This morning at 5 a.m., I began the drive from Gallup, New Mexico to catch a flight in Albuquerque. Honestly, I had no energy left for another trip. Just weeks away from our move from Texas to Maryland, I had already been on the road for work in Georgia, New York, and Michigan—not to mention our son’s world ninja competition in North Carolina. But something deep in my soul told me I needed to say yes to this one.

I said yes because I was born in New Mexico. In fourth grade, I learned more about Navajo history than any other part of our state’s story. I said yes because my mom is buried here—and this land holds the memories of her laughter, her joy, and a version of her that felt happy.

Yesterday, I attended the 2025 Navajo Nation School and Community Safety Summit. I was surrounded by people fiercely committed to keeping students safe. That evening, I had the privilege of speaking at the dinner. It felt humbling and sacred to stand before them and share my story—how I came to this work because my mom died by suicide.

The last summer I had with her, I began to see sunsets as sacred. I had been her caretaker from her first suicide attempt until I left for college and, the day after, her death. In the midst of that struggle, we would watch the sun dip below the horizon, and in those moments, I would find a sliver of peace.

But today, as I drove through the quiet New Mexico morning, I watched the sunrise stretch across the horizon—and it took my breath away. In that moment, I realized something had shifted. For the first time in nearly 27 years, I no longer look to the sunset for hope. I look to the sunrise.

Back then, the sunset was a quiet reminder that I had made it through another difficult day. But now, it’s the sunrise that speaks to me—it signals a new beginning, a day full of possibility. As I flew back to Maryland, I carried with me my mom’s spirit and a renewed sense of purpose. I felt overwhelming gratitude—not only for the winding path that brought me here, but even more for the husband and son who are my everything.

It seemed appropriate as I drove home The Wood Song by the Indigo Girls was playing.

Sometimes I ask to sneak a closer look
Skip to the final chapter of the book
And then maybe steer us clear from some of the pain it took
To get us where we are this far yeah
But the question drowns in it’s futility
And even I have got to laugh at me
No one gets to miss the storm of what will be
Just holding on for the ride
The wood is tired and the wood is old
We’ll make it fine if the weather holds
But if the weather holds we’ll have missed the point
That’s where I need to go