When Awe Expands the World Again

There are seasons in life when the world becomes painfully small.

Days consumed by phone calls, appointments, unanswered questions, logistics, waiting, and the exhausting feeling of trying to outrun time. When caregiving for someone you love as they navigate metastatic breast cancer (mBC), life can quickly narrow into survival mode. The mind stays in constant motion, always scanning for the next need, the next solution, the next problem to solve.

When caregiving for my sister, there were seasons that felt like this.

At the time, I was doing everything I could to help stabilize her care. I had stepped into full problem-solving mode — helping address nutritional needs, logistical challenges, and trying to line up doctors and specialists. Every day felt urgent. Every hour mattered.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized something important:

We needed an “us” day.

Not another appointment.
Not another difficult conversation.
Not another phone call.

Just time to breathe.

So, one evening, I took her to get a haircut and style. Then we drove to one of my favorite local beach spots for dinner before walking out onto the pier together.

It had been a long time since my sister had been to the beach.

I remember watching her stand there quietly facing the ocean, letting the salty air, the sound of the waves, and the vastness of it all wash over her. For the first time in a long time, neither of us was talking about appointments, insurance approvals, scans, or next steps.

We were simply standing there together, breathing.

Neither of us knew it then, but it would be the last time we stood at the beach together.

I took a photo of her that evening. Not because I understood the significance of the moment at the time, but because something about her standing there — taking in the horizon, the ocean air, the stillness — felt important.

I’ve always been drawn to the ocean.

Its vastness has a way of reminding me that there is something greater than the immediacy of our problems. The depth of it. The horizon that seems endless. The rhythmic movement of the waves. Standing at the edge of something so expansive has always helped me remember that life, even in its hardest seasons, still stretches beyond what we can immediately see.

Looking back now, I realize that what we experienced that evening was awe. Not in the grand, dramatic sense. But in the deeply human sense. A moment where beauty interrupted survival mode. A moment where the mind stopped looping long enough to simply take something beautiful in.

Suffering has a way of shrinking the world. Awe reminds us it is still vast — as is our ability to let that vastness expand within us.

I’ve thought often about how important those moments are — especially during difficult seasons. Not because awe erases fear, uncertainty, or pain. It doesn’t.

But it creates space around them.

The ocean did not change our circumstances that evening. The medical uncertainty remained. The fear did not magically disappear. But for a little while, the world became bigger again.

And something inside of us softened with it.

I think that’s part of why moments of awe can feel so healing to the body and mind. They can interrupt the narrowing that happens during stress, caregiving, illness, and fear. They can remind us to look outward again. To pause long enough to remember that expansiveness still exists alongside heartbreak.

Sometimes it’s a sunset after a storm whose brilliance stops me in my tracks. Sometimes it’s hearing voices harmonize in a way that sends chills up and down my spine. Sometimes it’s looking up at giant puffy clouds that seem painted across the sky, or being out in a night finally dark enough to see the Milky Way.

Sometimes awe arrives quietly — unexpectedly breaking through the noise and reminding us there is still wonder here too. 

These moments may seem small, but I do not believe they are insignificant. I think they can help us survive hard things.

Suffering can narrow our field of vision until all we can see is the pain directly in front of us. Awe can gently widen it again.

And perhaps that is part of healing too — allowing ourselves to pause long enough for something beautiful to take us over.