My alarm went off this morning, and I am sitting here, waiting for the sun to rise.
I'm sitting in the cold, the wind blows my hair around, and I wonder how, despite sitting this way yesterday, I forgot to tie my hair back again. No matter. I try and nestle into the experience, but my head is already trying to make meaning of the day, of the questions, of the expectations that are formed without me even giving them any thought. And then the first ray of light gently puts her hand on me. I can feel it as warm as a grandmother's hand. And in that moment, as the sky suddenly turns golden and a great big red orb rises I not only feel that the moment is sacred. But that I am sacred too.
I used to get out of bed with momentum, the sunrise came and I wasn't even paying attention. I was deep into my day already. Being productive, moving forward, on a deadline.
I have no recollection of what was really so important. It seemed critical at the time. I hope the PowerPoints and the lessons learned documents live somewhere, though I suspect they are long buried in the sense of hurry and a change in direction.
These days I am sinking into softer, kinder conversations. Conversations about thriving, about loving, about the truth of depression, menopause and boundaries, following impulse and the truth that I know deep in my being.
I'm learning the universal truths that life hands us without warning:
Life is not fair—and that's not personal, it's just Tuesday.
People will judge and if you have the strength, it will be the reason to draw a boundary and ask them to leave.
Saying no gets easier with practice, but the guilt doesn't always fade as quickly as we'd like.
The things that felt earth-shattering at 30 barely register at 50—perspective is a gift that comes with mileage.
Your body will change without asking permission, and that's both terrifying and liberating.
The approval you're seeking from others is never coming in the way you think it should.
I'm also learning about love and its capacity to sustain a friend who is fighting cancer battles and delight in a 3-year-old's perspective of the world.
And I am learning to rise with the sun.
Turns out, most cultures have figured this out long before I did. The sun isn't just that bright thing in the sky—it's sacred, powerful, something to pay attention to. There's something about watching light win over darkness every single morning. First light feels like a fresh start, a chance to begin again. A moment to just be grateful that we get another shot at this whole thing.
Sunrise became the reason I chose to host my next retreat at the Nest in Mexico. I came here on a quest when the world was still vulnerable. I was aware that I was in the midst of a transition so fundamental that I could not see where the questions started. But what I knew I could do was get up every morning and sit, east-facing, overlooking the ocean, and greet the great ball of light as it appeared.
Walking between the unassuming whitewashed villas, I felt the sand between my toes and the way the land holds me as it does the little beetles and the great birds, and I knew suddenly that knowing what is important to me has lain dormant for too long. Here I could simply share my secrets with the sea. She does not judge.
And in that moment I felt my skin start to warm. I felt my worries start to fade. I felt my energies stir.
And before you know it I was laughing. Because it was the dawn of a new day. The beginning of every corny poem and love song.
Only it wasn't corny at all.
It reminded me that every day can start with celebration. With warmth. With wonder. With gratitude.
And from that place I can begin to find the new answers. The ones that live in my heart and in my laughter. The ones that fuel my defiant joy.
I'm not great at this practice. Making time for myself is apparently hard. I'm appalling at it. I know I should be great, given how many conversations I have with others about the importance of doing it.
But in truth, those tapes of productivity, doing something for someone, earning a living and hustling for worthiness all start clamouring for attention.
I've been practicing this sunrise ritual for 8 months now. Slowly, the sunrise has become my friend. Sitting quietly with a cup of coffee and my journal before dawn is no longer a labour. Do I groan as I get up? Yes. I admit, I don't jump out of bed like a monkey, but I no longer have a dialogue with my productive self that challenges my right to be a priority. I get to start my day with the grace of the Universe. And ask myself one question: "What do I want?"
I'm ready to return to the Nest. The place where I first made myself a promise. To listen. To be kind, to find a new rhythm, to re-imagine the joy and the delight.
Because every day that starts with sunrise ends with sunset. A chance to feel grateful, to let go. And maybe—just maybe—to know that I lived this day with the grace and ease I wanted.
There is space for 3 more seekers who want to reconnect to the vitality that comes when we sit in the center of our own lives. When we dare to say, yes, in the end, I come first. I am ready to reacquaint myself with the self who often goes unheard. I am ready to step into the vitality that is waiting. I want to give energy to the joy that is ready to bubble up if only I give it space and the warmth of the morning sun.
Registration closes in 2 weeks. 3 spaces remain.
P.S. We will be guided by Tracey Breeden, who, inspired by her Cherokee and Choctaw lineage, will be leading us in a daily Sunrise Ceremony from our private platform overlooking the magical rise of the sun over the ocean every day. As the first beams of light hit your face, I will ask one simple question: "What do you want?" Can you imagine what you might inspire in your life if you took the time to listen?