Our Sanctuary Isn’t Just for the Hard Days

Walking into the bowl at the beginning of Arethusa Cirque and looking at Storm Mountain

There are days when life cracks us open, when grief or uncertainty or exhaustion pushes us straight into the arms of our sanctuary, our mountains, our lakes, our quiet corners of the world where our soul can breathe again. Most of the time, that’s what I’ve used my sanctuary for. To steady myself. To cry. To process. To lay my fears down on the ground and let the wind take some of the weight.

But today taught me something important:

Your sanctuary isn’t just where you go to heal.

It’s where you go to celebrate, too.

I have my own beliefs about spirituality, and I’ve learned over the years that my faith does not fit neatly inside any one religious box. I believe in a higher power, call it God, Spirit, the universe, whatever you want, but I steer far away from what I call political religion. The kind that says “if you do this, you’re punished” or “if you don’t do that, you’re doomed.” I don’t believe in fear-based faith.

And maybe that’s because the Bible wasn’t written in English, and after a career in big media companies I know one truth better than anything: people interpret things differently.

First look at the Cirque when you come out of the trees

Language, culture, personal experience, trauma, love, they all shape how we understand meaning. One word in one language can shift into something completely different when filtered through another. That doesn’t make anyone wrong. It makes us human. It makes us unique.

So yes, I believe spiritual teachings can guide us. Offer wisdom. Suggest how to live a good, kind, meaningful life.

But for me?

Nature is my church.

The mountains, rivers, valleys, meadows, ridge lines… they’re my sanctuary. That’s where I feel closest to everything... the living, the gone, the divine, the quiet truth inside myself.

And that brings me to today.

I had one of those wildly joyful, heart-pounding, dance-around-the-house kind of mornings. The kind where you’re buzzing so hard with happiness you can’t even sit still long enough to drink your tea. And immediately my body said:

Get outside.

Not to process something hard. Not to untangle emotions. Not to catch my breath.

But to celebrate.

I grabbed Denali, bundled up in winter gear, and flew out the door straight toward the mountains. It was an unreal bluebird day, warm for this time of year, no wind, sunshine that felt like a blessing. Everything in the world felt aligned.

The hike up to the cirque was magic. Pure, jaw-dropping magic.

But when I hit the bowl… there was no trail. Just deep snow, crusty drifts, and the kind of terrain that humbles even strong legs. One minute I was on firm ground, and the next I was waist-deep, flailing like a baby moose, crawling on my hands at one point just to get back to something solid.

It was brutal. Hilarious. Exhausting. Perfect.

Looking back at our trail on the back end of the cirque.

Up in the scree, it was still tough going, but the views... God. Everywhere I turned, it was like the entire world was painted with intention. White peaks, blue sky, sun glinting off the snow… the kind of beauty that rearranges something inside you.

When I finally reached the back end of the cirque, Denali and I dropped into the snow, leaned back into the warm sun, and shared a drink. Everything went quiet. Still. Sacred.

And that’s where I said thank you. To the universe. To every loved one watching over me. To the strange and beautiful path that brought me right to that moment. To the new chapter I’m stepping into. To the woman I’ve become through every high, low, climb, heartbreak, and miracle.

Highwood Summit

I sat there in paradise, heart wide open, and realized:

This is what celebration should feel like.

This is what gratitude looks like when you let yourself fully receive it.

We run to our sanctuary when we’re hurting, but we need to run there when we’re thriving, too.

Because your sacred place isn’t just for the storms... It’s for the sunshine. It’s for the wins. It’s for the quiet acknowledgment that you’re growing, rising, changing, and walking into the next version of yourself.

So this is your reminder:

Find your sanctuary.

Claim it.

Use it.

Not only when life breaks you…but when life lifts you.

Take time to breathe.

Take time to celebrate.

Take time to live the process, every messy, beautiful, exhausting, extraordinary part of it.

Today I didn’t go to the mountains to fix anything. I went to the mountains to feel everything. And that, in itself, was its own kind of healing.