Yesterday morning, before the Thanksgiving chaos kicked in, my dad and I went for a walk. There was a quietness in the air that I didn’t realize I’d been craving. The roads were silent, the woods were silent—the whole world felt still, and I needed that stillness more than I knew.

We started off chatting about light, surface-level things, but quickly drifted into deeper territory—ideas we’d been sitting with, things that inspired us, things we found ourselves resisting in life. We met each other in that space of depth, the place where I feel most at home.

When we reached the marsh, we both stopped at the same exact moment. No words. No prompting. Just silence. We stood there, side by side, staring out at the grey November landscape, completely taken by its beauty.

Everything was still. Absolutely everything.

As I leaned into that stillness, I felt my whole body soften. I hadn’t noticed how much tension I’d been holding. I don’t know how long we stood there—two minutes, maybe ten—but the length didn’t matter. What mattered was the timing. It arrived exactly when I needed it. I was reminded how powerful silence, stillness, and simplicity truly are, and I felt a deep longing to invite more of them into my life.

I was profoundly grateful for that walk—not just the time with my father, not just the scenery, not just the grounding energy of nature, not just the rich conversation, not just the clarity that came through when I finally got quiet. I was grateful for the whole experience: the ability to walk, the fact that my father is here and healthy, the mild weather, and the countless small conditions that made that moment possible.

Later that night, drifting toward sleep, my mind replayed the beautiful pieces of the day. And that moment at the marsh rose to the surface—not loudly, but softly, like something magical whispering, “Come with me… choose more silence, more stillness, more simplicity.” And remembering it, my heart smiled a little wider.