How I Stopped Chasing Love and Arrived at Dusk

A guest post by Substack writer and memoirist Michelle Dowd

Michelle Dowd’s author photo by Noel Besuzzi

Hi, friends. I’m honored to share a story from an incredibly gifted writer I happened to stumble upon via Substack Notes, Michelle Dowd . She had written this exquisite and breathtaking Note that captured me and beckoned me to slow down and absorb its message. I was stunned. I felt a shiver rush through me.

Shortly thereafter, I read her memoir, Forager. Friends, this is a heart-rending coming-of-age story. Gorgeous writing. Words that will linger with you. Read it.

Since then, I have had the privilege of connecting with Michelle here on Substack, and she generously shares both her heart and her time with other writers and readers. I have no doubt you will welcome her in this space and share your own words of affirmation with her after you read what she shares here today. Please check out her Substack and follow or subscribe.

Michelle Dowd is the author of Forager: Field Notes for Surviving a Family Cult (Algonquin). She leads seasonal writing cohorts, including an Artist’s Way Summer Circle—twelve weeks of deep listening, tiny risks, and steady, messy making. You don’t need permission to make art. You just need a way in. Learn more at michelledowd.org or michelledowd.substack.com.

---

I used to chase waterfalls.

In my twenties, I hiked into canyons with my lover, searching for cold, wild water. We packed gear and scaled rocks, held our breath beneath the cascade. I chased beauty the way I chased love—urgently, exhaustively, hoping it might complete me.

Later, during the months my mother lay dying, I started chasing sunsets. At the first trace of gold in the sky, I’d bolt outside as if I could still outrun grief. At first, I reached for color like a runner reaching the tape. But after she died—after I washed her body, boxed up her things, and helped my father settle into the silence—I stopped chasing. I went outside because I didn’t know what else to do. Most evenings, the sky was gray.

But I went anyway.

That’s how the ritual began. I didn’t go to heal. I went to practice presence. Some nights, there was brilliance. Some nights, dull haze. I let that be enough. I showed up in my beautiful mess and sat with endings. I waited for something to change.

And over time, it did.

Nature didn’t fix me. It didn’t fill the mother-shaped hole. But it offered me something I didn’t know I was missing: rhythm. Recognition without demand. The land didn’t need me to perform. The sky didn’t ask me to earn its affection.

My mother couldn’t love me in the way I needed. But the earth did not turn away. It kept offering small mercies—light, silence, dusk, breath—until I learned to stop chasing love and start practicing it. Quietly. Imperfectly. In the dirt. In the dark.

There’s no perfect sunset. No replicable magic. Only this one, this moment, this light.

And now, when I go out in the evening, I don’t go to be dazzled. I go to remember I belong to a world that turns without apology—even when love fails, even when it hurts, even when we’re alone.

I don’t know what colors will come tonight. But I’ll go, anyway. Because I’ve stopped chasing. And I’ve started arriving.