Eventually the wave passes
The water releases me and I float back to the surface
I don’t kno…

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It breaks the heat.
Lets everything pour down.
Makes the world stand still.

Thunder demands attention.
Lightning reinforces it.

Summer always leaves me in a daze—
never quite knowing where one day ends and another begins,
what is real and what is imagined.

It feels like an endless afternoon.

Then it rains.

Everything stops moving.

Thunder demands attention.

It asks you to stop.
To sit still.
To listen.

Lightning insists on it.

Can you be by yourself?
Can you sit alone with your thoughts?

Can I?

Can I stay with myself in the storm,
allowing it to ask me to stop and listen?
To watch.
To be brought gently back down to earth.

Thunder demands attention.

The afternoon doesn’t last forever.

What is the haze, and what is reality?
What remains after the heat dissolves
and cool air begins to roll in?

What can weather the storm?

Can I hold myself in the rain?

Can I meet my melancholy with grace instead of resistance?

And, most of all—

Can I forgive myself?

Thunder demands attention.

I don’t live in Wonderland anymore.

I take sips of the potion,
but I stay out.

I take peeks into Wonderland,
but I stay on Earth,

with my feet planted firmly on the ground.

Knowing Wonderland is right beneath my feet—

intoxicating,
romantic,
spellbinding.

It calls to me wherever I am,
around every corner,
on every street.

It sings songs in my ears,
whispers promises of a better future.

The ecstasy excites me.

But I don’t live in Wonderland anymore.

I stay on Earth,
with my feet planted firmly on the ground,

free from the fog,
free from the confusion.

How is a girl like me supposed to resist?

I live for fantasy.

For other worlds.

For delusion.

I feel my heart less in Wonderland now.

It isn’t gone,
but it isn’t there.

It’s somewhere in between,

deciding where to go—

up,

or down.

But I don’t live in Wonderland anymore.

I stay on Earth,

with my feet on the ground.

Moments stay where they are,
frozen to remember,
but never to relive.

We can only make new moments.
The old ones are solidified in stone,
there for me to look at,
not touch anymore,
not feel on my skin.

Just a memory to cherish.

I find that when I try to revive the moment,
the taste becomes bitter.
What I once loved,
I love no more.

And that sweet memory
is nothing like it once was.

I wish I could relive things over and over,
forever and forever.
Sink into the sweet moments I miss.
Feel every second, every laugh, every touch.

But that’s how I know
things don’t last forever.

I have to hold each moment dear,
and know when
to say goodbye,

and let them become statues in the garden.

My friends made fun of me. They said I didn’t need something like that. But deep down, I knew it was something I wouldn’t regret. I had been putting it off for months—maybe longer—out of fear of what I might find on the other side.

Eventually, I found the courage. I got in my Bronco, drove to San Diego, and checked myself in. I handed over my phone. No watch. No sense of time. Just like that, the outside world disappeared.

I was in a new, unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers. That’s not my norm. I’d describe myself as an extroverted introvert—I love my people, I love my routines. I’m not someone who easily throws herself into the unknown.

My phone had always been my safety net. If I didn’t know what to do or say, I could just look down, escape into it, feel anchored again. But this time, all I had was a book—The Tao of Pooh—to keep me company. Somehow, Pooh became my quiet companion. My comfort. My place to return to.

I hadn’t thought about Winnie the Pooh in years. He was just a character from childhood. But in that moment, he found me again—at a time when my inner child was finally being given a voice.

I remember sitting in my room, unsure of what to do with myself. Wondering how I’d tell time. Wondering what was happening back home. Did anyone need me? Did my company need me? What were my friends doing?

And then… Margaret walked in.

Big smile. Blonde hair. Instant warmth.

She was my roommate, and I was so lucky for that. She became a grounding presence—someone I could come back to at the end of the day, someone I could laugh with, feel safe with.

We went to our first seminar. It felt like being back in a college lecture—definitely not my favorite thing. We had to introduce ourselves, probably do something mildly embarrassing. I hated it. But that was the beginning.

For years, I’ve clenched my jaw.

I started as a kid, lying in bed, listening to my parents fight. I remember my shoulders creeping up toward my ears, my jaw tightening, bracing for whatever came next.

And then, during this experience… something shifted.

My jaw unclenched.

My shoulders dropped.

I didn’t even know that was possible. I thought that tension was just part of who I was—how I moved through the world. But for the first time in a very long time, I felt present.

Along the way, I met so many incredible women.

My mudge—pure sunshine. Someone I grew to admire deeply. And others who, in such a short amount of time, saw me in a way that usually takes years of friendship to reach.

My friends at home know me. They’ve earned that view over time.

But these women? They saw straight into me. They saw a bravery I had forgotten I had. They saw my potential, my courage—parts of myself I had lost touch with.

We broke down together. We cried, we laughed, we got angry. We showed our insides.

And I met someone who will be in my life forever. She feels more like family than a friend. I truly believe we were meant to find each other in that exact place, at that exact time.

When I left, I expected to feel strong. Proud. Transformed.

But I didn’t.

I felt like a raw egg. Exposed. Vulnerable. Almost fragile.

They told us it would take time to integrate everything we learned—that the real work begins after you leave. At the time, I brushed it off. It sounded like vague, “woo-woo” advice.

But now, a year later, I understand.

It took twelve months for the lessons to settle. For the layers to reveal themselves. For me to fully recognize the gift I gave myself by going.

We are so much braver than we think we are.

We can do hard things.

I don’t give myself enough credit—for my resilience, for my strength, for showing up for myself even when I’m scared.

For choosing the hard, uncomfortable, but ultimately transformative path.

For feeling the fear… and doing it anyway.

And somehow, along the way, I was met with so much love.

So many angels. So many souls that felt familiar, like we had known each other before.

I left filled—with honey, with warmth, with something soft and steady.

And it all started… with being afraid.

Like roots left unattended, they became a jungle.

A jungle of truths and lies.

Beliefs, dreams, nightmares.

Every moment—every movie, teacher, friend—shaped the color and direction of those wires as they grew.

Every Disney movie taught me I needed a prince to save me.

That I needed to fawn in order to function.

And that I needed an animal companion as an accessory

(this wire stayed).

Every mass and sermon convinced me God was watching—

judging, granting, taking away.

Every mean girl in school taught me I wasn’t enough,

that my way of being was wrong.

My school uniforms—with their precise lengths and shoe requirements—taught me that perfection was the price of belonging.

If you weren’t dressed correctly, you would be punished.

Embarrassed.

Books became my friends and my safe space.

Movies were my comfort.

Animals were my grace.

My grandmother was my heaven.

So the wires grew.

The roots spread.

Ideas and beliefs filled every crack and crevice of my mind.

Most of my late twenties have been spent re-circuiting myself.

Looking closely at the wires and roots to see what still serves me.

What’s true.

What’s false.

What stories are running my actions?

And how do I liberate myself from the ones that were never mine to begin with?

Luckily, as a gardener,

pulling weeds and planting new seeds

comes naturally to me.

I had a reason at the time.

Whether it was a good reason or not,

I’m not sure.

I opened the books I’d put back on the shelves

and realized I liked them.

I liked the pages with turned-down corners,

the notes scribbled in the margins,

the water stains left behind.

I liked that book.

That book was important.

That chapter was important.

So why did I put it away?

Because I wanted to hide?

To button up, to pretend I was perfect—

whole, unbroken,

untouched?

A garden without weeds.

A car without a scratch.

A kitchen never used.

But that’s not me.

And it’s not “unfortunately.”

It’s fortunately.

Weeds can be beautiful too.

Dandelions are weeds—

resilient, adaptable, malleable.

There’s something to be said for that:

rooting yourself wherever you’re planted.

Rain, wind, sun, grass, gravel, dirt—

a dandelion stays just that: a dandelion.

Back to the story.

Why did I close my books,

hide the pages filled with notes,

remarks,

memories?

Because I wanted to pretend.

To be perfect,

without fault,

without feelings,

without much at all.

Thank God I’m not perfect.

Thank God my cup has been empty,

then full again.

Broken,

then rebuilt.

That’s what makes me interesting.

That’s what makes me resilient.

That’s what makes me a dandelion.

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I know a lot of people say that people don’t change, but I know that isn’t true—because I’ve changed. Very consciously, with effort and work. And when I find myself in the same repetitive moments, places, or actions I’ve known for years, I notice something different: I’m not the girl I used to be.

I’ve walked the same trail by my dad’s house countless times, through countless seasons. It’s one of my happy places—though “happy” feels too small a word. This is a place of serenity. I’ve come in summer, fall, and spring, when the forest is just beginning to breathe life again. I’ve come in winter, when ice and snow cover the trees as they grieve. I’ve met this forest in love. I’ve met it in grief.

So what stays the same, and what has changed? My love of nature always remains. My ability to step out of myself, to look at life from a bird’s-eye view, is still here. My love for silence and quiet—the forest whispering to me, cicadas humming, trees crackling as they die and grow again—has never left. My inquisitive eye still searches for mushrooms along the trail. My dreams haven’t disappeared either; maybe they’ve shifted, maybe they’ve evolved. But they are steady, like a river that bends and flows, with rocks, pebbles, fish, and frogs coming and going, while the water itself keeps moving forward.

The forest is a library that never stops teaching me. Its paths are like genres: familiar, yet always different. Sometimes the ground is soft beneath my feet; sometimes it’s harsh and stony. Sometimes the path is clear, sometimes I get lost. Sometimes I’m afraid, sometimes I feel strong. But always, I find my way out—and I leave with more serenity than I had when I entered. Inch by inch, step by step, that serenity grows, until one day it may cover miles.

There has always been a part of me that wanted, more than anything, to feel grounded. To find a home, to find a purpose. And I can say now: I have. I’ve built homes in many shapes and forms. Real homes root themselves. I’ve made hard decisions, trusted my gut, cried my way through choices, and kept going. I’ve walked easy trails, and I’ve walked trails that demanded careful attention with every step. But either way, they all led me forward.

Sometimes I find markers—on the trees, in my parents, in my friends, in signs from the other side. They remind me that even when the fog is thick, there is always another side. That even when storms rage, the sun always comes again. My constant has always been me: my two feet, my ears, my eyes, my heart, my mind. These carry me through the forest. These help me find my way back to change.

I’ve walked through trauma, and with trauma. It has been my shadow. I’ve carried grief, made space for it, learned to walk alongside it. Anxiety has followed me like an old friend—I’ve held her hand, I’ve turned away from her, I’ve yelled at her, I’ve tried to ignore her. But she’s always there. What matters is how much I entertain her. And I’ve learned that serenity can be louder than anxiety if I let it. Acceptance is the key. Without it, I am only a passenger in my own life, screaming from the passenger seat, unable to feed myself, rest myself, or drive myself home. With acceptance, I am in control again.

I’m proud of the serenity I’ve created for myself. It doesn’t last forever—it never will. Growth is seasonal. The forest is seasonal. There are fruitful times and barren ones, rivers that flow and rivers that dry up. I’ve witnessed streams go empty, and I’ve seen them full again with fish and plants. I’ve discovered new waters I never knew existed. And I know they will come again, because life always returns.

The only change I can truly control is myself. Sometimes I slip, but I always find my balance. I’m not going to waste my life waiting for the next storm. Without storms, there is no rain. Without rain, there is no sun. The sun is precious because it isn’t always here—it’s a gift. Peace works the same way. I can choose it. I can create it. I can make myself the captain of my own life, or I can hand the wheel to someone else. It’s just a choice.

And so I will keep walking these roads. Listening. Learning. Growing. Relishing in the change, and in the constants that hold me steady.

I know people change—because I have.

What if right now,

while I sit in the sun,

with Alfie on my lap,

reading a book by Mel Robbins—

nothing particularly special—

I’m not on a beach in the Caribbean,

or on a yacht in Italy.

There’s no fiery sunset or sky full of stars.

But I’m here.

And the sun is shining.

And a butterfly just flew past me.

What if now is the moment I’ve been waiting for?

What if right now is the magic I’ve been looking for?

What if, right now,

I can breathe in the magic

that I’m always searching around the corner for?

Once you experience certain types of magic—

dolphins 10 feet off the beach in Mustique,

or an “I love you” whispered during a fiery sunset,

walking in a runway show in the pouring rain—

these highs become addictive.

Sitting in the sun on a Sunday doesn’t feel so magic anymore.

The circumstances have to keep getting bigger,

better,

louder.

Experiencing these incredible highs is a great privilege,

but it doesn’t come without a cost—

the cost of it’s never enough,

the cost of the grass is always greener.

I feel like I’ve been trained to feel this way,

being in the generation I’m in.

There’s always a nicer vacation,

clearer skin.

But what if right now is all I need?

What if the breeze makes me rich?

What if the sun is a gift?

What if a good book is the high?

What if right now is all I need?

What if right now is all I want?

Can this fill my cup?

Can I be rich in this moment?

Can I be grateful for right now?

What if I don’t need greener grass—

what if I just need to lie in mine?

What if right now is the magic moment?

To drowning in it.

To the probing.

The past.

The odds stacked against us.

I think we get addicted to misery.

To commiserating.

And negativity—it’s a disease.

Easy to catch.

One person throws out hate,

And next thing you know,

It’s 17 people down the line carrying it too.

People say it takes more energy to be miserable than i…

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I love being alone — but it’s the hardest thing to do.

Do we all come to a point where we learn to be alone? Or do some outrun it forever?

I’m not sure, but I know I’m meant to learn in this lifetime.

Being naive is easy.

Shoving my head in the sand.

But then my neck starts to hurt,

And I don’t want to be on the beach anymore.

But if I pull my head out of the sand, I have to face reality.

So I keep my head buried.

I swallow sand,

Get it in my eyes,

And suffocate—

Slowly,

But surely.

So I pull my head up.

It hurts at first—I haven’t seen the sun in a while.

It feels weird. I’m used to being upside down,

And now I’m right side up.

Right side up is better,

But upside down is my normal.

So I’m recalibrating,

Learning how to walk away.

I’ve pulled my head out of the sand a few times,

Only to go back to my hole.

It’s safe there.

Comfortable.

Dark.

Not much to see,

Not much to get hurt by.

It’s a hurt I know well.

I’ve learned how to move my body into shapes that make it hurt less,

To make myself feel small,

To contour myself into circles.

But I’ve never loved the beach that much.

I am more of a mountain girl.

So as many times as I stick my head in the sand,

My heart wants to be away from the water.

So I yank it out,

And go blind for a bit.

My sea legs make me nauseous,

But I start walking toward the mountains.

There are lots of holes in the sand that I walk by,

And my heart wonders if I should just stay.

But—

My destiny is meant for the mountains.

So I learn how to walk right side up,

Not stand upside down.

It seems basic—walking.

But it’s not to me anymore.

It’s been so long since I’ve walked on my own.

So I learn how to put one foot in front of the other,

To get my equilibrium back.

It takes a while.

I have to keep moving, or I won’t find it.

My parents used to fight about how to teach me to ride a bike.

So I never learned.

My mom wanted to slowly raise the training wheels.

My dad wanted to take them off completely.

Different methods.

Who was right?

Doesn’t matter—because I never learned from either.

So I grew up,

And eventually,

Learned how to ride a bike.

Once it was my choice how to learn.

My cousin Sophie taught me,

But that’s beside the point.

It was my decision how I took on the challenge.

And the decisions have been mine ever since.

So I’ll keep walking—

Off-kilter,

Finding my balance,

Finding my homeostasis.

Turning away from the sand,

And walking toward the mountains.

The obvious choice was not the room I now inhabit.

The clear choice was the biggest room at the end of the hall—

a huge bathroom, tons of windows.

Or the other room with the pretty view and banister.

But I picked this room.

Because I liked the feeling I got when I was in it.

It just felt right.

So, lo and behold, this room—

the dingiest room out of the three—

became mine.

As I started spending time in it, I noticed ladybugs.

Lots of ladybugs.

Months went by,

and still, ladybugs.

Summer, fall, winter, spring—

always ladybugs.

It’s been two years in this house,

and in my little room,

there are always ladybugs.

No matter the time of year

or the weather,

they are always there.

And I know I was meant to be in the ladybug room.

It’s exhausting. Always trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, let alone my own. Maybe they don’t have them and they are my own — who knows. Nonetheless — exh…

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A year hurts all over again.

Sometimes the loss feels like yesterday;

sometimes, it feels like lifetimes ago.

Some days I’ve found peace with it,

some days I hate the world and wonder, “Why me?”

Grief isn’t linear

There’s no control over it.

You can let yourself feel,

go through the stages—

but they come in waves,

and some waves hit harder than others.

Grief is silent.

People don’t know when it’s with you.

They stopped grieving a while ago.

“Hasn’t she moved on by now?

It’s been a whole year.”

But it still hurts.

It stays with you,

like a needle sewn into your heart,

and when you move in a certain direction, it sinks deeper.

Grief isn’t linear.

I was brutally bullied in middle school. Emotional terrorism—truly. It turned an already insecure, depressed young girl into one who was severely self-loathing.

It got to a point where I would eat lunch alone in the bathroom of what we calle…

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but there are snakes in the garden.

Deep beneath the roses,

embedded in the bushes,

snakes lie.

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Maybe it’s because I resonate with her — maybe I just like talking rabbits.

Countless times Alice was presented with crossroads…to drink or not to drink…to eat the cake or not.

Sounds like the thoughts that echo in my head.

In this chapter of my life, I am trying to live in that space where we make split-second decisions for longer.

Impulse, perhaps?

To clarify any confusion, think of when you’re driving and you lose signal — no maps: you have to decide whether to take exit 77 or not.

But you’re speeding, as we often do, running through life and needing to decide in the next 28 seconds or you’ll miss the exit.

That space, that moment where you decide between gut instinct or not, between brain and heart — that’s where I’m trying to live.

I’ve always followed my heart, a lot like Alice, but it hasn’t always brought me down the prettiest rabbit holes.

But instead of focusing on what rabbit hole I end up in or don’t, I’m thinking more about that deciding moment.

Can I stop a spiral…myself?

Can I pause and break free from drowning myself in self-deprecating thoughts, fearful anxiousness, unrealistic expectations…can I choose to go right, not left?

Can I, myself, Audrey Dinah Mahl, stop myself at the brink of driving myself to insanity?

Perhaps.

Or maybe I’ll drink and eat the cake.

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Nestled in the heart of Little Italy

Between Prince and Spring

I can’t tell you what street

Or it wouldn’t be a secret

But it’s easy to guess

The first time I found it, I fell in love

With the trees

The smokebush

The roses that touch the sky

The vines that crawl to heaven

The anemones that smile at you

The big, bright dahlias that always seem to come back

I fell in love with the feeling

Of being at home

Amongst the hydrangeas, I found myself

Hidden between the strawberries and mint

I met myself there many times

Different versions of me

And grew up

Year by year

In the same plot of the garden

Running my hands through the grass

Feeling the earth between my fingers

Caring for her roots

Cleaning up her weeds

Loving the bits of her that continue to surprise me

The special thing about Elizabeth is that she’s the same but ever-changing

A piece of land that is filled with magic and peace

Healing powers and the power to gather

Bring people together

Hold them when they need it most

I fell in love in her arms

I mourned with her too

I found myself turning to her in every emotion

Happiness and sadness

Grief and heartbreak

She met my family

She said hello to my friends

She brought me community

I will forever be indebted to her

I have a special plot

An area that is my favorite place

But I can’t tell you where it is

Or it wouldn’t be a secret

No one’s going to fix you.

No one’s going to fill the gaping void inside you.

No one’s going to make you love yourself more, respect yourself more, or treat yourself better.

No one can fill your cup, make all of your dreams come true, or be the human in shining armor who’s going to sweep you off your feet and fix your relationship with your dad.

Sorry, don’t shoot the messenger.

I’ve tried to whisk and be whisked. Unfortunately, to no avail—it doesn’t work.

The only way I’ve learned to love myself is by proving to myself that I am worthy of love. By setting boundaries. By making really hard decisions. By committing to my goals and sticking to them.

This isn’t fun… It’s rewarding, but it’s not rainbows and butterflies.

I’ve been sober for 4.5 years. I’ll reach 5 years on January 1, 2025—that’s if I continue to decide every day that I am worth sobriety, that I deserve the life I’ve built for myself. Every day, I wake up and make the decision all over again to be a sober person. These four and a half years of sobriety have required me to decide, every single day, that I’m worth it. That the life I’m building is worth it. That I respect and care about myself enough to choose better for myself.

Walking away from things that don’t respect me has given me immense respect for myself. I still make self-deprecating choices all the time. I’m human. Progress, not perfection—one day at a time.

But making these seemingly impossible choices has made me respect myself. I don’t know if I ever truly did until I started proving it to myself.

Did I not think I deserved more? Did I not think I was worthy?

Through “my-future-depends-on-this” situations, I’ve made the tough choices. I’ll continue to make them. It sucks, but that’s life.

Our lives are measured by the choices we make. We are constantly brought to a fork in the road, having to decide whether to go east or west.

I plan to follow the sun and continue choosing west—towards more life, more happiness, success, and bigger dreams.

Every time I make a decision that doesn’t honor the future I’m working for, it takes me five steps backward. I won’t pass go and collect $400.

Step by step, choice by choice, I’ll keep laying down the building blocks of a life I love—made by myself, not by a knight in shining armor.

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