There are very few newsletters where I find myself itching to write to all of you. This one is one of them. When I think back to the others that carried this same urgency, most of them were written while I was travelling. But if I am being honest, it was never just about the places. It was about the state of mind I found myself in. There was always something alive underneath the words. A kind of inspiration that did not need to be forced. The emotions were raw, immediate, and so deeply felt that it almost felt cinematic, like I was watching my own life unfold in real time.
This past month, as many of you may already know from our conversations, I went to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. And when I say this was a trip of a lifetime, I mean that with my whole chest. First of all, it is Wyoming. Who actually goes to Wyoming. My running joke anytime someone asked me why was simply, why not Wyoming. But beneath that humour was something more meaningful. There is something profoundly moving about stepping into parts of the world that feel untouched, unfamiliar, and quietly expansive.
And for me, as a first generation brown woman, there was something even deeper woven into that experience. I get to do this. I get to take up space in places my family may have never imagined. I get to choose adventure, curiosity, and freedom. That is not something I take lightly. And if you ever find yourself influenced by anything I say, let it be this. Put places like this on your list. Not for the aesthetic, not for the story, but for what it awakens in you.
The second part of this trip that made it unforgettable was the company. I travelled with a friend who I hold very close to my heart. There was something incredibly grounding about being alongside someone who sees you fully and meets you there. And in that, I found myself reflecting on the women in my life as a whole. The friendships that have held me, challenged me, and loved me through every version of who I have been. There is a quiet kind of wealth in that, one that cannot be measured but can absolutely be felt.
But what stayed with me the most was a moment. One that I did not plan, one that I could not have manufactured even if I tried. I was skiing at the top of the Teton mountains. The sun was out, the weather felt almost too perfect, and everything around me seemed to move in harmony. As I was making my way down the slope, wind brushing past me, I suddenly stopped. Not because I had to, but because something in me needed to pause.
And in that pause, something shifted. I remember looking out at the mountains in front of me and feeling this overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not the kind we casually speak about. Not the kind we write down at the end of a long day. This was different. It was loud. It was full. It was almost too big for my body to hold. I felt lucky in a way that was deeply humbling. Lucky for the life I have, for the work I have put in, for the people around me, for the version of myself that got me there.
I smiled in that moment, not for anyone else, not to capture it, not to share it, but simply because I felt it. And I think that is something I wish more of us experienced. Not the trip itself, not the mountains, but that level of presence with our own lives. Because the truth is, you do not need to be on top of a mountain to feel it. I came home to a quiet house, my family off on their own adventures, and that same sense of peace followed me. It softened everything.
I turn thirty in two months. And for a long time, that felt heavy. My twenties were chaotic, unpredictable, but also familiar. I had learned the rhythm of them. I knew how to exist in that space. The idea of stepping into something new felt unsettling. I was not sure I was ready for that shift. But something about these past few weeks has changed that narrative for me.
Because what I realized, in a way that felt undeniable, is that in the presence of true gratitude, anxiety did not stand a chance. I have always said that multiple emotions can coexist, and I still believe that to be true. But this felt like an exception. In that moment, there was no room for fear, no room for anticipation of what could go wrong. There was only what was right in front of me, and it was enough.
What I am trying to say, even if the words feel like they are still catching up to the experience, is that I am happy. Not in a performative way, not in a fleeting way, but in a grounded, steady way. And that feels emotional to admit after everything. Not because life is suddenly perfect or because I am no longer carrying weight, but because for the first time in a long time, the balance feels like it is tipping upward. And I am allowing it to.
There was a time where I would have waited for the other shoe to drop. Where I would have held my breath, bracing for things to shift again. But I do not want to live like that anymore. The resilience I have spent so much time talking about in therapy is not about preparing for the fall or arguing against it. It is about learning how to stand in the moment you are in and let it be enough. To trust that if you have carried yourself this far, you will carry yourself through whatever comes next.
So when I say that Wyoming taught me gratitude, I do not mean it in the way we often package it. It is not something that lives neatly in a five minute journal practice. It is something that asks to be felt. In your body, in your breath, in the way you move through your life and connect with the people around you. It is found in the quiet, in the laughter, in the unexpected pauses that remind you that you are here.
And maybe that is the message I want to leave you with. That there are moments waiting for you that will shift something within you, even if you do not know when or where they will arrive. That happiness is not something you chase, but something you allow yourself to recognize when it shows up. That you are allowed to feel good without questioning it, without shrinking it, without waiting for it to disappear.
So from this version of me, one that feels a little softer, a little fuller, and maybe even a little more grounded, I will say this. Giddy up.
