It’s a gorgeous day in Ithaca, NY. I arrive early at Taughannock Falls State Park, the first stop on my waterfall itinerary. The parking lot is empty. For now, it’s just me and the morning. Perfect. I step out, the air crisp and new, and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the tension in my body drain into the chilly ground. I let the silence settle over me, both heavy and weightless at once.
Excitement bubbles up as I start down the gorge trail. The earth is soft under my sneakers, the path winding through steep canyons and hemlocks expanding at the edges. The river gurgles beside me while I drink in the deep green forest, the jagged shale cliffs, the bright splash of a blue jay darting between branches. Each step away from the parking lot is a step further from all the failures I can’t fix, and all the apologies I can’t retract.
Then, there it is. Taughannock Falls, all 215 feet of roaring splendor. The sound swallows everything, leaving no room for thought or regret. Mist beads on my cheeks as the sun climbs higher.
I stand near the base, heart thrumming, and think of God. I sense Him in the vibration of water on stone, in the pulse of the earth beneath my soles, in the wild, careless tumble of it all. He’s close, closer than He’s ever felt at home. I want to talk to Him, but words feel useless here. So I just let the roar of the falls be the prayer.
God knows my struggles already. I trust He’ll deliver His messages in time.
I snap a photo, wanting to share the grandeur, but the impulse falters. The family group chat—me, Reginald, and Reggie—feels like a carefully constructed performance. Sending a picture into that space is like pretending we’re whole when my daughter’s absence is a missing piece of the landscape. A fact that snags behind every moment of beauty and tugs my heart low.
Instead, I text, “Got here safely…have a great day…love you both.” Reginald replies, “We love you too,” with a heart emoji. It’s easier to say it to the group than to Reginald alone. I lower my phone. Some prayers, like some sorrows, are private. I trust God to hold this one for me.
Chasing waterfalls across Ithaca leaves my calves tight and my hair damp with sweat. I collapse on the bed at my hotel, muscles humming with fatigue, but it’s the good kind, the kind that means I’ve done what I set out to do. Scrolling through my photos, I pick the best shot of Taughannock’s cascades, then pause, thumb hovering over the screen, before posting it to the Healing Collective group chat.
I add a quick update: “Waterfall therapy is working wonders. Hope you’re all doing well.” Heart reactions and well-wishes pop up in response, a swarm of digital affection that makes me smile even as it feels slightly unreal.
Not long after, Jeff shoots me a message, “You likely don’t know it, but I’m a better person because of your influence.”
That’s sweet and I tap the pink heart emoji. “Thank you! I’m so glad to hear about your recovery progress. I can’t wait to see what you discover out there blazing trails. And you’re already a great person.”
He mentioned a trip mountain biking in Colorado and hiking in Yellowstone, searching for solitude, a place wide enough to reflect on his grief. I imagine him there, under that same sky, breathing in a different kind of wild.
**
A week before our next group event, Jeff drops a reminder in the group chat about meeting at Riverfront Park for live music and food trucks. He attaches a YouTube video, saying it really hit home for him.
I get the notification, but wait to watch it until later. I’m still tidying up around the house, letting my mind wander in the vacuum of chores. When I finally sit down, I click the link of the Skit Guys breaking down the Serenity Prayer with humor and heart. I laugh, really laugh, and feel myself relax for the first time all week.
The message lands: my world is a mess, I’m a mess, but it’s okay to be a work in progress. I like the video and tell Jeff, “Thank you for sharing! I had a good laugh. This is 90% of my conversations with God. The other 10% is just me being crazy. Don’t get me started on Jesus Christ. The ending was such a great reminder…about life.”
The video’s message about letting go of control sparks a memory. I add, “This reminds me of axe-throwing. Remember how the instructor told us not to grip the handle so tightly? I was worried, but when he said, ‘Trust me, just loosen your grip and follow through,’ I finally hit the target. It took a week, but I think I finally understand God’s message in that.”
Jeff replies, “I know I’ve told you before, but I really appreciate your ability to think and articulate at a high level. It’s an absolute gift you have, and when you speak, I listen! Just leaving Yellowstone. What a great day!” He attaches photos of Yellowstone’s expansive skies, grassy plains, wild rivers.
I scroll through his pictures, not sure how to feel as I read those words again: when you speak, I listen. The images are breathtaking. I smile, lingering on the beauty and the reminder that the world is so much bigger than my worries. I want to believe him, that I’m an influence for good, but a part of me recoils from the attention, wary and unsure of the rules.
Suddenly, he inquires, “Do you run?”
The question startles me, sharp as a stone in the shoe. I remember he runs, even Cody mentioned it. The thought of running doesn’t appeal. I walk, I hike for miles, but running hits deeper. The question brings up more than just exercise; it’s the idea of running away, of escape, of flight.
A strange sensation twists in my stomach, like unease, or maybe anticipation. I can’t figure it out. “Thank you! And beautiful photos. Yellowstone looks amazing!” Then, to his question, “I’m out of shape for running. I walk and hike a lot, though.”
A few minutes pass. Jeff texts again, “Do you have an interest in getting back into running shape? Nothing crazy. Maybe a 15-minute mile?”
I’m not sure if he’s cheering me on or hinting that I need to get in shape. I’d like to think I’m healthy, even if I give in to sweet or salty cravings sometimes. Annoyed, I head upstairs, stand in front of the mirror, and pinch the little belly fat at my waist. Maybe I could trim down. Is it that obvious? His suggestion irritates me, and I scrunch my nose. But the challenge sparks something stubborn in me.
I type back, “You might be expecting too much from me. Running for even 5 minutes straight in this weather sounds insane for a perimenopausal woman.” After a pause, I add, “But I’m willing to try, just to see how far or how long I can go.”
“You rock!!!!” Jeff replies. “Give it a shot one cool morning. Make a commitment to jog for 2 minutes. Start small and grow a bit each week.”
Now he’s my coach? I have no plans to run a 5K anytime soon. I don’t want a cheerleader, I want a friend who listens without trying to fix me. Still, I convey, “I might be stubborn about committing, but I’ll try when I’m out for nature walks. Thanks and enjoy the rest of your adventure out there!” Hopefully, this chat thread ends.
He responds, “Let me know how it goes.”
I just like his message and toss my phone onto the bed. Yet the word “run” lingers in my mind. Why did it come up out of nowhere? Is God trying to tell me something?
God doesn’t answer right away. But eventually, He will. He always does when I least expect it.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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