Whoa I wasn’t expecting this and it was everything I needed
Right or left?
Let's go right.
Actually… left.
As we walked through Central Park, my husband and I treated ourselves to a rare kind of weekend. One with a few planned highlights and a lot of space for curiosity.
We passed a pond with a fountain framed by tall, graceful trees, and just beyond them, one-hundred-story skyscrapers. We watched five turtles sunbathing and marveled at a black squirrel—I didn’t even know squirrels could be black.
One moment we were surrounded by city noise, and the next... silence.
A hidden waterfall.
The sound of wind.
No people in sight.
The more we wandered, the more the world seemed to expand.
Dinner was pure magic.
Every bite (the texture, the taste, the layers) was mind-boggling.
I don’t usually drink, but the tasting menu began with a glass of champagne, and I found myself saying, wow, these flavors, this taste. Everything is different.
Even the peppermint tea, made from fresh leaves from their farm, felt like a revelation.
Each dessert was the best one yet... no, this one was.
Then Hadestown.
Every voice, every movement left me in awe.
Even the background actors... the way their bodies spiraled, arched, and contracted. I kept thinking, they get to do this every day.
Thing after thing, I was just… whoa.
That’s what’s been alive in me lately—the exquisite feeling of awe.
I once heard from a primal reflex teacher that awe might be one of the first reflexes we have as babies: eyes wide, breath held in wonder, taking in the world for the very first time.
I haven’t found a study to prove it, but it feels true—the impulse to point, to name, to exclaim, “Look at that! And that over there!” The small hand tugging toward something marvelous, seemingly ordinary, yet entirely new.
Ritual, routine, or things we feel we can count on can be essential for a steady nervous system, but stepping into a completely different environment or pace naturally awakens this sense of vastness and intricacy.
Perspective widens beyond the self.
The breath deepens.
Awareness doesn’t just expand—it weaves.
Into the dog across the path, the musician on the corner, the art, the trees that haven’t yet turned like they have in Maine.
Everything begins to feel part of one living conversation.
Awe becomes its own form of nourishment—reminding us that safety isn’t just found in routine, but also in curiosity.
Perhaps awe is the body’s love language.
It says: this is new, this is exciting, and I am safe to expand and connect.
Trauma narrows our world.
Our breath.
Our choices.
Our sense of possibility.
Awe widens it.
It brings our breath into the back body, our perspective into wholeness.
And while this trip to New York City (a city I used to avoid at all costs) really hit the mark, so can a single moment in nature...
the way the wind moves through trees,
the way a fire crackles,
the way light touches and warms your skin,
the way the ocean never stops being ancient and new.
We can draw awe forward by asking: What could surprise and delight me today?
I wonder what in your life is waiting to be experienced for the very first time?
(Also is this a sign from the universe to take that trip?)
Wishing you moments of surprise and delight.
With deep care,
Sarah
PS — I’m home again. The drop-offs, the deadlines, the dishes—they’ve all returned.
And still, awe finds me. When the tide pulls away and my daughters and dog wander what looks like a wide desert, though the ocean shimmers just beyond; or when the slant of autumn light sets the last orange and yellow leaves on fire.
These moments help me belong to the rhythm of the world again.
PPS — Expansion always invites contraction. And I'm noticing waves of that too… part of integration.