What's the Lesson Here?

I had grand plans for Labor Day. The kind with packed coolers, my van, and the excitement of a camping trip I'd been dreaming about all summer. Instead, last Wednesday, I woke up, lifted my head from the pillow, and it felt like a hot poker shot through my skull. I couldn’t sit. Standing felt barely possible. Getting out of my pajamas wasn't an option. Anger rolled in, then fear. I left messages for both of my kids; moments later, my son was at the front door. He drove me to the ER. They called it torticollis—stress seizing the neck—more common in babies than a stubborn 60-year-old woman in Bozeman.

I wanted to muscle through it. That’s often been my way. But my body made the call. So I listened. Steroids, PT, neck massage, acupuncture... yes to all the things. I’m facilitating a cancer retreat this weekend for Cancer Support Community Montana, and in two weeks, I’ll be at the ranch for my last Dare Montana retreat. I need my body with me.

I’ll be honest: I got mad. I’ve been working out consistently and feeling strong, and suddenly I’m told not to lift more than two pounds? Two pounds! I want to ride a horse at the ranch in two weeks, smell the leather, feel that sway, let the wind take the static out of my thoughts. And then I heard my own voice, the one I offer other women: slow down enough to hear what’s true right now.

So Labor Day became something else. Dinner with my kids. My son and his girlfriend stayed and asked if I wanted to play dominoes. Dominoes! I’ve never played in my life. Turns out, I love it. Maybe not the game so much as what it created, an evening where presence just was. I went for a drive with a friend instead of our usual hike. We watched the light change on the Bridgers. I stayed close to home, to my body, to my people.

What’s the lesson here? I’m still learning it. But here’s what I know today.

The body whispers until it has to shout.
August was a blur of motion. Good things, meaningful things, but a lot of doing. My neck did not care about my calendar or my intentions. It cared about the cost. This isn’t punishment; it’s information. A fierce kind of kindness.

Support is a strength.
My son at the door within minutes said everything about family and community. I’ve built Dare to Detour on the belief that we’re not meant to go it alone, and sometimes I still need the reminder. Letting people help is a muscle worth training.

Intention over intensity.
My work is shifting. It’s my last Dare retreat at the ranch—this program that has shaped me as much as it’s served others. And it’s my first time facilitating with Cancer Support Community Montana, the organization that held me through my own cancer journey. Those two truths carry weight. No wonder my neck is tight. If the meaning is big, the pace must be grounded. I don’t need to push harder; I need to land deeper.

Grief and gratitude can sit at the same table.
I’m disappointed about the camping trip. And I’m grateful for an unexpected evening with people I love. Both are real.

Detours are teachers.
I say this all the time, and still they surprise me. The road closes, you reroute, and somewhere on that back road, you notice the river you’ve crossed a hundred times but never really seen. These pauses and pivots don’t steal our life; they show us more of it.

If there’s a single lesson in all of this, it’s probably this: choose presence over performance.

And as for the practical, I’m feeling a world better than I did a week ago. Fingers crossed, I'm healing. And about that horse: if my body says yes at the ranch, I’ll ride. If it says not this time, I’ll stand by the fence and breathe in the hay and leather and dust and watch the others. And this weekend, with Cancer Support Community Montana, I’ll walk in humbled and grateful—grateful to give back in a place that held me, humbled by what it means to sit with people navigating fragility and strength at once. It’s a new chapter for my work: partnering with organizations that have supported me, facilitating creative, healing experiences, serving communities that need it most. That feels like a true north I can trust.