I’m in one of those seasons I didn’t ask for. The kind that shifts under your feet whether you’re ready or not. And I keep finding myself reaching for something steady—something that doesn’t move.
Lately, even the stars don’t feel like they used to.
I step out onto the back patio at night, and it’s just… empty. Not pitch black, not alive—just that dull, washed-out haze where the stars ought to be. And every time, it catches me off guard, like I’m looking for something I’ve misplaced.
Because it wasn’t always like this.
I used to know the sky. Not in some poetic, abstract way—I mean I knew it. Knew where to look. Knew what belonged where. Papaw made sure of that. We’d stand out on the porch up in Dutch Cove, and he’d point them out one by one like he was introducing me to old friends.
The Big Dipper was mine. I don’t know if it was because it was easy to find or because I found it first on my own one night—but after that, it felt like something I could always count on. I’d look for it without thinking.
Growing up in western North Carolina, the stars weren’t special. They were just… there. Like crickets. Like humidity. Like the way the mountains hold onto sound at night. You didn’t have to go looking for them. You just stepped outside and lifted your head.
And Lord, those nights on Soco Mountain.
Daddy would take me up there sometimes, just the two of us. No noise. No distractions. Just that kind of quiet that settles deep in your chest. We’d stand there under that wide-open sky, and it felt like we were standing at the edge of something bigger than we could understand.
I carried that with me.
First with my sister—us trying to recreate those same nights, picking up where Daddy and I left off. And then later, with my own girls. All of us staring out into the dark, watching, waiting. Because if you were patient, you’d catch one—a streak of light cutting across the sky.
Every single time, we’d squeeze our eyes shut and make a wish.
I don’t remember a single thing I’ve wished for over the years. But I remember believing that God might hear it.
Even when I moved, the stars came with me. In Wilmington, I’d lay out on our old picnic table in the backyard, talking on the phone for hours, staring up at the sky like it was keeping me company.
They were constant. Familiar. Easy.
And I didn’t realize I was losing them until they were already mostly gone.
It wasn’t all at once. It never is. Just a little more light each year. A little less darkness. A sky that turned from black to gray without me really noticing when it happened. One day you look up and realize you stopped expecting to see anything at all.
That kind of loss is quiet. It doesn’t announce itself. It just… takes.
The only place I really see them now is back home in Haywood County.
I went last week. And before I did anything else—before I unpacked, before I even sat down—I drove straight up to Soco Mountain.
I needed to remember what steady felt like.
And there they were.
Not dim. Not faded. Not struggling to shine through anything. Just there—clear and sharp like they’ve always been. The Big Dipper sitting right where Papaw left it for me.
And something in me finally exhaled.
It hit me standing there—nothing about them had changed. Not one bit. They didn’t go anywhere.
It’s just everything between us and them that got louder.
And I think that’s what I needed to understand right now.
Because life will shift. People will change. Things will fall apart whether you’re ready or not. You don’t always get to hold onto what you had.
But some things? Some things stay put.
You might have to go a little farther to see them. You might have to climb a mountain or step away from the noise for a minute.
But they’re still there.
And they will be the next time I need them, too.
