Last week, I wrote about what it means to hold your north — to stay anchored in purpose in a world that often feels loud, reactive, and divided. We explored how tuning into our values, and not just the noise around us, can keep us steady.

Next week, I’ll be writing about gratitude — and how we can practice it without bypassing reality. How we can hold both the pain and the beauty, the injustice and the joy, without numbing or pretending.

But this week, I’m thinking about something a bit different. Something that can feel tender. Unfamiliar. Sometimes even a little out of reach.

Awe and wonder. Noticing it. Remembering it. Reclaiming it.

Awe in Unexpected Places

I didn’t expect to write about awe this week. Not during this season of grief.

Last week, I traveled to New York City for my brother’s memorial service — a trip held in layers of sorrow and tenderness. The service was an incredible testament to who he was as a person – caring, thoughtful, and infinitely curious about the world around him. This theme of curiosity about everything was consistent through every speech. This got me thinking – how can I honor him by cultivating this sense of curiosity? How can I look at the world with a greater sense of awe and wonder, even when things are challenging?

As part of this trip, I set out to experience New York City with a greater sense of awe and wonder. We started at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited (if at all), and in a spontaneous decision, we took a few hours to walk the galleries. I found myself face-to-face with some of my favorite Impressionist painters — Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh.

And standing there, in front of those brushstrokes — I felt quiet. The kind of quiet that happens inside your body when you’re reminded that beauty still exists. That someone, decades or centuries ago, felt something powerful enough to put it on canvas. That in the middle of sorrow, something in me could still say, look.

That was awe.

Wonder in the Leaves

The next day, we walked through Central Park. It was Halloween, and the leaves had just started to turn. In San Diego, where I live, we don’t really get fall in the same way — not the crisp air, not the canopy of reds and golds, not the thick carpet of crunching leaves beneath your feet.

But here, it was unmistakable. You couldn’t not notice it.

There was a moment — walking down a quiet path, bundled in a jacket, leaves tumbling in the wind — where I actually stopped and said out loud, “This is so beautiful.” And I meant it in that full-body, jaw-loosening, exhale kind of way.

That night, we visited our friends and family in the Upper West Side, where kids were trick-or-treating on a picture-perfect block. The brownstones were decorated with pumpkins and glowing lights. Children in costumes darted up and down the stairs. There was laughter. Music. The unmistakable scent of fall. A volume of kids on the street unlike anything I’d ever seen before on Halloween. And again, I felt it — that tug of wonder.

A softening. A remembering. A coming home.

What Is Awe, Really?

Psychologists define awe as the feeling we experience when we encounter something vast — something that challenges or expands our existing understanding of the world. It’s what we feel when we’re dwarfed by a mountain range, lost in music, or moved by a child’s question.

But awe doesn’t have to be big. In fact, awe researcher Dacher Keltner describes it as most powerful when it’s woven into the ordinary. When it surprises us in the midst of the everyday — the texture of a leaf, the play of light on a wall, the sound of someone’s laughter.

That kind of awe — micro-awe — is incredibly healing. Studies show that awe:

• Reduces stress by activating the parasympathetic nervous system (our “rest and digest” mode)
• Increases vagal tone, helping us regulate emotions and improve heart-rate variability
• Enhances our sense of connection to others
• Decreases self-rumination and increases humble perspective
• Boosts prosocial behavior like generosity and empathy

In short: awe is not just poetic — it’s protective. It’s not frivolous — it’s foundational. Especially during grief. Especially when we’re holding complexity.

When Did We Forget?

As children, awe comes easily. A bubble floating through the air. The lights of Disneyland. The first snow. The smell of a crayon box.

But somewhere along the way — maybe in our striving, our busyness, our over-explained world — we forget how to be amazed. We tell ourselves that awe is for vacations, or art museums, or other people with more time. We become numb to the beauty that surrounds us.

Or we feel guilty letting awe in when the world is hurting. When we’re grieving. When things feel broken. But here’s what I’m learning:

Awe doesn’t deny grief. It holds it.
Wonder doesn’t ignore injustice. It reminds us what’s worth protecting.
Beauty isn’t a distraction. It’s part of what makes us human.

We can hold both. And when we do — when we let awe in, even gently — it can help us breathe again.

This Week’s Practice: Noticing Awe and Wonder

So this week, I’m committing to a practice of intentional noticing — looking for awe not as an escape, but as an anchor. Here are a few ways I’m doing that:

1. Awe Walks

I’m going on a daily 10-minute walk with no destination — just the goal of noticing one thing that makes me say wow. That might be the way a spider web glistens in the morning light. Or how a tree is starting to turn yellow. Or the sound of birds chattering in the distance.

The key is presence, not perfection.

2. Art as Portal

I’m spending a few minutes each day looking at art — either in a book I love or scrolling through the collections of great art in the world. Just letting myself pause and marvel at what human hands can create. It doesn’t have to be deep. It just has to be real.

3. Sound of the Seasons

I’ve started listening to instrumental playlists that match the feeling of fall — strings, piano, wind chimes. Something about tuning into music without words helps me stay grounded in the feeling of awe, not just the idea of it.

4. One Sentence at Night

Each night, I’m writing down one sentence in my journal:
What stirred wonder in me today?

Some days it might be something small. Some days, nothing obvious will come. But even asking the question is an act of returning.

Breath + Awe: A Nervous System Pairing

You may notice a theme in my writing — I often come back to the body. And that’s intentional. Because reconnection — whether to purpose, to peace, or to awe — often begins not in the mind, but in the nervous system.

When I allow myself to feel awe — to let it register in my body — something shifts:

• My breath slows.
• My shoulders drop.
• My gaze lifts from the screen.

That moment, as fleeting as it is, reminds me that I’m part of something bigger. That I’m not alone. That I don’t have to carry it all. And when I pair that with breath — a slow inhale, a long exhale — it becomes more than a moment. It becomes medicine.

Grief and Awe Can Coexist

I want to say this clearly: you don’t need to feel happy to feel awe. You don’t need to “get over” anything. You don’t need to fix your mood or fake gratitude. In fact, some of the most powerful moments of awe in my life have happened in the middle of heartbreak — like last week, standing in Central Park, thinking of my brother, breathing in the scent of autumn, and letting the tears fall anyway. Awe is allowed in grief. Wonder is allowed in anger. Beauty is allowed in the midst of brokenness. You don’t need permission to feel both.

Final Reflection

So here’s the question I’m holding — and maybe you are too:

Where in your life are you being invited to pause in wonder?

It might be right outside your window. It might be in your child’s voice. It might be in the way your dog greets you every single time like it’s the best moment of their life. You don’t have to chase awe. You just have to notice it. And when you do — when you let wonder soften the sharp edges — something inside you might say:

I remember this.

I belong here.

Even now, beauty is still possible.

What I’m Loving This Week – Awe and Wonder Edition

• Sound: “Wind in Trees” by Niall from the Insight Timer app. A subtle, layered ambient track featuring gentle wind, rustling leaves, and distant bird calls — ideal for reflecting on wonder, nature, and memory. cosmic vibe.
• Practice: Wonder-Walk. Instead of a destination walk, take a curiosity walk. Set out with no agenda other than to notice what surprises you — a tiny mushroom, shifting light through branches, a pattern on a wall. Whisper “wow” whenever something grabs you. You don’t need a forest for this — a block around the neighborhood will do.
• Tool: The Sky Guide App: This app lets you point your phone at the night sky to identify stars, planets, and constellations in real time. I used it on a recent night walk and felt that familiar “awe-tug” — the reminder that I am tiny and connected to something vast.
• Quote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”
  — Mary Oliver
• Song: “Wish You Were Here” – Incubus
  This song captures the bittersweet beauty of being present — of holding both joy and longing in the same breath. It’s been especially resonant for me this week as I sit with the duality of grief and gratitude. Somehow, it helps me feel more alive.

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