Well, as quiet as the jungle ever gets, with the sounds of beautiful music drifting through the humid air.
The clouds are building and parting, teasing us with the possibility of rain. Whether it will actually arrive tonight is anyone’s guess.
This morning, we heard the sheet of rain coming off the playa. It’s an unusual sound for the morning hours, and one that caught our attention. Chris and I were sitting with our coffee, talking about plans for the day, when suddenly there it was—a low roar growing louder as the heavy drops swept through the trees and hammered against the broad jungle leaves. For a few moments, the conversation gave way to the rain. Sometimes nature has something to say, and you just listen.
I’m getting pretty good at recognizing the bird calls. A year of using Merlin has helped me tuck those sounds away, one by one, until they’ve become familiar friends. Now I find myself drifting off, listening to each individual voice in the canopy. I can pick them out, recognize their songs, and follow the conversations unfolding all around me. There’s something deeply satisfying about realizing that a place you once heard as a wall of sound has slowly become a world of individual voices.
The end of October is here, and we’re nearing the beginning of the dry season, which usually means tourists begin arriving in numbers. And yet, our house has surprisingly few bookings.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about that. This little home of ours is part of the life we’ve built here, and naturally, we want to share it. But for now, the calendar has more empty spaces than we’d hoped.
Meanwhile, the jungle carries on, completely indifferent to booking calendars and the ebb and flow of tourism.
And I’ll tell you what: it would be nice if it rained this afternoon.
The air is so heavy you can almost feel it resting on your skin. There’s none of the usual stirring that hints at an afternoon storm. No breeze whispering through the palms, no sudden rustling in the canopy, no distant rumble promising relief. Just stillness. Thick, motionless, jungle heat.
Even a walk around the house is enough to send huge droplets of sweat running down my neck and into my eyes. The kind of heat that makes you move a little slower, breathe a little deeper, and question why you thought walking outside was such a good idea in the first place.
And yet, there’s something about days like these.
When the air is still, the floral notes seem to rise from the gardens and the jungle around us. Fragrances that might otherwise go unnoticed drift past, delicate and almost intoxicating. You catch one, then another, and without even realizing it, you begin to breathe more deeply. More slowly.
You stop thinking about what needs to be done. You stop watching the clock. You simply exist in the moment.
The jungle has a way of doing that to you. Of asking you to slow down without ever saying a word. Of reminding you that life doesn’t always have to be measured in accomplishments, plans, or the things we’re waiting to happen.
Sometimes, it’s enough to sit with a cup of coffee, listen to the birds, feel the weight of the humid air, and let the afternoon unfold exactly as it will.
A peace settles over you, and time slows.
And somewhere in that stillness, between the scent of the flowers and the distant calls of the birds, you realize that this life has found its way into you.
Not just the place, but the rhythm of it.
The quiet. The heat. The waiting for rain.
And the beautiful, untamed world that carries on all around us.
I know I’ve said it before, but something has changed. Something deep inside me has shifted, taken root, and begun to grow in ways I’m only now beginning to understand.
Living in Costa Rica, surrounded by the endless, chaotic, magnificent spectacle of nature, has seeped into my very core.
The birds that announce the morning before the sun has even cleared the trees. The iguanas sprawled across warm branches, lizards darting through the undergrowth, insects conducting their nightly symphony, frogs calling out in the darkness, and, of course, the snakes that remind us we are sharing this land with creatures that have been here far longer than we have. And let’s not forget our favorite tree, NatGeo, standing watch over our little piece of paradise.
This isn’t nature viewed through a screen or admired from a comfortable distance. This is nature all around us, all the time. It creeps beneath our doors, climbs our trees, flies through our gardens, and occasionally reminds us that we are not nearly as much in charge as we might like to think.
Here, nature doesn’t ask permission to enter our lives. It simply does.
And somewhere along the way, I began to understand that this was exactly what I needed.
Walking barefoot in the sand, feeling the Pacific wash over my feet, or sinking my toes into the grass in our own backyard has grounded me in ways I am still uncovering. There is something ancient and instinctive about feeling the earth beneath your feet, about being present in a moment that requires nothing of you except that you experience it.
No agenda. No hurry. No need to be anywhere else.
Just me, the earth, and the extraordinary privilege of being alive.
There is something to be said for reconnecting with the natural world. Something that reaches beyond the mind and settles into the soul.
When we bought this house in our little village, close to the sea and sand, we both felt it. That inexplicable pull. That quiet knowing that this place was different.
For almost six years, we had roamed. We had lived a life without anchors, without a permanent address that meant home in the traditional sense. We collected experiences instead of possessions, memories instead of roots, and learned to be comfortable with the uncertainty of never quite knowing where we would be next.
And then we found this place.
A little home tucked into the lushness of the jungle, where the air hangs heavy with moisture, the afternoon skies gather into great dark clouds, and the rain comes down with a ferocity that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and simply listen.
Here, we could settle. Nest for a while. Nurture our souls in a place that felt less like a destination and more like a homecoming.
We didn’t know then just how deeply this place would change us.
Since 2019, so much of my journey has been inward. Years spent trying to understand the voices that haunted me, the fractured pieces of a life shaped by things a child should never have had to navigate. Learning to recognize the parts of myself that once kept me safe but eventually became part of a recurring cycle of destruction. Learning that survival mechanisms can outlive the dangers that created them.
It has been hard, painstaking work. Not the sort of transformation that happens in a weekend retreat or arrives wrapped in a tidy little package of enlightenment.
It has been messy. Uncomfortable. Sometimes heartbreaking.
But slowly, I began to find a way to live alongside those parts of myself rather than be ruled by them. To listen without surrendering. To understand without being pulled backward. To integrate what once felt impossible to reconcile.
Today, for the most part, those voices are quiet. They remain somewhere in the background, observers rather than directors, as I learn to experience life as it unfolds instead of reliving the past.
And here, in this wild, untamed corner of the world, something inside me has finally begun to settle.
Perhaps it is the rhythm of the tides, the moon pulling at the ocean, the daily arrival of rain clouds over the mountains. Perhaps it is the way the jungle refuses to be hurried, how everything grows, decays, transforms, and begins again without asking whether the timing is convenient.
Or perhaps it is simply the gift of being fully present in a place that demands your attention.
Because make no mistake. For all its beauty, life in the jungle is anything but tranquil.
From the outside, our life might look like paradise. A little house near the ocean. Tropical breezes, lush green mountains, colorful birds, and the soothing sound of waves rolling onto the shore.
But step into the middle of it, and you’ll discover that paradise is working its ass off just to stay alive.
The heat is relentless. The humidity wraps around you like a warm, wet blanket. Everything grows, crawls, bites, rots, or sprouts again before you’ve had time to catch your breath. The rain can turn a peaceful afternoon into a thundering spectacle of water, wind, and lightning that illuminates the entire sky.
And everywhere, life is fighting for its place.
Butterflies flutter through the garden, delicate wings catching the sunlight, while tiny hummingbirds dart past with astonishing speed, competing for nectar in a world where even the smallest creature must defend its share.
Iguanas bask in the trees, alert to the movements of snakes that are themselves hunting to survive.
Tiny sea turtles emerge from the sand and make their desperate dash toward the ocean, navigating a gauntlet of predators and obstacles before they ever reach the water. Those that make it face a whole new world of dangers, with no guarantees that they will ever return to the beach where their lives began.
Everywhere you look, something is growing, hunting, hiding, reproducing, adapting, or trying desperately not to become someone else’s dinner.
Every living thing is negotiating its existence.
Sunlight. Water. Food. Shelter. A patch of fertile ground. A safe place to ride out another torrential downpour.
There is no guarantee of tomorrow. No promise that being beautiful or small or strong will be enough.
And yet, life persists.
The jungle doesn’t stop to mourn what has been lost. It doesn’t apologize for the storm or question the arrival of another season. It absorbs, adapts, and carries on. Fallen leaves become nourishment. Dead branches make room for new growth. What ends becomes part of what begins.
There is a brutal honesty in that. A kind of beauty that has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with persistence.
Here, living is dynamic. Challenging. Unpredictable. And profoundly fulfilling.
It reminds me that life was never meant to be static. That peace doesn’t necessarily mean the absence of struggle. Sometimes peace is learning to exist within the struggle without losing yourself to it.
I watch the jungle, and I see the same complicated dance that has played out inside me for years. Different parts competing for space. Old defenses responding to perceived danger. The constant work of adapting, finding balance, and learning when to fight and when to simply let things unfold.
And I realize that perhaps healing isn’t about making every part of life quiet.
Perhaps it’s about learning to live with the noise.
To recognize the storms for what they are. To understand that not every uncomfortable moment signals disaster. To trust that we can bend without breaking, change without losing ourselves, and find our footing even when the ground beneath us feels uncertain.
The jungle doesn’t promise an easy life.
Neither does healing.
But both offer something far more meaningful than ease.
They offer the opportunity to be fully alive.
This connection to nature has been with me since I was little. Somewhere along the way, through the years of growing up, surviving, traveling, and trying to make sense of the world, I lost pieces of that connection.
Or perhaps I simply forgot how deeply I needed it.
Now, surrounded by the living, breathing, untamed world of Costa Rica, I feel it again.
In the first birdcall of the morning.
In the earthy smell of wet soil after an afternoon storm.
In the thunder that rolls across the mountains and rattles the windows.
In the frogs that sing through the darkness, the insects that fill the night with their electric chorus, and the impossibly green world that seems to grow before my eyes.
In the feel of warm sand between my toes and the ocean washing away whatever I thought I needed to carry.
I find peace here. Not because life is simple, but because it is real. Because nothing in this jungle pretends to be anything other than what it is.
There is struggle, but there is also beauty.
There is uncertainty, but there is also wonder.
There is loss, but there is always the possibility of new growth.
And there is a profound comfort in knowing that I am not separate from any of it.
I am part of this great, messy, extraordinary web of life. Another living creature finding her place beneath the sun, learning to adapt, learning to grow, learning to simply be.
Maybe that’s what this natural progression has been all along.
Not becoming someone new, but returning to something I always knew.
That peace can be found in the simplest things.
That healing can happen in ways we don’t always recognize.
That we don’t have to control every moment to feel safe within it.
And that sometimes, the greatest gift we can give ourselves is the freedom to put our feet on the earth, open our senses to the world around us, and remember that we belong here, too.
Not as observers.
Not as visitors passing through.
But as living, breathing participants in this magnificent, relentless, ever-changing world.
The jungle doesn’t just surround me anymore. It lives in me.
And somewhere between the tides, the storms, the creatures, the chaos, and the quiet moments in our little backyard, I think I’ve finally found a little more of myself.
Grounded.
Calm.
Comforted.
And more ALIVE than I have felt in a very long time.
A beautiful space with Sofia written everywhere—on every knickknack, every detail, every corner. The walls were painted as vivid and colorful as her personality. An incredible moon hung high above you as you entered the space, like a beacon calling you in.
Girlfriend, there ain’t no simply walking into this space.
It’s a full-on experience.
Scattered throughout the colors and textures were Tibetan bowls, crystal bowls, and various other tools akin to her craft. Everywhere you looked there was something else to discover. Another layer of mystery hiding in corners where only spiders would normally hang out.
I had come to take a dip in the deep end of the pool.
I was there for my first full-on facial.
But not some typical, boring facial.
Oh no.
This one, I could feel, was about to be otherworldly.
The treatment room is surrounded by glass, so you’re receiving treatments in the middle of the jungle—but with the comfort of conditioned air. A storm had been brewing all weekend, and I could feel the atmospheric pressure changing as the heavy clouds rolled in.
Sofia began explaining the process, giving me just enough of a taste of what was to come without spoiling the sauce.
Then she began setting the atmosphere.
She arranged her potions and tools of the trade while I sat back and took in the delicious aromas beginning to fill the air.
And then…
It began.
Now, I have to say, there is something absolutely amazing about having someone spread oils and potions across your face as though they possess cardinal knowledge of every curve of your nose and jawline.
You begin to drift.
Somewhere along the way, you find yourself on another plane of consciousness.
And this is where my mind becomes untethered and the imagination of many ages begins to set in.
First came this little miniature hair-trimmer-feeling thing.
Immediately, my mind saw Sofia up there on my face mowing all the rogue hairs from my head.
Of course, that’s not what was happening.
And as far as I can tell, I’m not missing any facial hair.
Then came a brisk period of sweating as a bath of aromas, sacred oils, and mysterious potions were applied.
I pictured myself outside in the humid jungle air, surrounded by fragrant flowers, with bees buzzing around my face and ears.
Minutes slid by unnoticed.
My mind was anywhere but in that room.
The treatments continued for what seemed like hours, each one more amazing and transformational than the last.
And then…
The mask.
Already tripping somewhere on another plane, a cool goo was slowly applied across my entire face.
Including my eyes.
The application was slow.
Purposeful.
Almost ceremonial.
And then the rain came.
Hard.
Like it does here.
Unable to open my eyes, I realized Sofia had disappeared.
Or at least I couldn’t find her.
So my mind went looking.
And all it found was sound.
A low, soulful ringing.
A gong that seemed to go on forever.
Then another.
And suddenly, I was somewhere else entirely.
The next thing I knew, I was in a funeral pyre.
A death mask was being made for my loved ones.
The sounds of some ancient ceremony rang out around me.
Then the rains came.
But not only outside in the jungle.
Inside as well.
The bowls continued ringing around me, surrounding me.
And somewhere in that strange place, I had this realization:
We don’t escape our pain in death.
Okay…
My knee started hurting.
And apparently that pain had found its way into my hallucination.
Then I felt hands again.
Real hands.
Massaging my forehead and hairline.
Slowly, the mask was removed.
And I landed.
Back on the table where I had been for the past hour.
There was another treatment—some kind of blue light and warmth that was simply divine.
A spritz.
A spray.
And after having completely left my body…
I was told, in the gentlest voice, that it was over.
A year of living in Costa Rica has a way of changing even the hardest of souls.
We arrived after spending a year traveling the world. From the emerald cliffs of Ireland to the ancient streets of Cyprus, and four unforgettable months wandering Southeast Asia, the world opened itself to us. New cultures. New foods. New languages. More importantly, we witnessed countless ways people live in harmony with their surroundings. It changed us long before we ever set foot in Costa Rica.
Now we find ourselves nestled in a country that is both ferociously wild and profoundly calming.
Living here has slowly melted away layers of stress. I might even say it has rewired our brains—teaching us to slow down, practice patience, and become comfortable doing…nothing at all. Somewhere along the way, the clutter in my mind began to disappear. The anger, the endless noise, the toxic thoughts I carried for far too long have quietly loosened their grip.
In their place are moments of remarkable clarity. Moments of overwhelming gratitude. Moments where the beauty around me brings tears to my eyes and softens my heart. There are times when my thoughts simply disappear, and I’m completely immersed in the present—the calls of the toucans, the chorus of frogs after the rain, the scent of the jungle, the rhythm of the ocean. No distractions. No urgency. Just pure, uncomplicated peace.
Of course, not everything is idyllic. “Things” can be difficult to find. Convenience isn’t always convenient. Comfort, as we once defined it, isn’t guaranteed. The humidity can be relentless, and life rarely moves according to your schedule.
If your happiness depends on possessions, predictability, and recreating the life you left behind—this may not be the place for you. But if you’re searching for peace, solitude, vibrant wildlife, lush forests, and a slower, more grounded way of living, Costa Rica just might be the perfect place to begin again.
Leave your worries at the airport.
Leave your stress at the airplane door.
Then take a deep breath…and jump in.
Moving abroad is always a gamble.
Then again, so is staying exactly where you are.
Life offers no guarantees. Death is the only certainty. Between those two truths lies a choice—to remain comfortable or to risk everything for a life that feels more fully lived.
For us, despite the obstacles we never saw coming, it has been the best gamble we’ve ever taken.
Today I find myself sitting outside with a heavy heart and a tightness in my chest. I can’t quite put my finger on where it came from. Maybe the moon and Venus have aligned. Maybe it’s some special full moon stirring things beneath the surface. Or maybe it’s none of those things at all. Whatever the reason, the feeling is real. It sits with weight.
I find myself staring up into my favorite tree in the backyard, hoping a pair of macaws or a couple of toucans might drop in and distract me for a while. My eyes wander through the thick branches searching for an iguana stretched across a limb or a black squirrel darting through the leaves. Instead, there is only the steady buzz of cicadas and the gentle sound of water spilling into the pool.
I know this feeling. I’ve met it before.
But I refuse to give it ground. I refuse to feed it. Let it pass like the clouds drifting overhead. Still, days like this are part of being human. They arrive uninvited and bring questions with them. Questions about decisions made and roads not taken. Glimpses into an uncertain future. Thoughts of a world increasingly shaped by greed, power, and men willing to gamble with lives they will never know.
The idea that nuclear weapons still exist—that civilization hangs, in some small way, on the judgment of a handful of leaders—feels absurd when you stop long enough to think about it. Yet here we are. An entire planet carrying a quiet undercurrent of fear, whether we admit it or not.
Costa Rica does a remarkable job of buffering me from all of that. Nature has a way of softening the sharp edges of the world. The jungle, the rain, the endless shades of green—they remind me that life continues despite our chaos.
But some days the world still finds a way in.
It seeps through the cracks and settles in my mind, bringing with it a deep ache and a fear not for myself, but for all living things trying to make their way through this brief existence.
So I sit here beneath my tree, my eyes tracing its sprawling branches and endless palette of greens. Once again, I wait for a visitor—a macaw, a toucan, an iguana, anything at all. Some small reminder that the world is still beautiful.
And as I sit and wait, even the cicadas have fallen silent.
There’s something about sitting just beyond the reach of the rain—close enough to feel its breath, far enough to stay dry. The sky opens without hesitation, releasing sheets of water so thick they blur the jungle into a faded watercolor painting, soft greens melting into gray. The mountains disappear first, then the trees, until the world beyond the porch becomes only shadow and movement.
The sound is hypnotic. Not the gentle tapping of a passing shower, but the deep, steady roar of rainy season rain. Massive drops crash against the broad ridged jungle leaves, each one answering back with its own hollow percussion. Together they create a white noise so complete it drowns out every wandering thought. The world narrows to rain, thunder, breath.
Lightning flashes suddenly, turning the jungle silver for a heartbeat before darkness folds back over everything again. Then comes the thunder—low, rolling, powerful—traveling across the hills and fading toward the unseen ocean in the distance.
Cool downdrafts push through the storm like nature’s own air conditioner, carrying mist that drifts across my skin in soft waves. Goosebumps rise on my arms as the damp air wraps around me, a welcome relief after months of relentless heat and dust. Everything smells alive again—wet earth, soaked wood, crushed leaves, the sharp green scent of the jungle waking up thirsty and grateful.
And with every steady pulse of rain, something inside me quiets.
The storm doesn’t demand attention. It lulls. It pulls me into a trance-like stillness where time slows beneath the rhythm of falling water and flashing skies. No urgency. No noise beyond nature itself. Just the methodical heartbeat of rain returning to the earth.
My artist finally stirred again—quietly at first, then with intention—and decided it was time to create.
I first made a white-water rafting piece while in Chile, and this one is its miniature companion, brought to life here at home in Costa Rica. It’s not tied to a single memory, but to something we’ve always loved—the pulse of the river, the teamwork, the thrill of moving through wild water together.
The entire scene fits in the palm of my hand—about 6 inches long and 3 inches wide, waves and base included. The raft itself is just 2 by 3 inches, and the paddlers… no bigger than your little toe. Tiny, intricate, and somehow still full of motion.
It took most of the day to complete—hours of careful focus and quiet immersion. There’s something grounding about working so small, about shaping energy and movement into something you can hold.
And so we arrive at the quiet terminus of our northward journey—not with a grand finale, but with that soft, reflective stillness that comes when something beautiful has run its course.
What began on the Futaleufú River–unfolded into 875 kilometers of winding roads and wonder along the Carretera Austral, carrying us south to Puerto Río Tranquilo and then gently back north to Puerto Varas. But distance feels like such a small measure now. What we gathered along the way cannot be mapped in kilometers.
There were days when the sun broke through, spilling gold across jagged peaks and glacial rivers so impossibly turquoise they felt imagined. And then there were the rains—the long, steady Patagonian rains that blurred the edges of the world and pulled us inward. Yet even then, especially then, the landscape held its magic. Mist clung to the mountains like breath, waterfalls awakened everywhere at once, and the road ahead felt like a secret slowly revealing itself.
We were not without our small missteps—a tire with its slow leak interrupted our plans—but even that became part of the story. It led us, unexpectedly, into the warmth and generosity of strangers, into shared laughter and gestures that needed no translation. In those moments, Chile revealed itself not just in its landscapes, but in its people.
The road demanded something of us. It was good, yes—but never easy. It asked for patience, attention, humility. And in return, it offered glimpses into a life shaped by resilience. The places we stayed—simple, weathered, full of character—felt like quiet witnesses to generations who carved out existence in this wild and beautiful edge of the world.
We stumbled through Spanish, sometimes clumsily, sometimes triumphantly, and in doing so found connection. We met people who, for a moment, became part of our story. Some will remain only as flickers in memory—a shared meal, a passing conversation, a smile exchanged on the roadside. Others… perhaps we will meet again, somewhere unexpected, as travelers do.
Because that is the quiet truth we carry with us now—the world, vast as it seems, has a way of folding in on itself. Paths cross. Stories intertwine. And somewhere down another road, in another country, a familiar face may appear again like a gift.
And so we leave this stretch of Patagonia not as we arrived, but fuller—of wonder, of gratitude, of moments that will live on in the hidden corners of our minds and as a steady glow in our hearts.
I gaze into the glow of a blank screen, listening to voices dripping venom, men in masks spitting hate as unseen puppeteers tug the strings… violence dispensed like cheap candy, their mouths snapping open like machines built only to wound.
And yet beyond that darkness, the people gather. They rise in quiet reverence, a hush that holds more power than any shouted threat.
I watch the monks reach the end of their long walk, a pilgrimage carved in bare feet and prayer, a walk for peace that has brushed against thousands of hearts and left them trembling awake.
We stand with them… hands clasped, souls yearning, hoping their gentle wisdom might shift the tides, open the eyes long sealed by fear, send a wave of love sweeping across a land torn open by ignorance and stitched with lies.
Our nation’s cloth hangs shredded in the wind. And still… we hold the edges, refusing to let it all come apart.
It is time to turn the page before the snake slithers out and consumes the fragile hope we’ve just lifted from the hat.
Can hope rise above this? Can peace be nurtured in soil scorched by division? Can its roots dig deep enough to cradle the lost as they stumble after false prophets into the yawning abyss?
Can we survive this season? Rebuild what was broken? Learn again to love our neighbor without trembling in our own doorway?
Can we silence the tidal wave of lies, the loud, empty rhetoric that poisons minds and sells fear to those desperate to belong even if belonging means bowing to power, forsaking truth, forgetting the dignity of honest labor and the humility of shared struggle?
Yes. But only if we choose it. Only if we step forward now… not in rage, but in courage.
Only if we admit that change is not coming unless we become it.
It is time.
Time to rise. Time to rebuild. Time to reclaim the heart that beats beneath this fractured nation and remind it softly, fiercely what it was made for:
Love. Peace. And one another.
May all beings suffering find and end to that suffering and peace. ☮️🕊️🙏🏼 J
Listen the streets are humming with a truth too loud to bury. A rising drumbeat from the soles of the people who finally say:
No. More.
We won’t carry this poison in our lungs anymore. We won’t swallow injustice like it’s the cost of living.
We rise linked arm to arm, heart to heart a single force moving forward, a single flame refusing to go out.
A force for peace. A force for fairness. A force that whispers equality and roars it, too.
No more heavy hand of the man. No more blood running down streets where children should be playing. No more brothers of color treated as less than sacred. No more stolen bodies, stolen futures, stolen names.
No more. Say it until the sky memorizes us.
We stand unbowed, unbroken, a force to be reckoned with.
We refuse your threats. We refuse your silence. We refuse to pretend we don’t see the wound when the whole nation is bleeding.
In silence we gather but never in fear. Non-violent, but never weak. Our voice carries the weight of those who were never allowed to speak.
Your guns are your courage you cowards. Your masks are your shields thin fabric to hide the fear of a world waking up.
Because we are growing. We are rising. We are finding strength in each other in unity, in compassion, in the simple truth that love is the greatest rebellion.
Strength for the weak. A voice for the unheard. A wall against tyranny.
This country may be divided, but the people the people are finding their power.
And together, with our feet planted in the earth, with fire in our throats, we speak the words that no regime can smother:
