Freebird; At 45 I left my husband, quit my job, sold my home and flew to Greece. Here’s what happened.
Nothing. And everything.
I started to forgive myself for some ancient wrongdoings.
I healed from divorce and old traumas.
I got to experience what hard-earned pride and having your soul on fire feels like.
I realized just who the hell I am and what I’m capable of.
I learned to give myself grace and began to kick ass and take names.
I danced, shaking my ass in fishnets and heels and little else on a stage in front of hundreds of people.
I ate, prayed, and loved my way through Greece for three weeks, alone, yet never really alone for long.
I chased sunsets and kissed boys.
I met sailors and drank whiskey from their bottles as we shared laughs and told stories. I took one with me and had a night I’ll never forget or regret.
I stole a pen, bought a pad, and began to write.
I started a blog. I went on a podcast. With a mere week’s notice, I moved to Thailand for three months where, with feet to fire, deadlines looming, Wi-Fi faltering, and hot season threatening to consume us, I learned about the world of content writing.
I reveled in Angkor Wat and saw a drag show with a stranger in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I ate and sped my way through Hanoi, Vietnam, on the back of a boy’s scooter. Again, all alone and terrified, but there, making moments count.
I came home and decided to meld my two loves, supply chain and words, and became a freelance supply chain copy and content writer.
I lost — and found — myself in a new career. I spent countless sleepless nights scared out of my wits, not knowing where my next paycheck was coming from, or if my words would resonate with anyone but me.
They did.
I fell into a job as Editor-in-Chief of a magazine and nearly sold my soul, but also gained invaluable experience.
I traveled to Costa Rica, where at 50, I went surfing, ziplining, horseback riding on the beach, rode an ATV through the hillside, and drove a bike around a volcano. I got high in Amsterdam, went topless on a beach in Ibiza, ate and poured my heart out in Portugal, and adored all I could see and eat in Barcelona. Again, all alone except for the many friends I made along the way. This time, however, with a lot less fear.
I launched a small magazine for a client and published a small book on Amazon for me.
I learned to trust in the universe. To live intuitively and to “be water” (thank you, Bruce Lee).
But here’s what didn’t happen.
I didn’t let fear stop me.
I didn’t expect perfection.
I didn’t over-plan.
I didn’t fall in love. Not even close.
I didn’t get rich. Or find fame.
Nor did I get murdered, lost, or end up in jail.
I didn’t burst into flames when attractive men looked my way or when I had to stand beside young, cute ones in bathing suits.
In fact, I wasn’t bit by a single fear I spent so much time ruminating over.
Oh, I was a bit, alright. I got hit by a car on my scooter in Thailand and scammed out of over a thousand dollars. I was harassed by a rancher in Costa Rica and a stranger in Barcelona. And I had my heart shattered by a Uruguayan I dared to put some hope into. I said goodbye to my beloved Titan, my mini but mighty Chihuahua, as I dealt with my mother’s dementia and found out my father had cancer.
I caught COVID-19 and dealt with a long list of bodily changes, symptoms, and health issues that accompany perimenopause.
Life is both a beach and a bitch, and shit will always happen. Just not likely the shit you fear. So “woman up”, grab life by the mangoes, and live, fearlessly.
Because life is better when lived bravely.
XO,
VLF
Oh, and one last thing. I didn’t manifest a goddamn thing, I worked for it.
