I wrote this poem in the wake of deep undoing—the kind that strips a life down to its bones and then asks: what now?

For me, the answer was motion. Not escape, but expansion. As a woman, a traveler, a mother, and a seeker, I’ve learned that the path forward often requires leaving what was once beloved.

This poem is a benediction for the brave. For those who choose change not because they’re lost, but because they are loyal to what’s calling them forward. It’s a map for anyone who’s ever felt the pull of the unknown and dared to trust it.

Not long ago, I stepped away from my role as CEO—burned out, hollowed by grief, and physically broken from central nervous system collapse and mitochondrial injury. My body, like my life, had reached a breaking point. And so I turned to water, to wind, to the wildness that first made me feel alive. I sailed for six months across five oceans, rebuilding strength not just in my muscles, but in my spirit. This poem carries the salt of that journey—the ache, the awe, and the sacred permission to leap; to become something new on the other side of unraveling.

~

Go forth, traveler —

not as one who flees, but as one who answers.

There is a call stitched into your bones,

older than memory, louder than fear,

and every kilometer you cross is a yes to that call.

No, you do not leave to escape.

You leave to expand.

You move not because you are unfinished, but because you are faithful to the truth that the soul was never meant to be caged inside one set of walls, one skyline, one familiar song.

Let the engines rise beneath you.

Let the wind fold you into its knowing.

Let the earth’s ache for you be a blessing, not a tether.

The horizon owes you nothing—

and still, you are right to chase it.

Not for answers like currency to be spent, but for the devotion of the seeking itself, the sacredness of a heart that refuses to harden against wonder.

Trust the leaving.

Trust the hunger.

Trust the way your body leans toward the next unknown, as if it remembers something your mind has not yet named.

Blessed are you who keep moving, not out of restlessness, but out of reverence.

Blessed are you whose loyalty is to the unfolding.

Blessed are you who are willing to be undone, rewoven, remade.

May the sky carry you.

May the ground bless your absence.

May the sea celebrate your wake.

May your spirit stretch wide enough to catch every color of sunrise you were born to witness.

And when you arrive—

wherever you land—

may you know:

You were not lost.

You were becoming.

And you can leave again when you hear the call.

~