At almost 43, after 2 years of atrocious sleep (there were times my daughter was up literally every 30 minutes. I nearly crashed the car from sleep deprivation), my child’s open heart surgery, a separation and more (!) – I no longer feel like my face is a neutral canvas. I feel like I’ve aged 10 years in the last two. This is something I’ve been wrestling with more than I’d like to admit. Going all in on my “glow up”, and trying to “get my groove back”. The truth is that this mama isn’t getting any groove “back”, and so I’m listening to the cicadas of summer in South Texas, for what my new rhythm will be, what new normal might start to take shape. Listening for the next right step, as I flow into an era of greater depth, authenticity and meaning.

I will say - the facial work always did feel meaningful to me. I often thought of it as stealth healing, luring people in with depuffing and toning, while the result so often actually included a centering of one’s energy, a deep exhale, and a return to the heart – which had softened it’s guard through gentle touch. And the work in this way, I think at least, will always have a place in my toolbelt. It is also how I self soothe, how I process and how I take care of my most vulnerable parts when they need some extra love and mothering. AND my toolbelt has expanded, is expanding, as I have traversed so much new-to-me territory, and needed deeper levels of support and care, and I’ve been quietly studying these modalities in the background these last years.

I always kind of hated the famous line by Mary Oliver - “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life”

It just felt like so much pressure. Pressure to achieve, succeed, pressure to “be somebody”. But I’m thinking now that it annoyed me because it called me out on not living fully. Now that I find myself at this inflection point, living in my parents house in Houston (which my mother insists we call “The Villa” ) with my two year old daughter, with a life that needs to be rebuilt from the ground up – I no longer see it as this taunting question, pushing me toward “greatness” but rather asking me HOW I’m going to live.

Am I going to savor each bite, notice the breeze in the trees, and perhaps one day bask in the touch of a new lover? Am I going to continue to trust that things will work out, that I will be guided to the next right action again and again, until I’ve built a new foundation for me and my girl? Or will I let those moments pass me by, as I focus too narrowly on whether my face looks acceptable for my age and craft, on whether the scar on my belly, and breasts that have nursed could be loveable to a man who is not the father of my child.

There is nuance to be found here, and it doesn’t have to be one or the other. There is room for taking care of my physical self in a way that makes me feel more vibrant, alive and sexy, while also holding it loosely, not attaching my worth to the results, and remaining present for the magic moments of daily life.

The practices of qi gong, hypno, nervous system work, and self massage are what I turn to daily help me to soften those deeply ingrained (and patriarchal) edges, step into the flow of the natural world, and to borrow another line form Mary Oliver, simply let the soft animal of my body love what it loves.

At some point in the night, in the space between waking and dreaming, I got the instruction to post this piece I wrote back in February of this year. Since I let my intuition have the driver’s seat in just about everything these days, here it is!

The Bees of Kythnos

Okay, so they weren’t bees, they were wasps. Everyone kept calling them bees. “How sweet! Honeybees!” as they buzzed around the post-yoga breakfast spread of local honeys and jams, scooped out of clay pots, and slathered on fresh bread. They’re not f*cking bees. I know my bees. Well kind of. I’m a lover of bees, not that I have that much direct experience, but I love their symbolism, even have a little bee tattoo, and can tell their fuzzy little bodies apart from the sleek shiny armor of a wasp. A wasp will sting or bite or cause pain JUST BECAUSE. Because they’re assholes. Bees will only harm if absolutely necessary, as to sting is to end their own short, precious, pollinating life. Their venom even heals, people have been using bee venom to treat lyme disease among other things. But wasps? Just jerks that masquerade as bees.

There’s a problem at the all women’s yoga retreat I’m on, perched atop wind blown cliffs on the tiny island of Kythnos, not far off the coast from Athens. The problem — is a wasp nest. It’s tucked in the beams of the picture perfect, open air yoga studio where we do our twice daily practice while taking in spectacular views of the sparkling Mediterranean below.

I’m laying in savasana, swaddled in yoga blankets more to prevent stings than for warmth – it’s summer in Greece after all – and all I can hear is their buzzing. WHY IS NOBODY ELSE CONCERNED ABOUT THIS. People have been responding to me in soothing tones, as if I’m overreacting. Perhaps BECAUSE I’m so obsessed with the wasps, they single me out and seem to swarm about me. I can’t focus. My meditations are spent hypervigilantly tracking the locations of the buzzing around my head and body like I’m developing sonar skills.

I’m stung not once, not twice, but three times total before anyone else in the group is targeted. I cried each time. It might be worth mentioning that I flew to this retreat, escaping a particularly hectic time in my life. Living in Manhattan, with an upcoming cross country move and fully responsible for two businesses, while heavily involved in a third. Oh and I had chronic mono. I may have been a bit tightly wound, and nobody would describe my cup as full. I desperately needed a break and nourishment and rest and sun.

I’m remembering this story years later, as I do laps around the cul-de-sac or “cove” as they call it here in Austin, Texas. Pushing my baby round and round in her bassinet is the only way to get her to nap when shes’s fussy. She’s 7 months and teething, and trying pear for the first time seems to have set her tummy off. I seek out the rough bits of pavement to rumble her to sleep as the February sun shines warm on my face.

The story with the wasps has always felt deeply symbolic to me. At the time I was growing my businesses through a rapidly expanding social media presence. Even pre 2020 (this was 2019) people had a lot of snark to dish out in the comment section. And I cared. I really, really did. When random people made random comments undermining me or my work, they got under my skin and stayed there like a splinter. With the rapid growth, this was happening more and more. What had previously felt like a place to share and connect now felt like a stage I was walking on to, knowing that mouldy bread and empty bottles would be hurled at me. I was hyperfocused on the small percentage of negative comments, and engaged with them all. Just like the wasps, I let myself be sucked into hypervigilance and obsession, no longer able to taste the sweetness of the Greek honey, take in the view or enjoy the breeze in my hair.

Maybe if I was less focused on them, would they leave me alone? Or maybe I could just choose what I wanted to focus on, choose peace and be in acceptance if I got stung?

I could never neatly tie up what felt like a deep lesson of this trip with a bow. I’m thinking of it now, doing my laps with my baby, because I intentionally locked myself out of social media, specifically instagram a little over a week ago. It’s been more life giving than I could have imagined. Although I haven’t been posting regularly for some time, my obsession with comments has continued. Other peoples posts, other peoples comments, these days mostly related to raising babies. People have different approaches, and truly next level intensity opinions about it. Everything can kill your baby and anything less than perfection makes you a lazy, negligent mother. I retyped that to say parent instead of mother, but let’s be real, the hate and criticism is directed at mothers. That’s a whole ball of wax that I’m definitely not here to unpack. What I am here to do is finally tie my wasps of kythnos into a bow.

On the retreat, the people in charge eventually took notice after multiple attendees were stung, and removed the wasp nest. I had really REALLY been searching for the lesson, the silver lining, the symbolism of it all, especially as we spent some time in complete silence without distraction. And then they removed it, and there were no more wasps and I had peace in my practice. Here I am, more than 5 years later, after telling myself more times that I can count that I needed to just let things go, to not pay attention to the comment sections, or let the opinions of random strangers or even bots live rent-free in my head. I finally just removed the damn nest. And I have peace. Over the last week I’ve experienced inspiration I thought may be gone forever, I’ve been more present, and I’ve even slept more deeply (although peppered with night feeds for my babe in need of soothing).

We will always encounter wasps in one form or another, such is life on earth, where we have seemingly useless and frustrating things like mosquitoes, misdirected anger and unsolicited advice. Maybe I am even a wasp in someone else’s story. And while there is great importance in learning to return to the breath, regulate the nervous system, build capacity and cultivate peace even with the buzzing, I also know that we don’t heal in chaos, and sometimes, if you can, you just gotta remove the darn nest.

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I listen to the early birthday-pep-talk-voicenote from a friend and intuitive for a third time. It’s time to start sharing again she says. Be visible again. I groan. It’s not what I want to hear — I’ve been so snug in my retreat from the digital world, this safe and cozy bubble I’ve created. But if I’m truly honest with myself, I’m starting to feel a bit stifled by it. A bit stir crazy, like lying in bed for the last day of the flu, ready to peel back the stale covers, and rejoin the world of the living.

Some transformations strip you to your bones. This one has kept me in my chrysalis for what feels like 100 years.

I intended for my postpartum bubble to last 40 days – generous I thought. My daughter is now 15 months.

I watch a friend of mine, a Gemini I might add, change her career and hairstyle like a glorious technicolor chameleon, vibrant and new in the blink of an eye. While I feel as if I’m rebuilding not even from the foundation, but from the ground below it. Slow era. I’m learning to accept the timing of… well, time. The gradual unfurling of a tender fern leaf, time lapse feature currently unavailable. Learning to attune to what is here, what is in front of me and available, rather than what I want (but oh - my wants, my dreams! They are still so big, so magnificent too!)

The simplicity of a stripped down life highlighting the pleasure in the small things, the silver linings, the miracles great and small.

The hummingbirds in our tree at sunrise. Suvi blowing kisses on her squishy baby palm to every animal she sees. The warm relationship I couldn’t have imagined having with my parents, now as my daughter’s grandparents. Being able to drink a cup of tea while it’s still piping hot rather than having gone cold, forgotten while I tend to the seemingly endless immediate needs of day to day motherhood.

I honestly had no idea motherhood would be this hard. I long for sleep, I long for space to just be me. I long to use my brain. And on the rare occasion i’m away from my girl for more than an hour or two, I cannot race home to her fast enough, hold her close enough, snuggle into the space between her neck and shoulder deep enough, kiss the top of her adorable head enough times.

This is me dipping my toes back in the digital waters

My intention is to share love notes to the tiny miracles, and simple pleasures. To embracing what is here, while still dreaming of future adventures. To flowing with the unfolding life has for me, rather than forcing my agenda of timelines, productivity and what “success” looks like. My greatest healing moments and joys of these last years have come from situations that I thought would be my worst case scenario, my rock bottom.

Instead I found diamonds down there.