Endings and Beginnings

Editor’s Note from The Sunday Paper Team: As Maria takes some well-deserved time off this month, we’re revisiting a favorite from her “I’ve Been Thinking” archive. This essay originally ran on April 12, 2025. Please note that any events or dates referenced reflect the time it was written.

The other day, my granddaughter Eloise picked up my new book, I Am Maria, and said out loud, “This is my Mama G’s book about her pony. It says, ‘When I was a little girl, I learned how to trot… the end.’”

I laughed when I heard her say this because, in many ways, this week on the road for me was about ending one chapter of my life and beginning another. It was about ending the endless trotting, running, and hustling, and finally giving myself permission to feel free and alive in a new space in The Open Field.

Let me say right here, right now, that my heart is full—bursting, in fact—with gratitude and love. When I heard on Wednesday that I Am Maria ranked No. 1 on this week’s New York Times bestseller list, I wept and wept and wept. I was in the car with my friend and colleague Cydney, who has been by my side throughout this whole book journey, and together we cried tears of joy. We then called the members of the I Am Maria team (the best team around) and cried with them as well.

When I got home that day, my children Christina and Christopher were there. They gave me a look that said, “Oh no, what happened?” fearing that I’d been crying for a bad reason. But when I told them the good news, Christina put on the song “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang, and the three of us danced around the kitchen together.

Earlier that day, I awoke on my book tour in a hotel room in Sacramento. In the early morning hours, I stood up and looked out my window at the sun rising above the beautiful, majestic Capitol building. It was a wow. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and took myself back to my time here as First Lady of California. I vividly recalled the first time I set foot in the city. I didn’t know anyone—and in many ways, I didn’t really know myself. I had never been a First Lady before. I had four young children, two aging parents, and a whole lot of angst. Little did I know I was about to lose my TV job and step into one of the wildest experiences of my life.

That morning, I felt deep gratitude—for all the friends I made during my time serving as California’s First Lady. I felt love for all the people I got to work with, all the experiences I had, the memories I made. I walked into this town a stranger. And here I was, feeling like I was at home—with all the people who’d come out to see me the night before. And most important, I am at home with myself.

Isn’t life wild? One minute you are dreading an experience, sure it will be terrible—then you find yourself reflecting on how grateful you are that you had it.

My conversations during the two days I was in Sacramento were inspiring, moving, heartbreaking. Many of those I worked with still work in government. They spoke about how difficult, scary, and chaotic it is right now to try to manage their work when every day the rug is being pulled out from underneath them by Washington. And I know it’s not just government workers who are scrambling. Every small business owner I speak to says the exact same thing. In fact, our team meeting at MOSH this week was entirely spent trying to deal with the impact of the tariffs.

How do we handle this? What do we do? How do we recalculate? Can we adjust our projections? Can we survive the tariffs? In fact, that often felt like the recurring refrain from everyone—regardless of who they voted for: How do we survive this? Can one even plan?

Thank God for the people I met along the road who, despite all that, are plugging along, making do, getting really creative in this moment. I met two sisters who decided to consolidate and move in with one another. I met a woman who brought her mom with Alzheimer’s home to live with her, her husband, and their two children. She told me she was so grateful to have this time with her mother, and she smiled as she told me that her son, who has Down syndrome, was able to bring a smile to her mom’s face. She said she was grateful that learning more about Alzheimer’s would help her if her son ever showed early signs of the disease. I was so moved by her perspective—by the way she framed this moment in her life.

And that’s really the question we all share right now: How do we navigate moments like this? How do we guide ourselves, our families, our businesses? How do we stay above the noise? How do we stay grateful? What practices do we have—or could we find—to keep from being overwhelmed?

I’ve been starting all of my book conversations across the country with a meditation teacher. The idea was to bring us all together into a shared space—to bring us all home to ourselves—so we could put the daily overwhelm aside and tap into our internal homes.

In LA and NYC, my friend and wisdom teacher Devi Brown helped us go inward. In Philly, my own teacher Bob Roth spoke to us about stillness and reminded us that our entire lives can be a meditation. In Washington, D.C., Sister Ann-Elizabeth quietly walked us home. In Miami, Dr. Amishi Jha spoke to us about the incredible science behind mindfulness. And in Sacramento, Dr. Rose Moten, a psychologist from the inner city of Detroit, led a beautiful sound meditation and guided us to who we all truly are—before life gets in our way, before our minds tell us who we’re not. Her beautiful voice and words reminded me that in times such as this, coming home to yourself is the best gift you can give.

Operating from that place—whether in the public square, in government, in schools, in houses of worship, or just in your local coffee shop—reminds me that this version of ourselves is all we truly have control over. Knowing ourselves—the calm version, the fiery version, the determined version, the scared, insecure version—is the work of a lifetime. Like writing poetry, it’s holy work. Because bringing your holy presence to this moment is the best thing any of us can do. You need a grounded, holy presence to navigate the news of the day, the finances of our time, the illnesses that come up, the uncertainty that follows us down the street into our physical spaces.

Yesterday Passover began. Today is Palm Sunday. This coming week is Holy Week. You don’t have to be Catholic to view the coming week as a holy one. You don’t have to be religious to see yourself as holy or divine. But why not choose to see yourself that way—just for this week? Why not walk into a holy time in your life? If not now, when?

As a child, I loved Palm Sunday, mostly because I got to play with the palms and try to turn them into all sorts of artistic creations. Now, I see Palm Sunday as the start of a week of contemplation.

This week I head to San Francisco, where I’ll be in conversation with Chip Conley one night and Anne Lamott the next. I’ll listen to the legendary Jack Kornfield lead a meditation. I’ll hear California Poet Laureate Lee Herrick read his beautiful words. And I’ll remind myself how blessed I am to be on the road, in connection, in conversation, in community with so many.

This moment is indeed challenging. And it can also be holy. We get to decide how we frame it. So frame it in a way that works for you.

At one point last week, I took a moment to sit in my garden—a.k.a. my Open Field—and reflect on the many voices who divinely guided me to this moment. I sat with my mother and my father. I sat with God and Mother Mary. I sat and spoke to Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, and Rumi—three powerful poetic voices whose presence I have felt throughout this process.

In one way or another, all of these voices have been my spirit guides. They all encouraged me to put my life in verse and claim it as my own. So many people told me that a life in verse wouldn’t work. I was told over and over: poetry books don’t sell—don’t do it this way. I found myself thinking back to the line in Mary Oliver’s poem “The Journey” that says: All the voices kept pulling you back, but you ventured on, determined to save the only life you can—your own. It turns out that owning our lives, owning our voices, taking responsibility for our choices, and making peace with them all—and with oneself—is the brass ring.

I Am Maria put a bow on a big part of my story. In a funny way, I feel like I’m now free to begin a new journey. As usual, I can’t exactly explain it, but I know it to be true.

My son Christopher took me out for dinner Wednesday night, and together, we celebrated all that had brought us to this moment. I feel so blessed, so grateful, and—finally, finally—so proud of myself.

So in a way, my granddaughter Eloise is right. My book is, in some ways, about my pony. It’s about how long I spent my life trotting along for others and about finally ending that chapter and trotting toward a life that’s wildly authentic and deeply meaningful to me.

Life is so much about beginnings and endings, isn’t it? I often think about the poet John O’Donohue when I think of a new beginning. I love his poem “For a New Beginning” so much. I’m so grateful to all of you who have bought I Am Maria and who have met me where I am along the road. I’m so grateful to all of you who have had the courage to tell me your stories of heartbreak and healing—and how you, too, have found your way home.

Finding your way home is a triumphant story. Realizing you are at home wherever you go allows you to begin wherever you are. So as we head into Holy Week, I wish each and every one of you peace. I wish you love. And I wish that you’ll be able to see that your life is holy and that your journey—no matter where you are on it—is a holy one. I wish you knew how grateful I am to each of you.

And when I see Eloise again, I’m going to sit with her and say: Sweetheart, you are so right. This is Mama G’s book. It’s a story about a little girl and her pony—a little girl who learned how to trot and learned how to gallop. It’s a story of falling off the horse, falling down on the ground, and then getting back up on the saddle.

Sweetheart, it’s a story about heartbreak and healing and love and loss. It’s about endings and beginnings. And it’s about telling your story and believing in yourself.

But I can’t tell you how it’s going to end, because Mama G has a whole new chapter to live in her life—maybe even a whole new book’s worth of chapters. So sit with me, and let’s begin crafting that story together.

Once upon a time…