Reflections on The Big Lonely and Michael Nelms
“I heard of this movie years ago but never had the opportunity to watch it. But this morning, unexpectedly, it found me again — except this time it was right on time. There’s something about the serene stillness of this morning that seems to be saying, ‘I am here. Accept me as I am. I come in peace, do not be afraid.’ I intend to rise for that.”
Her reflection arrived just as many readers continue to find their way to our earlier piece on The Big Lonely, a story that has been quietly resurfacing in the lives of people who recognize something of themselves in it. When we wrote about the film, we weren’t expecting the depth of response it stirred. Many already knew the documentary, or had carried long-standing questions about the life of its central figure, Michael Nelms. Others arrived with little background at all — only the sense that the film’s title captured something they themselves had lived.
For some, returning to the Big Lonely documentary is less about seeking facts than about revisiting a moment when loneliness, courage, and internal reckoning converged in ways they couldn’t yet name.
And for those encountering the story for the first time: The Big Lonely follows Nelms as he retreats into the Oregon wilderness after the collapse of a marriage and the unraveling of his former life. He builds a small off-grid cabin, lives with a dog named Tic, and tries — in his own raw, unfiltered way — to stitch together a life from the inside out. The documentary is not polished or sentimental. It is unvarnished, at times uncomfortable, and quietly unforgettable. It lingers because it reflects what many of us hesitate to admit: that loneliness is not a moment, but a landscape. And that survival often begins long before healing does.
What stayed with us in her words was not only what she said, but when she said it — on a morning when stillness “found” her, and when a story she’d first heard years ago returned with new weight. That is how certain stories work. They circle back. They surface when the ground inside us has shifted just enough to receive them. They arrive not as entertainment, but as invitation.
That is why our original reflection on The Big Lonely resonated so strongly. We weren’t writing about the film as a curiosity; we were writing about the spiritual terrain it reveals — the ache that sends someone running into the woods, the clarity that emerges when noise finally falls away, and the long, slow work of learning to live with the truths we once avoided. You don’t need a cabin in Oregon to understand that journey. Many recognize its contours from the inside.
And then came her line: “I intend to rise for that.” It is not a declaration of triumph, but of readiness — the quiet willingness to stand up in the presence of one’s own life rather than shrink from it. Stillness, when it arrives without warning, can feel like an unwelcome visitor. But sometimes it speaks with a different voice: I come in peace. Do not be afraid. In those moments, what rises is not bravado. It is courage of another kind — the courage to be met.
We do not know where Michael Nelms is today, and speculation helps no one. His privacy deserves dignity. But the story he allowed the world to see continues to meet people in their own seasons of loneliness, transition, and quiet reawakening. If The Big Lonely returns to you at some point — in memory, in meaning, or on a morning when you least expect it — it may be because something within you is rising too.
Question for Reflection
Has a story — a film, a memory, a moment — ever found you again when you were finally ready to hear it? Share your experiences in the comments section below.
Related spiritual themes: Michael Nelms, The Big Lonely
Reader submissions may be lightly edited for clarity and length, while preserving the writer’s original voice.
