Some days the world feels loud—too many thoughts, too many to-dos, too much noise inside your head. Then you find yourself here, on a rise just outside the city, looking down at Calgary spread out beneath a wide prairie sky.
The downtown towers catch the light, sharp and proud against the blue. Closer in, the low sprawl of dealerships, warehouses, and fast roads hums along like it always does. Traffic glides in steady rivers of silver and red. Farther out, green patches and distant evergreens soften the edges. And above it all, that enormous, calm sky.
You don’t need to do anything special. Just stand (or sit on the tailgate, or lean against the railing) and breathe. Let your eyes rest on the pattern of rooftops, the way the sunlight slides across glass, the small dark shapes of birds crossing the distance. The city keeps moving, but from up here it moves slowly, almost peacefully.
For a few minutes the knot in your chest loosens. The list of worries doesn’t disappear, but it quiets down enough that you can hear your own breathing again. That’s all this moment asks: to let you remember you’re still here, still part of something bigger than the day’s frustrations.
It won’t fix everything. It never has to.
But five minutes, ten minutes, of simply looking—letting the view hold you instead of the other way around—can feel like the kindest thing you’ve done for yourself all week.
I come back to places like this whenever I can. Not because life suddenly makes perfect sense, but because it reminds me I’m allowed to stop. To look. To feel small in the best possible way.
If you ever get the chance, pull over. Step out. Look.
Even just for a little while.
It helps more than you think.
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