There’s something that happens when I stand in an open space.
Something I can’t quite name, but my body knows it instantly.
A softening.
Maybe it’s the way the sky doesnches out forever without asking anyone’s permission.
Or how the earth holds you—solid, steady, unconditional—without needing a single thing in return.
When I step into a wide, open landscape, something inside my chest does the same thing.
It expands.
What Falls Away
The noise fades first.
Not just the literal noise—the traffic, the notifications, the endless hum of being on—but the noise in your head. The stories you’ve been telling yourself. The loops you’ve been stuck in.
Then the body remembers.
A truth older than thought.
Older than language.
Older than all the ways we’ve learned to complicate things.
We are part of something bigger. Calmer. Wiser.
What Nature Knows That We Forget
Nature doesn’t rush.
She doesn’t explain herself or apologize for taking up space.
She doesn’t perform or prove or try to be anything other than exactly what she is.
She simply is.
And being around that kind of presence—that kind of quiet, unapologetic beingness—teaches you something you can’t learn from books or courses or perfectly curated advice.
It teaches you how to come back home to yourself.
The Relief of Not Carrying Everything
Open spaces remind me: I don’t need to hold it all.
The weight I’ve been carrying like it’s my job? I can set it down here.
Life doesn’t have to press against me. It can breathe through me instead.
And clarity?
It doesn’t come from thinking harder, analyzing more, or figuring it all out.
It comes from being still enough to hear what the wind is whispering.
Sometimes All You Need Is a Horizon
Sometimes all I need is a horizon to remember how small my worries actually are.
Not small in a dismissive way. Not like they don’t matter.
But small in the way that puts them in perspective. That reminds me there’s a world still turning, tides still moving, seasons still changing—whether I solve this particular problem today or not.
Sometimes all I need is the sound of leaves rustling, birds calling, water moving over stones.
And suddenly I remember:
I’m held.
Not by my own effort. Not by how well I manage or control or plan.
But by something larger. Something that was here before me and will be here after. Something that doesn’t need me to be perfect to keep holding me.
The Healing That Has No Words
Open spaces heal in ways words never can.
They don’t explain. They don’t teach. They don’t give you seven steps or three key takeaways.
They just are.
And somehow, being in their presence long enough, you start to remember that you can just be too.
Not productive. Not optimized. Not performing.
Just… here.
Breathing.
Alive.
Held by something so much bigger than the smallness you’ve been living in.
This is the medicine we forget we need.
Until we’re standing in it again.
If you’re craving more space—literal and metaphorical—I’m here. I’m sharing the practices and places that bring you back to yourself, that remind you how to breathe all the way down, that teach you what the wide world already knows.
👉 Begin your journey here and discover what opens up when you finally give yourself permission to just… be.
