When I think of the first few years of Mila’s life, I think of trees, trails and sunlight. Our days were spent exploring the mountains and forests that had drawn me to Colorado. One spot in particular became our special place. Tucked up in the foothills, the Anne White trail ran just alongside Fourmile Canyon Creek. A gradual climb, shaded by trees, perfect for little wandering feet and exploring hands. We would set out for a morning walk, and within minutes Mila would pull off her diaper and into the creek she would hop. As I followed behind her, she would make her way through the shallow water.

She navigated the rocks and gentle current, while others passed us on the trail nearby. Peering down at water striders, butterflies and bugs, her face would light up with excitement when she found something new. “Look!” she would scream, as she eagerly reached down to pick up her latest treasure. Over boulders and under fallen trees, we would eventually make our way back onto the trail and up to the end of the path. A quiet opening in the trees, a place of calm.

In the Fall of 2013, the rains came. They kept coming. And coming. In just four days, we got as much rain in Boulder as we usually do in one year. Flooded rivers raged down the canyons. Homes, roads, and trees were ripped from the ground where they had quietly sat. Dams formed from piled up cars, pushing water farther up the mountainous banks of dirt, pulling at the roots of trees and yanking them from their resting places. As the rain came down, Mila pressed her face against the windows of our house watching in awe. She was about to turn three, and I was pregnant with Azlan.

The rain finally stopped. There was a pause. And then the work began to rebuild what had been taken. But during the storm, the floods had swept away our magical little place of peace. The Anne White trail closed permanently. Soon after, hikes became more challenging for Mila. Later on, she struggled to get the words out when she found a new bug. She stopped noticing the fluffy white clouds against the blue Colorado sky. And so began the river of symptoms which eventually flooded our lives.

My attention and worry shifted to a never-ending slew of doctors appointments, therapist visits and evaluations. With time, the Anne White trail became a distant memory.

Six years later, at the beginning of this year, I learned that our little trail had reopened. A wave of emotions swept over me. The memories came rushing back. My heart longed to bring Mila back to our special place.

I decided Azlan and I should check it out first. So I piled him into the car and shared my memories while we drove to the trailhead. As we neared the place I remembered so well, a temporary road sign with “Anne White Trail” spray painted in red indicated where I should turn. We pulled into the gravel parking lot, and I noticed the houses that had sat snuggled into the canyon were no longer there. The walls of dirt above the creek showed the wounds of high waters, and fallen trees lay stacked up below.

The newly designed trail now began with three large stones crossing the creek. Ahead, I could see rock steps and more creek crossings. My heart dropped. The trail, like most others, was no longer accessible to Mila in her adaptive stroller.

I looked down at Azlan’s excited face. I took a deep breath and swallowed my tears. “Let’s go!” I said. And up the trail we wandered. Like Mila, Azlan was drawn to the water, jumping in and pressing his face down to inspect blue beetles, tiny spiders and dragonflies that now called the creek home. We explored for hours, not making it much farther up the trail, before heading home.

A few weeks later, I woke early with the sun, opened my eyes, and the trail called me. I pulled on my running clothes and drove up the windy canyon road with the windows down, the warm summer air blowing across my face. I slipped out of my car and stood at the trailhead, facing up the path. A powerful feeling ran through me. I needed to be there that day.

I stepped across the creek on the large stones, then took off running on the narrow dirt path. I wound my way around fallen trees, over the creek, up a staircase of stone steps and down a hill. I passed under a large boulder, then bounced from rock to rock across the creek again, and up around a leaning tree. A switchback, a sharp left, then right, then left again, my toes touching the tops of rocks sitting in running water… one, two, three.

As I ran, I began to see the winding trail ahead of me through Mila’s young eyes. I jumped up onto boulders, skipped down the dirt path and twirled around under a tree. I smiled as my mind took me decades back to playing in the horse fields of our Virginia farm, gathering mud salamanders from the pond with my brothers. Now, on my run, I became the little Mila who would have transformed this trail into her own fairy adventure.

The path continued and passed through an open meadow of yellow daisies dancing in the breeze, then ducked back into the woods. Lush grasses and plants arched their backs and reached their tiny arms to the sky, opening up the trail ahead and guiding me. Bees hovered over flowers, and dragonflies zipped through the air. Birds chirped from the branches above. Crickets sang in unison, the constant hum of running water in the background. These were the sights and sounds of renewed life, the beauty born from the flood.

I came around one last turn to find an opening in the trees at the end of the trail. I slowed to a walk, my chest lifting and falling, lifting and falling. As my heartbeat slowed, I looked around and my mind took me to that same place many years ago. My little Mila was looking up at me, her face sweaty and tired, a clump of flowers held tightly in her fist. I lifted my gaze toward the treetops above, closed my eyes, and cried out loud. My stomach contracting, I gasped for air. The warm tears poured down my cheeks. This was my special place with Mila. But now here I was, alone.

I opened my eyes and pulled my gaze back down to the trees in front of me, then down again to the dirt that I stood on. I pulled my shirt up and wiped my eyes. Looking around quietly, taking in the sounds and the smells, I spotted a barely noticeable path that climbed up the mountain between rocks beyond the trail’s end. It called me. I followed it until I found myself in a quiet spot high above the trail below. I sat on a flat rock, my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around them.

I looked out across the sea of pine trees covering the mountain in front of me. Silence. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The air was still. A squirrel above threw an acorn that bounced lightly on the dirt beside me. I caught the faint ripple of the creek below.

I felt Mila’s presence. She was there with me. I heard her laughter dip and dive into the trees, then shoot out from another spot, twist through the air, then disappear again into the pines. I looked down beside me and could see her sitting next to me, her bent knees up against mine, a pinecone in her hands. She smiled up at me. My chest heaved. I dropped my head down between my bent legs and let out a long cry. My tears were for Mila, for me, for Azlan.

I raised my head and sat in that spot for what seemed like forever, looking out across the beauty that surrounded me. Then, without thinking, my arms lifted themselves to the sky on their own, and something in me begged for guidance, for strength on this journey. From the stillness, a gust of wind swept across my face, bending the trees and stirring the leaves around me. It came, and it went. The trees and leaves were still again. And the silence returned.

From the depths of my pain, a feeling of calm made its way out and flowed through my body. I realized then that Mila was with me, she always has been, and she always will be. She was here in the trees, in the creek, in the birds and the sky. The flood waters had rushed through our life. But where the trees had been ripped from their roots, new flowers were now growing…