Some birthdays pass like cairns on the trail, small markers on the long road of life. Not ignored, but not celebrated either. For years, mine have felt that way. Just another step forward, another page turned. But this year was different. This year, I exhaled.
We were in Colorado, the place where my soul stretches out and remembers itself. There’s something about the mountain air. The way it thins your breath but expands your being, that feels like home. Colorado doesn’t shout; it whispers. And somehow, I always hear what I need to hear.
And this year, I wasn’t just in my favorite place. I was with my favorite people: my kids and our extended family. That alone felt like a summit.
After two days of hiking through the high country with Ben and Anna, I woke on the morning of July 17 to something quieter, but no less sacred: a morning with Gracie. My 17 year old daughter. Artist. Survivor.
When Beauty Meets Presence
We made our way to the Denver Art Museum, just the two of us. A towering labyrinth of light, texture, and stories. We started at the top floor and wound our way down, like descending a ridgeline into mystery. Each gallery was a new world. Some soft, others jarring; but all of them alive with meaning.
Gracie moved slowly. Reverently. Her eyes scanned everything, pausing in ways that made me pause, too. She didn’t just look at the art; she listened to it. She felt it. And I followed her lead.
Then it happened. We rounded a quiet corner and found ourselves face-to-face with Monet; her favorite. Not a replica. The real thing.
The water lilies seemed to breathe. Gracie gasped. And for a moment, I forgot everything else.
But here’s the thing: the magic wasn’t just in Monet’s brushwork. It wasn’t just in the gallery’s hush or the colors still pulsing after all these years.
The magic was in Gracie.
In the way she stood; not bracing for the next wave of grief, not shielding herself from the weight of what she’s lived through…she was simply present. Alive. Bright-eyed and unguarded.
And it reaffirmed something we should never forget:
Presence is the real masterpiece. One we slowly craft over time by building presence and resilience in the face of pain.
The Miracle of Presence After Pain
When a child has walked through fire (whether trauma, loss, or simply too much too soon) the path to presence can be slow and sacred. The dance between trauma and presence is delicate, and it doesn’t happen by accident. According to trauma expert Dr. Bessel van der Kolk (2014), “being able to feel safe with other people is probably the single most important aspect of mental health.” And safety is what makes presence possible. It’s the bridge that allows us to walk from trauma into connection. It’s in this space between trauma and presence that healing quietly begins.
Gracie’s past holds shadows no child should have to carry. But that morning, in the quiet halls of the museum, those shadows gave way to light. Not because they disappeared, but because beauty spoke louder.
Beauty, especially the kind that asks nothing in return, has a way of grounding us. As psychologist Dacher Keltner (2023) writes in Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder, “Awe is the emotion we experience when we encounter vast mysteries that we don’t understand. It binds us to the world – and to each other.”
That’s what I saw in Gracie’s face: awe. Connection. Not just to Monet, but to herself. To a future that doesn’t have to be defined by her past.
When We Let Wonder Lead
It’s easy to chase healing like a goal; something to be earned, achieved, or measured. But healing often arrives through subtler doors: Shared silence. A sudden smile. A painting that pulls you into the present.
That day, Gracie didn’t need to talk about the past. She didn’t need to name her pain or chart her growth. She just needed space to be.
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us to:
Stop racing for answers long enough to notice the brushstrokes.
Descend the gallery of our own lives with awe instead of analysis.
Remember that sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is simply be here.
A Reflection for the Trail Ahead
If you’re a parent walking beside a child who’s known pain, let this be a reminder: healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like wonder. Sometimes it’s found in a museum hallway, beneath a century-old canvas, where silence becomes sacred.
And if you’re walking your own path through recovery, grief, or rediscovery, may you know this: trauma and presence can coexist. One does not erase the other. But presence makes the pain bearable — even beautiful.
As Mary Oliver once wrote,
“Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”
That’s what we did, Gracie and I.
We paid attention.
We were astonished.
And I’m telling you about it, because presence is worth celebrating.
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