The Last Sunset 🌅
Tonight, I stood outside and watched the sky burn.
Not in a destructive way.
In a beautiful way.
The kind of sunset that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and simply stare.
The kind that reminds you that some things don’t need to be understood to be appreciated.
The kind that takes your breath away for a moment.
As the colors stretched across the Colorado sky, I found myself doing what I’ve done a lot over the last few weeks.
Feeling everything.
Gratitude.
Sadness.
Peace.
Excitement.
Fear.
Hope.
Love.
Grief.
All at the same time.
Because that’s the thing nobody tells you about growth.
It’s rarely one emotion.
It’s usually all of them.
For the last four weeks, I’ve been in Colorado with my brother and his family. What started as a trip quickly became something much bigger than I expected.
I thought I was coming here for a change of scenery.
I thought I needed a break.
I thought I needed some time away.
What I didn’t realize was how desperately I needed to hear myself again.
When you’ve spent years being responsible, productive, dependable, helpful, strong, available, and capable, you can slowly lose touch with the quieter parts of yourself.
The parts that have needs.
The parts that get tired.
The parts that feel scared.
The parts that don’t have all the answers.
The parts that simply want to rest.
For so long, I’ve been pouring into everyone around me.
My legal career.
My coaching business.
My clients.
My family.
My friends.
My marriage.
My responsibilities.
My goals.
My dreams.
And while there is absolutely nothing wrong with giving, there comes a point where you realize you’ve become so focused on pouring into everyone else that you haven’t checked to see if your own cup is empty.
Mine was.
I didn’t realize how empty it had become until I got here.
The brain fog.
The exhaustion.
The overwhelm.
The feeling that no matter how much I accomplished, there was always more to do.
The pressure.
The constant pressure.
To perform.
To achieve.
To fix.
To hold it all together.
To be the strong one.
And if I’m being really honest, underneath all of that pressure were some old beliefs I thought I had already worked through.
Beliefs that quietly whispered:
“You’re not enough.”
“You can’t do it.”
“No one wants to hear what you have to say.”
“You’re too much.”
“You should have figured this out by now.”
It’s amazing how old stories can follow us for decades.
Even after therapy.
Even after coaching.
Even after success.
Even after healing.
Sometimes they don’t disappear.
Sometimes they just get quieter.
And when life gets busy enough, you stop noticing they’re still there.
This trip helped me hear them again.
But more importantly, it helped me question them.
I’ve cried more during these four weeks than I expected.
Not because things were wrong.
Because things were finally quiet enough to feel.
I’ve sat on the porch staring at mountains.
I’ve walked through nature.
I’ve watched sunsets.
I’ve spent time with my niece and nephew.
I’ve had deep conversations
I’ve gone to therapy.
I’ve done breathwork.
I’ve journaled.
I’ve sat with emotions I normally would have tried to solve.
And somewhere in all of that, something began shifting.
Not dramatically.
Not overnight.
Not in one giant breakthrough moment.
But little by little.
Day by day.
Breath by breath.
I started remembering something important.
I don’t have to earn rest.
I don’t have to earn peace.
I don’t have to prove my worth through productivity.
I don’t have to accomplish one more thing before I’m allowed to slow down.
I am allowed to exist without constantly performing.
That realization has been harder than any mountain I’ve climbed.
Because many of us were never taught that.
We were taught to achieve.
To hustle.
To push.
To endure.
To survive.
But very few of us were taught how to simply be.
And maybe that’s why this trip has impacted me so deeply.
Because for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t trying to become someone.
I was simply trying to reconnect with myself.
The version of me underneath the expectations.
Underneath the titles.
Underneath the accomplishments.
Underneath the fears.
The version of me that exists whether I accomplish anything or not.
The version of me that is worthy simply because she exists.
As I prepare to return home, people keep asking me what comes next.
The truth?
I don’t know.
And for someone who has spent most of her life trying to plan every next step, that answer feels both terrifying and freeing.
I don’t know what the future holds.
I don’t know exactly what decisions I’ll make.
I don’t know what this next chapter looks like.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I need to know right now.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
Maybe clarity isn’t something we force.
Maybe clarity arrives when we finally stop running long enough to hear ourselves.
Maybe healing isn’t becoming someone new.
Maybe healing is remembering who you’ve always been underneath the noise.
Tonight was my last Colorado sunset.
And standing there, watching the colors slowly fade into darkness, I realized something.
This trip didn’t give me answers.
It gave me space.
Space to breathe.
Space to grieve.
Space to rest.
Space to question.
Space to heal.
Space to remember.
And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.
Not a five-step plan.
Not certainty.
Not another self-help book.
Not another strategy.
Just space.
Because when we finally create space, we discover that the wisdom we’ve been searching for has been inside us all along.
So tonight, I’m ending this chapter with a heart that feels both heavy and full.
Heavy because I’m leaving a place that brought me so much peace.
Full because I know I am taking those lessons home with me.
The mountains may stay here.
But the woman who found pieces of herself among them gets to come home.
And somehow, that feels like the most beautiful ending of all. ❤️
