Hammock Time: the Great Unraveling…

I first read this quote in 2009:

“You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

~ Desiderata

I remember exactly where I was when I found it.

Less than a year had passed since my husband died by suicide.

Everything around me was crumbling—my sense of safety, my identity, even time itself. Grief has a way of distorting everything. Days didn’t feel like days. Sleep didn’t feel like rest. I didn’t know what I believed in anymore—not in life, not in myself, certainly not in the future.

But that quote… it landed in me like a whisper when everything else felt like a scream. It didn’t promise healing or certainty. It didn’t try to fix me. It just said:

You have a right to be here.

Even in this. Even like this.

I didn’t know then how deeply those words would root themselves in me. But here I am, all these years later, walking across the country—literally—and realizing I’ve been walking emotionally, spiritually, and mentally ever since that moment.

This walk isn’t just a journey across miles. It’s a walk through layers of grief, forgiveness, strength, softness, and rediscovery. I’ve been retracing every part of myself I abandoned in order to survive. And I’ve been reclaiming each one, slowly, one step at a time.

I’ve learned that the universe doesn’t always give us answers, but it does give us moments.

Moments of stillness. Moments of clarity.

Moments when a stranger’s kindness undoes a knot in your chest.

Moments when you see the sunrise and remember—you’re still here.

I used to read that quote like it was a distant hope. Now I carry it like a truth.

I am a child of the universe.

Not because I’ve earned it, or perfected anything, or done life “right.”

But because I kept going. I stayed. I breathed through things that tried to take my breath away.

And no, it’s not always clear. There are still hard days, silent nights, unanswered questions. But there’s also peace in knowing I don’t have to control the unfolding. I just have to keep showing up inside it.

So if you’re in the middle of your own unraveling… I get it. I do. And I want you to hear what I couldn’t fully believe back then:

You are no less than the trees and the stars.

You belong here.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it’s unclear.

Even if you’re still figuring out what “healing” looks like.

The universe is still unfolding.

And so are you.

—Leisa