Sleeping Under the Stars: Sometimes the Soul Remembers Before We Do

This weekend, I did something I haven't done in a very long time.

I bought a tent.

Not a luxury hotel. Not a beautiful Airbnb. Not a cozy cabin tucked into the woods.

A simple tent.

Along with a sleeping pad, sleeping bag, camp stove, and all the little bits of gear that somehow make sleeping on the ground feel like coming home.

As we packed everything into the car, I realized this wasn't really something new at all. It was something deeply remembered.
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Some of the happiest memories of my childhood begin with the family station wagon.

There were eight of us—my parents and six children. Every summer, my mom and dad would somehow manage to fit an entire household into that car. The tent. Sleeping bags. Camp stove. Coolers. Fishing poles. Pillows. Blankets. Clothes. Food for a week or two. Looking back, it seems almost impossible.

My dad had a tradition. We always left around midnight.

He insisted we'd make better time with empty roads. So we'd be carried from our beds, still sleepy, wrapped in blankets, and tucked into the station wagon with our pillows. I remember drifting in and out of sleep as we headed west from the suburbs of Chicago, knowing adventure was waiting somewhere beyond the darkness.

Yellowstone.
The Grand Tetons.
The Badlands.
Places that became part of my soul long before I understood why.

Perhaps it isn't surprising that I eventually found my way to living in Colorado.

Those vacations weren't extravagant. We didn't have televisions or video games to entertain us. My parents weren't checking emails or rushing from obligation to obligation. We simply lived outside.

We hiked.

We explored.

We learned how to build campfires and respect wildlife. 

We cooked over a campfire.

We watched sunsets without photographing them.

We learned survival skills of the land—and, without realizing it, survival skills of the heart.

At night all eight of us slept together inside one enormous tent. Looking back, it sounds crowded.

To me, it felt magical.

One memory has stayed with me for more than fifty years.

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I was wandering alone through Badlands National Park in South Dakota, climbing among the layered rock formations. Somewhere among those ancient hills, something happened that my young mind had no language for.

I simply knew.

I had been there before.

No one had taught me about past lives. It wasn't part of my upbringing or my worldview. Yet standing among those extraordinary formations, I experienced an undeniable feeling of recognition—as though some ancient part of me had whispered, Welcome back.

Today, after decades of walking a spiritual path, studying with indigenous teachers, and guiding others into deeper remembrance, I smile when I think about that little girl.

My soul already knew.

Long before my mind could understand.

The Badlands themselves tell a story of time beyond human comprehension. Over millions of years, ancient seas, winding rivers, volcanic ash, shifting winds, sand, and clay created the breathtaking layers of color that stretch across the landscape today.

Perhaps it wasn't only the land that was revealing layers.

Perhaps something inside me was remembering its own.
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This weekend, as my love and I pitched our little tent beside a beautiful mountain lake, I felt that same quiet remembering.

We unplugged.

We talked for hours.

We wandered trails.

I curled up in my hammock with my journal.

We watched the light change across the water.

And when darkness settled in, we climbed into our sleeping bags beneath a sky full of stars.
It was pure magic.

Not because something extraordinary happened.

Because nothing needed to.

It has been many years since I immersed myself so completely in nature. Siberia in 2018 is the last time I remember feeling this deeply woven into the wild. There were a few nights during one of the hardest seasons of my life—after my marriage ended—when I chose to sleep outside on the land. Those nights brought healing of their own.

But this was different.

This was joy.

This was choosing nature not because I needed to survive, but because I wanted to remember.

I often encourage people to spend time outside.

Not because it's another item to check off a wellness list.

Not because science tells us forests calm the nervous system, though they do.

Not because fresh air is good for us, though it certainly is.

I encourage it because nature gently removes everything that isn't essential.

There is no performance around a campfire.

No status beneath the stars.

The trees don't care what your job title is.

The lake doesn't ask how productive you've been.

The mountains never question your worth.

Nature simply invites you to belong.

I am incredibly fortunate to live in the Colorado foothills, surrounded by forests, wildlife, changing seasons, and the quiet wisdom of the natural world. I experience its gifts every single day.

And yet, sleeping under the stars reminded me that there is something different about truly stepping away.

Leaving the computer behind.

Turning off the notifications.

Trading walls for canvas.

Trading ceilings for constellations.

I've spent many nights in beautiful five-star hotels in some of the world's great cities, and I have loved many of them.

But if I'm honest...

Nothing compares to a simple tent.

A good man beside me.

The sound of wind moving through the trees.

And a sky so full of stars that it reminds me how beautifully small—and wonderfully connected—we really are.

Sometimes we don't need another course.

Another book.

Another breakthrough.

Sometimes we simply need to remember what our soul has known all along.

Sometimes the way home begins with pitching a tent beneath an open sky.
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