There are moments—quiet, sudden, unbidden—when the world opens. A canyon flickers in the last light of day. Snow hushes everything. A spring flower opens before your eyes. Blossoms, not there yesterday, now spill across the flowering plum in your front yard. A child’s hand wraps around your finger.
Something swells in your chest. You forget yourself. That feeling—elusive, humbling, clarifying—is awe.
Awe is more than an emotion. It’s a recalibration—a remembering that we are part of something vast and sacred. Scientists now affirm what sages and scripture have long known: Awe heals. It lowers cortisol, soothes inflammation, and steadies the nervous system. It pulls us out of isolation and back into belonging.
Studies from Stanford University support this: even short walks in nature, especially those done mindfully, can lead to heightened feelings of wonder, greater emotional well-being, and reduced anxiety. In what they termed “awe walks,” participants who deliberately tuned into their surroundings—sky, trees, light—experienced an increase in joy and social connection. (Read more)
Awe doesn’t erase our struggles, but it reframes them.
We often look for awe in wild places—and rightly so. But sometimes it meets us on a trail, beside someone who’s come through fire. 
I was hiking with my friend Scottie—his first real outing since major surgery a few months ago. I’d worried the climb might be too much, but he moved with the kind of quiet strength you don’t notice until it’s beside you, steady as breath.
We paused near a canyon overlook. He pointed. “That rock over there,” he said, smile edging toward a tease, that familiar twinkle in his eye, “looks like it got twisted in some kind of slow-motion storm.”
I followed his gaze. The layers of stone curled in smooth, impossible angles—folded like ribbon, ancient and elegant. “Sometimes I can’t tell which side is top and which is bottom,” I said.
Scottie gave a soft laugh, the kind that holds more perspective than words. “Maybe life does that to us too,” he said. “Turns us around, presses us down—but if you step back far enough, maybe it’s all part of the shape.”
We stood there, breathing in the quiet. I looked at the rock again and then at him—alive, steady, full of compassion for everyone but himself. What looks like chaos, I thought, may just be history in its most exquisite form. And sometimes, awe doesn’t come from the landscape. Sometimes, it walks beside you.
Awe lives in the monumental, too. Take Venice—a city built not on land but atop a hidden forest. Beneath its ancient stone and beauty lies a submerged grove of wooden pilings, driven into mud centuries ago. Somehow, it still stands. A marvel of vision and perseverance.
Cathedrals rise where no stone should hold. Bridges span impossible gaps. A skyscraper reaches skyward. These are not just structures—they are longings made visible. Awe lives not only in nature’s grandeur but in our best attempts to echo it.
But perhaps the deepest awe comes not from what we build but from what we offer:
A song that pierces.
A wound bravely revealed.
A hand extended in forgiveness.
Another hand, pulsing love in return.
A moment of being seen—and still loved.
You can see it unfold in Operation Arctic Cure, a documentary where journalist Bob Woodruff leads a group of veterans into Greenland’s frozen vastness. They sleep beneath the aurora. Trek across ancient ice. Many carry wounds no one can see. As the journey unfolds, something breaks open. One veteran says, “I felt small in a good way—like the world could hold me again.” Another weeps—not from pain, but from beauty. Within days, they’re sleeping better. Their stress begins to fall away. Mental health begins to rebuild.
The cold didn’t cure them. Awe did. (Watch it here: Operation Arctic Cure)
Awe isn’t far off. It’s waiting in your day:
- Take a walk. Not for exercise, but for presence. Look up. Listen. Let your attention land on what’s quietly beautiful: the arc of a branch, the explosion of spring blossoms, the rhythm of your breath in the cold, a shimmer on the water.
- Watch the night sky. Not to measure, but to wonder. Track stars, satellites, a cheshire moon. Let your smallness bring you home.
- Step inside a place built for reverence. Not all cathedrals have stained glass. But some rooms hold stillness, and in that stillness, something holy stirs.
- Cherish a friend. Invite them for a walk, call your mom, connect with someone from your past—thank them for who they are and what they mean to you.
Somewhere in all of this, grace is moving—not loudly, but unmistakably. Awe is not just emotional. It’s spiritual. The One who authored wonder often meets us through it. Not always by name, but by presence. In moss. In music. In mercy.
Awe doesn’t erase pain. But it reminds us that pain is not the whole story. It grounds us in what is good, lasting, and true.
So go. Step outside. Sit in silence. Walk into beauty.
Let awe do what it’s always done—heal, connect, and awaken.
Be still. Tune in. The quiet thunder is already moving through you.
