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 and quiet and a little prickly, daring you to slow down, too.
Driving in, I felt the shift immediately. The suburbs melted away, mountains rose like sleeping giants, and suddenly the horizon looked infinite. With each mile, my shoulders dropped, my breath deepened, and that stubborn knot between my shoulder blades started to loosen. By the time the first Joshua tree appeared (crooked limbs reaching skyward like a tipsy yogi attempting Warrior I), I was already softer.
Quick side note from my rental car agent (because apparently I look like someone who needs botanical facts): "They're not actually trees. They're yucca plants. Mormon settlers named them after the biblical Joshua, arms raised in prayer. They're endangered now. Climate change."
Nothing like a little botany mixed with existential dread to start the day.
Desert Rhythms (and Golf Course Confessions)
I stayed at a spa-style hotel about 40 minutes from the park. The spa? Never used it. But I did discover that the golf course made an excellent morning walking path. Round and round I'd go, slow and steady, like meditation but with better landscaping and confused golfers.
On day three, one of them stopped me.
"You don't golf?"
"Not today," I said, implying I might tomorrow. (I absolutely would not.)
He nodded approvingly. "Smart. This is retirement torture."
We both laughed, and just like that, something in me cracked open. Humor under the desert sun. Connection with a complete stranger. I hadn't realized how much I needed those small, human moments.
The Desert's Beauty and Bite
Every day I chose a different trail: Barker Dam (turns out there was no water), Hidden Valley (nature's abstract sculpture garden), and the Cholla Cactus Garden, home to "teddy bear" cacti, which is the cruelest nickname ever because they will absolutely stab you if you get too close.
"That's the desert for you," a woman next to me said, watching me eye the chollas suspiciously. "Everything here wants to poke you, bite you, or dehydrate you. But look how it glows."
And she was right. That became the paradox I fell in love with: the desert was both ruthless and radiant. Harsh and holy. It demanded respect and offered perspective in return.
The Small Things That Save You
I became obsessed with tiny details: a brittlebush blooming impossibly out of stone, quartz glittering in the sun, a lizard doing push-ups on a rock like my very enthusiastic personal trainer. (Yes, I whispered encouragement. Yes, he kept going. We were in it together.)
At night, the stars completely stole the show. Joshua Tree is a designated Dark Sky Park, which means the Milky Way puts on a full performance. I stood there with my neck craned, laughing out loud at the sheer audacity of it all. How had I gone so long without looking up?
That's when it clicked: I'd been living so horizontally (screens, deadlines, endless to-do lists) that I'd forgotten to live vertically. To look up. To remember awe exists.
Writing, Releasing, and Getting Brutally Honest
Evenings were for writing letters I'd never send. Letters to old jobs, old friends, old versions of myself who tried so hard. Some pages I filled completely. Some I barely started before the tears came. Most ended up in the fire pit, curling into ash under the desert stars.
The desert taught me that letting go doesn't always need a big ceremony. Sometimes you just need honesty, heat, and a safe place to burn it all down.
I realized I was grieving the version of myself who believed she had to prove her worth through overwork, overgiving, over-functioning. The desert helped me say goodbye to her. And more importantly, it helped me forgive her, too.
What the Desert Taught Me (And What Clarity Actually Feels Like)
By the end of my time in Joshua Tree, I felt clear.
Clear about what I wanted to build next. Clear about the kind of life I was ready to create. Clear that I could hold both ambition and ease, that choosing success and sanity could happen in the same breath.
The months of traveling had done their work: I'd learned to breathe again in Nicaragua, to laugh at my expectations in Costa Rica, to trust myself in Sedona, to want things again in Maui. And here, in this stark and beautiful desert, it all finally came together.
I knew I wanted to help other people find this path. People who recognized the signs early, before hitting rock bottom. People who deserved to step away while they still had energy left to redirect. Rest as prevention rather than emergency intervention.
Presence lives in pause and motion. Whether I was walking the golf course, hiking rocky trails, or wobbling through Warrior II in my hotel room, being in my body reminded me I was still here, still capable of finding joy in small movements and simple things.
Letting go makes space for what's next. Those letters were about releasing what no longer served me so I could build something new. Something aligned with who I'd become.
Awe reconnects you to what matters. The desert reminded me to look up, at stars, at mountains, at the endless sky above. When you remember how vast the world is, your problems find their proper place in the bigger picture.
Lighter, Not Empty
On my last morning, I watched the sunrise and noticed a tiny Joshua tree seedling pushing up through solid rock. Fragile, patient, stubbornly alive.
The desert doesn't demand transformation. It just shows you how to endure and adapt, how to grow where you're planted—even when the conditions are less than ideal.
I left integrated. More whole. Ready.
Ready to go home. Ready to build something meaningful. Ready to help others find their way to this kind of clarity while they still had the energy to redirect their lives.
And if the desert can glow while simultaneously trying to poke and parch everything in its path, maybe that's the whole point: you can be both tender and resilient, both soft and strong, both resting and becoming.
That's what I wanted to bring back. That's what became Solaris.