I spent my 50th birthday in a teepee—a four-day adventure meant to mark a new chapter of my life. I’d chosen a quirky, off-the-beaten-path retreat in Marshall, North Carolina, feeling a pull to celebrate this milestone in a way that felt unconventional yet meaningful. I wasn’t dreading turning 50. On the contrary, I was looking forward to it. I sensed this would be a pivotal moment, a threshold where I could begin leaning fully into my authentic self.
In shamanic circles, women of a certain age are called "crones." While society might view the term as unflattering, within this space, it is an honor—a recognition of higher wisdom and deeper acceptance. I carried the hope that on my 50th birthday, I’d feel a profound shift, something unmistakable that I could point to and say, This is where it all began. I expected insights, self-awareness, and an almost cinematic clarity about who I was becoming. I’d asked the universe for growth, for a journey toward my higher self, for a deeper understanding of who I truly was beneath the layers of who I thought I needed to be. But as the old saying goes, Be careful what you wish for.
The trip itself was memorable in unexpected ways. My partner at the time—my favorite travel companion, the one I thought was my forever person—joined me for this trip. The Western North Carolina mountains were in the grip of an unseasonable cold snap, and our romantic notions of cozying up under the stars by the fire were quickly replaced by the reality of shivering through the nights, buried under piles of blankets. Still, we laughed, explored, and shared moments I thought would last forever.
And then, just over two months later, my forever ended.
The end of that long-term relationship left me shattered. The physical and emotional pain was so intense, it felt as though my very foundation had cracked. I was at a crossroads: I could do nothing and remain trapped in that anguish, or I could lean into the pain, face it head-on, and begin to rebuild. But rebuilding wasn’t a simple matter of stacking the pieces back together. First, I had to gather them all.
I had always prided myself on being fiercely independent. Asking for help felt like admitting weakness, and I’d built my identity on the belief that I could find answers if I simply dug deep enough within myself. But in those raw, painful months, I came to see that what I needed was the exact opposite. I didn’t just want to survive—I wanted to thrive. And to do that, I needed community.
Not just any community, but a circle of like-minded people who could offer love and support without judgment. Slowly, I began to find those beautiful souls, people whom I now think of as family—my chosen family. These amazing individuals helped me stay grounded while also pushing me to grow and expand. They were a gift, one I am grateful for every day. Some of them didn’t even realize the role they played in helping me navigate my dark night of the soul. They showed me parts of myself I didn’t want to see, and just as importantly, they helped me recognize and own the beautiful parts of myself I had been unwilling to claim.
Fast forward two years to my 52nd birthday. I had made a habit of exploring new places on my birthday trips—a way of expanding my horizons with new towns, people, and experiences. This year, I traveled to Eastern Tennessee. One of those incredible souls in my life, someone I deeply respect and admire, connected me with a friend of hers who lived in the area. Less than a week before my trip, we arranged to meet, and I offered to do a group Biofield Tuning for her and her colleagues. The only day that worked happened to be my birthday.
When I arrived, she gave me a tour of her stunning property: 30 acres of old farmland, woods, a spring-fed stream, and a yurt. As we walked through the woods, we stepped into a clearing, and there it was—a beautiful teepee, bathed in sunlight. My heart skipped. She led me inside, and I asked if we could hold the group tuning session there. She agreed, and soon six people, two dogs, and I gathered in that sacred space for an extraordinary experience.
It wasn’t until later that day that I realized the connection. Another birthday, another teepee. It was as if the universe was saying, Look how far you’ve come.
The personal archeological dig of the past two years had been painful—at times, unbearably so. Yet, it brought growth I couldn’t have imagined. Growth that only emerged because I was willing to break, to let the pieces scatter, and to rebuild anew. The teepee on my 52nd birthday wasn’t just a coincidence. It was a reflection, a symbol of the journey: from shivering in the cold to standing in the light, surrounded by warmth, connection, and the deep knowing that I was finally becoming the person I was always meant to be.
Am I done growing and finding myself? Absolutely not. I know I will always be curious, searching, learning, and loving until my last day in this life. Is my heartbreak completely healed? No, and I don’t know if it ever will be. And that’s okay. These are my battle scars, a testament to having loved deeply and without reservation. I will always hold a special place for that person, a quiet corner of gratitude and love that remains part of me.
It is my hope for you that you find your teepee place—a reflection point where you can look back and see how much you’ve grown, how deeply you’ve loved, and how authentically you’ve shown up in this life.
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