There are seasons when life quietly asks us to stop rushing long enough to remember what it feels like to be amazed.
I don’t think we recognize those seasons while we’re living them. Most of the time they begin like any other month. The calendar changes, work still needs to be done, the laundry still waits, the garden asks for another watering, and life keeps moving at the same steady pace it always has. Then one evening I catch myself watching the last bit of sunlight settle across the flowers instead of hurrying back inside, and I realize something has already started changing.
That’s how July feels to me.
For years, the Pacific Northwest has lived somewhere in my imagination, and I honestly couldn’t tell you when it became more than a place I wanted to visit. I only know that every photograph seemed to hold my attention a little longer than the last. My eyes would linger on towering evergreens disappearing into the mist, waves crashing against weathered sea stacks, and mountains fading into low clouds until the earth and sky almost became one. I found myself wondering what the forest smelled like after the rain, what it would feel like to stand beneath trees that have been quietly growing for hundreds of years, and what it would sound like to hear the ocean before I could see it. Somewhere along the way, that curiosity slowly became a dream.
Later this month, I’ll finally stand where I’ve imagined myself standing for years.
What’s surprised me most is that I haven’t spent much time imagining the moment I arrive in Seattle. The moment that keeps finding its way into my thoughts happens somewhere after that, when the city begins to fade behind me and the landscape starts to change. I picture the traffic growing lighter, evergreen trees slowly replacing buildings, and one quiet moment when I roll the window down just to breathe in the air. I have a feeling that when I finally step into those forests, something inside me is going to exhale.
For a long time, I never stopped to ask myself why this place had stayed with me for so many years. It simply did. As I’ve become more intentional about noticing beauty in my everyday life, whether it’s the evening light settling across my flowers, the smell of rain drifting through an open window, or the quiet that comes with a warm cup of tea before the day begins, I think I’ve started to understand it. It’s the rawness of places that don’t need us. Mountains that have stood for thousands of years. Forests that have been growing long before any of us arrived. Waves that have been meeting the shoreline every single day without asking to be noticed. There is something deeply grounding about being reminded that the world is so much greater than I am, yet instead of making me feel small, it somehow makes me feel more connected to it.
As July unfolds, I’ll share pieces of the anticipation, the preparation, and eventually the journey itself. More than anything, I hope this chapter encourages you to notice the moments that make you pause, wherever you are.
I’ve learned that wonder doesn’t wait for vacations or mountaintops. Some of the moments that have stayed with me the longest happened right here at home, watching the evening light settle across my flowers, listening to the first drops of a summer rain against the windows, or sitting quietly with a warm cup of tea before the rest of the world wakes up. Those moments have taught me that beauty has never been hiding from us. Most of the time, it’s simply waiting for us to notice.
I’m grateful you’re here for this chapter.
Welcome to Return to Wonder.
With love,
Niki 🤍
Perfectly Imperfect 
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