jerry and I continued flirting, danced the night away, and eventually ended up in his Uncle Gene’s hot tub in the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, I flew back to Missoula, Montana, where I was finishing my journalism degree. Jerry returned to Dayton, Ohio, where he was working as a physical therapy tech in the Air Force.

It was 1990—long before cell phones and email—so we wrote letters. Real ones. We mailed them back and forth and saved every single one. They’re still among my most cherished possessions.

Over time, the long-distance phone calls and weekend visits became more frequent. We fell in love. We talked about the future as if it was something we’d someday share.

For reasons I barely remember now, I didn’t go home to Wyoming for Christmas in 1991. I think it was because I’d just started my first real job—as an advertising sales consultant at The Missoulian—and had used most of my vacation time visiting Jerry or taking days off when he flew to Montana. I also needed the income. Long-distance phone calls and plane tickets were adding up on my credit card.

Jerry, thankfully, was coming to Missoula for Christmas. His flight was scheduled to arrive the evening of December 20.

I went to happy hour with coworkers at a favorite bar. It had the best Long Island iced teas in town and a legendary nacho bar. We had a great time, and it was a great way to kill the time as I waited for Jerry to arrive.

When I made a quick stop at my apartment, there was a message on my answering machine. Jerry, calling from his layover in Denver, reported that his flight would be delayed by an hour—but he couldn’t wait to see me.

I putzed around, trying to pass the time, then headed to the airport early. Missoula was much smaller then, and the airport was quaint and quiet. I was one of only a handful of people there.

At the time, I drove a gray Ford Taurus. It either burned oil or leaked oil—I never quite knew which. All I knew was that I always kept oil on hand. Wandering around the airport with time to spare, it occurred to me to add a quart “just in case.” We didn’t want to waste any precious time broken down on the side of the road after being reunited.

As I was pouring oil into the car, I noticed a bearded man with a massive video camera perched on his shoulder—the kind that held an actual VHS tape. (If you’re of a certain age, you remember.) He seemed to linger, almost trying to catch my face as he passed. I assumed he might ask if I needed help, but he simply said, “Hello,” and walked inside.

After adding the oil, I followed.

Christmas music played softly as more people arrived. Jerry’s flight—with a brief stop in Bozeman—was due soon. I waited, fidgeting, heart full. Distance really does make the heart grow fonder.

When the doors finally opened, passengers began pouring through. Dozens of them. And one by one, the first several stopped in front of me and asked, “Are you Shelli?”

“Yes?” I answered, confused. My mind raced—had something happened to Jerry?

Instead, each person handed me a Christmas bow—sticking it to my jacket, my hair, my hands—and said, “Merry Christmas, Shelli!”

I stood there, cheeks flushed, covered in bows, wondering what on earth was happening. Surely Jerry—romantic as he was—had orchestrated this. Sweet. Memorable. But… where was he?

Then I heard it.

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

Loud. Deep. Once more.

I looked up—and there he was. Jerry. Dressed as Santa Claus.

He rushed toward me, hugged me so tightly he lifted me off the ground, then set me down and said, “Merry Christmas!”

Before I could fully process what was happening, Jerry dropped to one knee, took my left hand, and told me to open the “present” taped to his chest. I peeled away the wrapping paper to reveal the words stenciled on his sweatshirt:

“Shelli: Will You Marry Me?”

I said yes. Of course I did. We cried, laughed, kissed—and suddenly there was applause. Whooping. Hollering. Champagne.

Jerry had enlisted the flight attendants and passengers to help with the proposal, and they celebrated with us. Someone even found champagne onboard. We toasted with a group of beautiful strangers who had helped create one of the most unforgettable moments of my life.

And yes—it was all on video.

The bearded man with the giant camera? Jerry had hired him. (We really should have submitted the footage to America’s Funniest Home Videos. The prize money could’ve helped with our credit card debt.)

In the days that followed, I kept touching the ring on my finger, half-convinced the whole thing had been a dream.

A month earlier, during one of our weekly phone calls, Jerry had said something like: “I know we’re going to be together someday, and I can imagine you might have family and friends asking you when you think we’ll get married. I just want you to know it I won’t be proposing at Christmas.”

To which I responded, “That’s totally fine. And besides, what I need, if you’re interested, are some new cross-trainers.” I was playing a lot of racquetball at the time and cross-trainers were the kind of shoes one wore for such an occasion. (I’m old.) I added, “Reebok, preferably.”

This past August, Jerry and I celebrated 33 years of marriage. We have three sons—Wolf, Hayden, and Fin, and we’ve built a wonderful and meaningful life.

I’m glad I didn’t get cross-trainers.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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When this happens to me, I feel the distance right away. I’m not as connected or aligned or rooted in my own life. My best remedy is simple and ancient: I head for the wilderness and start walking.

This reading from Breathtaking is about shedding what no longer fits, walking beside our shadow, and remembering who we’ve always been beneath it all.

The video is a three-minute reading from my book, paired with footage from a long walk in my backyard wilderness—so you’re not staring at my talking head the whole time.

If you’re in a season of reorienting, reclaiming, or simply listening more closely to your life, I hope this helps you find your way back to yourself—to your original essence.

When you feel off-course or disconnected from yourself, where do you go—or what do you do—to find your way back?

(To purhcase a copy of my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life, click here.)

Thank you!

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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The next morning, my feeds were full of photos from friends and neighbors—our whole community buzzing from the spectacle. One person described the aurora as “a magnetic love letter from the sun, written across our sky in green and pink ink.”

I love that. That’s exactly what it felt like Tuesday night: a love letter.

Watching the spectacle caused me to recall the first time I saw the Northern Lights, which I wrote about in Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.

I recorded a partial reading of that story today at the Sheepwagon. Due to time constraints (and a little self-preservation), I left out some of the best parts—including the numerous mishaps we managed to experience during a mere 24-hour adventure.

Thank you so much for stopping by. And if you’ve read Breathtaking, I thank you with all my heart.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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A few years ago, during a coaching session with Susan—a CMO I deeply admire—she told me her word of the year was soar. She wanted to rise, to elevate her work and her impact.

Because I’m endlessly curious, after I got off our call, I started researching how the great birds of the world stay aloft for hours, soaring and gliding for miles.

One of the most important things I learned is that soaring isn’t about effort; it’s about reading the air. When the sun warms the earth unevenly, pockets of hot air rise. These columns of invisible warm air are called thermals. Eagles, condors, vultures, cranes, and other great flyers spend their days searching for these updrafts.

Once they find one, they tilt a wing and begin circling inside it, gaining altitude without expending energy. When they’ve climbed high enough, they glide forward, descending slowly until they find the next thermal. Circle and rise. Glide and travel. Repeat.

They are always moving, yet rarely flapping their wings. They let the air do the work. The bird simply searches for the thermals and aligns. Feathers on their wingtips sense the faintest shifts in pressure. A single thermal can lift a bird a thousand feet a minute and carry it miles into the sky. It’s an exquisite dance.

Soon after that call with Susan, I built a short presentation about these birds and how they’re able to soar. It was an extra gesture that she appreciated, and it gave us new language to describe her own desire to rise.

In case you’re curious, the following provides a sampling of some of the world’s greatest flyers and what I learned about them. The Rüppell’s griffon vulture rides thermals to 37,000 feet—higher than Mount Everest. The Andean condor can travel more than a hundred miles without flapping its wings a single time. The common crane migrates in V-formation, each bird catching the rising air from the one ahead. The wandering albatross uses ocean winds to circle the globe. And the golden eagle—my personal and local favorite—rides mountain thermals, circling upward with ease and grace.

Now I’m the one learning to soar, so I’ve been thinking about these great soaring birds again.

With my book, Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life, finally out in the world, I’m in a new kind of sky. After years of walking, writing, coaching, guiding, and building quietly, I’m learning to open my wings wider, to let others help carry this work higher.

The gatherings, book clubs, and events being hosted by friends, clients, and readers across the country—they are my thermals. Each one lifts me higher.

This rising higher scares me a little. I don’t want fame or to be in the spotlight. But I do hope the work—the stories, and the lessons I’ve learned from my 57-year life, from the wilderness, and from 15 years of doing deeply personal work with others—can reach more people.

When fear creeps in—when I find myself wanting to stay small and close to the ground, to fly under the radar—I think of the great soaring birds and remember that they all start close to the ground before learning to trust the invisible air that will lift and hold them.

The sky is wide. The thermals are rising. My wings are open. And I’m so very grateful.

If you’d like to add your town or organization to the Breathtaking Book Tour in 2026, I’d love to include you. Whether you’re part of a leadership team, a company, a book club, or a circle of friends who’d like to host a gathering, please email me at coach@yourepiclife.com.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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We have only one life.
Our time is our life.
We ought to be intentional about how we spend it.

The Stoic Seneca wrote in On the Shortness of Life:

“It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.”

In 2011, I started viewing the way I use my time as either an expense, an investment, or an experience.

I wanted fewer expenses — and more investments and experiences.

I also learned how to say “no.” (If you’d like to feel disconnected from yourself and sidestep your authentic life entirely, just say “yes” to everyone and everything.)

I started living by my calendar. I scheduled everything — including self-care, time in the wilderness, and most importantly, time with the people I love most.

One of the mantras I came up with then, and still try to live by now, is:
“Don’t view anything as a waste of time, and it won’t be.”

That shift in perspective changed everything for me.

Now I try to do one thing at a time. And when I’m doing it, I treat it as if it’s the most important thing in the world.

Because it is.

The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.

(To learn about my book, click: Breathtaking: A Field Guide to Living Your Epic Life.)

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