The Desert as a Teacher: Lessons from Joshua Tree

Joshua Tree is all stillness and sky. The desert doesn’t rush to meet you. It just stands there—vast, quiet, a little prickly—and dares you to slow down, too.

Driving in, I felt it immediately. The suburbs fell away, the mountains rose like sleeping giants, and suddenly the horizon looked endless. With each mile, my shoulders dropped, my breath deepened, and that old knot between my shoulder blades started to loosen. By the time the first Joshua tree appeared, with its crooked limbs reaching up like a tipsy yogi in Warrior I, I was already softer.

Side note from my rental car agent: “They’re not actually trees. They’re yucca plants. Named by Mormon settlers who thought they looked like the biblical Joshua, arms raised in prayer. They’re endangered now. Climate change.”

Nothing like a little botany plus existential dread to set the mood.

Desert Rhythms (and Golf Course Confessions)

I stayed at a spa-style hotel 40 minutes from the park. The spa remained untouched, but I discovered the golf course made a perfect morning walking path. Round and round I went, slow and steady, like meditation with better landscaping.

One golfer stopped me on day three.
“You don’t golf?”
“Not today,” I said, implying I might tomorrow. (Reader, I would not.)
“Smart,” he nodded. “This is retirement torture.”

We both laughed. And just like that, something in me cracked open. Humor in the desert sun. Presence with a stranger. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.

The Desert’s Beauty and Bite

Every day I chose a different trail: Barker Dam (no water), Hidden Valley (abstract rock sculptures), the Cholla Cactus Garden (nicknamed “teddy bear” cacti, which is cruel considering they stab you if you get too close).

“That’s the desert,” a woman beside me said. “Everything wants to poke you, bite you, or dehydrate you. But look how it glows.”

That was the paradox I came to love: the desert was both ruthless and radiant. Harsh and holy. It asked for respect and offered perspective in return.

The Small Things That Save You

I became obsessed with details: a brittlebush blooming out of stone, quartz sparkling in the sun, a lizard doing push-ups on a rock like my personal trainer. (Yes, I whispered encouragement. Yes, he kept going.)

At night, the stars stole the show. Joshua Tree is a designated Dark Sky Park, which means the Milky Way practically yells at you. I stood there, neck craned, laughing out loud at the audacity of it all. How had I gone so long without looking up?

And that’s when it clicked: I’d been living so horizontally—screens, deadlines, to-do lists—that I forgot to live vertically. To look up, to remember awe.

Writing, Releasing, and Getting Honest

Evenings were for writing letters I’d never send—letters to old jobs, old friends, old versions of myself. Some pages I filled. Some I barely started before the tears came. Most ended up in the fire pit, curling into ash.

The desert taught me that letting go doesn’t always need ceremony. Sometimes all you need is honesty, heat, and a safe place to burn it down.

I realized I wasn’t grieving just burnout—I was grieving the self who believed she had to prove her worth through overwork, overgiving, over-functioning. The desert didn’t fix it, but it helped me say goodbye to her. And it helped me forgive her, too.

What the Desert Taught Me (and Maybe You, Too)

By the end of my time in Joshua Tree, here’s what I carried:

• Presence can be found in pause and in motion. Whether it was walking the golf course, hiking, or wobbling through Warrior II in my hotel room, being in my body reminded me I was still here, still capable of joy in the small movements.

• Letting go makes space. Those letters weren’t about erasing the past; they were about releasing what didn’t serve me anymore. The same goes for all those “someday” items back home—the clothes, the unread books, the dusty appliances for a future version of myself.

• Awe is medicine. The desert reminded me to look up—at stars, at mountains, at the endlessness above me. Awe doesn’t solve problems, but it softens them, placing them in perspective.

Lighter, Not Empty

On my last morning, I watched the sun rise and noticed a tiny Joshua tree seedling pushing up through rock. Fragile, patient, stubbornly alive.

That brought a parallel thought about how life evolves sometimes: the desert doesn’t demand transformation. It just shows you how to endure and adapt, to grow where you’re planted—even if the conditions are less than kind.

And maybe that’s the real gift. I didn’t leave Joshua Tree “fixed” or reinvented. I left lighter. More open. More myself.

And if the desert can glow, even while poking and parching everything in its path, maybe we can, too.