Lessons from the Desert

Aug 12

HOW A FAMILY TRIP TO JOSHUA TREE BROKE ME OPEN

**Your heart will break 1,000 times, and it will get bigger, expanding with love**

Story

“You were broken open by the vastness,” my spiritual teacher said, as I told him the story of what happened to me in the desert. He leaned back laughing in that way only he can—heart-first, hard-truth wrapped in the delight of the messy and glorious human experience.

We were standing together on a break from a weekend healer circle in Nashville. I felt the usual deep peace that comes from being near this kind soul—the one who’s taken in my story a hundred times over the past 20+ years, always receiving it at multiple levels and with the most open heart, then offering back in a way that shifts my perspective.

I breathed in this ringing-true idea of being broken open while noticing the centerpiece on the floor: shades of pinks, golds, purples—plants in deep greens, Amazonian river stones, a golden statue, and a handmade ceramic bowl of flowers we had used in ceremony earlier that day. It reminded me of Joshua Tree.

And it left me with a question: “Why did I need to be broken open?”

Lesson One

There are moments and seasons in life that change you

For me, one of those moments came one year prior to our desert trip when I kissed my child on the forehead as nurses rolled him back for major surgery. Oddly, that moment—so often anticipated as terrifying—was actually a moment of relief. Because the decade leading up to that day was the season of change, and it had already stretched and shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to understand.

That decade was marked with worry, planning, hypervigilance, steep learning curves, and constant doctor visits. I lived on alert, always scanning for the next symptom, the next flare, the next emergency. Our kitchen counter transformed into a kind of apothecary—lined with supplements, nutrition plans, and neatly labeled medications. I remember a new friend asking if I had any hobbies. I paused, thinking: Yes, scrolling medical journals and studying microbiology and gut health. I told her, “I like to read.”

That decade unraveled and rewove who I was, again and again. While it was hard, it was also the most full of transformative love I’ve ever known. I once saw a video of how a dahlia blooms—a dance of contraction and expansion, opening more with each cycle—and I realized I’ve become like that dahlia. After every contraction, my heart grows bigger.

It’s been over a year since the surgery, and my child is thriving. And yet, it has taken nearly that long for me to shift the auto-signals within my body. Most days, I have to remind myself: we are not in that same space anymore.

Before this season of life, we lived in sunny California in an area where we enjoyed beach, mountains, and desert all within a short drive. We left Los Angeles a decade ago when the diagnosis came and moved 2,000 miles cross-country to find the security, love, and help from family. We left the West. But I’m learning that maybe I left a part of me as well—the part that was in rhythm with the land and trusted something so much bigger than myself and what I could control.

Lesson Two

Be Open to Change

“We need a vacation. A real one.” I blurted this out to my husband after the usual rush of holidays that, while wonderful in so many ways, leave us exhausted and overly peopled. This house of introverts needed to disconnect from the world and reconnect with ourselves.

One fun fact about raising a child with medical needs: travel plans revolve around access to a great children’s hospital. Major cities became our safety net. But post-surgery we had more flexibility, more freedom. And what we really needed was big nature, get-so-lost-in-the-dark-you-remember-what-stars-truly-look-like nature, National Park level nature, the wild.

The desert has always called to my husband, but I remember a time when he’d show me pictures of cacti and mountains to get me day-trip motivated, and I’d squirm, thinking, that’s a lot of dirt. He’d drive the three hours to the Desert Cities, while I stayed coastal. Give me the messy, winding trails along cliffs that overlook a deep sapphire, endless ocean. Feeling the intensity of the cliff’s edge, breathing in the salty sea air, and being fully submerged in the sound of crashing waves became a weekly—sometimes daily—ritual.

And if I had to leave California, I’d head straight for the Pacific Northwest, with its deep forests, lush, overgrown canopy of evergreens, and trees large enough to remind me of my tiny speck in the universe. I go for obvious wombs—landscapes that envelop and hold me with layers of sensory connection.

I find the desert unnerving.

It’s wide open, exposed, vulnerable, filled with scorpions, rattlesnakes, and all manner of things that might accidentally end me. Any mentioning of a desert and I feel the resistance in my body, coming up with excuses for why this kind of trip just won’t work. So when we finally were able to go on vacation, you’d think I’d push to return to the comfortable places out West. But this time, something shifted.

When my sweet husband cautiously pitched Joshua Tree, it just felt right. I would close my eyes to meditate and see it—brilliant night skies painted black and filled with stars, the soft pastel planes of Joshua Tree. So before I could back out, we booked a house with three porches. I wanted sunrise, sunset, and everything in between.

This was our celebration: our son thriving and able to go to the wild. We had made it through. And I felt ready to breathe in a new kind of air. So we marked the beginning of our new chapter with a big trip to Joshua Tree National Park.

Lesson Three

Arriving Isn’t Always Pretty

I was fine until I wasn’t.

The pre-flight from Louisville was very travel me: organized, upbeat, clear plan with a tinge of anxiety that achiever types know how to wield. But as soon as I sat still, Anxiety tapped me on the shoulder - ready to share my deepest, ugliest fears. Breath regulation went from “grounded mindfulness” to please just don’t let me throw up.

White-knuckling the seat, I silently searched for all of my skills while my feet searched for floor. My son, calmly playing a battle game on my phone, invited me into a fierce competition—I felt my thoughts shift enough from catastrophic news stories to deep love for this kid, and I made it.

We landed, and I instantly regretted my snarky thoughts about the Katy Perry space return. The first clear blue view of Palm Springs, and I hit vacation mode. Which, if you know me, isn’t exactly what you’d imagine. There’s a committee member in my mind who can confuse hypervigilance with efficiency. And she ensures every second is meaningful, on point, and well-managed (cue eye roll). Car rental. Local lunch. Trader Joe’s haul. One hour later, we were driving toward the high desert. We passed through Mojave wind farms and mountain passes, my mind still running its checklist.

And then I saw my first Joshua tree.

They are… strange. Ancient, odd, mesmerizing. Like dancers frozen mid-move. They push you away and pull you in at the same time. They don’t ask humans to admire them—they just are. They don’t look like anything from home—maybe a bonsai, but huge and spiky. I felt my mind blip, slow…a shift in awareness, an attempt at opening to novelty. And suddenly it all snapped back at full speed, and my committee member (the one in charge of scanning for danger, checking for hospitals, escape routes, and noting restaurant letter grades) kicked into overdrive.

Just as I caught myself trying to breathe it down, I looked out the passenger window and locked eyes with a coyote sitting calmly across from our Airbnb. She was unexpectedly clean, soft. She looked relaxed, like she was having a chill summer afternoon. Unbothered. She would return again and again throughout our stay. But in that first moment, my internal committee marked her as a threat and noted, “check perimeter fence.”

The house was a creamy white 1960’s ranch perched on a desert hill overlooking a neighborhood canyon and further out, Yucca Valley. Beautiful, wide-windowed, wrapped in a garden of native rocks and plants - we felt welcomed to the space. But the moment we stopped moving, I could feel the panic rise. I asked my family to leave and get the trail passes so I could breathe alone.

Lesson Four

Before the Opening, the Contraction

I sat on a rich brown leather couch covered in Mexican blankets, staring out wide ranch windows—and I couldn’t see anything. My mind was in full fight-or-flight. Heat rising. Stomach burning. Scanning corners. And the moment I actually pulled up a couch cushion looking for rattlesnakes, I knew it was time to use my tools.

Hot tea in hand, and the chill of tile beneath my feet, I sat back down on the edge and called my best friend. We’ve saved each other a million times in moments like this. She listened calmly as I named every possible fear—then gently reminded me to find my ground. She walked me through her version of Byron Katie’s four questions, and when we got to “Is this true?” and “Would other people say this is true?”—my vigilant protection began to crack. She offered softly, “Maybe this is an opportunity to tap into your medicine.” And I felt it: that my medicine is tenderness, compassion, acknowledgment - these gifts I regularly give others. Could I give them to myself?

By the time we hung up, I felt my ground returning. I looked up and finally saw the view. In the distance, sharp indigo mountains gave way to a wide valley dotted with homes and a small town. My gaze moved closer, landing on the garden just outside: the creamy blooms of a vibrant Yucca plant, the fiery red tips emerging on an Ocotillo, and the golden whispers of a Creosote bush, promising to bloom after the next rare summer storm. I smiled, remembering a moment from twelve years earlier—wandering the Melrose Trading Post with my sister and niece, choosing a 1950s Desert Cities postcard, a Yucca plant front and center. It has been a beloved bookmark for years.

Lesson Five

Nature Helps Us Ground and Expand

I stepped outside to take my first real deep breath of crisp, clean desert air. That’s when I found the chair - a woven, low, deep lounge chair that I claimed as my meditation and reading spot for the rest of the trip. I sank down, and I first noticed the sound - In the desert, silence isn’t empty. It hums. The air is light, and even a single birdsong echoes as if it were a soft bell rung across miles. The landscape—quiet, spacious, ancient—did something to my nervous system that no meditation app ever could. The rhythm here wasn’t hurried or performative. It was wild, wise, and slow. The air felt fresh in a way that made me realize just how long I’d been breathing polluted air.

In the desert, life is stripped down to the essentials, with every creature living in a respectful harmony. Maybe that’s why it shook something loose in me. I could feel a shift beginning—a soft release. First, the layers we all wear just to get through the day: the constructs, the protections, the identities we cling to in order to function, to belong, to make sense of our roles. As those layers softened, something deeper began to untangle—tiny grips of tension in my fascia, unwinding after ten years of holding.

I thought about how much I have been holding everything together for so long and how that holding had started to become an oppressive controlling that eroded my trust in the Universe. Tears came. My breath fell into rhythm with the land. I noticed the subtle differences in the birdsong. And then I heard the wind moving through the canyon, felt it arrive across my skin—not just brushing past, but prying me open, coaxing me to let go.

And then I felt it.

I truly embodied the desert. The vastness. The violets, the pinks, the dusty rose, and soft yellow. The sparkling sand, alive with movement. Tracks from nocturnal animals. The call of a crow. The stillness of succulents, glowing with earthy color. And I felt held by the Earth—opened by her vastness.

I was reminded of a part of myself I had freely expressed in California—a part that trusted the natural world and felt completely at home in it. A version of me I may have believed I had to set aside to become a responsible parent. And maybe I did, for a time. I don’t regret a single moment. These past ten years have been the most profound spiritual journey of my life, and it is the deepest honor to care for my child.

Lesson Six

Nature is Medicine

As I sat in that low desert chair, breathing in that sacred space, I felt a rush of gratitude. I closed my eyes and offered thanks to the Earth and quietly invited her support. Moments later, I heard it: the unmistakable whir of wings, like a tiny helicopter. I opened my eyes and saw a hummingbird hovering just three feet from my face. Staring. Vibrating with presence.

It stayed for maybe a handful of seconds, but it felt like forever. I bowed in gratitude, and it flew away. After that, the hummingbirds kept showing up. During long, exhausted moments on the trail, while I was journaling through something hard, and once, during a joyful reunion with friends, three of them circled nearby as the sun set behind the Santa Rosa Mountains.

In many earth-based traditions, the hummingbird is a symbol of joy, playfulness, and transformation. And I felt this deep returning—was my medicine. I realized I was integrating who I’d been with who I’d become.

The days that followed settled into a nourishing routine. Each morning, I woke at 5:30 a.m. to greet the sun and witness the quiet handoff—the desert shifting from the secret lives of nocturnal creatures to the softened rhythms of daytime—birds calling, light stretching across the valley. A jackrabbit would bounce past with tall, alert ears. Coyotes wove through the canyon brush. Roadrunners darted by, quick and focused. For several days, I watched a Black-Throated Sparrow teaching her babies to fly from the perch of a tall Joshua Tree on the edge of our porch. Nothing felt rushed or forced.

Lesson Seven

Breakthroughs Don’t Fix Us (But They Light the Path)

I had a breakthrough moment in the desert. That doesn’t mean I walked away transformed into someone entirely new—that’s rarely how it works. Breakthroughs are often both a fresh awakening and a remembering of something ancient, something deep in the collective. A wisdom that rises to meet us when we’ve reached a new level of understanding in our own lives.

Ten years of choosing safety. Of creating comfort. Of building systems to feel secure. But the desert reminded me of the importance, of the crucial human capacity, to be wild, free, and present to our aliveness. Not reckless, not detached—but connected to something more primal and intuitive. A version of me that trusts her instincts. A version of me that doesn’t need to manage everything but can simply be.

I often think of a teaching story I love: a group of monks leaves their village, climbing a mountain to find a great guru and finally achieve enlightenment. When they reach him, the guru doesn’t say a word. He simply walks up and smacks each one on the forehead.

And in that moment, each monk sees clearly—feels that deep, undeniable sense of wholeness, peace, interconnection. Everything makes sense.

And then, it fades.

They scramble after the guru, begging for it back. “Master, we had it! We were there, and now it’s gone—please help us find it again!”

The guru turns, looks at them, and says:
Now you know what you're practicing for.
Then walks away.

That story makes so much sense to me.

We don’t transform into someone new and float through life in bliss. We remember something true. We glimpse a different way of being. And then we return to our lives, where the world complicates, distracts, demands.

But the moment wasn’t lost. It becomes the touchstone.

We start building a life around it—through practice, through ritual, through relationships that help us return to what we already know. Over time, it becomes less about chasing transformation and more about choosing to live in alignment with what we’ve deeply known.

This new season is about intentionally coming back into that rhythm and cultivating it. Honoring the part of me that still wants control, while not handing her the keys. Choosing to live from the part of me that remembers my belonging. And teaching my child, not just how to move through life, but how to live in wonder. How to stay close to the Earth. How to make space for mystery. How to remember that we belong to something much bigger than ourselves.

This wildness is freedom. And the desert reminded me—it’s mine to return to, again and again.

Lesson Eight

The Journey Returns You Home Whole

Over two weeks, I practiced letting go. It happened all at once and, somehow, slowly at the same time—a gradual release, like small waves arriving on the shore. There were nights when desert winds shook the house, and my body slowly relaxed into that force. There were small hugs from my husband on the trail as he whispered, He can do it, let him climb. There was the quiet joy of watching our son scramble over boulders—healthy, strong, fearless.

Evenings stretched into long dinners under the open sky with friends, where time seemed to loosen its grip and we had forever to wander through stories, laughter, and the comfort of knowing each other well. I felt the desert teaching me in those moments, showing me how to trust, to loosen my grip, to let life move.

After days of rock scrambling, nature trails, porch dinners with storms rolling across the valley, singing bowl meditations, late-night swims under starlight, sunrise coffee in my favorite chair, family movie nights, and sharing papaya and mango with good conversation until my heart was full—I felt renewed and recalibrated.

And I was still the same person who had arrived in panic on day one.

There was no split. No better or worse version of me. Just a fuller embrace of the whole—the fear, the spaciousness, the overwhelm, the laughter, the mindfulness, the wildness. It all belonged. And in that acceptance, I felt something shift—not just in thought, but in my body.

I came back still me—same mother, same nervous system, same inner committee. But I also came back with a deeper kind of knowing. Wholeness isn’t something we achieve or fix. It’s something we remember. There’s a part of me that had to contract because life called for it, and my son needed me to. I don’t regret a second of it. But there’s also a part of me that never stopped growing—reaching toward something sacred. I realized, the inner life doesn’t stop expanding, even when our outer lives get small.

This season isn’t about rejecting the past or reinventing myself. It’s about making space for wildness again. Letting joy in without apology. Showing my child not just how to survive, but how to feel free.

Lesson Nine

Wisdom Grows in Community

At the healer circle weekend in Nashville, I shared my desert experience with my teacher and the friends who have been my people for a long time. I told them about the wind, the hummingbird, the mornings in that low chair, and the quiet lessons the land had offered me. More than the details, I shared my vulnerability—my soft, quiet story that I was still making sense of, even as an internal committee member kept whispering, This is no big deal. This is too small to share.

We often have breakthrough moments that might pass unnoticed if they aren’t witnessed and held. These beautiful humans, who have done their own deep work for many years, received my story and reflected back what I felt but couldn’t quite name. They helped me bring awareness, compassion, and meaningful direction to my experience. Being part of a community reminds me of the living beings of the desert and their rhythm of harmony.

And so, the final lesson of the desert is this. There are moments and seasons in life that make us contract, that cause us to hold life close. And then, there are times when we can lean into our people, the land, and the greater love that helps us expand back out with a bigger heart. Being opened by the vastness can happen in the presence of the land—and in the company of people whose love reminds you that every part of you belongs.

If you made it all the way to the end of this, then I offer my deepest gratitude. Usually my writing and weaving of story is for those I serve. This one was primarily for me. And I hope it serves your life and encourages you to know, share and write your own life stories!
May you be well,

Shelly

Concept

Personal growth is a process of unfolding that happens over our entire lifespan. This post was a process of me working through that unfolding. I needed to explore what I learned about my life and an experience I had in the desert that reminded me of who I am. I wrote it for me, but in hopes that you might benefit as well. It’s important to take the time to reflect and share our stories. We are in this world together with a great opportunity for sharing and expanding love.

Practice

5 Minute Heart Check-In:

Set a timer for 5 minutes.

Place a hand on your heart area and breathe in a way that feels supportive to your body. Gently allow yourself to connect. And notice where you are today. How is your heart? Is it more open, more closed? Wherever you are is ok. Gently notice with compassion, bringing presence and curiosity to how you are in the moment.

Mindfulness: Classic Lovingkindness Practice

Daily Orienting Question:

What do I need today, in this moment?