The Sunset

I was working in a recovery center for addiction several years back, and we had a client return after a year of sobriety.

There’s something unmistakable about the energy of someone who has found their way back. Sobriety carries a particular kind of presence—tender, awake, almost reverent. When someone has come close to losing their life, life itself begins to shimmer again. Ordinary moments stop being so ordinary.

We were sitting in my group room one afternoon when he asked me a question that caught me off guard.

“When was the last time you watched the sunset?”

I told him I had seen it the night before.

He paused, looked at me gently, and said, “No… when was the last time you watched the sun set?”

It’s a small distinction, but it landed deeply.

I realized in that moment that I had been present for the sunset, but I hadn’t really been with it. I hadn’t stopped what I was doing. I hadn’t let the day end. I hadn’t noticed the slow descent, the way the light changes, the quiet permission it gives you to rest.

Maybe it’s just me, but until that moment, I had never really thought about sunrise and sunset as actual events—things that happen whether or not we pay attention. I hadn’t slowed down enough to let them mark the day.

That question has stayed with me ever since.

Whenever my life starts moving too fast, it returns. 

When was the last time you watched the sun set?

Now is one of those times.

There is a lot happening in my life right now. Beautiful things. Meaningful things. Full things. And still—speed has a way of sneaking in quietly. Productivity. Responsibility. Momentum. Even purpose can become something we grip too tightly.

And I don’t want to forget how to watch the sun rise and the sun set.

Especially now.

My son is almost six months old. Time is moving in that strange way it does when you’re both exhausted and wildly in love—days feel long, and months pass in an instant. I don’t want to miss this season by rushing through it. I don’t want to be physically present but internally elsewhere, already onto the next thing.

When I finally stopped and asked myself that question again, something softened.

There was a sigh—almost involuntary.

“Oh,” I thought.

“It’s time to unbecome again.”

Unbecoming, for me, is never about doing something new. It’s about releasing what has quietly accumulated. The urgency. The pressure. The subtle belief that if I slow down, something will fall apart. It’s about remembering that life doesn’t need my constant management to unfold.

Watching the sun set is a practice in that kind of remembering.

It asks nothing of you. You don’t achieve anything by doing it well. You don’t optimize it. You simply stop. You witness. You allow the day to end without trying to extract more from it.

In recovery, people often rediscover these moments first. When everything has been stripped away, presence becomes precious. Gratitude isn’t forced—it’s felt. The simplest things carry weight again.

I think that’s true for all of us, whether we’ve named it or not.

So much of our suffering comes from living too far ahead of ourselves. We are rarely where our bodies are. We are planning, fixing, striving, anticipating—often in the name of growth. And somewhere along the way, we forget how to be here.

Unbecoming is the gentle return.

It’s the willingness to stop long enough to notice the light changing. To feel the day closing. To let yourself be affected by something that doesn’t ask you to perform.

I don’t always remember to do this. I move fast sometimes. I forget. And then the question comes back, quietly, patiently—never shaming.

When was the last time you watched the sun set?

And if it’s been a while, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s just information. Maybe it’s simply time to unbecome a little bit more—so you can come back to what’s already here.