It had been a long day and not at all what I’d expected, which honestly, I’d come to expect in Alaska, so perhaps it actually was expected. Up until now, my entire trip had been one disaster after another. Not the kind of disaster where anyone is actually hurt, but the kind where Mother Nature laughs at your plans and takes over.

On this day, instead of taking a scenic journey on the Alaskan Railroad, which is what I signed up for, I had to hop on a crowded bus full of other disappointed tourists because a rockslide had blocked the tracks the tracks between Talkeetna and Denali. At this point, I texted my friends and said I couldn’t even make this shit up anymore. Not only did we have to take a bus, but we had to wait more than an hour for the bus to arrive and then sit on the bus for nearly two hours before we started moving because … Well, we didn’t actually know why we were waiting. No one ever communicated anything to us. The bus experience was not enjoyable and rather than a knowledgeable tour guide, we got a grumpy bus driver who had no idea where he was going or why. He told us that rather loudly a couple times along the way should anyone dare ask for any clarifying information.

Once we arrived, hours late, I had to pick up my rental car. Let me explain that rental cars are extremely limited around Denali National Park. There’s essentially one company, but when I’d called them, a small husband and wife run operation, they explained they only had a large SUV left and that didn’t make sense if it was just me, but he offered up that his son rents cars also. Of course he does. So I called up the son, a man named Bart, who said he had one car, a sedan. Considering it was the only car I’d been able to locate to rent, I decided renting from Bart was less of a decision and more of a necessity. I electronically signed the agreement he sent me and yes, I sent him the money. I know it sounds insane, but it’s Alaska. It’s the Last Frontier. Why the hell wouldn’t I rent from a guy named Bart? It made sense.

Bart had told me he’d leave the car at the train station and would send me a picture of the car and instructions on getting the key the day of my arrival. When I texted Bart that day and told him we had been very delayed and I’d be arriving late, I held my breath a little waiting for a response, but he texted the picture of the car right away, with instructions on how to get in. When I saw the picture, I couldn’t believe it. It was a Cadillac. In Alaska. A Cadillac sedan. Quite possibly the most ridiculous car I could imagine renting in Alaska other than a sports car.

By this point, my phone was nearly dead because of course the bus didn’t have chargers. Welp, the Cadillac didn’t have any either. I opened up the ashtray and found one of those ones you plug into the cigarette lighter, but it was getting me nowhere and my phone even had the audacity to tell me that it was a “slow charge”. Great. Confirmation I didn’t need.

I decided to take my frazzled nerves into the Denali National Park Visitor Center and find a proper charger. Frustrated and just done, I was storming into the Visitor Center when I slid on the grate in front of the entrance because of course it was wet. I was holding on to the handle of the door when I went down so even though my knee crashed down — hard, I was able to stop myself from going down completely. A very nice woman asked me kindly if I was alright and I snarled, “Yes, I’m GREAT” and stomped inside. I was not great. I was embarrassed that my frustration had caused me to be careless and so obviously seen by cheerful tourists, and I was in pain. But I found a theater playing a movie about Denali with a seat by an outlet. I texted Bart a “WTF” message (not really that) and expressed my concern about the charging situation and whether or not this car could make it to Talkeetna. I planned to drive back to try to get a second shot at landing on a glacier and a summit tour of Denali. He assured me it would be fine as long as I didn’t take the Old Alaska Highway (ok, Bart) and he said he thought there was another charger in the console (ok, fine).

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As I settled in and looked at the beauty on the screen, I calmed a bit. I regrouped and reminded myself that I was in friggen’ Alaska! How amazing was that? By the time the short film was over, I had enough charge to get to my Airbnb and although I’d planned to hike that day, without bear spray that I’d pick up from the Airbnb, and the dreary weather, I just decided to start heading to the Airbnb. Located about 30 minutes away, I wasn’t sure what the roads would look like but considering it was a cabin in the woods, in Alaska, I figured it wasn’t going to be all paved. Sure enough, the last several miles were on a dirt road riddled with potholes, but I just shook my head thinking, “Bart, this is on you. This is Alaska, not downtown Detroit.”

My Hoop-Dee got me there, but it was no longer white. It was raining heavily (of course) as I followed the very wet trail back to the dry cabin in the woods. Unlike my friend, Maura, who thought dry cabin meant you couldn’t have any alcohol, I knew it meant it had no running water, but luckily, it did have electricity. And an outhouse.

That evening was dreary and I made some wet trips out to the outhouse. The next morning, I was hoping to wake up to sunshine for my second attempt up in the air to tour Denali, but I woke up to more rain. The weather app showed that it would improve in Talkeetna, but it was hard to imagine with the absolute dreariness around the cabin. And it was cold. One of the reasons I chose this cabin was the outdoor shower and I don’t mind it being cold but freezing rain was too much for me. So I skipped the shower and started the three plus hour drive right back to Talkeetna. I was in another foul mood, discouraged and bracing for another disappointment. But within about an hour of leaving Denali, the sun started to come out and the day turned beautiful. I was encouraged and with plenty of time, I stopped to enjoy the sites along the way, feeling more and more excited that FINALLY something would go right. It was during this drive that I also came to peace with my Hoop-Dee and finally started to appreciate it. While it seemed old to me, it turns out it had some fancy features, like air-conditioned seats — Who knew? They came in handy on this hot, sunny, beautiful day and I opened the sunroof and we cruised comfortably along the new Alaska highway.

As I pulled up to the airport, I felt so certain that today was finally the day I’d hear, “Yes, we are a go!” Because of my excitement, I arrived pretty early and went up to the desk. My expected response was less an emphatic YES and more of a, “We’re not ready to make the call quite yet.” Oh dear. It was just a few minutes later that she told me that we were a go, but we may not be able to go all the way up to 20,000 feet because it was windy, but they’d go as high as they could. I mean, that sounded good to me!

I went outside, picked up and put on my provided glacier boot covers, and waited for my flight to get called. When the pilot brought us over to the plane and started providing instructions, one of the first things he told us was that there would be a time when he would tell us to put on our oxygen masks and continued with instructions on how to do so and I was trying so hard to pay attention but was screaming inside, “Oxygen mask??? What have I gotten myself into???”

I’d planned to share the entire flight during this article, but this is already long enough so, once again, Lessons from Alaska will continue next week, or maybe the week after, but hopefully just next week since I won’t be traveling next week … Finally!

One last thing … There isn’t a deep lesson from Alaska here — Only that when you take your frustration out on a door at a National Park Visitor Center, sometimes the karma is pretty instant. And that’s OK. It might be just what you need to snap you out of your mood.

Until next week! xxoo

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I asked the employee if Talkeetna was within walking distance and he said “Yep, just head down that path and you’ll get there.” So I headed off alone, in the rain, carrying my backpacks, into a path surrounded by trees.

While walking, I marveled at how very odd it was to walk in the rain and think nothing of it. It was just the way it was now — My very existence had become a soggy one. I live west of Seattle and after having been in Alaska just a week and a half, I’d spent more time in the rain than the entire year prior in Washington. Life was just … Perpetually damp now.

I did indeed make it to Talkeetna, and despite the penetrating dreariness, I was instantly charmed. It was like I had walked back in time where Main Street was where everything happened, cars were unnecessary and everyone knew each other. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if a horse and buggy passed me. My Airbnb was right in town, directly across the street from the famous Fairview Inn. The rain had created a moat that surrounded it completely, but that was a problem for later because it wasn’t quite check-in time yet.

I was able to drop my bag at the gallery in front of it and head out to look for lunch, as well as mentally prepare myself for the news I felt was sure to come in just a few hours. I thought, “Well, at least I won’t be disappointed and hungry.”

Today was the day I’d been looking forward to for months. My summit tour of Denali with a glacier landing. I was supposed to land, yes, LAND on a glacier. It was to be the pinnacle of my sightseeing adventures in Alaska, but on that dark, windy, rain-soaked day, I felt certain it would be canceled. I was bracing for it, while simultaneously also worried that I’d have to make a decision. There was a chance the forecast was going to clear up slightly. What if I had the option to fly today and experience another tour that got canceled halfway through because of severe weather? When that happened, it almost made the disappointment worse because I got excited and then let down. I wasn’t sure I could handle another once-in-a-lifetime experience snatched from me. Again.

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As I checked into my water-locked, but adorable, Airbnb to await the call from the tour company, I remembered a friend I’d made on the train from Seward (yes, the train where I think I lost the gifts I’d purchased in Seward). This friend was not only a commercial airline pilot, she (yes, SHE, girl power!) had also been in the Air Force and while on the train, she’d shown me pictures of having flown around Denali while in the military. If anyone could help me make the decision of whether to risk going up, she could. I was also looking at the weather and saw that it was supposed to be improving on Friday. If there was an opening, there was a slight chance I could reschedule for that day and drive three hours back to try again.

I messaged her and fortunately, she wasn’t flying and answered pretty quickly. She looked at the weather, the cloud cover and whatever else pilots look at and she told me that if it was her, she would reschedule. That was all it took for me to make the decision and when that phone rang, I was prepared for whatever the caller said. Being prepared felt so much more empowering than just letting fate alone decide. After everything I’d been through, I was looking for wins, even the tiny ones.

Of course, the caller said the tour was canceled that day and I was able to accept the news gracefully. I asked about Friday availability and I was thrilled when they said they had some! I’d have to rearrange my trip but I had a second chance!

In the beginning of the year, I set out to make my second year on Substack be more intentional, with intentional content around a central-ish theme. After much debate on what that theme should be, I landed on sharing stories of meaningful connections. At a time when so much felt out of our control, in a country more divided than ever, I wanted connections to be what guided my journey.

Throughout the year so far, I’ve felt like those connections have found me almost without me having to seek them out … Over and over again. I’ve shared those stories here. When I met Jackie on that train, I was really just enjoying chatting with her. I didn’t imagine that her knowledge and new friendship could provide comfort on a day that I really needed it. But it did. And that’s the magic. That you just never know.

A chance encounter on a train, in an airport, in a tiny town … When you open yourself up to what’s possible, somehow, the impossible finds its way in.

I got my second chance in the skies around the summit of Denali, but my trials and tribulations weren’t over yet. I’ll share what was ahead in next week’s article. See you then! xxoo

After more than two weeks in Alaska, I’m on a plane heading back to Seattle, but this morning, I woke up in a panic. I suddenly realized on my very last day, that I’d misplaced souvenirs I’d purchased in Seward. Each time I packed up during my trip, there had been a nagging thought in the back of my mind … “I feel like I’m missing something.” I was almost certain I’d purchased more otter stickers for my daughter, to the point of being otter-ly obnoxious, but I could only locate one or two. I thought the explanation might be that maybe I actually did exercise restraint with the otter stickers. But this morning I remembered some of the other things I’d purchased and I realized I hadn’t seen them since Seward. OH NOOOOO! I had lost everything I’d purchased that day! I was so sad! I remembered the two stores I’d visited being so cute and absolutely loving the adorable things I mindfully picked out to give as gifts or keep for my own memories.

I spent an hour of my morning in Fairbanks backtracking my steps, calling and/or messaging the places I thought I could have left my purchases. I was so upset with myself. I resigned myself to having done everything I could to locate the items, and ordered an Uber to head to the University of Alaska Museum of the North. Upon arriving, I also bought a ticket to the planetarium show—Aurora: Lights of Wonder.

I’ve always wanted to see the Aurora Borealis, but summer in Alaska, when the sun never really sets, was not the time. The movie was the closest I could do and so I settled in to witness the “lights of wonder” in the planetarium. Not only did the short film display the beautiful lights, but it also taught that the indigenous people thought that the lights were the dance of the spirits of their ancestors. Some other ancient people thought they were arctic foxes, jumping into the snow and flinging lights up with their tails. The lights were mysterious, powerful and other-worldly,

The movie also taught about the science of why the phenomenon occurs and explained that it happens on other planets as well. Images of the Earth and other planets floating among the stars flashed across the screen and as the film closed, it expanded out on the galaxy and showed other galaxies in a wider and wider frame. So many galaxies, so much space.

When I try to contemplate the miracle of life, of us being born and existing and living on this tiny spinning ball, in all of this unfathomable enormity, I’m always in awe. As I walked out of the theater, I thought of the Albert Einstein quote —

“There are only two ways to live your life: One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is.”

At that moment, and so many others I’d had in Alaska, I felt like everything was a miracle, including running into the same traveling group, two women and a man, for the last five days. I first met them on the train from Anchorage and the encounters continued north. Here in Fairbanks, more than 350 miles away from where we’d first met and repeated encounters later, I bumped into them again at the museum.

With them now was a friend who lived in Fairbanks. They introduced Marty, a member of an indigenous group of Alaska native people called Yupik. As we walked around the exhibits, I had the incredible fortune of getting to hear her add her personal experiences to the history of Alaska. I learned so much, including about the “Ice Curtain” during the Cold War, when the Yupik people were separated from relatives in Siberia in 1948, when the border was suddenly closed across the Bering Strait. Wherever people were when the border was closed, that’s where they stayed for 40 years, when the Ice Curtain finally started thawing. Fascinating! I’d never known about this before!

Marty also shared the story of the night her father died. The Aurora lights hadn’t been active that night, but right before her father died, she said her final words to him and, deeply emotional, she stepped outside. As she looked up, she saw the full moon, which looked different, almost wavy and then suddenly, the Aurora lights exploded on either side, spectacularly lighting up the sky at the moment she was certain her father had departed this world.

Years later, she was still visibly moved sharing the experience. I wondered what she thought about the science of the lights. The mystery of the lights seems so much more magical than knowing that the sun’s solar winds and the Earth’s magnetic shield, along with gases in the atmosphere work together to create the different color lights.

No, I think that maybe this is one of those miracles Einstein was talking about. Sure, there was the science, but this story belonged to the miracle. To the comfort given following the passing of a father.

Reluctantly, it was time for me to start making my way to the airport so I said my goodbyes. On the way out of the museum, I stopped by the gift shop. I found myself sharing with the cashier how that morning I’d realized I’d lost some of the gifts I bought in Alaska and how each time I called a place to ask if the items had been found, I was asked to list what I’d lost. I told her, “Ya know, I couldn’t even remember everything I’d lost. None of those items are going to change my life.”

And that’s when I realized I wasn’t missing anything — At least nothing that could be bought in a store or left on the train. Perhaps the tragedy of the morning wasn’t remembering the things I lost, but forgetting the things I’d been given that day: The first sunny day in a string of rainy days, the view of a glacier, the beauty of Resurrection Bay with the mountains finally revealed, the conversation with two women on a porch with a glass of wine, running into a woman I’d met earlier that day and getting to hear about her incredible hike to the Harding Ice Field and finally, the beautiful train ride back to Anchorage, where I made some new friends, laughed with strangers and ended with a rainbow.

The only thing I was missing that last morning in Alaska was gratitude. I found it in a museum, connecting again with people that chance kept bringing together. Learning things I’d never known. And being reminded that everything is a miracle, if we choose to live that way.

If you enjoyed this article or just know that I still have a lot to learn, you can help support my travel. Or just buy me a coffee along the way. Or an AirTag so I stop leaving stuff all over the place (like an iPad in Venice — Different story)

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What the heck is fireweed you ask? Oh, the story of fireweed is beautiful and one I hadn’t heard before traveling to Alaska and now I’m totally in love.

Five quick facts about fireweed:

1. Fireweed is a perennial wildflower native to the Northern Hemisphere

2. It’s famous for being the first species that quickly grows in land that has been devastated by wildfires and clearing because its extensive root networks survive fires and allow the flower to resprout the following summer

3. Each plant produces tens of thousands of seeds attached to tiny little, cottony tufts that travel miles and repopulate barren landscapes

4. It’s a vital nectar source for bees, butterflies, hummingbirds and moths

5. Fireweed extracts deep soil nutrients that help restore soil health so other plants can eventually grow

Finally — It makes delicious ice cream, jellies and syrups commonly found in places like Alaska and Canada. And I have heard talk of it everywhere I’ve traveled.

I just love that fireweed grows out of devastation, spreads beauty far and wide, feeds many creatures and restores health to others around it. And it’s beautiful. If fireweed was human, it would definitely be a woman.

P.S. I’m so behind on writing about my experiences in Alaska because I’ve been so busy experiencing it, the good, bad and very wet! I promise I’m working on it and can’t wait to share more about these life-changing couple weeks.

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I relate so much to that moth. Always trying to beat my head against reality, never changing it. Sometimes dodging a thing swatting at me, trying to take me down. Today, it’s the weather.

I’m on the third day of a 14-day trip to Alaska. Right now, I’m in awe of the view outside, but the morning didn’t start out that way.

I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months, spending hours pouring over various options, booking stays and excursions, planning two full weeks of the most epic exploration of the Last Frontier. Alaska — A once in a lifetime trip! I’d never been before and I wanted to make the most of it. But as the trip neared, the weather forecast was looking pretty awful. My friends tried to reassure me, locals tried to tell me the weather changes quickly but I had a bad feeling. This wasn’t looking good and my excitement was turning into a feeling of despair that was quickly extinguishing that fire of anticipation.

I had a moment of hope when I was landing in Anchorage. It wasn’t sunny, but it wasn’t really cloudy either. However, the next morning I awoke to rain and the full day I had planned was looking as gloomy as the day. I went about the plan, but the promised views were muted, much like my mood.

That brings me to this morning, on this train. It started with rain, so very gray. I’d booked several trains to travel all around Alaska, one back and forth to Seward, then up to Denali, on the famous Alaskan railroad. I’d booked the Gold Star service. This wasn’t just a means of transportation, this was part of the experience. But when I climbed on that first day, I was seated in a row with a family and I felt so alone. And then the tears came. Oh did they come and I couldn’t get them to stop. Snotty and sad, I jut couldn’t move past it. Despondent, I reviewed the seven-day forecast and everywhere I was traveling, rain, every single day, with not even just a chance of sun in sight. I cried more.

My Instagram versus reality moment

And then, it was time for the breakfast that came with the Gold Star service. I didn’t realize we’d not only have to move to the dining car to eat, but that by necessity we had to fill every seat. I was too deflated to do anything but just go with the crowd. I was seated with a family from Texas and I’m certain I looked every bit the mess I felt. I hadn’t grabbed my glasses and in the best of cases I would struggle to see the menu but with eyes fresh from crying, vision was hard and the elderly mother helped me with the menu. Oh how I was humbled even more.

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But, despite myself, I began to chitchat. I resisted a bit but when you’re seated at a tiny table, there’s nowhere to hide. Ignoring them would just make the experience awkward for everyone. Slowly, my inner curiosity had me asking about their trip. They’d had a few good days of weather and I was so jealous, all too aware that there had been beautiful sunny days that ended the day before I arrived. But as they told me about rafting the day before, in that rainy, cold weather, they said it was still beautiful, and acceptance slowly settled in. Sure, I was aware that they’d had a few beautiful days so it was easier to accept some rainy days, but either way, this was what the weather was. I could keep hitting my head against the glass, like that moth, or I could be still and accept, this is where I am.

Despite my resistance at the beginning, I enjoyed my meal with Rose, Rachel and Mike as we shared stories of other trips. As breakfast wrapped up, I left a bit of that self pity in the dining car. As I climbed the stairs to the glassed-roof car, the views started to emerge. They were not sunny, but the mountains were adorned with clouds, dressed in wispy scarves of gossamer. Cascading waterfalls bejeweled the mountainsides and trumpeter swans accompanied the scene, floating on pools of water that dotted the green, dewy meadows.

It turns out despite its best swatting attempts, the weather could not knock down Mother Nature. Alaska was still gorgeous, simply wearing a different outfit. The tears that came to my eyes now were not of despair, but of awe and gratitude. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what it was.

I have no idea why I resist reality. Perhaps it comes from resisting the parts of myself I struggle to sit with, a sense of never being enough, of wanting more. It’s always existed in me. And maybe this trip is less about seeing Alaska, but witnessing this part of myself with curiosity and not judgment, digging into the source and maybe, just maybe, getting a bit better at acceptance.

The rest of the train ride brought beautiful sites, if not the ones I was expecting, and I found some peace. As we pulled into Seward, I had another sad moment knowing what it should look like, and what I was seeing, but I let it be what it was.

I spent the afternoon with some sled dogs, getting to love on them, and their puppies, and even going on a ride, pulled by the 2nd place Iditarod-winning team in all of Alaska. And I got all the kisses and cuddles. That’s the most important part.

Tomorrow I spend the entire day on the water, visiting three glaciers, remote fjords, and so much wildlife — including humpbacks, orcas, sea lions, harbor seals, puffins, and seabirds. I splurged for the most remote tour that goes farther into Kenai Fjords National Park than any other cruise. It’s going to be epic, and it’s going to be raining the entire time. Naturally.

But it’s OK — I looked at the forecast and Wednesday, there’s a little tiny showing of sun. I don’t want to get my hopes up too much, but I’ll be ready to accept what comes to me. That will be the big test and absolutely no promise I won't cry again if the clouds don’t part and show me the iconic mountains around Resurrection Bay but maybe, if I sit quietly, it will be exactly what I need it to be. And that’s all I can really hope for.

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It was still dark outside when I stepped out of my house and into the pre-dawn morning. With my hefty backpack strapped to my back, I began the walk to the ferry terminal. I expected it to be a little eerie to be walking around town at that hour, but at 4:30 a.m., the bakeries and coffee shops along the Main Street were bustling with preparatory activity — bread baking and arriving deliveries. I was nervous the ferry would leave early so I hustled the mile walk, getting there before they even started boarding. As I heard the familiar announcement, “Now boarding for Seattle. Now boarding for Seattle. All aboard!”, I felt tears of gratitude well up in my eyes. My throat tightened and a small, excited smile spread across my face. This was the day my adventure began!

Travel to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport went smoothly and I arrived at my gate in plenty of time. As I type this, I’m staring out the plane window at billowy clouds below — A floor of cotton balls against a bright, blue sky. While it looks beautiful from here, I know it means it’s cloudy on the ground and I’m trying not to let that thought rain on my parade, so to speak. This is the beginning of two weeks in Alaska, with a jam-packed, but also incredibly relaxing and mindful itinerary, ‘weather’ or not, here I come!

Looking at the forecast, it was a lot of rain. Each day. Chilly temps. In my head, Alaska was going to be like Washington and not experience a lot of rain in the summertime. But the long-term forecast showed “higher than average rainfall for this time of year.” I don’t mind rain, but I know what it means for views and the possibility of a cancellation of a flight to Denali base camp, and the impact of other experiences. My attitude about it was miserable and it really was affecting my mood. No amount of complaining would change it. I knew I should just embrace it, but I was struggling.

And then … And then we began our descent into Anchorage and when I say that my jaw dropped, truly, I couldn’t believe the views. Sunny? Cloudy? I don’t know. It didn’t matter. It was stunning.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be good at accepting what is. I’ve struggled with it my whole life, but sometimes our subconscious takes over for us. When I heard that boarding announcement and when I saw Alaska for the first time, the joy and gratitude, the “pinch-me-is-this-really-happening feeling” took over.

I can stay in my head, or I can stay in my feels. I’ve been planning every moment of this trip forever. These things are in my control. The weather isn’t. Maybe, just maybe, I can let myself feel that there is a world of beauty waiting for me to explore and it will be there “weather” it’s raining or not. The experience is mine for the choosing. A truly make-it-or-break-it kind of moment. The choice is mine.

I don’t know what the next two weeks will hold, but as I finish up writing this in my Anchorage Airbnb, it’s nearly 9:00 p.m. at night, and it looks like it’s 4 p.m. in the afternoon out. I may never experience this again. Can I be the person I need to be to soak up every moment? I guess we’ll find out. But for now, it’s time to put on that eye mask and get some rest because I’m bone-tired.

This trip is all about writing — in fact, the middle third of it is at a writing retreat with author Cheryl Strayed — so I plan to post more often. I hope you’ll subscribe for more. And if you don’t have the Substack app, and you don’t scroll the best app out there, you’ll miss the Notes I’ll be posting along the way.

I find the book fascinating because it focuses on how each of the regions that make up North America was founded—The reasons and the values that created them. They vary greatly and many of those differences remain to this day, hundreds of years later. And when you realize this, when you see how it all came together, and how the American Revolution was actually fought, it’s unbelievable that we ever became the United States, and at a time when we’re so divided, it’s easy to see why we are. And at this point, it makes me wonder if we can even become united again, because those differences — They’re also being weaponized.

“American Nations” is about 400 pages long so I can’t cover everything, especially since I haven’t even finished it yet, but on this Fourth of July, it’s my nod to our remarkable history.

Where it all began

Having grown up in upstate New York, I’ve always been a Yankee to Southerners. But the region called Yankeedom that Woodard describes in the book, is closer to the New England area we think of today, though it definitely bled into upstate New York as well. Founded by the Puritans in the Massachusetts Bay area, this region valued education. Many of the founders were educated at Oxford or Cambridge before immigrating and just six years after landing, they founded Harvard, which is the oldest institution of higher learning in the United States. For the people of Yankeedom, their status came from education, not wealth and the region valued community and social support. They believed promotions should be based on proficiency rather than social status. They followed true democracy, with local self-government and civic responsibility.

In many ways, they were very progressive and all of this sounds really great. Where things go a bit awry is their religion and their belief that they were God’s chosen people. They basically shoved their religion down everyone’s throats, violently. Think Salem witch trials, and you’ll understand what I mean. In theory, education, civic duty, they were examples of doing a lot right, but as is so often the case in history, religion mucked it all up. When it came time to decide whether to join the resistance for independence from England, they were first and all in. Think Boston Tea Party. Their history of self-rule and local authority did not support being ruled from across the country, and they didn’t appreciation the taxation either.

Now, heading to the Deep South, starting in about South Carolina, specifically Charleston, this group is completely different. These extremely wealthy plantation owners came from Barbados and the English West Indies because they ran out of land for those plantations. They brought with them enslaved West Africans because their entire plantation model depended on them. This region valued wealth and racialized social order (white supremacy). Wealth equaled social status. There was a defined caste system and limited public institutions, with little investment in public schooling. From the start, they resisted any redistributive programs, and they despised taxes or anything that would cut into their wealth. That said, support of independence from England was mixed. Many elites worried that the revolution could threaten the slave system and therefore leaned loyalist.

The Tidewater region, which is essentially considered the Chesapeake coastal area, was founded very differently. This area struggled to grow and exist because it basically was founded as a business opportunity, rather than any higher moral ideas like Yankeedom. It’s complicated and they failed a whole lot before they gained any traction. Here too were large plantations, and a landed gentry who had worked hard to grow out their tobacco plantations. While there were many elitists who worried about independence from Britain, large swaths of people resented the taxes and preferred their independence. George Washington, Patrick Henry and other founding fathers were certain they could do a better job running the nation and expanding it westward as well.

I have barely scraped the surface of all the regions. New York, started as New Amsterdam, is truly fascinating. Starting as a Dutch trading post, their priorities focused on trade. They were tolerant of all types of people, religions, races — They didn’t care, as long as they could make money. They were tolerant — not because of a celebration of diversity, but more because they knew working together was better for the community. And they made it work. When the English seized it, they resented the interference greatly, but a hundred years later, there were many loyalists because the region was most concerned about its commerce. For them, economy mattered most. All of that makes sense when you consider present-day Wall Street. Some things never change.

And that’s the whole point

It’s surprising when you learn about the history of how the different regions were started, and what their core values at the time were. The people who founded them often very soon ceased to be the majority, but somehow, their values remained. The New England area’s focus on education and equality while the South viewed race as a great divider — These things are still true. And when we know they’re ingrained so deeply, and that what we call the American Revolution was really several revolutions, and when we know how much in-fighting there was amongst the colonies, it seems crazy that everyone came together long enough to become The United States, because truly, they weren’t. At all. They never were and now, with a country as divided as we are now, it’s like the states were all superglued together and made to fit, but the cracks were always visible. Some would say it made us more beautiful, but it’s only when we’re willing to see it, when we choose to see it as a beautiful piecing together. Lately though, leaders seem more willing to want to call out those cracks and chip away at them in such a way that the glue starts breaking apart.

We were never a common people that moved together with one shared vision. The reasons that people chose to fight for independence varied and we only came together for that reason, and many colonists didn’t even want to fight for independence or remained neutral. The American Revolution we learned in school is the simplified version. In reality, there were civil wars that were happening during the Revolution.

And so we compromised

The reason why our country even became a reality at all is because of compromise. Building a legislature that could fairly represent small and large states, creating checks and balances to protect against the rise of a tyrannical center, and a Bill of Rights that would protect individual liberties were all part of the compromises. But some of those compromises left unresolved tensions like slavery, which, ideologically, varied greatly between the North and the South. The founding fathers couldn’t predict everything but addressed what they could.

We may be celebrating 250 years as a country, but we aren’t doing it well. We’re like a couple celebrating a 25th anniversary while sleeping in separate rooms. We’re holding it together, but we’re not doing it well. And in order to fix it, like the founding fathers, we’re going to have to compromise. There are some very real factions here and I may not be good at math, but even I know that if you keep dividing, you’ll only get smaller.

Like England and the colonies, we have to decide to stop letting an elite wealthy few lord over us. We are being manipulated for their betterment, much like the King of England did all those years ago. We fought a war to no longer have a king but not everyone fought. Some were perfectly happy having a king, for many reasons, but some that aren’t so different from today. Economic security, protection of status, attachment to an identity.

I wish I had the answers, or at least a magic ball to know that we’re going to see another 250 years, but I do think in order to do so, we’ll have to compromise and decide that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. We have to stop allowing ourselves to be divided.

After growing up in New York, I lived for about six years in the Midwest, 24 years in Virginia and I now live in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve lived all over this country and while I’ve always been aware of our differences, never before have I heard a leader not only highlight those differences, but outright villify them. It’s wrong, and it will never, ever make us great. We have to decide, as an American collective that, in order to form a more perfect union, this is simply not acceptable.

We will seemingly always be different, but we need a leader who celebrates those differences and brings us together not only in spite of them, but because of them. I may not be a historian, but I am an American.

These are the times that try men’s souls; the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

— Thomas Paine, The American Crisis, 1776

I’ve decided to start doing my own article voiceovers so, if you’re like me and get a little lazy on the reading … Never fear, let me do the heavy-lifting for you. Just click play on the audio and listen, rather than read, my latest adventure.

It’s move-in day and as I look around, I’m having to remind myself that I chose this. I wanted community. I wanted restaurants within walking distance. I wanted to be able to walk in a neighborhood, get to know the dogs—maybe the people—but definitely the dogs, and become part of a community. You see, my word of the year is connection but so far, I’ve been much more comfortable hibernating. Choosing this neighborhood and this residence was very intentional. Previously I lived in a picture-perfect home called the Rose Cottage. Everything about the home was curated, and quiet, with beautiful landscaping. So perfect.

And so isolated.

So, when I had to move out because the owners make their little piece of paradise available to friends and family in the summer, I intentionally picked a place in a well-known walkable neighborhood with cute restaurants, by the water and walking distance to the ferry to Seattle. Now, being that it is a sought-after neighborhood, furnished homes are hard to come by. So, I chose the only one really available.

But going in, I had my reservations.

The unit is a duplex and I am really, so bad at hearing the noise of other people. It gets on my nerves — Like, I like people, I just don’t want to know they exist while I’m inside my home. It’s my version of ‘children should be seen, not heard’. So, a duplex was way outside of my comfort zone. And well, it didn’t start off well.

I figured out privacy had clearly sailed within minutes of parking and starting to unload my stuff. Situated on hills, the sidewalk in front of my house slopes down pretty steeply and as I pulled out one of my suitcases and set it down, it instantly started taking off downhill. I ran and caught it before it got too far, laughing at myself and promptly heard a man yell from caddy corner across the street, “Nice catch!” Great, so I was already being watched. Definitely not isolated now!

Inside, it didn’t take long to hear that on the side that touches the other unit, I could hear voices. Sigh. And then …. And then (horror!) I heard coughing and I thought, “Oh no!!!! I can hear her coughing through the walls??”. I panicked. Then I realized it was outside on the porch. So I thought, “OK, this is my chance to introduce myself.” Gulp.

So I popped open the door, poked my head out and said, “Hi, I’m your new neighbor. I’m Andrea!” I scared the shit out of her. I apologized and explained that I came out because I heard her coughing. To explain the coughing, she responded, “Oh, sorry about that. I’m Kathleen. I like to smoke weed when I get home from work.” Well, OK then. I do not like to smoke weed after work, before work, at work or any other time. I didn’t say that out loud, of course. Nor did I communicate that that is absolutely my worst nightmare. I just nodded and told her it was so nice to meet her and to let me know if I make too much noise or ya know, smell up the joint with WEED. I didn’t say that either. She expressed she didn’t know I’d moved in already and I can only hope knowing that I’m already there nips that habit in the bud … pun intended.

The idea that I would smell pot on the regular brought me close to tears because it usually gives me an immediate headache. I hate it. I had to go lay down for a moment and tell myself that it was going to be OK. Outside my comfort zone. I can do this. It was going to be alright. And I truly never did smell it so fingers crossed that continues.

Another quirky thing — There was random shit everywhere that other tenants have left and the landlord just doesn’t get rid of it. So while there is abundant closet space, none of the closets are empty. Some of my odd finds: a bell, like the kind you ring at a hotel reception desk if no one is there, still in its package; a blood pressure monitor, also still in the box; binoculars, a dish full of coins, a fly-fishing book, super glue (OK, that could come in handy), two, yes TWO bottles of Goo be Gone (I’m worried about why I might need this) and package upon package of dishwasher detergent. But, that’s when I realized — There’s no dishwasher! Where the fuck is the dishwasher??!! It was in the pictures. I pulled up the listing and confirmed. Yep, definitely a dishwasher. But definitely, no dishwasher in the kitchen.

In its place — A fancy, wine fridge. What. the. actual. hell?? I can’t wash dishes in there. But here’s where the story comes just a little bit full circle (although still, where did the dishwasher go??).

Here I sit writing this at a wine bar that is just 295 feet, yes FEET, away from my new place, listening to live music, sipping on red wine, eating cheese and crackers, watching people greet each other by name and simply realizing, THIS! This is what I signed up for — Not the quirky, random shit, or weed-smoking Kathleen, but THIS.

I chatted with the staff and learned the story of the winery. It’s owned by three women (girl power!) who bought it together when the founder decided he was going to move to Vancouver and live on a houseboat. She talked about how incredible the women owners are, two of whom live right in the neighborhood, and she mentioned the community. As she brought me over a pamphlet about becoming a member, it was the easiest sale she ever made. Yes, this is what I signed up for. Community, connections, going into a place where people know who I am. Yes, I will become a member.

Upon signing up, she brought me a few gifts and told me that since I was now a member, I get to try the special, reserve wine that only members can try. And here’s where it gets even more fucking magical. The wine is the first wine the women made when they took over and they named it, wait for it — La Prossima, which translates to the next one, which for these women meant, the next adventure.

YES! On to the next adventure. I couldn’t have asked for a better affirmation. It may be loud, and I may have to box up and get rid of a bunch of weird shit (though to be honest, I think I’ll keep the blood pressure monitor and binoculars — After all, how else will I spy on my neighbors), but despite plunging way out of my comfort zone, I think I’ve found exactly what I’m looking for here in this weird duplex.

My next adventure. Tomorrow morning I’m walking to the French bakery for breakfast, joining the yoga studio around the corner and maybe this weekend, I’ll head to the day spa that is just 276 feet away.

La Prossima. Yes. I see you. And I can’t wait.

Thanks for reading. I can’t wait to share more of my adventures, including my upcoming two-week trip to Alaska. I’d love for you to subscribe for free and/or buy me a glass of wine, coffee or donate to my new yoga addiction by clicking here.

Either way — I’m so glad you stopped by. Cheers!

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Additionally, when he arrived at the Uber station at the airport, he created a scene because he didn’t park where he was supposed to and the other drivers started honking. Samuel was not making a great impression. When he finally pulled in and popped the trunk, I threw my suitcase in before he even had a chance to get out. With a thick Filipino accent, he cheerily applauded at how fast and strong I was. I tried to explain that I was just in a hurry and had already waited too long. I’m not kidding, I was grumpy and I snapped at him a bit. But that didn’t deter sunny Samuel. He just kept making jokes about my strength until he ended up wearing me down and I cracked a smile. That’s when he told me, “Andrea, I have been waiting for you for three hours!”. I giggled, thinking he was playing around, and he said, “No, really, that’s how long we have to wait for rides at the airport. Three hours. There are so many Uber drivers now that we have to wait in a cue until it’s our turn.” The man had seriously been waiting for me for three hours.

He had my attention. I can’t remember the last time a man had waited for me for that long. Tell me more, Samuel! I’m inherently curious and it didn’t take much coaxing to get Samuel talking. Turns out he had been driving for a couple years, and he used to make a lot more money. But now the market is saturated because of the economy and job market, and it takes him twice the time to meet his daily financial goals. He holds out at the airport because sometimes he gets a really long ride and makes good money. My 20-minute ride was not that time, unfortunately, so I wasn’t so sure I was worth the wait. Best to keep him talking and distract him from that fact.

I learned that Samuel retired from one of the local Seattle hospitals and his wife retired from the post office. He had to come back to work because his son couldn’t support himself and pay for his education. He just couldn’t get by. Samuel and his wife had worked hard their whole lives. They’d retired and moved to the Philippines, living his best life on a beach on the China Sea, but came back to help out their son. I asked if his wife was at home waiting for him. Of course not. His wife was also out driving Uber at that time.

Samuel regaled me with stories about his health — he had given up his vices of drinking and smoking — and he wasn’t on any medications. He was in good shape. He made sure not to get too much sleep, because too much sleep at his age is no good, though he does hope to die in his sleep because he has no interest in wasting any money to sit around in a hospital and have someone take care of him. He plans to live to 85. No longer than that. That’s the age his mother died and that’s when he plans to die as well.

He told me that he and his wife would drive until they meet their financial goals—Three more years. They would then retire back to the Philippines, because everything is so expensive here and Americans don’t know how to relax. In the Philippines, he lives like a king and wakes up in his beach house and walks every morning. Who could afford that here, he mused? But Samuel’s dreams don’t end there. He wants to build a strip of homes on his property along the China Sea — Four Airbnbs that face the water, right in a row.

When we got to my hotel, he was emphatic that I do not get out until he turned the car around so I wouldn’t have to cross the street. He informed me that he takes care of women because his mother was a woman. He said if I was a man he would’ve just made me cross the street, good luck! and giggled merrily at himself. He also insisted I dare not touch my suitcase. He brought it out and walked it up to the sidewalk, practically bowing, brimming with pride, and announcing that other Uber drivers simply don’t do that. Samuel is not wrong.

I went into that Uber grumpy as can be. It had been a long day of travel, I was exhausted and I had no intentions of being cheered up. But I was drawn in by Samuel’s spirit, his dedication to caring for his son, his continued dreams and his absolute joy in life. It was infectious. By the time I walked into the hotel, despite the hour, I was suddenly energized and enjoyed my interactions with the front desk clerk. Samuel’s joy of life rubbed off and my cheerful attitude no doubt helped the clerk easily agree to my request for a room upgrade. In a hotel known for its tiny rooms, that night I felt it was quite enough.

I wish I’d taken a picture of Samuel because I have no doubt that his cheerful demeanor, his joie de vivre, would shine right through. But I’m also torn by his story. I’m sad he has to continue to work to pay for his son’s education. At the same time, I’m inspired by his determination and his drive to keep dreaming.

I think of the phone call I had with my dad on Father’s Day. He is a bit older than Samuel, but for the last several years, his life mostly consisted of waking up and sitting around his house with his wife (who may be trying to drink herself to death to escape her unhappiness with how her life turned out), bored out of his mind. He can’t easily walk as his balance is bad but he isn’t ready for a walker. He can’t drive. He can’t work. He can’t do yard work. He can’t/won’t travel. He’s not happy. He says he has no purpose and he misses the days he was out working and seeing people. I joked with my daughter that the only thing keeping Grandpa alive is his hate for Trump and wanting to live to see him out of office. Maybe it’s true, maybe it isn’t. But I think about these two men—my dad and Samuel—and how their lives differ.

It is sad that Samuel still has to work, but he has purpose. He has goals. His dreams extend to his dying days, and even those he has planned out. He had a pep in his step and enough energy to power a small city, or at the very least, pull me out of a bad mood and that is no small feat.

Samuel didn’t have a ton of money, but he had purpose. A person can sustain with money, but they can’t live without purpose.

I tipped Samuel well. Not because of his sob story about his son, or that he carried my suitcase to the sidewalk, but because of the gift he gave me. The reminder that we all have choices in life, no matter how small — Even if that choice is our attitude. He reminded me to keep it simple. I imagine his house on the China Sea is modest, likely a shack by American standards, but he has the beach. He has enough. He showed me you’re never too old to dream. And he made me laugh on a day I did not want to laugh—Perhaps the greatest gift of all.

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It sounds easy but in high school I was only 5’1” Maybe 5 1 1/2” on a good day (OK, I’m still not much taller). My legs were not as long as this AI-generated image, (but my high school mascot was indeed the Blue Devils). The hurdle is 33 inches high — So approximately half as tall as I am. And I had to clear it 10 times in 100 meters. I’m not sure what made me feel I could jump over a hurdle, but I did it and sometimes I won.

At 52-years old, I contemplate the confidence it took to attempt to clear that first hurdle. Confidence seems to come with youth—The unshakeable certainty that we’ll survive whatever we attempt. When do we lose that? The certainty that we can clear all hurdles in our path. Does it come with wisdom? An unfortunate biproduct of experience? Once bitten, twice shy?

I don’t know when we learn these things. I think it probably happens when our heart gets broken a couple times, either by love or disappointment. Or both. The courage and strength to take that leap requires so much more momentum to clear whatever is ahead of us. Confidence waivers when we remember falling flat on our faces leap after leap. And sure, we can dust ourselves off, and get back up, but a scar tissue grows each time we’re required to do so. The limberness of youth? Well, it’s replaced by literal and figurative stiffness as we age.

Maybe this is my way of saying I want to reach back to that teenage version of me that didn’t carry the battle scars of life. And I know — The challenges that gave us those scars make us stronger but damn it, sometimes it’s exhausting being so strong. I just want to hold the moment in youth when the lessons and traumas are still unrealized. The moments when the roller coasters I enjoyed in my youth are fun and exciting rather than ones I dread now. Back then, I had no awareness of my mortality, and I don’t mean just my physical body. I know the wear and tear roller coasters can play on the heart as well … And again, I’m not talking about the physical heart.

What that teenage girl has that I lack now is the ability to throw her body at something and know she’ll be OK. For many years, child-raising, home-caring and career-building took precedent and somewhere along the way, that teenage girl and her dreams were left at the finish line of a track in a race she didn’t even know we was running.

Now the risks I take are calculated. I’m sure many would say the risks of hiking and traveling alone are more severe than taking the leap over a hurdle. But I plan those trips out. I take precautions. I carry wisdom and I am in control.

But that girl — she threw caution to the winds and leaped with her whole self. Her whole self. Her whole, unbroken, limber, unscarred self. And she cleared the hurdle with a smile.

I miss her.

Gratitude

100 days ago, I started a nightly practice of writing three things I was grateful for that day. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing this. I didn’t make a public declaration or a loudly-stated goal. It was a part of a challenge inspired by . Most of those taking part in the challenge were creating art so even though I was part of the group messaging around it, I was operating alone and not sharing. I was just curious to see what would happen.

100 days seemed like a long time but I had written for 31 days straight before so I figured I could do this. That said, I had always struggled with a gratitude practice. I know the importance of it, but I never quite seem to find any consistency. Until now! I completed the 100 days of gratitude in a hotel room in Phoenix, AZ.

For 100 days, I brought my gratitude notebook with me everywhere I went. The first entry was on February 22, in a notebook with a dragonfly on the front, given to me by a dear friend on my 50th birthday. It had languished since then, waiting for its time to be flown into service. In it, this friend had written that dragonflies can remind us to take time to reconnect with our own strength, courage and happiness. That certainly seemed very appropriate.

I thought a gratitude practice was important because I know I often take my life for granted. I’m ashamed to admit this, but sometimes I even feel sorry for myself—For absolutely ridiculous things that feel very valid in the moment. At a cerebral level, I know how lucky I am. I know how much I have, from freedom to financial security, to health, career and being a white woman in America, even as crazy as our country is right now. I know I’m lucky, and somehow, too often, I forgot that.

That’s why I thought trying this was so important. I wanted to change my mindset.

So what happened after focusing on gratitude every day?

I’d love to say that it was, without a doubt, life changing. That it solved any feelings of lack, inadequacy or general moments of feeling down. I’d love to say that … But it wouldn’t be true.

What is true is that every night, no matter how tired I was, I made myself think of three things I was grateful for that day. Some days, it was really hard. Some days were just crappy and the last thing I wanted to do was think of things I was grateful for—I’d even write in the book that it was really a challenge becuase it felt like such a bad day. But I did it. I always thought of something, three somethings.

Over time it got easier. Some days I wrote down more than three things. Many days i smiled thinking about the things I was grateful for. Often I heard my grandsons’ laughter, felt the sun on my face and tasted again the perfect cup of coffee.

I found myself looking for things to be able to write down that night. I sought out things to be grateful for so that night, the practice was easy. And I think that’s the point — To recognize reasons to be grateful for as they happen.

To really perfect the practice of gratitude, it’s effortlessly finding those things on the bad days. I have friends who do this with ease and on my best-self days, I can do it easily as well. It’s on those really hard days, when I least want to, that gratitude can really step in and give me the reality check, slap in the face I need.

You might wonder if I stopped on June 2 at 100 days. It certainly would be expected. The goal was achieved. But that’s the point of doing anything for 100 days—It becomes part of who you are.

So I’m still writing down those three things—101 days and counting. I hope that I can reach for gratitude even on the days I least want to. I hope that my stubborn brain let’s down my guard and reaches for gratitude so fiercely I leave thougths of inadequacy far, far behind. I hope that I never stop finding gratitude in the every day moments, even on those bad days.

Especially on those bad days.

I’m grateful you read this far. I’m grateful for every heart you drop on this article. I’m grateful for the sight to type these words and the computer to type them on. And I’m grateful that I’ll never be alone on this journey — Because you all are here.

And finally, I’d be so grateful to hear what you’re grateful for so I can be inspired for the next 100 days — Because gratitude grows. It’s contagious. And I hope you’ll help me spread it.

Some things I was grateful for this during this past 100 days:

If you’ve never heard of it, Girls on the Run is a program for 3rd - 5th graders that teaches girls to be confident, stand up for themselfves and overall empower them to be stronger, more self-assured young ladies, all while training them to run a 5k (which is this Saturday!). It’s a great program and I coached my daughter when she was that age more than a decade ago.

I felt the calling to once again become part of the program, so I volunteered to coach again. I wanted so badly to feel I was making a difference in the lives of girls, especially now. But I’ve been struggling, not quite connecting with the other coaches, who didn’t rotate coaching the lesson of the day like I was used to. I tried, but I didn’t have as big a part and I felt like I was having no impact at all. Additionally, I’d had to miss a handful of practices because of my work travel. I wasn’t finding the program as rewarding as I’d hoped and wondered if I’d just wasted my time. Until this week.

First, I finally got to run with a girl who is always by herself. She’s autistic and wanted to do things her way. No one ever picked her to to run with or partner with during lessons. I’d been trying to engage her all season. I didn’t think I was making any progress, but I wanted her to feel included so I kept trying. A couple of practices ago, she brought me some pipe cleaners that she made for me that spelled out GOTR. And finally, she let me run with her. It felt like a big deal. I was so proud of her for keeping a steady pace and for setting ambitious goals for herself.

And then today, since I have to miss the final celebration practice, I decided to bring the girls cupcakes, as well as write them each an encouraging card, individual to them, to be opened later. The practice went pretty well and as we were walking out, one of the fifth graders leaned over, looked around and whispered, “I’m glad you’re going to be at the 5k because you’re my favorite coach.” It nearly brought me to tears because this was not the type of girl to load on compliments or try to kiss up to the teacher/coach. I remembered her at the first day of practice — quiet, unsure of herself, hesitant to answer questions. She seemed to fold into herself a bit, a little detached, maybe also trying to be too cool to be interested in what was going on. She’s exactly the type of girl you hope walks away from the program feeling better about herself. And as a fifth grader about to head to middle school, I wanted so much for her to hold her head high and let her personality shine. And I’d been seeing it come out over the weeks.

In her card, I remember I wrote that maybe she didn’t see it in herself, but I had seen her confidence grow over the season. I wrote a quote about following her dreams and I told her that I believed in her. I have no idea if it will have any impact on her, but after what she said today, I hope she’ll remember that her favorite coach thought she was pretty awesome too.

Rarely do we know if we’ve made a difference in someone’s life, but if we’re lucky, we get the opportunity to try. If we’re really lucky, the least likely girl will shock you with a compliment or finally open up to you and it reminds you that just when you’ve given up hope, you finally break through.

As we head into June, it’s going to be a wild ride. I’ll be traveling a lot and I know that will result in a lot of stories to share — At least I hope. I don’t want you to get bored.

Have a good weekend — See you next week!

Then one day, I was walking with an old friend and on schedule, I excitedly waved at my beach “friend” and my old friend said, “Good morning, John!” Turns out they’d known each other even longer than I’d known her. And now, finally, I had a name with a face and a new official friend.

My time living on the beach was coming to an end so I spent those last couple weeks walking with John on the beach, slowly at his pace, as a knee injury frequently flared up and made it hard for him to walk. I listened to old stories of his from the Marine Corps, and burst into laughter when he told me about the time he traded a carton of Camel cigarettes for a monkey in Vietnam. I listened to him talk about his wife, and how they met, the town he grew up in in Pennsylvania. He told me about his children, all grown now.

He was so excited when he found out I had been in the Marine Corps too. One morning, I surprised him by showing up with my, “Once a Marine, always a Marine” t-shirt, and his face just lit up.

I shared our story on TikTok several years ago on Memorial Day and it went a little viral, and John was just tickled to see the hundreds of likes and comments on our post and told me he was going to get “that tic toc app”. (I shared the original video below)

Someone even saw our story and offered us a free parasailing trip together over the Atlantic, but I couldn’t quite get John to agree to that one. But we did share an adventure when he told me he wanted to try to make a homemade cannabis salve to help his knee. I found him a recipe and he got the cannabis from the surfers on the beach, even sent me a picture of the jars of it and oh, I howled with laughter when he told me how his whole house smelled like weed when he made it and he couldn’t imagine what the neighbors thought. I never in a million years thought I’d be helping someone with a pot experiment, particularly not one John’s age but hey, it helped his knee!

I moved across the city soon after that and would see John less often even though I tried to make it over for sunrises with him from time to time. His wife was getting sicker so he wasn’t making it to the beach as often but he would send me texts of a sunrise from time to time. Eventually, I moved across country and mornings on the beach together came to an end.

John’s wife passed away on Christmas morning last year. Last time I was in town I reached out to try to meet up at the beach but he had to stay home because he was giving away much of his furniture to a friend of his grandson’s who had just gotten married. He was moving because he couldn’t take being in that home anymore without his Linda.

Memorial Day is a day to remember those lost serving our country, but if you see a veteran today, don’t just thank them for their service. Walk with them a bit and listen to whatever they want to share.

Be there. Be a good human and honor those lost with your every day actions, not just your words one day a year.

Today, I will be checking on my friend and remembering fondly those many mornings we walked on the beach together so much that people thought I was his daughter. And I’ll probably share this article with him because it might just bring a smile to his face and I can’t think of a better way to honor those lost than to care for those who are still here. Drop a comment to John below and maybe he’ll get that Substack app, too. 😊

It’s decorated like something out of Home & Garden magazine, the landscaping and outdoor space feel like you’ve stepped into a botanical garden, and the landlords are so sweet and take such good care of me. I moved in last October, knowing that I’d have to move out during summer because they make the home available to their family and friends to stay in during those beautiful months in Washington. They offered to let me move back in early, in September, but I had to make a decision. Did I want to move back into paradise, where being a homebody is oh so easy, or did I want to try something different?

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With the date approaching, I started looking for new places to live, considering a variety of options that might place me on the more nomadic side again, but I decided I liked the consistency of having a house. Call me crazy. So, I combed through listings, looking for Paradise 2.0., something equally as charming. It was proving pretty difficult. I truly had found a gem.

That’s when I realized

This was my chance to step out of my comfort zone. This was my chance to seek out the connection I vowed to make this year about. Now was the time to choose community.

So that’s what I did. The home isn’t perfectly decorated, but the landlord is open to making some changes. It doesn’t have a yard, but it has a view of the Olympic mountains and a sunset, with a waterside gazebo just a short walk away. It’s a duplex and I’m a little worried about that, but it has two bedrooms so my grandson can have his own room when he spends the night, not to mention it has a TV, three actually, which was another request from my grandson because ya know, watching Pokemon on my laptop wasn’t ideal. Paradise 1.0 didn’t come with a television, which I personally thought was part of its charm.

But here’s the best part

It’s within walking distance of a coffee shop, a yoga studio, restaurants, a wine bar, a day spa and my beloved ferry that takes me to Seattle. Most of these are literally around the corner. I want to become a regular at these places, see the same people, pet the same dogs, become part of the community—because that’s where connection is found. And my commitment this year was to not just choose connection, but to seek it out. What better way to do that than move smack-dab in the middle of a coveted community.

I’ve hidden for so long in beautiful places and although I know what a white-crowned sparrow sounds like now, it’s time step back into the throngs of humanity. For someone who has hidden for so long, this is a bit scary, but it’s way more exciting.

Until then

I can’t move in until July, so I have a month to fill with a whole lot of travel planned in the month of June. I’ll be in New Mexico, Arizona, Oregon, Utah and Colorado. And less than two weeks after moving in, I’ll be heading to Alaska. There are so many adventures ahead and I just hope that taking a chance on this little place will bring connections I never could have imagined. And I hope you’ll join me to see if my gamble pays off.

Here’s to what’s ahead!

Related articles to check out:

I finally drifted off as the storm passed and moonlight filled my tent and when I awoke in the morning, I was so excited about surviving, I started planning my next trip. During that next trip, a bear lumbered by my tent at 4 a.m., and still I went on another solo trip.

When I tell people about these adventures, they comment about my bravery, but I can tell you there’s not a single part of me that felt brave on any of those nights, but I did it anyway. This ability to conquer fear … Is it bravery, a super power or something else?

This quote came to mind at a dinner I was having with several women a few months ago. During this chat, one of the women was telling a story about being alone in a large house on a spacious ranch in Arizona, just miles from the Mexican border. She was frozen in fear because she was certain someone was in the house, but rationally, she knew that wasn’t the case. Once she realized it was the fear that paralyzed her, rather than reality, she decided from that point on that fear would never stop her again.

In an instant I thought of that how similarly she expressed the same sentiment as Cheryl’s quote above, without even realizing it.

Both stories tell a similar truth — Of mind over matter, of turning fear into personal power. Is it that easy? Is it what allowed me to consciously go into the wilderness alone again and again. Even now I feel like the woman who backpacked alone and the woman I am right now are two different people. I wanted to understand more about why some people are halted by fear and some move despite it.

I decided to reach out to the woman from dinner those weeks ago, let’s call her Linda, who graciously allowed me to ask her question after question in an effort to attempt to understand and from there, I’ve reached a few conclusions that I feel, while not scientifically proven, are a kind of answer to the question: Why does fear stop some people, but not others?

Linda’s story

Linda shares there are a couple things she thinks just give her a natural advantage when it comes to fear and those things allow her to operate not so much without fear, but despite it. Part of it is simply because of her physical form. She’s a very tall woman and she thinks her height does indeed make her more of a force to be reckoned with, much like a man — in this case, size really does matter.

Linda also says she always felt safe; it’s just the way she grew up. Her life has been safe and she always felt secure. It’s simply who she is, and she thinks her natural inclination towards safety and security are simply a part of her makeup. That said, she has come up against scary situations and has been able to still keep her wits about her and react.

“When I was 16 maybe, I remember walking down a street by myself. I was going somewhere and a car of men passed me. And they were whooping and hollering out the window. And then I watched the car as it turned around and started coming back towards me. And in that moment, I knew I was in danger, but I didn’t register fear. I quickly noticed some stairs nearby and I just ran up the stairs and disappeared before they came back. It wasn’t until afterwards that it hit me that that could have been a very bad situation if I had froze with fear.”

Another time was when Linda was on her ranch with her children. It wasn’t uncommon for people crossing the border to walk by and ask for water. Knowing it wasn’t illegal to offer humanitarian help, Linda would provide water to these groups, who were typically very polite and non-threatening. But one afternoon Linda was hanging laundry outside when she saw three men approach and felt their demeanor was different.

They kept approaching, and with it, Linda’s concern heightened. When they got a little too close, she put up her hand and firmly said, “ALTO!”, stop in Spanish. To her surprise, it worked. She asked them if they needed water, and they said yes—water and food. She told them to wait right there, and she went inside and got together a bag of food and water. She told her children to watch at the window, cell phone at hand. As she went back outside, she knew the handoff was going to be the tricky part as she’d have to get closer and they could grab her. She chose to hand it to the one who looked the least intimidating. The handoff went smoothly; the men seem pleased and they left. It wasn’t until later that day that she heard of an incident with Border Patrol and a huge load of marijuana and felt certain that those men had been involved and she was so grateful she’d handled it like she had.

“I think my attitude, the fact that I was both firm but nice and offered them supplies, things they would need, without them having to ask and without the confrontation they were expecting, kind of diffused the situation.”

She described another situation with a tenant who had threatened another one of her tenants with a gun. When telling the man he was going to have to leave, she showed no fear and stood firm, even though upon driving away, she was shaking. She didn’t let that fear show until she was clear of the threat.

To spend any time with Linda is to know a confident woman at peace with who she is and that confidence spills over into so much of her life, but we’re not all Lindas, six foot tall with a childhood that embodied security and confidence. We aren’t Cheryl Strayed who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail alone before there were cell phones and satellite phones to call for help. But can we learn from these situations to not let fear control us? I think so.

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Both women decided, and I suppose I did as well, to acknowledge that we can’t control whether we are afraid, but we can decide how that fear will control us. Here are five ways:

1. Posture, demeanor and stance can matter. Similar to how you should make yourself as large as possible if you come across many wild animals, filling up space has the potential to make you feel more confident. The classic, fake-it-till-you-make-it technique. Practice that power stance and rock it on demand.

2. Don’t show fear, which is much like fake it till you make it. Those looking to prey on others look for that fear, assuming that is an easy target. Don’t let them have that window. It doesn’t matter what you feel inside—Outside, exude confidence. I often talk to myself and say things like, “You’re fine, chin up, shoulders back, walk with purpose, you’re a badass.” Even if you don’t know where you’re going, don’t stop until you’ve cleared the danger, then figure it out.

3. Feeling fear and letting fear stop you are two different things. The moment you let fear stop you from doing something is the moment it has controlled your life. Sometimes it’s as easy as self-talk, “Yes, this situation is scary, but I am strong, competent and prepared to handle it.” Paired with a deep, calming breath, those two things may be all you need to take the next step. And then one more after that.

4. Look at fear with a logical mind —Literally talk yourself out of it.

   • When I was in that tent in that storm, panicking, thinking of the many ways that I could die, I knew the only way I was going to stop how I was feeling and end that terror loop was to fight fear with logic. Many people backpacked solo, but few died. My chances were good. This was an established camping spot, even if it was in the middle of nowhere. Many others had been there and survived. I acknowledged that my imagination was making things much worse. I made myself stop thinking of those things and beat back irrational thoughts with factual ones.

   • When that bear walked by my tent, my breath went shallow and I grabbed my whistle and knife, preparing to not go down without a fight, while also instantly knowing that my bear spray was not going to be helpful because I couldn’t spray it from my tent without affecting me. Don’t underestimate your ability to think calmly while simultaneously being scared. The two can co-exist. My heart might’ve been racing but somehow, everything else slowed down enough to allow thoughts to exist. I know this kind of reaction is not unusual. It’s what Linda experienced when those men in the car turned around—action, and then the feeling.

5. Finally, listen to your gut. There is absolute science behind the fact that your body can react to a threatening situation in ways your mind can’t understand. You don’t need to understand it— Just listen to it. I’ve shared the story about how I turned back to my car after starting a hike because something didn’t feel right, only to find out days later that a mountain lion was in the area and attacked a young boy right where I’d been. I didn’t see a mountain lion, but my body felt the danger. I listened. There’s a difference between letting irrational fear stop you and letting your gut stop you. You’ll know the difference when you feel it, I promise. Read more about the vagus nerve and gut reactions in this article.

“You know, that is not the way to live life, to be afraid of things. I think it’s good to have respect for scary situations and things that are out of place. But irrational fear is not part of my language and way back I realized that living in fear is not going to make for a good life. They say you attract what you know and if you think everything’s scary, then everything’s going to be scary,” mused Linda.

I won’t tell you fear is not real, and you shouldn’t be afraid. It serves a purpose and it should be respected, but I’m also here to tell you that we get to decide if that fear stops us or gets turned into something that can empower us and help us to live more fulfilling lives.

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But here I am, stepping officially into THE year. What makes it a magical year? Of course, I had to research that because I myself had no idea. Here’s what I found out. In Mayan tradition, the 52nd birthday is considered a rare and powerful alignment because your Mayan “Tzolkin” birthday (based on the 260-day sacred calendar and also a calendar I’d never heard of) and your Gregorian birthday finally synchronize again. It only happens once every 52 years, apparently, so presuming most people don’t live to be 104-years old, it only happens once in a lifetime.

So, I’m having a once-in-a-lifetime birthday!

Although, honestly, aren’t they all? While the answer is yes, the 52nd year is it’s supposed to be a time when you shed old identities and become more authentic. It’s seen as a spiritual awakening, when you step away from old patterns and toward a more self-actualized, service-oriented life. Sign me up, please.

Some astrologers also see the 52nd birthday as the year your soul’s mission becomes clear and I’m smiling as I type this because, wouldn’t that be lovely? I would so love to know my soul’s mission, although I do feel like I’m finding it here on Substack, where I’m finally making the promise to myself to write more, and where I’m falling in love with the process and the connections I’m making. So maybe this is the year I’ll find my purpose after all (wink, wink, Andrea After All).

To be honest, I didn’t find a lot of sources saying 52 will be a magical year. The information was out there, but not overwhelming, so I guess it’s up to me to make it that way. I do know that I could use some clarity, authenticity and purpose, but perhaps a little less transformation because a lot has changed already.

On some days, I look in the mirror, and I see the beauty in this new, older face. I see myself and notice the signs of graceful aging. I admire my body, and its additional curves (and sags). I’m grateful for its strength and good health. On other days, I find the flaws in my face, I notice the roundness of my belly and I’m not as kind. I’m trying to lean more towards embracing where I am in life. It’s difficult when you see pictures of yourself from even five-years ago and think, “Damn, look how thin I was — Look how much younger I looked!” This shift in my body at this perimenopause stage has me feeling a bit out of control at times, but I am hopeful that at 52-years old, it will level off. I’d much rather spend the time embracing myself as an absolute mythical goddess full of wisdom than holding on to the relic of a girl who didn’t even know herself but was skinnier and had tighter skin and thicker hair.

So, as I consider what I want for myself this year, I know the biggest gift I can give myself is one of acceptance. Self-acceptance, situational acceptance and acceptance that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I want to embrace every day with gratitude and awareness of how very much I have. When I opened up my meditation app this morning, to do my birthday meditation, the opening quote on the screen was: “What you notice, grows.” I think that’s a perfect way to start this year.

I’ll never be as young as I am today. I’ll never get to do this over again and I know how much time I’ve wasted on phone scrolling and wishing things were different. The last five to ten years have been so full of growth, change, transformation, self-discovery and while I don’t think that ever ends, I think it has definitely transported me to the perfect launching pad for this indeed to be a magical year.

🌅

I awoke this morning in an attempt to see the sunrise, but it was cloudy — No sunrise to be seen, but I know the sun was there, just behind the clouds. And I know there will many sunrises to be seen this year. And so, let the 52nd year begin, with all of you here on Substack, the bright stars I also can’t see but I know are always there.

As I continue on my journey this year, I’ll enjoy collecting more Substack friends along the way. After a very, slow climb to 100, the growth has snowballed a bit and I’m well on my way to 250 subscribers. The most exciting thing is I have no idea what this platform holds for me. It’s already given so much, and I know it’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m not quite to the launching of paid subscriptions, all my content will remain free for now, but for my birthday, I did actually take the leap to offering a button to ‘buy me a cup of coffee (or a slice of cake 😉)’, which was HUGE for me and feels so incredibly weird and awkward to do. A paid writer? Me? Maybe one day.

The time to switch to paid subscribers will come, but I’ve got some work still to do to feel like I’m ready to take that leap. Maybe it will be this year. Why not? 52 is supposed to be a magical year, and if I say that it will be, isn’t that enough?

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Have any of you had a magical 52nd year? Or any other year? Let me know below!

Well, this is awkward. At this point I’ve published more than 60 articles, but not one of them has been a formal introduction of who I actually am. I’ve just been writing away, revealing a little bit of myself at a time. I think one of the hardest parts of writing this type of article is knowing just how deep to go, so I’m going to do my best to find the right depth and hope you’ll dive in.

Another hard part about writing this is the scariness of admitting to a whole bunch of people that I’m an incredibly imperfect person who has probably messed up more things than I’ve gotten right (ask my ex — he’ll happily tell you!). And while I write about some of these things so that I can both understand and process things, I also write so that others will see their messy, imperfect selves in me and maybe not feel so alone. And maybe I won’t either. So, settle in — It’s story time.

What’s in a name?

I started going by Andrea After All on my social media about seven or eight years ago. It was at a time that I felt like my previous name was attached to a different chapter and maybe it was time to turn the page. I remember exactly where and how the new name was chosen — With a couple of friends on a hot day, brainstorming ideas around the idea of the person I was becoming. We thought of all kinds of names when the name Andrea After All came to mind. I realized after all the searching, the trying, after the detours, the compromises, and those versions of me I thought I had to be or the expectations I had to meet — I was just me, after all. Andrea, after all.

Right now, I’m approaching 52 years old (like, seriously, it’s days away). I’m single. And have been for a sometimes depressing, mostly liberating, length of time. Other than about six years when I lived in Kansas, I’ve always lived on the East Coast. And then just last year, I moved to Washington state because my daughter and son-in-law (courtesy of the Navy) had the nerve to move my grandsons there, so of course I had to follow. I have another daughter who lives in Virginia still but being newly married, she is solidly independent and probably prefers the distance, if we’re honest.

When I was little (ok maybe not that little), I was obsessed with outer space and wanted to be an astronaut, but when I realized how you actually launched into space, I decided I’d better explore other options because that sounded terrifying. I then wanted to go into international relations. I was interested in politics, which is wild to think about in our current political situation (apologies to the rest of the world).

I spent my senior year of high school as an exchange student in Spain. It was an incredible experience. I lived with a family in Spain, one that was well off. The whole experience was surreal to me because I had grown up very poor with a very strict mother. In this home, I had an entire floor to myself. My own bathroom and a balcony off my bedroom where I could see the Mediterranean Sea. I also had more freedom. I may have gone a little wild there but that’s definitely another story.

While Spain was a wonderful experience, it meant I was very far away from college planning. My guidance counselors weren’t there, I wasn’t applying for colleges or scholarships, my parents most definitely weren’t helping me. There was no internet to readily look up all this information. I was just living in the moment and despite graduating near the top of my class, I had no college plans. In a time when college visits are happening for kids in their sophomore and junior years, this seems really strange now.

I tried going to a community college for a little while, but I really couldn’t even afford that. I had zero help or financial assistance from my parents, and no one to guide me. I’d left home because well: One, that’s what you did back then when you reached 18 but also because my mom and I were not getting along well after I’d had a taste of freedom. It’s hard to put that genie back in the bottle.

During that one (or was it two) semester(s) of community college, I met a boy in, of all places, French class. We started dating and this boy was signed up to join the United States Marine Corps, so what does a girl who has absolutely no plans in life do? She enlists also, naturally. They had cool uniforms and seemed pretty badass. This was my solution to paying for college. When I look back now, I realize that with the fact that we were poor and with my grades and other achievements, I really could’ve probably had a full ride to school. I kick myself a little but also, no one taught me this. And why do it the easier route when I could pick up an M-16 and sleep on the ground instead?

But, as you may know, life is funny in that it always has the last word. The boy and I broke up in a rather spectacular or perhaps just typical, youthful way and I went off without him to Parris Island, SC. He never did leave for boot camp and actually got out of his enlistment, but off I went to stand on the yellow footsteps and get screamed at by some very impressive drill instructors. To this day, anytime I think something is difficult, I remember that I survived Marine Corps boot camp, therefore, I can do anything.

It was while I was in the Marine Corps, stationed near Camp Lejeune, NC that I met a fellow Marine who would quickly become my husband and several decades later, my ex-husband and in between there are so many memories, but that level of depth is meant for a different article, or many different articles.

We both got out of the Marine Corps and moved with our newborn daughter to Kansas to be closer to his family. Never did I ever think I’d move to Kansas. When I first saw his Kansas license plate I said, “Whoa, people actually live in Kansas?”. In my defense, I was only 19-years old, and it was the pre-social media days. Our worlds were pretty small back then. But in Kansas, I earned my bachelor’s degree in communications/broadcast journalism. I’d always had a fascination with journalism. My first career was a television news producer. It’s actually how we got back to the east coast. I was offered a job as a producer at the NBC affiliate in the Virginia Beach area.

I’d gone into television news to be a reporter. I wanted to save the world, Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters style. I wanted to do meaningful work that made a difference. Instead, it was one breaking-news shooting story after the other. And then along came September 11th. To say the news business was depressing would be an understatement. It was so much more of that and so much less of what I wanted it to be. Not to mention the toll it was having on my family. During this period, I had another child and at the time, produced the morning show, which meant working overnight to pull together the newscast. The solution to struggling to get overnight childcare when my firefighter husband was also on shift was to allow me to bring the baby to work. So, there I’d be, baby on one hip, handling a breaking news story and a reporter in the field during a live newscast. It was a tad bit stressful. This is also the litmus test to any current stressful situation I deal with at work — Are we on live television and is everyone looking to me for their next instructions? No? OK, then we can handle this.

But my love affair with television news came to an end when I missed my daughter’s first day of school. I knew that was it for me. When it came time to renew my contract, I declined and opted to find another career, following a listing in the newspaper for security clearance investigators. Can you remember when that’s where you looked for jobs? Wild.

Career number two ….

For about ten years I worked for that company, badge in hand, conducting investigations for the military in Hampton Roads, Virginia area, home of the largest naval base in the world, and up in Washington, DC. Some crazy stories came from that job, to be sure. Besides investigations, I also became a team leader and led a team of investigators and was also able to work on some projects and communications work until one day, we lost the government contract and received a cease-and-desist letter. All of us immediately had to stop working and that was the end of that job and that chapter.

Onto career number three …

After some side quests of contract work and trying to start my own plant-based cooking/consulting business, I landed a fantastic job returning to my original passion of communications — Even better, the role was for a great company with a national footprint. Through various structure changes, I worked there for eight years working with the kind of team that felt like family, doing all manner of fun jobs of writing employee communications, articles on our intranet, videos, executive ghostwriting, event planning and for a time before COVID, I leveraged our in-house studio to produce and co-host an employee television show.

I loved my job and that led to my current role with the sustainability team at our parent company.

Enter career number four!

I get to take those communication and relationship skills to a role that’s titled Business Partner, so literally I get to partner with our divisions and travel around and tell them about our sustainability goals and find ways we can best partner to save the planet. I’m ten years and counting working for this company and I’m pretty grateful for that.

When I wasn’t working, I ran a lot. For more than ten years, I was all in on running, and my husband joined me in that endeavor. I ran so many races, 5ks, half-marathons, marathons and even a couple ultra-marathons.

I co-led a running group. I coached my daughter’s Girls on the Run team and was the cookie mom/co-leader for Girl Scouts. There were vacations to Disney, Europe, the West Coast and other adventures in between. We really were living the dream, a great life. But, that’s not the whole story.

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I’ve written a lot about careers and all the doing in this article, the busy times for about 20 years of my life but the best part of the roles I had following television news is that they allowed me to be more in charge of my schedule so I could be around for my daughters, which was the best part of the jobs because they were growing up fast. And so was I.

And here’s where it gets more difficult

Through all of the busy, I was able to mostly ignore, but not completely ignore, a sense of being not completely satisfied. Of always feeling a little bit like something was missing. A close friend told me she always felt like I was looking for something. And I suppose I was. In all of that busyness, I was looking for me, I just didn’t know it.

It turns out when you get married at 19, you really don’t know who you are. And it wasn’t a choice I made based on love, but what I glossed over above was the fact that just a month after meeting, I became pregnant. And a month after that, we got married, although for me it wasn’t necessary. I told that man, who I was just beginning to know, that I was going to have this baby, that there was no other consideration and he didn’t have to stick around for it. I’d had a lackluster father and had no interest in bringing a child into the world with a father who wasn’t engaged. His response was, “Well, I guess we have to get married now.” It wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but we were two kids, playing at life, and making the best decisions we could. So, we got married, two months after knowing each other, at a Justice of the Peace ceremony, with two guys from his unit as witnesses and I cried the entire drive to the courthouse.

I did come to love that man, and he was a good father. Neither of us were perfect but we did our best to raise two girls without great role models for parents or marriages. We messed up a lot, got some things right, but overall, our daughters have grown into pretty fantastic humans, so I’ll call that a win.

Somewhere amidst all of it, I was still searching. No story is ever as clean as that, and we both brought trauma, insecurities, abandonment issues and wounds that both of us struggled to heal. I didn’t know myself enough to even begin to understand what I was feeling, so I stayed busy just “doing”. But a core part of me wasn’t being fed, and I wasn’t self-aware enough to explain it to him, and he wasn’t self-aware enough to know what to do with it. Of course, there’s so much more to the story, so much messiness and hurt, but this piece is not meant to share it all.

We can never know if the decisions we made are the right ones. We can only know that they’re the ones we made. Sometimes we wrestle with the knowing and the guessing. Some clarity can only come after the storm, once the rain and winds have stopped clouding our vision. We take the journeys we take and somehow have to trust that they’ll take us where we are meant to go. In the end, maybe it was never about the destination, but what we get to learn and who we get to meet along the way. So that’s why I’m here, that’s who I am, and that’s what I’ll write about. The becoming after the unknown, the person you are at the core, the “After All” in all of our stories.

I hope you’ll join me on the journey.

This past weekend I also went to the movies alone, something else I hadn’t done before being a single adult. I’ve eaten alone at restaurants so many times since my divorce I can’t even guess at a number. I’ve taken dozens of solo trips and I’ve driven across the country, coast to coast, three times. By myself. I’ve also traveled internationally alone. Let’s just say, I’ve done the alone thing really well. I’ve enjoyed it. There’s something about going on a road trip and getting to stop whenever you want without having to get a car consensus. I can pee once an a hour or I can be a camel and not drink at all to avoid pitstops.

Living alone has similar perks. It means leaving my shoes wherever I want and knowing they’ll be right where I left them. It means eating whatever I want for dinner, even if that thing is a bowl of cereal. There’s no debating whether or not the other person feels like having pasta again. I mean, to be fair, that should never be a question. I can always eat pasta. I love having the bed to myself. I can have whatever kind of wacky alarm I want, at whatever hour, without bothering another human.

But recently, as I was watching the sunrise, the peace was disturbed by a very loud, very distressed goose. I looked up and noticed it was alone, flying in circles, looking a bit lost and making noises I really wasn’t used to. I realized I never really see geese alone. I researched it and geese are very social animals and they indeed are rarely alone. I can tell you that goose was not digging it. I don’t speak geese, but I understood that. I understood that goose was very upset.

It got me thinking about how I’ve been acting lately. I’ve not been showing up in the ways I would prefer. I’m not feeling or acting my best and having a bit of what the French call ennui, just a sense of boredom or dissatisfaction in life. The way I’m feeling also reminds me of the quote from the Mad Hatter to Alice in “Alice in Wonderland” — His declaration about how she’s lost her muchness.

I definitely feel like I’ve lost my muchness, my sense of true self and joy. That joie de vivre (I swear I don’t speak French, it’s simply a coincidence as I suppose the French just know feelings). My joy of living, my feistiness … They just aren’t what they used to be.

Which brings me back to that goose … loudly protesting being alone. And I wonder, is that it? Is the aloneness finally getting to me? When I’m home alone, I’m fine, mostly. But it’s when I go out into the world that the aloneness feels different these days. But not all the time. I truly do enjoy so much of traveling alone and I generally meet people along the way and have interesting conversations, which I likely wouldn’t do if I was with someone else.

I think maybe I’m tired of doing all the things alone. For once, I’d really like for someone else to put air in my tires, or help me take my cargo carrier off the roof of my car. Let me tell you, that’s a tricky thing to do alone … Not impossible, just, tricky, particularly when you’re as short as I am. It’s not like I can’t get help. My daughter and son-in-law are 20 minutes away. But it’s just all the things I suppose. I love to cook dinner for myself, but there’s never anyone to do dishes. And really, these things aren’t a big deal. They’re all managable. But … is life about being manageable?

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Last night, I had a dream about meeting a stranger on a plane. It was an unusual plane (hey, it was a dream). He asked me to dance (yes, there was a dance floor, and some kind of buffet??). We laughed while dancing, putting on quite a show. Turns out I’m a really fancy dancer on a plane. We even kissed (gasp), which again—dream. You have to suspend reality a bit. I’m not in the habit of kissing strangers. None of it particularly made sense, other than the fact that I was on a plane, which is quite common.

I don’t think the message is saying that I want to dance alone with a stranger on a plane — Frankly I think that’s quite unsafe. The horror! I’m one of those ones who leaves her seatbelt on all the time just in case of rough air. But I do think there was a message in it for me, and perhaps it was related to my penchance for safety. Could it be telling me that I have to step out of my comfort zone?

I absolutely think that being alone feels safe. Alone is where I can be myself, on my terms. And I think it’s quite possible that I’m afraid to fully give that up and step into the unknown, which is a pretty embarrassing thing to realize because people tend to see me as fearless. I certainly do things that others find brave on the regular, but to give up the freedom that being alone brings? That feels very different-level brave to me because it was something I’d never had before.

Getting married at age 19 and becoming a mom at age 20 meant I never really had time to get to know me. Before getting to know myself, I became a partner. And being a partner at that age means you kind of became your spouse also — Essentially you grow up together. No one really has a strong sense of self at age 19. A person’s prefrontal cortex doesn’t even fully develop until age 25. That part of your brain helps manage thinking, emotions and behavior. So, when you don’t develop those things before getting married, it’s easy to absorb the beliefs and personalities of the other person as you finish developing, making it very difficult to know who you are as an individual, independent of being a partner.

It’s hard to know who I would’ve become if I hadn’t gotten married, but I think a part of me always knew, always felt, that I was being stifled, that I was staying small. I very often deferred to him and to this day I shrink a bit when I’m in the room with him. And that might be a choice I willingly made or one I felt I had to make. But after 23 years married, I’ve spent the last nearly decade trying to unbecome everything I felt wasn’t true to me, while also becoming who I really am. And none of that feels like it’s happened very quickly.

In the end, I suppose it’s true you can’t teach old dogs new tricks. But how about an old goose … a loud, protesting goose? Perhaps. For now, I’ll keep putting air in my tires all on my own, unless you know of anyone interested in filling the position. I suppose the only way to know is if I start taking applications. I will say though, I probably won’t be as quick to hire as I was on the plane during that dream, but then again, maybe that’s exactly what the dream was trying to tell me. Dance, anyone?

Rewind to April 2018. The month before my 44th birthday, I moved into my very own place for the first time … Alone. While it was all happening, I never thought about it like that. It wasn’t until I settled in that I realized I’d never lived alone before. Wow. I went from my mother and stepfather’s house, to living with friends, to renting a room with other women, to moving in with my boyfriend’s family, to leaving for the Marine Corps and definitely not living alone, and then to moving in with my husband at the age of 19, where I lived for the next 24 years. Never alone.

So much happened in the 26 months I lived in that tiny condo. A part of me had anticipated that, like a teenager with her first bit of freedom, I would go a bit crazy. Late nights, parties, dating, the whole girls-gone-wild thing. I did not. I quickly realized that was not for me, not anymore. That ship had sailed and, in its place, floated a much slower, much more directionless vessel. One who realized she had a lot of healing to do, and a lot of growth.

The highs and lows that happened in this 600 square-foot little shoebox should not have been able to fit into such a constricted space. But somehow, much like humans, it held more than its obvious capacity. It held the nights I cried myself to sleep, and the mornings I could barely get out of bed from sheer exhaustion. It lifted me up when I received yet another text from my ex telling me what a horrible mother and all-around human I was. It held me as I sat and crunched numbers to figure out how I would pay the bills and showed grace when I decided to buy a bottle of wine with the last few dollars I had that week. It wrapped me tighter when I felt both the loneliness of COVID arriving while everyone posted about family game nights, but also provided the relief that my restricted lockdown included the Atlantic Ocean. It sat with me while I binge watched the entire “Sex and the City” series that I’d never watched when it came out because I was a new mom, working and raising little ones. But in that tiny, solo space, I devoured it and let it give me the space to dream.

I remember the bittersweet pride of getting my very own Christmas tree for the first time. We’d always had a real one, but it wasn’t practical in that space (or budget) so thanks to the donation of a friend, I purchased a small artificial one. Traditions aside, two friends joined my daughter and me to put it together and decorate it for the first time. I remember so vividly sitting by that tree with my youngest, 16-years-old at the time, celebrating our first Christmas without her father there, and being all too aware that I could barely afford gifts for her that year. I knew her dad had given her so much more. Sitting on that brown carpet, I hoped so badly she would understand and not see her mom as a failure, but as someone who was trying her best. I silently hoped for grace. As I’m writing this, I’m crying, not only at the pain of the memory, but at the realization of how far I’ve come.

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Some memories from that time are so hard to reach back and feel — Better left in the hidden corners of that little home. And yet, there are just as many good ones that float to mind and bring a smile.

At the time, I thought I was just barely surviving, but in reality, it was a time of impossible growth. Despite the odds, I was like a plant growing in the cracks of a sidewalk. I didn’t see it at the time. I don’t think we ever do in the moment. But hindsight, and the reminder of friends, brings more clarity. It was during this time that I discovered the power of female friendship. I thought I’d known before. I had not. I’m paused typing, thinking of the many ways they were there for me and damn if it doesn’t make me cry again. So many people helped to take care of me, in so many ways. I’m not exaggerating to say that I couldn’t have done it without them. I may have lived alone, but I had so many visits from loved ones from around the world. We smashed a lot of love and laughter in that compact space. They picked up the pieces when I just couldn’t.

And the beach. What the friends couldn’t heal, the waves reached. I woke up to witness so many sunrises that brought tears of hope every time.

Every single time it seemed like a miracle that darkness could be cast aside by light that appeared out of the waves. My sidekick was my bike, who I named Stella (as in Stella got her groove back) to see so many free concerts on the beach, sweaty but happy in a bittersweet way that I struggle to describe with words but can feel on recall.

To this day when I go back there, I’m transported back to that time, to that former me. I could fill a book with those memories. And maybe one day I will. It’s true — It was a shoebox, but for that two plus years, it was my shoebox. It was my refuge.

A place can change you. That place doesn’t have to be a foreign land, or anywhere exotic, it can be wherever you decide to let your heart have a chance. Looking back, the painful memories fade way to the back. I remember a woman fighting to heal a broken heart, clawing her way out of financial stress, learning and discovering who she was, alone, for the first time in her life. Making mistakes. Learning from them. I didn’t see it then, but I was so alive, so very engaged, living, despite, or maybe because of the struggle. I grew more than I gave myself credit for at the time.

For the rest of my days, I will fight for that version of me who struggled to find herself for the first time. When I consider giving up, when I forget who I am, I will look back and remember what I survived. And after all the searching and struggle, all the questions of who I am, of purpose, of happiness, it was in this tiny, unlikely place that the journey began. This place witnessed my becoming. This is where I became Andrea … After All. After all of my different roles, I realized, I’m Andrea. Not finished, not perfect, nowhere near done with the journey, but Andrea. After All. For now, that seems enough. It feels like more than enough.

On the first leg of my journey, I finished The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. I’d heard so much about the book but my goodness, I was a bawling mess sitting in my window seat on that plane (tissues definitely needed). Most of those tears were happy tears, but not all. It might be one of my favorite books ever. A story of regrets, redemption, growth and so many surprises. It reminds you to not wait to heal or to forgive yourself, but rather to pour yourself out into your life so fully that all heaviness is lifted and you’re able to soar. And perhaps most of all, it reminds you to not wait too long to live. And also … to not forego love. I could go on and on about this book but suffice it to say it’s one I will be thinking about for a long time to come. If you’ve read it, I’d love to know your thoughts on it.

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And now I write on my way to Seattle, looking towards April. I thought I’d welcome it by sharing some things with you that are coming up this month that you just might find interesting (or maybe not 😊).

• What makes the start of this month pretty cool is it kicks off with a Full Moon on April 1, no joke. It’s called The Pink Moon. The full moon is thought to be the perfect time for letting go. I wrote about it a couple months ago in this article, “Stay Wild, Moon Child.” Also, don’t forget your moon water tonight!

• Of course, today is April Fools’ Day. Apparently, it’s not as much of a thing as it used to be but my favorite prank I played on my daughter when she was little was making Jell-O in a glass and serving it as juice. Her little eight-year old face was so confused when the juice wasn’t moving. Feel free to use that, even if it is a little lame. Hey, you have to know your audience.

• April 2 is World Autism Awareness Day, a day near to my heart as my grandson is on the spectrum and absolutely perfect just as he is. I love his view on the world and his incredible brain that doesn’t forget a thing (this can be both a good and bad thing 😉).

• Give your pets 🐶 some extra love on National Pet Day on April 11. I don’t have any pets of my own right now but I love animals and will be sure to find a dog or cat to pet that day.

• April 17 is the New Moon … I wrote about my adventure with the Black Moon here and it’s one I’ll never forget.

• This one is personal to me but perhaps you can send good thoughts my way on April 18 as I’m going back to school for the first time in a long time! I enrolled in a writing class, my first ever! My undergrad degree is in Communications with an emphasis on Broadcast Journalism but I’ve never focused on more personal writing. I’m super excited to be attending in person and it feels kind of wild.

• Buckle up for some out-of-this-world fun on April 22. The Lyrid meteor 💫shower will be making its annual appearance between April 14 - 30, but the peak occurs during daylight for much of the Americas, so the best time to see the most activity will be before dawn on April 22 or after midnight on April 23. Check out more information for your local area. Fun fact, the Lyrid meteor shower is one of the oldest meteor showers, observed for at least 2,700 years! I’ll be finding somewhere to go where the skies are dark to check out this cool event.

• Following your early wake up to catch the meteors, grab a cup of coffee to observe something closer to home. April 22 is Earth 🌎 Day. As someone who works in environmental sustainability now (just one of several careers I’ve had since working in television news long ago), I celebrate Earth Day every day, but that doesn’t stop me from some giving the planet a little extra love on April 22. Here’s a site that will give you 50 easy ways to help the planet every day. Find a local event in your area and give back to Mother Earth while making some friends especially since …

• April is also Volunteer Month!

• If you’re looking for some other reason to celebrate, there are several observances every day (yes, every day) and you can check out a full list here.

What to expect from Andrea After All in April

The root of the word April comes from the Latin word “Aprilis”, which is thought to be derived from the Latin verb aperire, meaning to open as in bloom. I think it’s a fitting time to reflect on what my April looked like eight years ago, when I moved into a home alone for the first time ever after 23 years of marriage. I’m not sure if I was blooming right away, but I was definitely growing.

I will also be writing about fear, particularly fear in women, and for this I will be interviewing a remarkable woman I met in March. I can’t wait to share her story with you.

I’ve also been struggling with being in a bit of a rut. My mind goes to the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland when he talks about how Alice has lost her “muchness”. Still mulling that over in my head, but I’m pretty certain that will be the topic of an article.

I’ve also been working on a more in-depth introduction that I’ll be sharing when I hit 100 subscribers. I’m hoping that might be this month, but we’ll see!

OK, that’s it for now. This is a bit different from my typical writings, but I thought it might be something fun to do on the first of each month. Hopefully you agree. Let me know what you think and if there is a favorite event of your’s I didn’t share. Oh and of course what you thought of The Correspondent. I’m dying to talk to somebody about it!

I’ll close with a picture I took of a sunrise in Virginia. I shared more in my Notes, which you won’t receive directly to your inbox, but will find if you have a Substack account. Substack is my go-to social media app now, though I hesitate to call it that. It’s more like where I go to read articles that inspire me, make me think, reassure me I’m not alone, etc. So many good authors in one place!

Thank you for reading! And if you’re not already a subscriber, thank you for considering becoming one.

Till next time,

Andrea