Losing the North Star
and seeing the cosmos
Photo by den-belitsky/iStock
I used to always know where the North Star was. Not the literal North Star (though hopefully, if pressed, I could find that too).
I always knew where my North Star was.
No matter how confusing my life became, whatever cycle of sorrow or hardship or illness or pain I was moving through, there was always that thing I knew to walk towards. Whether it was a new discipline I wanted to study. A pilgrimage I was drawn to take. A class to create. A book to read, or write.
No matter how fractured my life looked by day, at night I could look up to the North Star and know that if I just kept following it, walking towards that next important thing on the horizon, I’d come out alright.
I was in therapy the other day, processing the profound dislocation that comes with becoming a parent, when I realized, with the clarity of the dark between the stars, what the problem was…
There is no North Star anymore.
I’m sure it’s there somewhere, but I can’t see it.
It seems every time I pick up the inkling of a new idea, something I want to learn, or do, or pursue, it falls away by the end of the day. Like a shiny stone pocketed on a walk, I end up placing it back down again before I go home.
The truth is, most days I’m just too tired to even imagine doing anything new. My goal is simply to soak in the sunshine of the good moments— and survive the stormy ones. To get my daughter to sleep for the night, bathed and teeth brushed (the ultimate challenge), and do the things I absolutely need to do to continue to feel like myself in this world.
I don’t have the clarity to set my sights on the stars and pick out which one will lead the way into the next phase of my life.
I don’t have the energy to pack my bag and start navigating by night.
I don’t have the ability to look at the kaleidoscope of the stars and know which one is the right one.
I can’t find the North Star anymore…but I can gaze at the cosmos.
When I was in my early twenties some friends and I made a trip up to the Canadian backcountry. We were just hoping for a few nice hikes and time to be together, but that first night we were absolutely floored by the unveiling above us. The sky was rippling with stars, like sunlight on water. I’ve never in my life seen anything like it, before or since.
Instead of our few familiar constellations, there was an entire river of light.
Laying on my back in the darkness, I let go of everything I knew about how to find constellations. I let go of the stories I had attached to the stars. I let go and swam in awe.
We did nothing that night but stare at the cosmos.
Parenthood, if we can surrender to the backcountry of it, the darkness of it, the beautiful overwhelm of it, is like this.
You may lose your ability to move forward for a time. To see clearly what comes next. To find the North Star.
But if you can let go of needing to be anywhere else but here, you can tip back and see the entire cosmos.
There is something distinctly cosmic about becoming a parent, about being exposed, in such a primordial way, to the whole spectrum of existence. To the wonders and terrors. To matter being formed and whole epochs dying before your eyes. To the mystery that is so far beyond your understanding, most days you stop even trying. It’s overwhelming, it’s awe-inspiring, it’s more intricate than you ever imagined.
It's a glimpse into the cosmos. And, for all its ungroundedness, it can be fortifying for the part of us that relishes being rudderless—if we let it.
They say that one day the North Star won’t be the North Star anymore. As the Earth shifts in its orbit, a different star will come to take its place.
When this happens, I imagine those of us who have already opened ourselves to the perpetually changing sky will be ready.
Because when you’ve embraced being directionless, lost in the vast cosmos of life, you’ll be prepared when the poles change.
It’ll be just an other opportunity to moor in the unknown.
One day, I know I will look up and see the North Star again.
A day when I’ve slept well, and my daughter is happy, and suddenly I have space in my life once more.
And I imagine, when I do, I’ll have a much different relationship to it.
I’ll see the North Star, and be glad of it—but I’ll also know that I can survive without it.
Because I’ve met who I am when the map is lost. When I cannot tell North from South. When I am just someone on her back in the dark, gazing at the cosmos.
Once I see the North Star again, I may follow it.
Or I may give myself permission to just lay on my back for a little while longer, wondering at how many lights there are in the sky.
To enjoy not knowing where I’m going.
To embrace being blessedly small in the face of it all.
To meld into the light above and around me and realize that I, too, am part of the cosmos.
Image from the Wildwood Tarot Deck
Wow. I'm not a parent, but I still relate to this feeling. Getting swept up in the currents of life. I have a lot of new responsibilities, family things and young people to mentor...life calling on me in new ways. It's a whole new sea of experience that I'm learning to swim in.
Totally. I remember this feeling too. Your attention is constantly being drawn back to your child so it’s pretty difficult to get focused on anything else. I remember feeling that loneliness of standing still when everything was swirling around me, and seemingly moving forward without me. But it’s helpful to learn how to be where you are — for that moment and for when you are back in the swirl — to appreciate the “standing still now”. Thanks for writing about it ✨