The Ease of Dawn.
A reflection on change unfolding like a breath.
It was the first day of a seven-day retreat. On the precipice of change, everyone arrives holding their breath.
I’ve learned that beginnings matter—the first handshake, the first hello, the moment you decide whether to lean in or check out. As I anticipated the start of our adventure, I wanted to offer the group a metaphor and an energetic boost that would ignite their desire to emerge into something new, to find the courage to evolve.
Embarking on the kind of inner journey ahead of them requires more than determination—it calls for bold motivation and unanchored inspiration. I imagined starting like a moving scene from a great movie: that pivotal moment when your heart leaps, and you silently urge the character to go for it—the kiss, the leap, the choice that changes everything. You feel the rush, the conviction. As you watch, you believe you could do it too.
So, I decided to take them to the lookout—the highest point on Molokai island—to witness the emergence of Dawn. A moment when the day shows up both vulnerable, yet bold. A perfect symbol of new beginnings.
We rose while the moon still held the sky. Fumbling toward the cliff path, we stood in the cold dark, waiting for that cinematic moment I had built in my mind. I imagined a soft stir of stillness building into a crescendo, a swelling score expanding to a climax—and then, just as the sun broke over the horizon, a burst of golden light, a benediction.
Inspiration. Revelation. The sound of angels.
We’d high-five the universe and turn to each other, beaming: Let’s do this. We can emerge into a new life just as the Universe emerges into a new day. Anything is possible.
Only... that’s not what happened.
The sun just arrived.
No fanfare.
No cymbals, no crescendo, no orchestration.
It simply… came.
Like a quiet warmth from a low fire, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding, finally exhaled. Like the rise and fall of a sleeping baby’s belly—gentle, natural, and entirely unforced. Unassuming. Steady. Effortless.
I don’t know why I expected something different.
I think part of me needed that moment to be big. I wanted it to feel like a turning point—not just for the group, but for me. Maybe I was hoping that if the sunrise roared, I wouldn’t have to wrestle with the quiet doubt I sometimes carry—Am I doing enough? Is this working?
When it didn’t happen that way, I felt a flicker of disappointment, even embarrassment. I had wanted to lead them into something epic… and yet, the stillness taught me more than spectacle ever could.
Dawn doesn’t perform. It doesn’t push. It just happens—softly, simply—as though the Universe is breathing.
And somehow, while I was waiting for the dramatic moment, the light had already arrived. I looked around and could suddenly see the expressions on everyone’s faces. The sunrise had emerged. Without announcing itself, it had already transformed everything.
It transformed what we could see on the horizon, how we appeared to one another, the transition from night to day.
And in that quiet realization, I was filled with a different kind of epiphany.
Could it be that some of the most critical, transformative moments don’t need fireworks? That they arrive not with pressure and striving, but with ease?
I’ve begun to wonder how often I’ve drowned quiet truth in the noise of my own expectations—how many times I’ve missed the simplicity of sunrise because I was waiting for a crescendo.
These days, I’m noticing a more graceful way of being. I’m in the middle of my own pivot, and instead of my norm of “pushing through,” I’m asking myself, What if this could be as easeful as Dawn?
It’s a question that’s shifting me. I’m learning that effort and focus don’t always have to mean strain or force. Even hard things can rise gently.
Before a challenging conversation, I now pause. I take a breath. Instead of bracing with, This will be hard, I ask, What if this could be gentle and in flow? The complexity doesn’t disappear, but the energy is different. I show up differently. It becomes a progression instead of an explosion.
I’ve used it in small but powerful ways.
When my teenage niece came to me with something difficult, my instinct was to lean in, fix, explain—but instead, I thought of the sunrise. I sat beside her, silent, steady, just listening. And she unfolded, gently.
I’ve also tried it during big presentations. Instead of psyching myself up like a performer, I reminded myself that clarity can rise like the sun, gradual and steady. I spoke more slowly. I breathed. People leaned in.
I’m beginning to think that gentleness is not the opposite of strength—it’s its own kind of power. Where else might I be pushing when presence is all that’s needed?
It’s become a kind of sunrise mantra.
How could my next experience be more like the Dawn?
And those participants at the lookout? They found their own rhythm in that quiet moment. As they explored how to Re-Imagine their sense of who they are and what might be in their next chapter, they began to challenge the belief that transformation has to feel like heavy lifting.
Another possibility emerged: that change can come not by pushing, but by allowing.
It can gently illuminate the things in our lives in a way that invites us to see them with a slow but steady reveal.
