I feel a little sheepish admitting this, but I’m writing to you from the stunning National Park on St. John Island in the US Virgin Islands. I was last here 25 years ago for my father’s wedding, and now we’ve returned to celebrate him and his marriage. He turns 90 this year, and with his health fragile, we knew time was of the essence.
What’s striking about this trip is how quickly I have felt like, hey, this is just normal life! We humans are expert adapters—even to paradise. At first, the turquoise waters, warm air, and perfect conditions felt extraordinary, but within a day or two, they started to feel normal. This is environmental amnesia at play—our nervous system's natural ability to regulate, adjust, and create a new baseline. It’s a survival mechanism, allowing us to function no matter where we are. But it’s also why we can become desensitized to beauty, joy, and even discomfort. We settle into patterns, whether we’re in an urban landscape or on an idyllic island.
This speaks to how our bodies seek equilibrium. Whether we’re in a stressful environment or a peaceful one, our system will try to find balance—sometimes by dulling our awareness or reinforcing familiar patterns. The more ingrained our conditioning, the harder it is to stay present with what’s actually happening. Even here, surrounded by natural beauty, I can feel the pull of old habits, unconscious stories, and the rhythms of my familial patterns. It’s a reminder that regulation isn’t just about awareness—it’s also about expanding our capacity to feel fully alive.
That’s why sensorial pauses are essential. Slowing down to feel the air on my skin, the warmth of the sun, the texture of the earth beneath me—these are ways to interrupt the autopilot, to remind myself that I am here, now. These small acts of presence help rewire our ability to take in life more fully, to soften the tendency to normalize or numb out. And with that, waves of grief arise—the longing to hold onto this beauty, to hold onto my dad—coming in big, undeniable swells.