Zion and realizing dreams

And so it is

And so it is.

I scrawl across a fresh page in my journal, then date it 5/22/20, Zion National Park.

Zion and realizing dreams

I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air push down into my lungs and close my eyes. The gentle breeze nudges the tendrils of bangs I didn’t manage to get up into a half-bun on top of my head earlier.

Leaning into the deep arms of an old tree whose veins leave divots in my skin, I let her cradle me and feel the energy from her, the Virgin River at my toes, and the giant orange and red mountain faces reaching to the sky in front of me.

I almost didn’t go to Zion today.

The pandemic has been a lot of things to me. It’s been a time to grieve and mourn for the projects I had and was so excited to pursue. It’s been a time to dust off my shoulders and put on my adult pants and reinforce the idea that, at the end of the day, the only person I can rely on is myself. It’s been a time to create rituals and focus on my health and wellness.

And sanity.

For more than two months, I’ve been pretty much stationary and the company I have kept is with my two cats and new pup. I walk every morning in an effort to keep a routine and honor myself and movement and Vitamin D.

My trip to New York and to Delaware to see my family came and went, and I sat at home dreaming of getting on a flight.

Dreaming of a lot of things.

Feeling the sticky heat of Thailand and the calls  of frogs; walking through Tompkins Sqaure Park in the spring sunshine, green leaves thick and rustling; of lounging at table on the sand, icy cold beers with sweat on the bottles, squirting lime into them and dipping chips into fresh-made guacamole in Puerto Vallarta; flakey bits of croissant dotting an old, wooden-slatted table on the sidewalk in Paris; sipping vermouth or tinto de verano on a terrazo in Madrid.

It’s funny what your brain lets you conjure when you’re in isolation.

It’s even funnier what it doesn’t.

I’m in Zion for a reason.

A reason I’ve been avoiding because … it felt uncomfortable.

I’ve had homework all week, which is a change because normally I’m the one giving others homework in my coaching. But, the table turned on me this week when a friend of mine who literally makes dreams come true decided he wanted to focus his effort on making my dream a reality.

Except … I have no idea what my dream is.

Less than a week earlier, we sit on the phone as I ramble on and on about the things I want in my life. What I think are my dreams.

To make Vegans, Baby national.

To launch a TV show.

To live in New York.

So, we start to dig in. Like, really dig.

But, I can’t narrow down a dream.

Am I broken? Is something wrong with me?

I tell him I always follow my dreams, which is true. And that they always come true. Which is also true.

“Then fear is holding you back,” he tells me.

I balk.

Nope. No way.

“You haven’t allowed yourself to really dream,” he says. “You need to think about your dream life. What it would look like. What it feels like.”

Sure, ok.

“You’re dream life without reality in the way.”

There it is.

So, I commit to writing a few pages of what my dream life looks like and suspend the reality of the current situation.

It’s really fucking hard.

I sit after the call and look over the prompt in my notebook.

“What does your dream life look like?”

What does it look like?

I’m supposed to just grab a pen and write and write, letting the dream expand and flow onto paper. But, I get caught in my head. Reality keeps shutting it down. Keeps reminding me that if I allow myself to imagine my dream life, it’s without the pandemic. Without social distancing.

My dream life includes lavish events, open borders, intimate conversations with passionate chefs in dark booths with homemade wine and plant-based food in far corners of the world. Celebrating talent. Celebrating steps people take to a more compassionate life. Loving deeply. Sharing. Traveling. Making the world a kinder, gentler place for all beings.

The pandemic and my fear of never being able to do these things holds me back from writing.

Instead, I spend five days playing out my dream life in my head. What it looks like. Where it takes place. I negotiate my dream. I problem solve with the current climate. But, I still can’t bring myself to sit and write it down.

May 22 is my one-year anniversary from being hit by a car and surviving.

Yes, I got physically hit by a car when crossing the street. In a crosswalk. With the crosswalk sign signaling it was safe to cross.

It was a lie.

Half-way through the first lane, an old, beat-up Kia SUV turns left. I freeze in the lane, glaring at him and waiting for him to stop … but he doesn’t. I realize I’m about to get hit and I jump back, not quick enough. The right side of the vehicle hits me and the tire pins my shoe under it, causing me to fall back in place.

I sit on the ground, a light May drizzle coming down. In utter shock.

I’m alive.

I’m also in pain. I take stock of myself.

I’m alive.

There’s no blood. No broken bones I can see. I’m in pain, but I’m alive.

The driver pulls over and runs out of his SUV.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. The guy is young, mid-20s at best. His brown hair is scraggly, shoulder length and he’s wearing a baseball cap advertising a meat company.

None of it matters to me. I sit there and blink up at him as the rain falls into my eyes.

“You fucking hit me,” is all I can muster.

Zion and realizing dreams

I survive. I come out of the accident with a 30 percent compression fracture in my L5 (which was actually discovered months after the accident because no one seemed to have looked hard enough until the MRI), and a few other back injuries. I get put into three-times-a-week physical therapy and borderline molested by the massage therapist at the PT office.

He’s never had any other complaints.

Yet another time in my life, I have to recount to someone how my body was violated. This time, it’s in the hands of a professional I had no inkling I should not trust. They jockeyed my schedule around in the system so I wouldn’t have to be touched by this man, they changed the protocol with my massages, too. No longer would the door be closed when I was in the massage room.

I began to feel out-of-control in my life. I didn’t trust anyone. It was horrible to drive because I would always think a car was going to hit me. I would close my eyes and see an alternate reality — one where I’m laying on the street and my insides are crushed and I’m dead.

The PTSD and anxiety nearly destroy me as I maneuver through my post-hit-by-a-car life.

My feeing of safety is taken away from me and I grow more and more terrified of being alone and dying, as panic attacks always linger on the horizon of my new reality.

The pandemic, in a way, has given me back some semblance of control. It’s taken away my income. It’s paused my dreams I allowed myself to have. But, I have this curated bubble now and only let in what makes me feel safe.

I also start to feel shame, that I have to explain to people why I won’t go out, why I won’t dine-in, why I spent the first month basically holed up in my apartment downing bottles of Kick-Ass Immune Activator and Lorazepam. It’s triggered something else I tucked away and thought I had worked through via copious amounts of EMDR — my first panic attack in Thailand where I felt the walls close in on me and couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die alone in Thailand, my last moments being ravished by fear and knowing it was the end of my life.

I imagine the virus and getting sick and the walls closing in on me and the utter terror from that night floods back and lingers every day for two weeks, until I know I’m not sick.

It’s a real bitch to explain to people, so I don’t. Instead, I create my sanctuary, reading books and sipping hot tea and walking every morning and working out and breathing. Deep, deep breathing to remind myself I am capable of taking breaths and in that time, the anxiety dissipates. It’s the first time in a year I can breathe and be present.

So, when the date comes up marking the one-year anniversary of being hit, I allow myself to feel it … but not too much.

The homework assignment looms in my mind while the battle boils in real life versus the maskers and anti-maskers and I need to leave. To get the fuck out of Vegas and connect with nature.

Zion and realizing dreams

I drive out late in the morning because even though I know it’s only a day trip, I still need to get my walk and workout in to keep my routine.

It’s windy and the sky over Las Vegas is gloomy, dust hovering in the atmosphere.

I try to tap into my inner-child. The girl who loved traveling. Who would delight in waking up on a Saturday to her father announcing they were going on an adventure and then hopping on the Metro and exploring DC.

There’s an energy around me today. One that feels defeated.

Earlier in the morning, I had a call with the woman who discovered me and brought me to New York. In the year-plus we’ve known each other, we’ve become close. She tells me about the changes she’s had to make to her work, and I realize the work I was doing with her is gone. And that work is such a big part of my dream.

As I drive towards Utah, I try to force myself to smile and it feels fake. The corners of my mouth refuse to curl upward.

Was this a bad idea? Should I turn around now?

I continue on, my car being knocked around by the wind hurling itself through the vast expanse of the blooming desert the road cuts through.

Then, the sky clears and becomes that perfect, deep blue. The landscape changes from desert to green, with bright, rust-colored mountains in the distance.

I feel it. Joy.

Zion is nearly empty, which means I won’t have to be near people. I’m delighted.

I grab a wrap at a local cafe and stuff it into my backpack and continue on to the park.

With no clue where I’m going, or what I’m doing, I decide to leave it up to what feels right. So, right past the turn for the scenic drive, there’s an empty spot. I turn and park and grab my backpack and water and get out.

I want to walk and walk and surround myself in nature. I feel my body craving it.

Tucked inside my backpack is my journal. For a few days, I’d thought about where I wanted to sit and write down my dream and all I could imagine was a place in nature, surrounded by peace and beauty and vibrant energy.

I cut across the street to a trailhead and read the placard. Easy. 100-foot elevation. Paved. Winding along the Virgin River.


I begin to walk down the path, feeling my body soak up the sun. Stopping to pause on bridges to notice the bubbling Virgin River and imagine where it’s coming from. Looking up to the towering rockfaces surrounding me. Listening to the wind rustle the leaves. Being present and aware of the life surrounding me.

Here, there are no anxieties. There are no fears. There is nothing but beauty and nature and Earth and it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I wander along the path, a feeling of wonder enveloping me as I continue.

Zion and realizing dreams

Finally, I spot a path to the river that’s free from people and make my way down to it. The soft, orange sand encases my feet as they sink in each step I take. Wind turns up the leaves of the trees, revealing a mint-colored belly to the thick, green tops.

On the bank of the river is a tree who’s thick roots wind and twist along it, finally diving into the water.

This is where I am going to write.

I thank the tree for permission to sit on her, and grab my journal and a pen and open it to the first empty page as I feel myself mold into the roots.

I begin to write.

What my dream life looks like.

The words flow. My hand flies over the paper as my dreams pour out of me, word-by-word, line-by-line.

I give myself permission to dream. Permission to suspend reality. Permission to feel what it feels like to have my dreams come true. Permission to see myself where I want to be without the pandemic grey cloud stopping me in my tracks.

I write four pages and then seal it.

And so it is.

The pages fly closed in the wind and I sink deeper into the cradle of the roots, looking up. Listening. Breathing.

It’s beautiful.

For a moment, tears build in my eyes as I sit there in intense gratitude for where I am, and for being alive a year later.

When I am ready, I get up, put my journal in my bag and continue down my path.

Lighter. Brighter. Dreams down on paper.

I drive home with the windows down, a smile plastered to my face. And, when I see the skyline of Las Vegas, I feel love.

Americas Blog Blog Featured Utah

On the open road …

It’s dark, but above me I can hear the pitter patter of little feet on the floor. Little voices delighting in the morning.

I roll over.

It’s too early. I’m too tired.

But, I’m awake. Awake. In Denver. Starting Day Four of my Life After Las Vegas.

Laying in bed at my aunt and uncle’s house in Colorado, it has yet to hit me the huge life change I have just endured. The decisions I have made. The hole in my heart.

None of these things have hit me yet, but I know I can feel something.

Movers empty the van

My last days in Vegas came and went with only a little fanfare. My going away party a few days before I left was calm, spent with some of the people in my life I love with all of my heart. The second-to-last night in town, I spent with my best friend and her family, watching a boxing match in the comfort of their home. And my last night in the life I have lived since 2010 was spent with Dave as we prepared for the start of our road trip exploring America and my life as an expat.

Over drinks at the dive bar across from my house, he and I sat together, talking travel.

Absent was the large amount of pain I was feeling about my decision to leave this world. But, the next morning, as the movers hauled my material possessions out of the condo I rent and into storage, as I dropped my cats at their new home, the tears fell freely. Dripping down my face, drying in the desert sun.

This is pain. This is change. This is life.

But then, as quickly as those tears seared their way down my cheeks, they disappeared.

At my last meal in Las Vegas, sitting at the bar at the local wing joint, Dave turned to me.

“This is the start of your new life,” he said.

How can tears fall when there is something so joyous beginning?

Even now, three full days into life post-Las Vegas, I have yet to really cry. The adventure we’ve been on the past few days has been spectacular.

We’ve wandered through Zion National Park, just outside of St. George, Utah.

The entrance to Zion National Park in Utah

During our visit to Zion, we stayed at the “budget” motel, Terrace Brooke Lodge. For a mere $83 (plus tax) a night, we got two beds, slow (and often times non-existent wifi) and quite possibly the worst free breakfast I’ve ever had (including the 60 plus hostels I have stayed at). But, it was fun!

Nighttime at Terrace Brooke Lodge

Aside from the lodging, Springdale, which touches the entrance to Zion, is filled with beautiful restaurants that let guests enjoy the surroundings with huge patios. We checked out Bit & Spur and Oscar’s. Both were great, albeit pricey.

Bit and Spur reflects the stunning Zion

The view from Oscar's

We’ve driven through desolate (and still beautiful) parts of the desert southwest in Utah, complete with obligatory stop in Salinas for Denny’s at 10 a.m with an old friend (it’s the last stop before hitting Colorado, some 100-plus miles beyond).


We’ve even cruised through the Rockies.

The Colorado Rockies

Yes, there are times when my heart feels that tinge of pain. When I long to have my cats snuggle in the crook of my arm and fall asleep together. When I realize I don’t have a bed, a home, a life in America anymore.

Then, I remember this is the start of the next amazing adventure. That I am seeing America. That I am going to Thailand. That I am living my life according to my own set of rules.

And that, my friends, is an awesome thing.

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Hello, universe

“Mom!!” I scream into my phone as I drive away from Red Mountain Resort under the sinking Utah sun. “Something has happened!”

“Are you OK? What is it? Where are you?”

Entirely breathless, I launch into the past two days at Red Mountain. The desperation. The reiki. The shamanic healing.

“And now … something is different. I can’t even begin to explain it,” I marvel in utter disbelief on the quick change my life has suddenly made.

It’s only been 20 minutes, but I’m high. There is no sad in me anymore.

The sadness, the pain, the hatred, which reared its ugly head and began to drag me down, down, down, has disappeared.

My heart is racing. My shoulders are relaxed. There is this sense of peace I have never felt before that moves through my veins, beats with each pump of blood in my heart.

Suddenly, I am OK.

“Wow,” Mom says after I’ve explained what has just happened to me. “Ride this, D. Ride it as long as you can. But, if you start to feel sad again, don’t get discouraged. Remember this moment and how you feel.”

I promise her I will, and then I drive back in to Las Vegas.

There’s a point when coming into the city I used to loathe: a spot on I-15 when the desert gives way to the resort-laden Las Vegas skyline.

Tonight, as I drive in against a thick black, starless sky, and the bright lights of hotels glimmering in the distance, I don’t feel anything but total elation.

This is my chance to make my life right. This is my chance to love where I am. To love who I am … and I DO.

For the first time in months, I fall asleep and sleep through the night. And, in the morning, I wake up feeling the same high as the day before. I am energized. I have a bounce in my step. I stand in the mirror, trying to think a negative thought about me. But, something happens. I can’t. I don’t cringe. I don’t see something ugly. I see a girl who has finally found her way, finally made those demons who sat on her shoulder whispering into her ear every insecurity in the world have nothing to whisper.

It’s as if a spell has been cast on me.

I am incapable of feeling bad for myself. I am incapable of hating myself. I look in the mirror and I smile … and it is genuine.

I. Am. Happy. Healed.

And, I know what needs to be done with my life.

When I met with the shaman, she had explained to me the need to put my desires out into the universe, to let the world know what I want.

So, on this gorgeous Sunday morning, glowing from the weekend, I put the following out:

I want to quit my job.

I want to travel.

I want to work with elephants.

And then, as if on cue, the universe takes notice.

30 Life Crisis Americas Blog Nevada Utah

Awake my soul: the story of shamanic healing

Self. Birth. Transformation. Relationships.

Those four cards stare at me on the animal hide table in the little room of Betina Lindsey, the shaman at Red Mountain Resort.

“Well, this fits,” she says.

I close my eyes. I can only hope she’s right.

Betina is my last resort. She is my little glimmer of hope that, with this shamanic healing session, I can somehow overcome the sadness that has been eeking the energy out of me, leaving me so empty. So exhausted. So dead inside.

When I walk into her office, an old hotel room converted into a place of comfort, complete with crystals, photos of shamans, spiritual paintings and more, I try to let go of the preconceived notions of what I am about to do.

I’ve never been into any of this stuff. The cards. The crystals. It was only yesterday, with my reiki session and utter lack of energy, that I realized there was something out of balance with my body. That my chakras were clogged. I didn’t even know what a chakra was until yesterday when Cynthia told me mine were basically blocked.

The smell of sage permeates the air as she guides me to the little chair which sits in front of a table covered with a golden animal hide.

“Let me get a reading on you,” she says. “Sit and close your eyes.”

I do.

After a moment, she speaks. “You are too accommodating.”

Yes. Yes, I can be that.

“You are at a point in your life where you are on a plank. You can’t walk back, but you also can’t move forward. You don’t believe in yourself enough. You won’t take that jump.”

My eyes well up with tears.

Yes. I am paralyzed. I can’t move because I have nothing but hatred for myself. I can’t stand who I am. I can’t stand the person I have become since I returned from my travels. This is not the life I want. And yet, I can’t break free from it. I can’t heal myself. 

I reach for a tissue and wipe my eyes as she begins to place cards on the tiny table.

She uses six decks of various cards, including tarot.

Then, she does the reading.

Everything she culls from the reading is accurate. Spot. On.

“You don’t like yourself. You won’t be able to do anything until you do.”

I sit and blink.

I’ve been trying to like myself. I’ve been trying to get over this. It’s taken me months, and instead of feeling better, all of those things I have kept bottled up and now have discovered weigh on me more than they did when I was blissfully unaware.

“You won’t move on, you won’t be in a relationship, you won’t have anything until you are able to honor your inner child. You have to find some way to love who you are.”

I don’t know how to do that.

Again, I feel the tears burn. I want to explain to her how hard I have been working. How frustrated I have become. How all I want to do is run. To escape. To go sit with elephants in Thailand and be relived of thinking about myself for a few wonderful moments.

She leaves one card face down on the table as she escorts me to another area in the room.

“Here,” she says, lifting up a plate full of different crystals and rocks. “Pick a stone that speaks to you.”

I reach for the amethyst.

“Now, I want you to take one thing you want to get rid of from your body and focus all of your energy on it. Send it from your body into the stone.”

I squeeze my eyes closed as hard as I can, forcing the one thing I want out of my body more than anything else: the self-hatred.

As she chants, I imagine that feeling of disgust moving its way from my heart, from my mind, through my veins and out my fingertips and into this tiny rock which has become hot in my palm.

Leave my body. Get out. Never come back. 

Then, Betina gently guides me to another area in the room where a bear hide covers the floor.

“Lay down,” she instructs.

I oblige, letting my head sink into the soft fur. She begins placing stones on different points on my body — the places where my (not flowing) chakras are.

“Now, I want you to close your eyes and imagine you are with Little Diana. She’s four or five years old. Imagine being with her. And I want you to sit with her, talk with her, tell her she is beautiful, that you love her, and then I want you to take her with you on a journey through your life. Take her with you to the beautiful places you have seen. Show her all of the amazing things you have experienced. Honor her. Let her know she is with you, always.”

Then, she begins to chant in a language I don’t understand. While she chants and uses the crystal bowls, I find Little Diana.

I see her perfectly. She’s wearing a little blue dress, blonde hair with short bangs. A little nose. Big, brown eyes. Little D is sitting in her bunny wall-papered room on beige carpet. I find her and kneel down to sit with her.

She looks at me and smiles.

I know you.

I smile back and take her hand.

“Hi,” I whisper to her. “How are you?”

She says nothing.

The mournful sound of bowls echos in my ears.

Hand clenched in mind, I touch her soft little face.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her. “I am so, so sorry. I stopped thinking about you somewhere in my life. I got sidetracked. I got angry. I got sad. Really, really sad.”

Little D’s grip tightens in my hand.

I breathe deep as Betina softly chants.

“I love you. You are beautiful. You are wonderful. You are strong. You are everything you ever wanted to be. And, I am sorry for not honoring you a long time ago. I am sorry for not telling you these things.”

Then, as the music from Betina gets louder, I move from my old bedroom with my old self to Portugal.

Little D and I sit together on the golden sand of Lagos, as the sun sinks into the Atlantic Ocean.

“See, look where you are. On the other side of the world!” I say to Little D.

Then, we are in Spain, listening to flamenco music. We are watching F-1 from the stands in Valencia. We are trekking for gorillas. We are sitting on the roof deck of a riad in Morocco, watching as the buildings glow pink and listening to the call for prayer echo throughout the ancient walls. Together, she and I walk with elephants.

At some point, the tunes from the bowl turn into bells in my mind. And, now, the bells signify the death of a part of me. I can feel it leave my body as I take Little D around the world with me.

The hatred flows right out of me.

And, something else comes in. A feeling of calm. Of peace. Of love for myself.

As Betina finishes, I cough. “Sorry,” I murmur.

“It’s normal,” she explains. “You are getting rid of what you need to get rid of.”

I stand up slowly.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel … different.”

She stands me in the center of the room and does a Native American prayer with me, turning me towards different spirit worlds, blessing me. Then, we move back to the table where the last card lays.

I flip it over.


“You know what this means?” She asks me.

We both do.

I hug her and walk back out into the Utah afternoon.

An entirely different person.

30 Life Crisis Americas Blog Utah

The (in)exchange of energies

Cynthia taps on my chest.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I can feel those taps reverberate through my body. I can hear the sounds echo in my ears.

Hollow. I feel hollow.

“OK,” she says softly, powering up the massage table to a sitting position. “How stressed are you?” she asks, her gentle eyes full of concern.

I bite my lip. I fight the tears I know want to spill out at that question.

I’m beyond stressed. I’m clawing at rocks 10 feet below the ground and can’t come up for air.

“Oh, I’m pretty stressed,” I remark. Then, I panic. “Oh my god, did I give you bad energy?”

After a 50-minute Reiki treatment at Red Mountain Resort, my practitioner smiles calmly.

“You are very stressed. There were some points during your treatment where I tried to find energy, and nothing was there. That tapping? It was me trying to stir something in you …”

“And nothing happened?” I ask, my eyes closing. My heart sinking. I know the answer. There’s nothing inside of me anymore.

I can’t go through life like this any longer.

“You need to get this stress out of your life. You need to give yourself permission to remove whatever it is that is causing you this stress out of your life. It’s not good for you.”

I can’t. Not yet.

I don’t explain my situation, the fact that I am at a career cross-road — I have a part-time job that attempts to pay the bills, plus all of my freelance travel writing that is going into the online piggy bank I have created.

I don’t tell her my struggles with depression throughout my entire life. The struggles I am currently facing as I try to come to terms with so many things that involve changing the way I think, the way I live my life, the dreams I have.

Instead, I simply ask: “What can I do?”

She explains I would benefit from lymphatic drainage. That this light touching procedure will help ease my stress and relax my body.

Then, she warns me. “If you keep this up, you won’t live past 50 or 60. You can’t live your life this stressed out. It isn’t healthy for you. It impacts every part of your life.”

Again, I nearly cry.

If she only knew.

She wraps her arms around me, sending some positive energy into my body, then says goodbye.

“Tonight, don’t write. Just go sit outside and look at the stars in the sky and relax.”

I promise her I will, then I head back out into the starry Utah night. A world away from Las Vegas.

Solitude, standing.

For two days, I am situated at Red Mountain Resort, a gorgeous slice of outdoor heaven about two hours from Vegas, nearby St. George in the tiny town of Ivins, Utah.

And, by tiny, I mean tiny. Compared to Las Vegas’ huge population, Ivins only has 5,000 residents.

After I grab a healthy dinner in the resort’s restaurant, I head back to my suite (a gorgeous 1,100-square-foot villa), throw on my swim suit, and head out into the chilly night.

I sink into the bubbling hot tub and look up towards the darkness.

Above me, clusters of stars, some so tiny I can’t barely see but know by the soft glow, they exist, twinkle.

Relax, D. Breathe, D. Life doesn’t have to be so hard. You don’t have to be so stressed out.You don’t have to put yourself through this.

I focus on the stars, trying to clear my mind.

During my reiki, Cynthia instructed me to go to my safe place to clear my mind. Until that moment, I’d never had a safe place. I didn’t even know where to start.

“What’s yours?” I had asked.

She told me, and then I tried to find mine. After a few moments of debate, I settled on Thailand and the elephants. As she lightly touched me, moved her hands above my body, I imagined myself sitting next to Faa Mai, singing “Que Sera, Sera” and petting Medo on my last day at Elephant Nature Park.

But under the stars? I can’t clear my mind. All I keep thinking is there is something so inherently wrong with me. I can’t unwind. I can’t relax. I can’t just be. And, now, it’s slowly killing me.

I crawl into my king bed that night and close my eyes. I try to quiet my brain, but instead it chides me for being absolutely emotionally and physically exhausted. There is no sleep.

I remind myself tomorrow is a new day, a day of promises, of hope, in this beautiful place. And, a meeting with a shaman for some spiritual advising and sound healing.

At this point, I’m game for anything. I just want to find my happiness again. Even if it means letting my preconceived notions wither away and embracing something entirely different from the norm.

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