“First, there is the fall, then comes recovery from the fall. Both are the mercy of God.”
Julian of Norwich, a Mystic in the 1300s

Peering out the window of a night flight into Aguascalientes, I feel trepidation and excitement dance together in my belly as the web of city lights approach. Having abandoned our route here on March 21, 2020, since that day Failure has been a constant companion, inviting me to give up completely, to just let it go. Then when someone told me, “blogging is dead,” I felt at a loss for what I have to contribute; if not my joy in long form words and passion for slow travel, then what am I besides a meat bag on bones taking up air?

It was a tenure of ego death unlike any I’ve yet navigated (and I’ve been through a few). I pitched about amidst insecurity, depression, gynecological debasement, homelessness, illness, being fired for being ill, a destructive relationship, and deaths of loved ones. Often unable to reach out for help or even respond to concerned parties, I still drew some distant strength, forcibly reminding myself I was loved when I felt wholly unlovable.

A core of our Patreon community held, unwavering and without expectation. My family and friends helped employ, feed, and house me when I didn’t have it in me to seek it out. Friends sharing their own struggles helped me recognize this wasn’t, as my brain insisted, “something wrong with me,” but rather, that many of us were navigating untoward hardships.

Somehow, that began to inject purpose. I wanted to get through this so I could show up earnestly for others. As the years pass and new humans are born and my tiny friends keep growing into spectacular people, I want to be there for them, equip them to navigate, and to be a ballast when their roads get rocky. Because, honestly, navigating hardship and uncomfortable spaces has occupied much of my life and at this point, is kind of a specialty.

A few concrete practices which helped, were: free writing, meditation, exercising boundaries, working with animals, creative pursuits, a gratitude practice, one-on-one time with gentle friends, ceremony (burning, mourning, mantras, days of silence, etc), and having at least one set of limbs in the dirt (gardening, hiking, digging fence post holes, mucking the barn, a walk around the block). Nothing big, because I didn’t have that in me. It was just showing up to whatever bits I could.

I leaned in to having fallen apart by taking the opportunity to evaluate exposed elements of myself. To carry forward what works and to dismiss those which do not serve me. For example, idealizing the “self made (wo)man” trope and putting self-reliance on a pedestal don’t hold water for me anymore. I needed support most when I had the least to give. I didn’t make it through on my own strength, I made it through because of the connections which reaffirmed and continued to believe in my strength when I couldn’t.

So, I delved inward to work, writing privately and tugging threads which unraveled old scripts. For example, the impetus to be productive, to meet others’ expectations, and make them feel good about themselves without even knowing how to get in touch with what I need. Or how the idea of being humble had somehow come to be equated with self-abasement. Or that you shouldn’t try to do something unless you are driving for success.

I’ll say this, I’ve never started a thru-hike confident that I would complete it. In fact, quite the opposite.[I could be a great de-motivational speaker! My friend, Princess of Darkness, and I call it the “Half Hearted Warrior”]

A vulnerability with memory work is that, when you open that gate, there is no telling what will come rushing back. This work took me through dark places, which felt navigable since I was already in a dark place. I delved through teenage years, when I would throw myself down flights of stairs because I thought that would exercise “self control” and “mind over matter.” That led back to the first time I lay down and tried to die (9 years old) which linked back to when I was first taught that my value was based on performance and I was punished for talking too much (4 years old).  How to hold space and not judge nor expect results but just to let the memories mount, move through, and dissipate; like storm clouds. I don’t know that I could have done that if I came at it with “purpose”, it was more a matter of being a dispassionate observer.

I realized I had become one of those people who espouses seeking mental health support for everyone except myself and my financial situation helped me excuse that. However, even just a couple of our standard team therapy sessions and words of wisdom from a few trusted guides, helped. I went about the work of deconstructing ingrained values and thought patterns, and finally forgave myself for looking outward for hope and purpose. No (wo)man is an island. I practice movement and writing because they are my most familiar tools to help spin the wooly mess of thoughts and feelings into a manageable thread. When one or the other is inaccessible (eg: when I tore my ACL, when I was institutionalized, when Covid-19 hit) things get rough. That’s just the way it is.

Getting to thru-hike the Great Divide Trail went a long way toward reanimating me. The movement, vast landscapes, and kind people were more than I could ever have dreamed. It forced me to step into my own strength: push up mountains that were too steep and dance atop them, then “double zero” (take 2 rest days back to back) when our feet were raw and broken. To seek and accept help when we needed it and hold boundaries when our space was infringed upon. It was a marvelous exercise in recognizing the extent and limitations of my own power.

I have no grand conclusion or answers, and make no promises for what lies ahead. I’ll be honest, these next 2,000 miles across Mexico and Central America have a lot of moving pieces, dangers, and unknowns. I don’t know that we’ll make it, but then, I never have. I know only that I am willing and empowered to show up with curiosity. I do not write this to garner sympathy or even, really, to meet anyone’s expectations. I write this to exercise my voice, to share my experience and to dismantle the messaging that Others are stronger than You. That brave explorers are “unshakable” or never doubt ourselves.

You want to know something I have learned?
Some of my favorite explorers, athletes, and creators bore hurts deeper than they could carry. To name a few:
Meriwether Lewis, Darwin, FitzRoy, José María Arguedas, Gertrude Bell, Robert Stein, Mellie Biese, Sylvia Plath, Anthony Bourdain, Kelly Catlin, Iohan Gueorguiev.

I just spent the afternoon meandering among the lithographs and political cartoons by José Guadalupe Posada who drank himself to death the year after his wife died. In his final years he created the “Calavera Garbancera” which, unbeknownst to him, would one day populate the world. Diego Rivera went on to rename it “La Catrina” and reanimate her as a symbol of Mexico (even though Posada had meant it as a critique of European fashion infringing on indigenous Mexican-ness). Most familiar to many is the film Coco, which draws heavily on Posada’s work.

No one is exempt and no one is above reproach.
If you know the struggle, I wish you reprieve and hope, even just a glimmer.
If you have not lived it yourself, I urge you to withhold judgment.

Particularly in this season after the holidays.
Text or write a note to whomever your heart conjurs up (listen to your soul, it knows who needs it). Not because you expect a reply but because they might need it more than you know.