August Newsletter: Closure 🌄 | Issue #54
- Jeanae White
- 1 hour ago
- 5 min read
We just spent a month in Costa Rica. When I left Texas, I was worried.
Coming to the United States a few months ago, we were faced with one challenge after another, yet we met them head on, ambitious, determined. But eventually, they started to wear on us, deplete us, and that awful doubt started to seep into the cracks of our faltering resolve, slowly revealing the uncertainty of our faith and the beckoning of a question we couldn’t actually bring ourselves to utter—“Did we do the right thing?”
So, after all the chaos in Texas, I wondered if I’d get back to Costa Rica and experience a warm, fuzzy feeling of relief as I stepped off the plane. The proverbial comfort of arriving home I’d come to expect after every trip Matthew and I had taken together. I wondered if the thick, humid air would descend upon me like a weighted blanket, wrapping me in the safe embrace of familiarity. I waited with bated anticipation for the truth to arrive and, in her sly way, whisper a coy confirmation of the fears that had been festering in my subconscious for weeks - “Yep, you fucked up.”
But the confirmation never came. And the relief never came. And as we drove away from the airport, I looked out of the window to the mountains at dusk reaching impossibly toward the sky, an opaque tapestry of fog resting softly in the valleys but never quite touching the edges, and the golden hour glow illuminating the countryside in a delicate dance of green, gold, blue and orange hues. As I sat quietly taking it all in, overcome with gratitude to witness it, I was suddenly struck with a deep and aching grief.
Of all the feelings I had prepared for, grief was not one I had foreseen even as a possibility. There was no longing, no desire. No feeling of ‘I missed you, I’m so happy to be back’. This wasn’t grief over leaving Costa Rica; it was grief for what Costa Rica had once been, and the realization that I could no longer return to it, no matter how stunning it still was.
It was as if I was seeing the country through a new lens, one that even its most spectacular displays of beauty could not obscure. The lens of reality - the reality that a once peaceful, gorgeous place, where one could live simply and safely amongst nature and in harmony with life, was now increasingly violent, dangerous and unwelcoming.
It felt like returning to a toxic relationship, being cooed and coddled with empty promises and grand gestures, ‘This time will be different, I promise,’ while your hair is softly stroked. Yet deep down, you know this time will not be different. Things have not changed. And in that moment, your heart begins to break as you find yourself grieving something that is still right there in front of you.
I wished I could rip that lens away and see the country once again as I had when I arrived in 2014. I yearned to experience it as the tropical sanctuary that welcomed me, a lost and broken soul, into the nurturing embrace of connection, an environment and culture so starkly different from the cold Midwest I had grown up in. Costa Rica was my salvation, my own personal Eden.
So, this grief crashed into me with unexpected intensity, a wave I hadn’t seen coming. It knocked the wind out of me, suddenly and without warning, as I gasped momentarily for breath. It conjured a guttural sadness for the loss of the place I’d called home for 12 years, and for what it had been reduced to, a visceral grief so intense I could feel my stomach slowly creeping its way into my throat.
There in that moment was the real confirmation I had been looking for: Costa Rica was no longer home.
With that realization, I was relieved of my fears and doubts. An overwhelming flood of serenity and peace moved through me. Acceptance. A giant fucking exhale. The end of a chapter without any lingering promises, uncertainty or false hope. The gift of closure. I felt renewed, resolved in our path, optimistic about our life in Austin, and I almost immediately missed Texas.
Still, I wanted to give this loss my full presence and patience. From that moment on, the rest of the trip became an extended goodbye. A deliberate letting go. We tied up loose ends, closed energetic doors, and released the ties that still bound us to that land. We cleaned and sealed. We laid flowers in the maloca. And we finished with one of the best groups we’ve ever had.
Costa Rica gave me more than I could ever adequately put into words. I will forever be grateful for the salvation offered to a young woman on the verge of death. For bringing magic, hope, and promise into a life that had been hollow and hopeless. Costa Rica gave me healing when I desperately needed it. It gave me purpose. It gave me community. It gave me Matthew. It gave birth to New Life Rising and to a version of myself that couldn’t have existed anywhere else.
We had originally planned to continue hosting retreats in Costa Rica, but this trip not so subtly showed us that sometimes, you just need to know when to let go. And so, moving forward, all our retreats will be offered here in Texas. We’ve turned the page on this chapter with gratitude, and perhaps we’ll return to it someday, but for now, we know we’re right where we belong.
And maybe thats why I needed to go back one last time, to let go enough to fully embrace this new path forward. Sometimes, when we’re in the midst of transition, we’re too close to see where we’re going. The path obscured by doubt, possibility, nostalgia and endless what-ifs. But now, that path is clear.
We will always hold Costa Rica in our hearts, but I’m no longer wondering if we made the right decision. I’m just really happy to be back home.
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Full Moon: August 27, 2026
New Moon: September 10, 2026
Lots of love,
Jeanae and Matthew
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