Dandelions, Devotion, Dynasties & Divine Design

Some endings arrive quietly while others burst open with dandelions on desert roads, sunrises on temple walls and raindrops falling like blessings from the sky.

The final days of this Egypt experience were everything—sensory, sacred, soul-stirring. Each moment arrived wrapped in feeling. Each place held a pulse I could feel beneath my skin. It wasn’t just travel—it was transformation, and each hour felt like a whispered invitation to slow down, to feel deeper, to be moved.

On Friday morning, we boarded a flight from Aswan to Abu Simbel. Even before stepping off the plane, I could sense something shifting. My body buzzed with anticipation—not the kind that comes from a checklist or destination, but the kind that begins in your belly and rises slowly toward your heart. A quiet knowing. Something sacred ahead.

While driving toward the site, eyes half-lost in the landscape, I looked out the window and gasped softly. There they were—at least twenty white dandelions, drifting effortlessly across the dusty road. Weightless, wild, ethereal in the morning light.

It stopped me. Just for a moment. A pause inside the movement. A gentle flutter in the middle of nowhere.

Dandelions have always felt like little messengers to me. Symbols of transformation, dreams, and resilience. They reminded me that not everything beautiful is meant to be rooted. Some things are meant to float, to trust the wind, to land exactly where they are meant to bloom. That morning, I was one of them.

And then—Abu Simbel.

I felt it before I saw it. A stillness. A reverberation through my body. A breath held in time. As we approached the temple, the towering statues of Ramses II came into view—and quite literally took my breath away.

I stood beneath them, barely a whisper in comparison, and yet not once did I feel small in a diminished sense. I felt small in the most reverent, sacred, soul-expanding way. The kind of smallness that reminds you of your place in something so much vaster than yourself. The kind that humbles you and holds you all at once.
Like the earth had opened its arms and said: Yes. You were meant to stand here.

Inside, my chest swelled with emotion. A tightness—tender and full. I could feel the presence of the past in my bones. I wasn’t just looking at history; I was being witnessed by it.

The walls, the carvings, the devotion—they pulsed with a timeless energy that moved through me like music I didn’t need to understand.

I left that temple forever changed.

The drive back was quiet. Sacred silence filled the van—everyone lost in their own reflections, their own hearts. It was the kind of tired that doesn’t beg for rest but for integration. The kind of tired that comes after your soul has stretched a little wider.

Our next visit was the High Dam—a structure so vast, it could hold the equivalent of 17 Great Pyramids inside. It stood still and stark, a quiet sentinel over the mighty Nile. While its engineering alone was mind-blowing, what struck me most was the metaphor it offered:

True power doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s silent. Contained. Steady. Life-giving in ways we may never see on the surface.

Back in town, the energy shifted again—this time into something playful. I found myself deep in a bartering match for a Nefertiti overnight tote. There was sass, pride, strategy and of course laughter. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I felt her—Nefertiti’s spirit—guiding me with a wink. I walked away with more than just a bag. I walked away feeling bold, fierce and connected to the lineage of women who knew their worth and weren’t afraid to show it.

That evening, we boarded The Sun Times for one final night on the water. As golden hour settled over the Nile, we set off on a sunset felucca ride. The air was crisp and cool, wrapping around me like a shawl. The boat glided across the river like silk. I closed my eyes and felt everything all at once—the sky, the stories, the stillness, my breath. It was peace. Deep, undisturbed, soul-deep peace.

The kind that reminds you that you are part of something ancient and alive.

Egypt cracked me open in the most beautiful and gracious way.

It didn’t ask for perfection, performance or planning.
It asked me to listen. To feel. To remember.

It reminded me that curiosity is sacred. That stillness is strength. That presence is power. And that sometimes the most magical moments arrive not in the grandness of a monument, but in the quiet of a glance, the drift of a dandelion, the echo of a memory not yet your own.

Just like the dandelions…
I am floating forward now.
Soft. Wild. Resilient.
And forever changed.

As I write this, there is still sand in my shoes and wonder shimmering behind my eyes. The Nile now flows through my memory like a song—steady, ancient, unforgettable. I know I will sleep well tonight, wrapped in the softness of all that has been felt and found.

Tomorrow marks another sacred turn in this unfolding story—the third-last flight of this journey awaits, from Aswan to Cairo, then onward to Alexandria.
Another chapter to unfold. Another layer of soul to uncover.

My heart is open for whatever comes next on this divinely designed trip.

I am unsure exactly where this journey will lead me from here, but I do know this: I will follow it with trust, tenderness and a flame still dancing in my chest.