Final Day

My last morning in Peru. Devouring small mugs of strong, dark coffee. My legs are tired, but surprisingly happy after yesterday’s longest hike to Salkantay Pass. 4.5 miles one way, with an elevation gain of 2,000 ft to reach the ridgeline at 15,200 ft.

As the incline steepened, I had to quiet intrusive thoughts:

Can this nearly 52-year-old body keep up with the young Israeli couple I’m third-wheeling with?

Then a phrase I used to preach to my old bootcamp clients surfaced: The body achieves what the mind believes.

So I believed, which helped me become fully present to the experience. The staggering beauty of the terrain. The mystery pains that flashed warnings in my left calf, then my hip—then disappeared. My heart and I developed an intimate relationship. When the beating became too intense, I paused and reset, practicing my yoga breathing: inhale through my nose then long, slow exhale to calm my heart rate.

I reminded myself: I love this shit.

Here we have a challenge within my skill set, but beyond my comfort zone. I imagined each step as a chisel that chipped away at the pain cave, transforming it into a tunnel.

Then, during the steepest part of the climb, I met adventurous Chris, catching his breath on the side of the trail. I heard a familiar American voice and called out a friendly hello. Turns out Chris works in Hagerstown and hadn’t caught much rockfish on the Magothy River this summer. What are the chances?!

Chris is also an AT shuttle volunteer with the trail name “Soggy.” He knew “Jellybean,” a thru-hiker I’d recently chatted with on the Maryland section of the AT. Our energy exchange boosted us to the top. We fist bumped, took a celebratory photo, and said our goodbyes as he was trekking on to Machu Picchu.

As I sat and rested on a rock, trying to absorb the magnitude of these sacred peaks, something spectacular happened: an avalanche on Salkantay Peak!

Snow thundered down the mountain face, vibrating the air.

Awe. Reverence.

I felt so small in that moment, and so did the burdens I’d been carrying. Nature knows how to clear space and shift our perspective.

I firmly believe that Earth is our greatest teacher. Hiking through Peru has allowed me to be its student again. Sometimes the lessons require movement, and sometimes stillness (it’s easier to be still when your muscles are fatigued!). It’s helped me relearn how to pay attention. To attune to the beauty of the world. This life.

We made our coca leaf offerings to Apu Salkantay, the sacred mountain spirit. On our descent, my guide Nildo and I shared stories about our kids, our lives.

Now, the Andes live behind my eyelids. The Quechua stories of Pachamama live in my heart.

“The body achieves what the mind believes" carried me up this mountain, just like it carried me through so many races and pain caves.

But standing in the shadow of Apu Salkantay, I feel that belief softening… expanding.

We don’t conquer mountains.

We meet them — and ourselves — on the path.

The Biology of Letting Go

This August, I’ll officially become an empty nester. I stand at the trailhead carved with the words: midlife.

Years ago, when I imagined this stage from deep within the toddler trenches, sidestepping Legos embedded in the carpet and negotiating bedtime treaties, I felt wistful for the return of my independence. I fantasized about sleeping in again, about savoring my pour-over in peace. 

But now, with that freedom finally in hand, the relief I imagined is replaced with a deep ache.

When my son was four, we had this ritual: egg-and-cheese bagels at a café down the road. I remember a woman watching us once as we debated juice boxes. On her way out, she smiled and said we reminded her of herself, years ago, with her own little boy. I nodded politely, already moving on in my mind.

Now, I’m her.

The one watching preschoolers tug at their moms, feeling hers and my longing tug at my heart.

In two months, my youngest flies the roost to engineering school at Pitt. I'm so damn proud of her. And absolutely flattened by grief.

As I've come to learn, my maternal nervous system is registering a seismic shift — an evolutionary mourning. It’s the biological recognition that my role as protector and nurturer is changing shape. My brain, wired by decades of mothering, must now adapt to the contours of my new terrain.

In the wild, mother birds go through a similar transformation. As their fledglings grow stronger, the mothers feed them less, urging them closer to the nest edge. Guided by instinct, they know: prolonged dependence would only weaken their young.

Yet scientists have observed mother birds returning to their empty nests, calling out, searching. Even their biology resists the separation that nature prescribes.

I think my grief lives somewhere in that ancient pattern. For over two decades, my nervous system has tuned itself to the rhythm of motherhood. Every story read, every chubby cheek kissed, every late-night talk was part of a long arc pointing to this very moment.

And now that it's here? I'm learning to surrender at this new trailhead. In loss, I recognize becoming.

This new path asks something different of me. When I go within, I can hear my heart hum with stars, firelight, the scent of pine, and being lulled awake by the symphony of birdsong at dawn.

This is the season of rewilding. A dusting off of my own feathers as I see my children's wings stretch out. A migration into the sovereignty and power of midlife.

Whatever season you find yourself in life, we don't have to walk the path alone. I invite you to join me on our Women's Camping Weekends this summer, where we'll fortify the nest of our wild hearts, so we can take flight once more.

I’ve also been quietly working on something big: a brand-new international retreat in Santa Catalina, Panama, a place that has etched itself into my soul. This mindful adventure, designed for women 40+, is a week long, all inclusive experience that combines the wonder and awe of learning to surf mellow waves, snorkeling with sea turtles, unwinding with yoga, and embracing our wholeness in our tantric energy workshop series. We will explore what it means to enter midlife in full power, on our own terms.

More details soon. But for now, take a breath. The path is ahead. I’ll meet you there.

HS Graduation Day

Trail Marker: Connection

Recently, my 17-year-old daughter and I ventured out on a 5-mile hike through Patapsco. It’s been a while since we’ve shared a long stretch of trail together, and I’ve felt the absence of that connection. With less than four months until she heads to college at Pitt, every moment feels more precious. They say when you have a child, your heart lives outside your body. What they don’t tell you is that your heart will someday be miles away, in another city, across state lines.

There’s tender magic in shared movement through nature. Science tells us that group hikes build trust, empathy, and a sense of belonging. Nature lowers our cortisol and boosts oxytocin, the hormone that helps us bond. Walking side by side—without the intensity of a face-to-face conversation—makes it easier to open up. Some of my most meaningful conversations with the people I love most have taken place while hiking. There’s a vulnerability and flow to those moments I haven’t found at the dinner table.

If you’re craving moments like this, I encourage you to hit the trail with your person.

Here’s the All Trails link to a stunning waterfall hike just 30 minutes from Severna Park.