I woke up this morning in my tent, tucked into the quiet edge of my acreage, with only the whisper of cedar trees and the call of a bird I couldn’t name for company. This little shelter — simple, soft, and silent — has become one of the few places where I feel truly grounded. Safe. Clear.
As the morning light filtered through the leaves overhead, I found myself, once again, thinking about Lewis, Clark, and Sacajawea — and the vast, untamed terrain they crossed not very far from here. No GPS. No stocked pantry. No emergency exits. Just determination, grit, and trust in one another. It’s hard to imagine, in this era of information and instant reassurance, what it must have felt like to step into the unknown with only rough maps and fragile hope.
But maybe that’s why their story sticks with me — because I, too, once stood at the edge of the unknown barehanded and uncertain. And I know many of you have, too.
After my husband was murdered, there were no road signs for the grief I carried. No coordinates to mark where I should go— or if I was going anywhere at all. The terrain was emotional, but no less challenging and uncultivated. I remember feeling as though I’d wandered off the map entirely.
And then one day, in the thick of it, an old friend said something I’ll never forget. He didn’t call to fix me, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Wasn’t trying to cheer me out of my grief. He simply, quietly said, “Well… life is meant to be a journey, isn’t it? One day you’ll know where this will lead.”
At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe him. But I clung to his words like a compass — not because they showed me this was an impermanent state with a destination, but because they reminded me that clarity would one day come. That the path, though painful, wasn’t meaningless or destined to stay so painfully murky.
Now, decades later, I find myself walking a different kind of trail — supporting other homicide survivors, speaking with grief professionals, writing books, and yes, sleeping in a tent in summer by choice, not necessity. And I think often about how Sacajawea — a teenager with a baby on her back — helped guide two grown men thousands 3,700 miles across unfamiliar lands. She didn’t have to be loud or powerful to be essential. She simply showed up and kept walking.
So if you’re in the wilderness of grief right now — if your tent is metaphorical or your sky feels endlessly dark — Please remember this:
You don’t need to know the destination to begin again.
You only need to keep going — one sunrise at a time.
And maybe, one day, you’ll look back and realize that what felt like being lost was actually the first step of being found.
Postscript
Just as I was finishing this reflection, I noticed something unexpected.
I had left my rain fly off my tent last night — drawn to the open air and brilliant moon — and only now realized it had been gently raining out. I hadn’t heard it. I hadn’t felt it. Not a single drop entered the screen from above. The sheltering cedars, and the tent around me, had absorbed the impact of rain. I was sheltered in ways I didn’t even see.
Maybe that’s how healing works too. Quiet. Gentle. Unseen at first. Until one day you realize you’ve been protected long enough to rest — and maybe even to begin again.
