Off the Map

Terlingua, Texas: View from the Ghost Town

Once a year, I travel to a music festival in the desert. West Texas feels like it’s off the map—completely disconnected from the rest of the United States. The sky stretches endlessly, full of more stars than I ever knew existed. The mountains are majestic, the people kind and generous. Every dusty road seems to lead to someone’s simple dream brought to life.

When I’m there, I feel a kind of connection that’s different from anything I experience in daily life. Out in the desert, you are closer to both death and truth. A wrong turn or an empty gas tank could mean real danger — and that danger strips life down to its essence. It reminds you what you’re made of. It tests your resolve and reveals your strength. There’s something deeply liberating about facing the unknown and realizing you can not only survive it, but thrive within it.

Going back to my educational roots for a minute, one of the first things we learn in sociology is that access to resources and social modeling are the strongest indicators of success. A child born into a lower economic class, for instance, often begins life at a disadvantage — not because of lack of intelligence or desire, but because of limited access. When the nearest grocery store is miles away, and food choices are dictated by cost and convenience, processed foods become the norm while fresh fruits and vegetables become luxuries. Health, from the very start, begins at a deficit.

What fascinates me, though, is that some people with very few resources seem to experience far greater peace of mind than many of us in the modern Western world, where abundance is the norm. Some live simple lives without even knowing what “stress” means. They take life as it comes, tending to what’s needed, enjoying family and friendship without the endless comparison or striving that consumes so many of us.

I’ve felt the call to start over more than once in my life—and I have. Each time, I thought changing the scenery would change me, jar me out of the game I found myself playing. It didn’t. I brought my cluttered mindset with me filled with expectation, comparison, shame, guilt, habits and a lack of self-love. Life didn’t begin to feel different until I changed the lens through which I saw myself. So now I take moments wherever I am, to ground and remember. It’s easier now that I recognize when I need it and can reconnect without a grand gesture.

Keeping that new lens dusted off and in place—that’s the real work. It’s so easy to slip back into familiar patterns. Trustfall is my way of reminding myself to stay present in the shift and stay connected to my heart.

Let’s be honest: for women over 50, those patterns run deep. We’ve been conditioned for decades to please, to perform, to contort ourselves into what’s expected. We’ve checked the boxes, kept the peace, and lost pieces of ourselves in the process. But that way of being no longer works. It takes us out of our authenticity and into a life built around external validation rather than inner truth.

And when we begin to change that—when we start looking through a new lens—people notice. Some won’t understand why we choose to focus on beauty and love in a world that seems consumed by chaos. To them, it might even look selfish. But it isn’t.

Returning to the old version of ourselves might feel easier, but it’s not what we want anymore. So let’s do the hard work: make the different choice, even when it makes others uncomfortable. Growth can feel self-centered at first, but it’s not about turning inward to isolate—it’s about reconnecting with the truest part of ourselves so that we can shine more brightly in the world.

Growing pains hurt. But the woman we are becoming—the one who lives from her authenticity, who leads with love, who no longer hides—she’s worth every bit of it.

When we think about the essence of a simple life, we only need a few things: food, water, shelter, clothing, connection, and love. That’s it. When we simplify, our connection to the divine begins to reveal itself—not as something we have to cultivate, but as something that’s been there all along, quietly waiting for us to return once the noise quiets down.

So if you find yourself feeling stuck in a mindset that just doesn’t fit anymore, I encourage you: go off the map. Step outside the context of your life, however that looks for you. Strip away the unnecessary layers modern life has piled on. Be with the stars, the Milky Way, the mountains, or the sea. They have so much to teach us—and they are always there, waiting. All you have to do to start is get undistracted, and feel it.

Have you ever stepped “off the map” — literally or metaphorically — and found a part of yourself you didn’t know you’d lost?