Through the Looking Glass—Looking Back Upon a Difficult Year

As I write this, exactly one year ago, I was en route to Tanzania for a women’s writing workshop, which kicked off four of the most beautiful months of my life. But, holy shit, 2018 — what a goddamn year. Two weeks into the new year, I’m only now able to sit and reflect on the year past with a bird’s-eye view as the last few months have been tumultuous and torturous. Still, there are countless moments of hopefulness and beauty woven into the fabric of my reflections. I normally write a recap, even if only for my own journal, just after the holidays, but I headed straight to New York City after a cozy NYE with my Austin soulmates. And the city was an absolute whirlwind — healing, colorful, reinvigorating, and indulgent.

I haven’t had space to myself since early November (which is much of why I’m so behind on my writing), and while I feel as though I’ve had very little alone time I’ve somehow spent more time alone in the last nine months than ever in my life. But I needed the downtime and self-reflection to mend all that had become frayed throughout the year. Had you asked how I was last March, I would have told a story that sounded like a fairytale, except every word of it would have been true. Come June, the same question would have yielded tears and deflection. Some say my eyes turned from their signature bright green (an indication of joy) to a colorless grey (their color of sorrow) in that short window of time.

I spent the first four months of last year traveling — from Zanzibar to Colombia to Spain to Portugal to Turkey to Morocco. Within those months, I fell in love — in more ways than one—which is something I haven’t said out loud, at least until I wrote this sentence. I launched Pilgrim Magazine — my years-long dream — on June 4 from the confines of a glorious old house with the greatest natural light, thanks to the unwavering support and aligned vision of my co-curator of stories. As proud and happy as I was that I finally actualized my biggest dream, that night was the first night I cried over the broken heart I’d been quietly sitting on and hiding from for months because I no longer had a distraction from what I avoided facing. My spirit was wilted and that night, once every nagging dev issue was ironed out and Pilgrim was the flawless outlet I long envisioned, I walked outside, took a deep breath under those Esmont, Virginia stars, and sobbed. And I didn’t stop crying for weeks.

But I did stop reading. I stopped writing. And dancing, too. I lost my sense of joy, and I lost my words. I went silent, hibernating so fiercely in the Blue Ridges that those whose souls are karmically connected to mine both near and far began to worry. A friend nearby would show up unannounced with groceries, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to find me in bed in the middle of the summertime afternoon, pencils and paper and tears strewn about. She’d force me to go hiking, and I’d sit on the banks of a creek or on a mountaintop and cry. She didn’t always know what to say, usually nothing was best. But she was there, most times with a Bold Rock cider in hand. Other friends, hundreds and even thousands of miles away, reached out because my silence was apparently deafening. Sad as I was, I recognized then and recognize now how very lucky I am to have such deep connections. (Thank you, soulmates.)

I unexpectedly lost my biggest client in early summer after they were acquired by a new company, resulting in a savings- and sanity-draining tailspin as I struggled for months to replenish work. Within that window, I was violated in unspeakable ways by someone very close to me, which I’ve still barely talked about out loud. That experience became my exit cue, at least for the time being, so I began planning the rest of the year—far from the East Coast, from the traumatic associations that I couldn’t escape.

Soon after, I headed west for another soulmate’s wedding and hid in the mountains. I stayed afloat thanks to the kindness of some of those who I love most, especially my Beartooth savior and pizza-delivering angel from outside D.C. I spent my days tirelessly looking for new work and exploring corners of Montana and Wyoming I’d yet to see, with my camera in hand and heart in my pocket instead of on my sleeve. I saw every season, sometimes within hours of one another. The poet in me saw this as a metaphor, watching summer turn to fall turn to winter like a film reel—each an example of the continuum of our paths. Thanksgiving came so very quickly, and I was lucky to spend the holiday with my Tetons loves — where wood fires, snowy passes, and Banquet Beers were the warmest greeting. Finally, between their mountain spirits and the Grand Tetons themselves, I began to feel a little recharged.

And then came the tail end of November, which threw everything I was looking forward to awry. I totaled my car in the middle of nowhere as I headed to a solitary writing retreat I’d planned in New Mexico, and had looked forward to for months. I was set to stay in a cabin Aldous Huxley once wrote in on a goji berry farm, where I too planned to write my heart out. But my travel plans were hijacked as I sat in a Wyoming motel for two weeks, hours from the nearest town. I never made it to where I was going and that cabin sat vacant while I acclimated to Pinedale’s subzero temperatures against my will. Days later, a good friend in Virginia died in an accident, and my heart broke yet again. He was a real good man and I hadn’t answered his last few phone calls because I was too caught up in my own madness. I told myself I’d call back when things settled down, waging on a tomorrow that’s never certain to be ours. I felt immense guilt, and vowed to answer or return every call from there on out. I also vowed to say ‘I love you’ more often, but only when I really mean it.

In the middle of all the chaos, I interviewed for a fully remote position from the lobby of that Wyoming motel with a wall of antique taxidermy behind me. Weeks later, I accepted the company’s offer from the side of an Idaho backroad not long after an hours-long panic attack had struck at a Jackson Hole hotel that same morning — I had reached my breaking point, and it wasn’t a clean break. But just hours later, I had a dream offer in my lap and was making a feast of elk stroganoff and foraged mushrooms with my Driggs folks.

So I finally — with a new title, an all-wheel drive rental car, and a bit of vigor — headed south for the holiday where I looked forward to reconnecting with those who’ve become fluent in bringing me back to life. Although I warned them twenty-four hours and three state lines prematurely that “describing my current state as defeated would be an understatement.”

I was halfway into my drive, hours behind schedule because of wicked snowstorms in Wyoming when an unexpected message broke my entire spirit. I had stopped for the night in Denver and savored a nostalgic Peruvian dinner before crawling into bed early. I awoke around 4 a.m. to words that cracked my soul into pieces, and dramatically cried myself back to sleep. I hit the road at the crack of dawn, absolutely depleted. And by the time I finally made it to the Baffi festivities a day and a half late, I was in even more shambles than they knew (though they were certainly expecting shambles). It took all of one bottle of wine before the floodgates opened around a campfire and I sobbed months’ worth of tears. But over linguini and clams, hand-painted silk kimonos, a red wine delivery from an incredibly sweet East Coast soulmate and savior, and the most thoughtful gift that doubled as a magical production from the Baffis, I felt myself begin to come alive. I am lucky to know so much love.

Last year was not a graceful year for me. The Universe challenged me in relentless ways, with no break between trials. I fell apart in more ways than one — more than once — for the greater part of an entire year. I overindulged as a coping mechanism (and as a mask), only to leave myself with even more to cope with. I learned in shameful ways that self-indulgence is not the same as self-love and that it often leads to self-loathing instead. I left my dignity in one long-winded love letter and on more than one barstool, and I disappointed myself in many ways, particularly upon realizing that sometimes my resilience is a facade to and protection mechanism against myself. But I made it, even if in pieces, even if not in the same bright-eyed, Indian Ocean-polished state that I began the year with.

For now, I’m back in Texas, doing some soul work, some artwork, and some dream work. I’ve realized that despite all the tumult, all the anguish, and even with the occasional self-destruction, there were invaluable lessons and there was so much beauty in every fold of the year. I’ve begun to learn the art of self-compassion (which is often the hardest kind of compassion to muster), to counsel myself as though I’m one of those soulmates for which I’m so grateful rather than, well, myself, and that picture perfect just isn’t real. My truest story is one that ebbs, one that flows, one that’s tarnished, one that shines. I may not know what the hell half of the takeaways are from the last year quite yet, but I’m working on identifying those as I stitch up all the parts of me that were broken and reclaiming my resilience while I’m at it. With two upcoming dances with Mother Jungle, I’m looking forward to realigning those pieces and rediscovering my truths.

In the meantime, if I’m quiet during this cusp of winter and spring in Texas, don’t mind me. I’m taking the time to reflect on the beauty of the last year—the coral reefs and spice farms of Zanzibar; the tallest palm trees in the world and coffee farms and ancient ceremonies and hot springs and horseback riding and gaucho-laden dance floors of Colombia; the cinematic village experiences in Andalusia; the day-long hike to the wild lands that make up the southwesternmost point of continental Europe on the Portuguese coast; the Muslim Call to Prayer and souks and kebabs of Istanbul; and the French dinner in Casablanca where I cried my eyes out over Bourgogne at the tail end of four months of travel. And I’ll be opening some books, turning some pages, writing things down, shaking my hips, preparing for my next sequence of sacred ceremonies, relocating my heart from my pocket to my sleeve, and trying my damnedest to become reacquainted with joy.

Until I resurface, I’ll leave you with this:

I tell my stories with rawness and honesty not to have a conversation about the number of things life has thrown my way — as those closest to me know, I’m far more likely to be vulnerable with my written word than my spoken word—but in the hopes my gritty human transparency can lend some hope or inspiration to those who aren’t as vocal about their struggles. Perhaps that’s you, and if so, you are absolutely not alone. It’s ok to fall apart. It’s ok to be imperfect. Every beautifully imperfect part of you matters just as much as those parts that are perfect. To experience is to be human—whether that experience is in suffering or savoring. And there is no shame in suffering. Acknowledging that all parts of the emotional spectrum are necessary in the overall human experience is evidence of growth and wisdom. The whole of you deserves recognition because all of you is real. We are in this together.

To everyone I love dearly, I’m grateful for you. I cannot thank you enough for every little (and not so little) thing you’ve done to revive me — time and time again.