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Friday Feels: Inspired by Nature

3/28/2025

There’s just something about stepping into a forest, standing at the edge of a coastline, or winding up a mountain trail that causes your whole self to pause—and listen. Nature has a way of settling the noise inside us. It doesn’t shout; it invites. It stirs up what’s been sleeping. It reminds us who we are and what truly matters.

At Expeditions in Education, our main goal is to bring students and educators into nature—both virtually and face-to-face—so they can experience these moments firsthand. Because we believe nature is more than a destination. It's a space where transformation happens.

This week, we’ve been reflecting on moments spent in some of the most breathtaking corners of our public lands—and how those places held far more than just scenic views. They held space. For healing. For reflection. For inspiration that goes all the way down to your bones.

🌲 At Redwood National and State Parks, we circled up 28 educators beneath a tree older than memory. No buzzing phones. No hurry. Just the quiet strength of the forest. We journaled. We listened. We breathed. And in that calm, something beautiful unfolded: ideas, stories, a sense of rootedness. Like the land itself was reminding us—slow down, you’re still growing.

🌊 At Cumberland Island National Seashore, one camper shared how the quiet nights, the shimmer of stars, and the hush of sea turtles nesting helped her begin to heal after losing someone dear. There was something about that moment—the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the earth—that reminded us how deeply nature can hold our grief, our memories, our becoming.

🏞️ At Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the conversation turned to what it means to find your place in this big, swirling world. One camper said something we’ve been carrying with us ever since: “Time is a vibe.” And just like that, we remembered that slowing down isn’t wasting time. It’s reclaiming it. It’s giving ourselves the space to rest, to reset, so we can show up more fully—more wholly—for the people and places we care about.

Our national parks and public lands aren’t just vacation spots. They’re soul spaces. They’re places that invite us to be still, to pay attention, to connect. They teach. They listen. They hold space for the parts of us that don’t always get to speak.

And friends, we need these places. More than ever.

So this weekend, consider this your invitation: step outside. Even if just for a moment. Let the wind move through your thoughts. Let the sun warm your shoulders. Let the world remind you—you’re part of something beautiful. 💚

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A Good No Makes Room for the Right Yes

3/11/2025

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For years, I thought saying yes was the right thing to do. Yes to extra projects. Yes to meetings that could’ve been emails. Yes to last-minute requests because, well, I was capable and I cared. And Lord help me, if someone said, “You’re just so good at this,” that yes was out of my mouth before I even prayed about it.

When I was the science director for a big school district, I said yes all the time. I loved that job. I loved the teachers, the kids, the mission. I poured my heart into that work, and for a while, I thrived on it. But the more yeses I gave, the less of me there was to go around. I was stretched so thin I felt like a rubber band about to snap. And spoiler alert: I did snap.

Not in a big, dramatic way. No shouting, no storming out. Just me, sitting in my car in the school parking lot, staring at yet another overflowing to-do list, feeling completely empty. I had given so much that there was nothing left of me. And right there, in the middle of that quiet little meltdown, my husband said something that changed everything.

"What if we did something different? What if we worked together? What if we stopped pouring everything into someone else’s mission and started saying yes to something bigger—something ours?”

That moment was my turning point. Saying no to the life I had built wasn’t easy, but suddenly, it wasn’t as scary either—because I had a better yes waiting on the other side. That yes led us to one of the greatest decisions we’ve ever made: our work with the National Parks. That yes gave us a new purpose, a mission that fuels us instead of drains us. That yes wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t finally learned to say no.

See, we like to believe we have an unlimited supply of time, energy, and patience. But we don’t. Every yes costs something. And when we spend all our yeses on things we could do instead of what we’re called to do, we run ourselves into the ground.

Saying no isn’t a rejection—it’s a boundary. It’s making sure that when the right yes comes along—the one that fuels your purpose, the one that brings joy instead of exhaustion—you actually have the capacity to say it.

So if you’re out here handing out yeses like free samples at Costco, I want you to hear me: It is okay to say no. It is okay to leave some room in your life. It is okay to set that boundary, to protect your peace, to stop being the person who saves the day at the expense of your own well-being.

Because trust me, the world will not fall apart if you say no. But you just might fall apart if you don’t.

And friend, I don’t want that for you.

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The Smokies Are Changing—And It’s Not Just the Trees

3/10/2025

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I grew up camping in the Great Smoky Mountains. Every summer, my family would pack up the car, haul way too much gear, and set up camp under trees so tall they seemed to scrape the sky. Back then, the woods felt wild and endless—like nothing could touch them.

But if you go there now, it’s different. And not in a “Wow, they upgraded the visitor center” kind of way. Trees that stood for generations are dying, and it’s not just the cycle of nature. It’s an invasion. Tiny bugs you’ve probably never heard of—the emerald ash borer and the hemlock woolly adelgid—are taking out entire sections of the forest. The ash trees? Practically gone. The mighty hemlocks? Struggling to hang on.

Here’s the kicker: these invaders didn’t start here. They hitched a ride—on firewood, in the dirt on our boots, in shipments of trees and plants. They snuck in quietly, spread like wildfire, and now the forests I grew up in look more like graveyards in some places.

And that got me thinking: this isn’t just a tree problem. It’s a human problem. We bring things into our lives—habits, distractions, even relationships—that seem small at first. Harmless. Maybe even useful. But over time, they take root in ways we never intended, pushing out the good, the strong, the life-giving things. Just like those invasive species, they don’t show up with flashing lights and a warning sign. They slip in quietly. And if we’re not paying attention, we look up one day and realize what we loved, what made us feel alive, is barely hanging on.

So, what do we do? Well, in the case of the Smokies, we start small. We buy firewood where we burn it instead of hauling it in from somewhere else. We brush off our boots before hiking in a new place. We support conservation efforts that help protect what’s left.

And maybe, just maybe, we take a second to look at our own lives and ask: What’s creeping in that doesn’t belong? What do I need to stop carrying with me? Because whether we’re talking about a forest or a person, the things we let in matter. And if we’re not careful, we might wake up one day and find out we’ve lost something we never meant to let go of.

The Smokies are changing. But we still have a say in what happens next.

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​Friday Feels: Inspired by Nature

​A Good No Makes Room for the Right Yes

​The Smokies Are Changing—And It’s Not Just the Trees

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Friday Feels: Inspired by Nature

A Good No Makes Room for the Right Yes

The Smokies Are Changing—And It’s Not Just the Trees