Today was the day, I told myself on Monday, four days into my Maldives trip. I decided to take my snorkeling gear out and explore the lagoon that sat right outside my over-water villa. Each morning I’d watched the fish and other marine life swim by, under, and one day around me as I stood on the stairs that led from my deck into the crystal-clear water. Today, I planned to swim with them.

What’s that saying about the best-laid plans? Yeah.

Equipment now placed at the edge of my balcony, I put one fin on, dangled that leg over the edge, and stuffed my other foot into the second fin. Then, with my mask and snorkel hanging from my forearm, lest I drop them into the water, I stood and studied how to navigate the stairs with these clown-sized flippers on my feet. A hard fall while jogging a few years ago taught me that falling in your fifties is not for the weak. Grasping the railing like my life depended on it, I slowly descended into the water. The lower steps were covered with slick algae, so I decided to be brave and just jump off at that point.

Now in the water, I took a few minutes to simply acclimate. During the morning, the tide was out, so it was relatively shallow; on my 5’10” frame, it came up to my abdomen. Soon, what I affectionately called dumb fish appeared out of nowhere. I guess they felt the vibrations of me entering the water and kicking around a bit. Not to be deterred, I took a deep breath and started walking further out into the lagoon. Please don’t ask why I didn’t simply swim.

Feeling like I was sufficiently far out, I finally stopped and securely attached the snorkel mask onto my face. This included dunking my face into the water to ensure that the seal was watertight. Then, I popped the mouthpiece in and floated on my stomach.

Breathe out, Nicole, now breathe in. Coughing and gagging, I swallowed a mouthful of salt water instead of air. I quickly put my feet down and then stood up, coughing and spitting out the remaining water. I didn’t even have a chance to see anything! After a quick adjustment of the breathing tube, I decided to try it again.

Dammit! I took in another gulp of salt water. Once was a mistake; twice was a sign, I thought. But, stubborn and not wanting to be bested by this ocean, I stood to make another adjustment. For the record, I did not know what I was doing, and as the only person in the lagoon that morning, I didn’t have anyone to ask. Side note: I believe in my heart of hearts that I am capable of doing absolutely anything well, until I am proven otherwise.

So, hopping on my toes because the water was now deep enough to cover my chest but not yet reach my neck, I started fiddling with the placement of the breathing tube again. Then it happened. My right foot must have stepped on a piece of coral as I hopped around, and I lost my shit! I don’t know what my mind thought my foot touched, but I immediately panicked and started kicking vigorously because my whole ass life depended on it. I instinctively flipped onto my back and kick-kick-kicked my way several feet closer to my villa before stopping to catch my breath.

Now in a sandy area again, with the water at a more comfortable depth, I stood. Enough yoga and therapy over the last five years gave me the tools to self-soothe and calm the hell down. It also gave me the courage, or maybe I should say self-assurance, to finally give myself permission to accept that, Nicole, you do not enjoy snorkeling. Just stop. Then I leisurely doggy-paddled my way back over to my stairs. I don’t think I was in the water a full three minutes.

But you know what, this was a win for me. Snorkeling - 0, Nicole - 1.

And then the dumb fish showed up.

During my prior three days, I’d watched so many people snorkeling as I enjoyed my morning coffee on the deck. While sunbathing at the main beach, I’d had conversations with other vacationers where they shared their various turtle, shark, and dolphin sightings while snorkeling. I’d even gone out on a dolphin-watching boat tour and squealed with glee as I sat at the bow of our boat and watched them racing the boat, jumping and regaling us. Being in the water in the Maldives is arguably the primary reason to go there.

So, I’d followed the script, albeit belatedly, and did what I was supposed to do. I climbed into the water and tried to view the marine life like I was expected. The problem is that I also knew, because I tell anyone in earshot, “I like to be by the water, not in the water.”

But the Maldives.

In November 2019, for Thanksgiving, I took the family to Belize. We stayed on Ambergris Caye near the Great Blue Hole. Both Sydney and my ex-husband were scuba divers; she reluctantly so, but certified nonetheless. I was enamored by the fact that we were staying literally right at the world’s second-largest living coral reef.

While there, we partook in all of the water activities, although I skipped the scuba diving. I know myself well enough to know that I would die if I ever tried.

One excursion that we signed up for included us snorkeling with a guide so that we could catch our own fish with a speargun, and they would cook it for us for lunch. I saw this as a chance to be in the water and recreate my childhood memories of fishing with my father. Only this time it would be more primitive than simply casting lines into the water from the shore.

We set out into the natural lagoon created by the reef. Shallow, the depth of the water in the lagoon ranges between two and five feet deep. Once the boat reached a good fishing spot, Syd and her father jumped right in. They were eager to see and interact with the many nurse sharks nearby. I was a little slower. I had to put on my fins and life jacket before I hopped in behind them.

Ten minutes into this excursion, I found myself splashing around completely panicked. I was drowning and couldn’t get myself together in that water. Worse, I was dumbfounded that no one was coming to help me. I just knew that I was about to die in this ocean surrounded by barracudas and sharks. After what felt like a lifetime and untold gallons of water going down my throat, I heard a voice.

“Put your feet down!” our guide shouted at me from three feet away. My body spun towards him, my eyes bulging with fear.

“Put. Your. Feet. Down!” he repeated.

As I put my feet down, I looked to my right where I saw Sydney. Feet now down, I extended my legs. As I did so, my entire upper torso exited the water. I was literally “drowning” in water that only reached just beneath my chest. I was absolutely mortified. Sydney was cracking up. The guide was visibly disgusted.

When I visit a place, I like to experience it fully. If there is a specific experience that is tied to a place, I’m going to do it, fear be damned. My travel motto is: I didn’t come all the way here to stand on the sidelines.

I didn’t learn to swim until I was an adult. My first time snorkeling was in the Bahamas, long before said lessons. As such, even with the buoyancy of a life jacket, I panicked the moment I hit the open water and rushed back to the safety of the boat. But I ain’t, and have never been, a punk, so I forced myself to jump back in. Several rounds later, I finally developed enough comfort in the water to actually snorkel. To my mind, there was no way that I was going to allow my fear of the water to keep me from that experience.

I would repeat this process in 2025 when I went to Croatia. It was early June, so I had the added pressure of cold water to overcome at that time. Two boat “calm down” cycles later, I shed my emotional support equipment and swam in the Adriatic Sea life vest-free.

I’m proud that I don’t let fear dictate my decisions. Doing it afraid has allowed me to travel, to recreate my life, to enter spaces that terrified me, and to experience objectively amazing things that I would have otherwise missed out on.

But what propels us can also trap us. Doing things afraid also meant that I often lacked a mental off-ramp to permit myself to not do something. It’s almost like that principle hijacked my way of thinking about vacationing.

Well, mostly. I recall when we were purging our Baltimore house in preparation to move to Los Angeles, one day I was going through boxes of photos. I came across a stack of roller coaster photos. You know, the ones that they take of you as your roller coaster car takes its first major plunge. As I looked at over a decade of accumulated pictures, I noticed something. In every single photo, my face was screwed up into a grimace.

It clicked. I don’t enjoy roller coasters. I’m not afraid of them; I just don’t like them. With the evidence staring me in the face, I made a proclamation. I am never riding a roller coaster again. And I haven’t. I’d finally given myself permission to lean into the reality that not enjoying something was reason enough to not do it.

So, on day four of my Maldives vacation, I came to the same conclusion. I do not enjoy snorkeling. I do not have to do it ever again. For this trip, it would be enough to enjoy being near the water, but not in it.

Instead, I went on to kayak in that same water a couple of times in the days to come, and I enjoyed it. Sitting on the water, but not in it gave me great joy. Yes, my view of the coral and marine life was blurred by the refraction of light on the water, but I was OK with it.

And, not for nothing, it is not missed on me that I went through this whole calculation with this Maldives series. Here I am, still writing it, but now writing it the way I enjoy writing about my travels.

I’ve granted myself the off-ramp and relaxed my commitment to doing it afraid. It would no longer be the reason that I did something that I really didn’t want or enjoy doing.

In fact, my absolute favorite part of my trip was my morning ritual of having my coffee on the deck and watching the schools of fish come over and entertain me. I spent hours out there doing nothing more than looking out at the reef, the seaplane that parked outside my villa, and the other people enjoying being in the water.

I don’t have a single regret. My vacation was as I liked it, not as I thought it should be.

Will I never snorkel again? I don’t know. I imagine that if, no, when, I hit another bucket list location and visit the Galapagos, I will likely find myself jumping into the water again. But I am leaving the door open to being fine with seeing the marine life there from above as well. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

So what if it took me five decades to get here.

With the first two episodes, I’d watched the stories unfold with a sense of curiosity. They were disturbing, for sure, but neither had touched me like this one. If I’m honest, I’d found myself judging the families on several counts. I couldn’t understand how they’d found themselves in these ridiculous situations.

With the Scott family in episode one, I watched from a distance. I kept analyzing where they zigged when they should have zagged. Their judgment wasn’t sound, I thought to myself. Why did they allow that crazy lady to live inside their home for so long? The list of y’all-are-dumb conclusions that I reached in the first fifteen minutes was a mile long.

Instead of empathizing with them, I evaluated.

However, with Miles and Melina, I watched differently. I leaned into their story. I didn’t judge them harshly or otherwise. Their love story and entrance into homeownership made me smile.

Then it hit me. Miles and Melina were me. I sobbed because I saw myself in them.

I identified with them.

As this realization came to me, I asked myself, “What was it that made them different?” The obvious answer is that we are Black. We are college-educated professionals.

The truth is more subtle than that.

You see, I grew up in a working-class family. My mother was white, and my father was Black. Just like the Scotts.

The social and economic world I grew up in was similar to theirs. Racine’s median income is roughly $58,000, just shy of $2,000 more than Mount Sterling. The poverty rates are nearly equal at 18% and 17%.

It was a world where you finished high school and got a job. You worked hard, built a family, and lived simply. The way we spoke, the values I was raised with, and our American dream were the same.

I still carry those values, not the least of which is a love of my family. While deeply connected to my family, I don’t get back to Racine often. But when I do, I stay, eat, and play with them. I wrap my arms around their necks, and we laugh, cry, and cuss together. Hell, my travel writing started because of them. I wanted to take them on my travels so that I could share this life of mine with them.

The Scotts, too, were me.

Yet I couldn’t place myself in their story. Why didn’t I cry when I watched the tragedy that happened to the Scott family? I could recognize them; they felt familiar to me.

Recognition is not the same as identification. With the Scott family, there was a distance between them and me. Watching them elicited from me more of a “Sure, I know people like you,” and “My family is like you,” feeling. But with Miles and Melina, I watched in horror because underlying their story was the understanding “That could be me.”

When did my instinctive sense of who I am shift so far? And how did I not notice it happening along the way?

I have not lived in Racine for thirty-six years. That is twice as long as I lived there. During that time away, I have obtained multiple degrees and built a career. I have lived in multiple states and traveled the world. I have learned how to navigate institutions that Geneva Street Nicole didn’t even know existed.

The reality is, of course, I have changed. Just this week I even said to someone, “You’ve only seen LA Nicole. That’s not who I am at my core,” in response to the way they described me.

I have never consciously seen myself as different. To my mind, I am still little Nicole from Geneva Street.

Yet, I clearly am different. There just wasn’t a singular moment that announced to me how, or even that, my identity was slowly shifting and morphing. I was living, not observing myself at a distance.

In living, away from it, somehow Racine stopped being who I am and became where I am from.

Unpacking my disparate responses while watching these families’ stories in 2026 raised another thought for me. We do not live in a vacuum. What happens around us and in our world inevitably impacts our thoughts. Had the political environment and my underlying anger about it also contributed to my thinking?

Social media and the news are full of stories about dumbfounded Americans. They, who voted for the current administration, are stunned to be on the receiving end of so many of the actions that were promised for someone else. My algorithm has shown me too many “I thought they were going to do that to them, not me” reels. I know that they’ve hardened me.

I’ve privately said for a while that my empathy is finite; I am hoarding it. So I wondered, had my political anger changed my ability to feel for people who I recognized but don’t identify with? Had I slipped into “Get someone else to do it,” mode when it came to caring about the suffering of some others?

I don’t know the answer to that. I just know that I wasn’t moved by the Scotts, and I only recognized it when I cried right along with Melina over the death of Miles.

What I do know is that while I am still Racine, and I am still my family, I am also someone different now. I used to think that my “we” had simply expanded and encompassed my past as well as my present. Now I wonder if Racine has somehow become both geographically and temporally too far away. Had my “we” reorganized itself, and if so, which of those distances led to it?

I have been furiously writing, just not for The Distance Between. I’ve been banging away at my keyboard working on my manuscript.

By mid-June, my manuscript was approximately 35,000 words, which I’d written over the course of six months. That was about 2,500 words (1 chapter) every other week. Today I’m sitting at roughly 55,000 words. Yeah, that math is mathing. In the last month I’ve written 20,000 words - that’s 70 pages of prose.

What changed? My original pace was dictated by the fact that I was in build-the-plane-while-flying-it mode. For those of you who don’t already know me, I am a high-functioning executive with both a JD and an MBA. Please note what’s missing: an MFA.

3 years ago I embarked upon filling that knowledge gap with self-directed craft education. Literary writing is a vastly different skill set than writing an SBAR. I did this in my spare time as I literally led the creation of an allied health school.

I entered January better educated, but untested. In many ways, writing for you in The Distance Between allowed me to establish proof of concept. It showed me that my literary voice could reach and connect with readers.

With the help of a structured six-month program, I started putting all of that knowledge into practice with my manuscript. With practice comes proficiency. So, July Nicole is not January Nicole.

During those early months, I found myself inhaling memoirs. To be a good writer, one must also be a good reader. When I needed illustrations of how to write interiority, or how to draft intellectual experiences of feelings, I looked to other authors. I’ll spare you the list of books that I consumed, but believe me, I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count them. The point is, I was reading, learning to actually write a manuscript, writing for The Distance Between, and working all at the same damn time.

At the end of the program, I was terrified that I would lose momentum on my book. So I asked for help and was connected with a couple of other writers for accountability check-ins. But more germane to this essay, I set a personal goal to have a completed first draft of my manuscript by mid-August. Then, I will transition into deep editing mode. I plan to have a polished and query-ready manuscript in the fall/early winter.

For context, I anticipate that my manuscript will have a final count of 95,000 words. After doing the math, I realized that I would need to draft between 1,000 and 2,000 words per day and about two to four chapters per week. Yeah. That’s me: set a BHAG and then crush it. I couldn’t turn off that part of my personality if I tried.

I’ve accomplished more with less, though, so I wasn’t being completely delusional. I felt confident that I could succeed at this goal because I had already built a strong foundation.

While some writers draft first and figure out the structure of their books as they go, that’s just not me. I need order to start. As such, those first six months included a significant effort at mapping out the architecture of the book. My art requires structure.

During the pandemic, I painted a beautiful mural on my twenty-foot-long office wall. To do so, I spent untold hours mapping out the grid, and then literally laying it out on the wall. That was followed by spending at least three weeks studying color theory and then selecting the perfect palette. Structure gave me the space to then create.

To write my manuscript, which is braided and thematic rather than chronological, I needed to create a similar structure. Each chapter had a specific function and needed to be organized by meaning, theme, emotional movement, and narrative accumulation. Not just time.

This meant that I had to be thoughtful and deliberate about what the book would even be. Throughout the process of creating order, I outlined, moved chapters, and in one case, exploded what I thought would be a single chapter into three chapters.

That heavy lifting in the first half of the year gave me the ability to draft the remaining chapters at speed.

That is largely why the publication cadence in The Distance Between slipped. The manuscript requires immersion into a larger narrative system. Substack, however, uses different writing and mental muscles. It requires that I lean into my relationship with you, the reader. While the voice may be similar, producing them requires different mental processes.

Each Substack essay requires its own separate development cycle. That means that I usually need a couple of days between working on my manuscript and The Distance Between. Not for nothing, the first two Maldives Essays are great illustrations of when the material didn’t receive the attention and focus that it needed. Publishing to meet a calendar deadline was a disservice to the writing.

I’ve also had to be intentional about building a life that can sustain the pace of writing that I committed to. Some of the material I’ve been drafting is hard to write, emotionally and technically. To maintain my stamina, curiosity, and emotional regulation, I’ve cultivated a life that allows for replenishment.

That includes attending poetry readings and visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. You can find me there pretty much any Friday night. Experiencing different expressions of art influences how I approach my writing. I am inspired by other artists’ processes. I love trying to understand the structure of their respective art forms.

Outside of artistic immersion, I’ve also just been living my life in a new city. That includes creating little rituals for myself and building community. Each morning I start my day with coffee and a book on my balcony. And I’ve made new friends in my building and found “my” wine bar in the Third Ward.

Hell, I’ve even been on a date or two. The best ones have included experiences that expose me to the wonders of this new city. Just this week I watched 300,000 bats emerge from their roost at sunset. What a sight (and smell) that was!

I share all of that to say that I miss you and I am committed to publishing regularly. However, I must adjust my cadence because I have about 40,000 words to go with just a few weeks to hit my deadline. Will I meet my goal? I don’t know, but I assure you I am working my ass off to do so. It is my goal that you enjoy this book as much as you’ve enjoyed my Substack.

But it just isn’t sustainable for me to publish weekly AND accomplish my goal. There’s only so much creative capacity in a day. As such, for the foreseeable future, I am transitioning to an every-other-week publication schedule.

*********

Closed mouths don’t get fed, so I’d also like to activate this amazing network with an ask. Late fall/early winter, I will begin the process of seeking literary representation for narrative nonfiction.

As such, I welcome all introductions, recommendations, referrals, or advice.

Thursday night, a certain clarity came to me in that twilight right before sleep. I felt stuck because something was wrong. From the moment that I launched the Maldives Essays, I’d been forcing myself to power through, and it just kept feeling wrong.

I forgot who I was writing to. I’d lost my true north: my reader.

Well over a decade ago, on my first trip to Africa, I began documenting my travels. I was so excited and humbled by the opportunity. I decided to share as much of it as possible with my family and friends.

I’d long ago moved away from the Racine hood that I grew up in, but I wasn’t so far removed as to forget the reality of it. I knew that what I was about to experience was something rare for someone like me. Hell, only a handful of us even attended college, so a nearly two-week trip to Uganda was absolutely unprecedented.

Growing up, I participated in every extracurricular activity and field trip I could find. Those experiences showed me that there was a whole world outside of the bleakness of my neighborhood. It was that exposure that I held onto when my hazy path into college and beyond scared or overwhelmed me. I’d seen too much possibility as a child to turn back just because I couldn’t see the next step. So, I shared my adventures. I wanted to share a piece of my life with my people. There was a whole world out there. My eyes were their eyes.

The response was amazing; they loved hearing my stories. So often they shared that they felt like they were experiencing the details right along with me. We were connected. We traveled together, even if it was only on the page.

The Maldives was different, though. And that’s why I keep letting so much time elapse between essays.

With this trip, my writing morphed into something else. While I didn’t book the trip for this reason, by the time that I left, I had reimagined it. I would use it as a strategy to build a new content architecture for The Distance Between.

My grand vision was to use it as the backbone to launch a YouTube channel and translate my written essays into video essays. I mapped out a story arc, drafted a travel video bible, and packed all of my new gear to document everything for that purpose. It was basically a work trip. I had a strategy and a plan to execute.

On its face, that wasn’t a bad thing. I’ve accomplished much professionally using that tried-and-true business approach.

But it was also not a good thing. As I pondered this, I realized that I paid a cost for the miscalculation. When this trip became work, I sacrificed simply experiencing the trip. I let strategy replace relationship. Instead, video content generation became the goal before I even set foot in the airport.

Usually, with travel, I live in the moment. I am curious; I am experiencing all that makes a place a place. Since that first Africa trip, I’ve ended each evening by writing down my thoughts and impressions. Those notes became Facebook posts then and, later, Substack essays.

This time, however, I found myself focused on finding good lighting. Before each activity, I made sure that I packed my tripods and other tools to ensure I captured great videos. I spent more time angling for a good shot than simply enjoying watching the seaplanes land and take off.

I’m sorry for that because I feel like I missed the soul of the island in my effort to document the experience. I can think of several times when I failed to connect with the other humans on the trip. I was too busy making sure that I didn’t miss filming the dolphins or catching the perfect sunset on my camera. I can’t get those opportunities back, and in my prior travels, those human moments were my favorite parts. When I look back, it is the exchanges I had with other travelers that I remember most fondly.

The irony is that I didn’t have my usual travel experience. Instead, it was a pre-designed experience that was driven by a goal, as opposed to just being. And as a result, the essays don’t reflect my actual voice or style of writing. My body and subconscious mind knew it and kept rebelling. I couldn’t make myself write.

Instead, I procrastinated. I wrote other pieces. I made videos and hated them. I kept trying to force this square Maldives peg into my round The Distance Between hole. The essays that I published for Parts 1 and 2 ended up very different from my past travel essays. Don’t get me wrong, there are real moments in them, but overall, nah.

I even realized that I didn’t share the first essays as widely as usual, which is crazy because the whole point going into the trip was to broaden my audience.

Be clear, I still believe my vision and strategy were sound. But I need to rethink execution, both for the Maldives Essays and for how I approach future travel. Further, I’ve decided to table the YouTube channel until I can reimagine it in a way that feels more authentic to me.

I learned a key takeaway in all of this, though. When I veer from The Distance Between’s true north and try to force the creative writing that I do here to fit a different strategy, it suffers. In this case, I lost my relationship with my reader. That realization hurt.

It doesn’t mean that I can’t or won’t pivot for new opportunities. It also doesn’t mean that I can’t try a different thing. It just means that I will be clearer with myself and my readers about it. Executive Nicole still exists. I’ll just be sure to introduce her more explicitly rather than trying to make her masquerade as Writer Nicole.

My work moving forward is to return to this audience as Writer Nicole.

I haven’t yet figured out how I’m going to resolve this series midstream, but I am not giving up on it either. Maybe I’ll put an asterisk next to the first two essays and completely shift the series moving forward.

What I know is that I can’t keep writing from the story arc that I created before I even went on the trip. That trip was “scripted.” My best travel essays are embodied and authentic.

Writer Nicole has now remembered who she is writing to and why she does it.

It had been forty-eight hours of travel for me by the time my seaplane finally floated up to my resort’s pier. As I looked through my tiny window, I saw the resort staff waiting to greet us as we deplaned. With each guest, they placed a palm leaf necklace around our necks and greeted us by name. I followed my villa hostess to the check-in area.

This was NOT just like The White Lotus.

I had to take a breath and recenter myself because I could feel my disappointment rising, when the reality was I was in actual paradise. Just like that, my entire view of what was a once-in-a-lifetime trip for someone (Me! I’m someone) had somehow been downgraded in my mind within just a few hours. This place was only “regular” luxury.

How quickly I’d been corrupted. That Qsuite and Al Safwa lounge in Doha had completely rewritten my expectations for this trip. What’s interesting is that I didn’t realize it until that very moment. I had the audacity to stand there with my face scrunched up like a petulant child. Particularly because the irony of it all is that even in my lil’ über luxury experience of getting to the Maldives, I traveled in business class. There are even higher classes of travel.

As I strode down the pier to check in, it was eighty-two degrees (it was always eighty-two degrees, I would learn) and humid. With bags I had packed weeks before, the equatorial sun blinded my eyes, even with my Gucci sunglasses. My Doha respectful long-sleeve shirt and pants began to stick to my skin. I wasn’t prepared for my arrival to feel this way.

It was approximately ten a.m. I was fatigued and exactly thirteen hours into the future. Hungry, carrying my heavy shopping bag from my airport repacking snafu, I was led through the sand to the “lobby.” The lobby was basically two open-air structures covered by thatched roofs to protect you from the sun. While beautiful, I couldn’t appreciate the vibe because I was on the verge of heat stroke. Thankfully, they offered us a sweet punch, which calmed my nervous system. I don’t know if it was the coldness or the sugar.

There, surrounded by people-filled benches, tables, and chairs, I impatiently waited to be checked in. All the while I prayed I’d be able to get into my room early. Alas, I was devastated when I was told that my room would not be ready until at least two p.m.

I stood and glanced over at the outdoor waiting area filled with dozens of other guests, and I wanted to cry. I simply couldn’t muster the energy to be ok with sitting in this heat for hours.

Sensing my distress, my villa hostess pointed to an air-conditioned room and said there were snacks and water. I wanted to hug her as she was suddenly my favorite person in the world.

The room held four loveseat-sized sofas, a water dispenser, oranges, and crackers. But at least it was empty. I sighed, gave myself the seventh pep talk in thirty minutes, and sat down. The next thing I remembered was waking, stiff, with my knees bunched up near my chin. I’d stretched across this too-short loveseat and turned it into a makeshift bed.

As I reoriented myself, I noticed that the room was now full of guests. Several of them were sitting on the floor. I hadn’t heard them enter during my nap due to my noise-canceling headphones. As the only big American in this sea of Asian guests, I felt a little embarrassed about hogging an entire sofa. I already stood out as a foreigner; I didn’t like the thought of having such poor manners ascribed to me. I half-smiled, gathered my things up, and offered the space next to me to a young Asian girl.

Sitting in paradise sure didn’t feel like paradise yet. At least that’s what Vacation Nicole whimpered inside my head. I guess she’d forgotten that paradise was equatorial.

The summer after Sydney’s junior year in high school, her school took a field trip to Costa Rica. When I picked her up from LAX, she hopped into my car and began airing her list of grievances with the trip like we were celebrating Festivus for the Rest of Us. I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead as I let her go on for a bit. I was aghast, but also knew that if I interrupted her, I would never hear about her trip. Once she finished, or I couldn’t take it anymore, I told her that she should never share those thoughts with another person. People spend their whole lives dreaming of that kind of trip, and to complain about it like that was downright appalling. It was a privilege to have even gone to another state, let alone another country.

For the second time in three hours, I realized that I was Little Sydney and Mom Nicole all at once. That apple definitely fell from my tree, and it took discomfort for me to see it.

At last, I was summoned. My villa was ready! With my suitcases loaded onto the golf cart, my tour of the island was underway. As we rode past each area of the island, it reminded me of my first visit to Los Angeles. This isn’t what it looks like in the movies. I would come to learn that the back roads were the ‘living’ parts of the island. The ‘vacation’ portions looked completely different. Kinda like the difference between the Sunset Strip in a movie versus a Tuesday night.

And then, we arrived at my stop. As we walked across the white sand towards the pier, I had to pause and take it all in. It was stunning. I exhaled.

As I walked closer, I watched reef sharks swimming along the beach as a myriad of other fish just moseyed on by. An actual squeal left my mouth as I hopped up and down like a six-year-old. And then, my fifty-something knees told me to calm down.

I was overwhelmed by how beautiful it was. This is what I would see each time I stepped outside my villa. My villa was on the west side of the pier, so I would have beautiful sunset views each evening. Little did I know how amazing those evenings would be.

It was also the first villa on the pier. That meant that I was close enough to walk from my overwater deck to the nearby beach, if I so desired. My heart went pit-a-pat as I took in the private deck, outdoor shower and soaking tub, lounge chairs, and hammock suspended over the lagoon. I immediately forgot all about my earlier discomforts. Heaven. This would be my heaven for the next week. I quickly showered, left the curtains open, and climbed into the bed for a short nap before dinner.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I’d made a huge oversight in my research. I had secured an amazing rate for my seven nights there. I’d done extensive research to validate that I’d like the resort. I also knew it wasn’t the Four Seasons. However, it wasn’t like I was staying at the North Avenue Motel either. I had been bugging out all day.

I was soon awakened by the sounds of children yelling, laughing, splashing, and all around having the time of their lives. All, right outside my window. It seems that just as I could walk to the beach, so too could they walk over to my deck. Because of the slowly setting sun, the villas provided nice shade during the evening aquatic life activity. I thought I was looking at every child on the island right outside my window.

This would not work. I had zero privacy.

Feeling slightly better after a nap, I tried to regulate myself and said maybe it won’t be so bad. But then I remembered that I wanted to be able to sunbathe topless. I felt myself getting ramped up again, so I decided to sit on the deck and just observe for a bit. Maybe I was unnecessarily overthinking and complaining again.

That’s when I noticed my neighbor. Each villa had privacy walls, so unless a person was in the lagoon directly in front of you, they couldn’t really see you on your deck. Well, he and his children were camped out in front of my deck, snorkeling. As I walked out onto my deck, hoping that my presence would silently nudge them back towards their villa, I noticed that he started watching me.

With no movement at all on his part, I soon found us locked in a staring contest. I was completely surprised, yet unwilling to drop my gaze. I just couldn’t back down on this point, I was alone after all. And, while I could manage the noise from the children, I couldn’t fathom the thought of this man standing in the lagoon watching me in my space.

I simply had to move. I noticed that he only moved back over to his villa when I set up my camera.

I wish I could say that I took immediate action, but the truth is I spent another thirty minutes negotiating with myself about this situation. I mean, C’mon Nicole, do you really need to sunbathe topless?

Finally, I channeled my inner LaToya (a friend who asks for everything that she wants) and reached out to the resort. This villa simply would not work for me. I went back inside and let my hostess know that, as a solo female traveler, I did not feel emotionally safe in this villa. While it was highly improbable that my neighbor would do anything other than look at me, I am not a performer in a show.

This was paradise. I deserved to have it, fully. Expecting a semblance of privacy in my villa was not a privilege. Not in this environment.

The next morning, I was moved several villas down the pier. Out here, the water in the lagoon was deeper, and the beach was no longer visible.

I sat at the edge of my deck and looked out at the horizon. I was finally able to enjoy paradise in regular luxury.

With the Maldives trip planned for February, I thought it would be the perfect vehicle. I mean, it’s literally paradise and halfway around the world.

In the past eight weeks, I created no less than six hours of iMovie videos in my quest to post my first installment. First, I hated the script, then I hated my wonky eye. My voice kept reminding me of the narrator of my favorite podcast, Boring History for Sleep (shout out to Carol for introducing me to it!). That wasn’t quite the mood I envisioned for my project, though.

With each version, I kept thinking that it was a production issue. It wasn’t.

The real issue was that video creates a level of exposure that is very different than writing.

I can massage a sentence into art with revision after revision. Video, not so much. Video is me. My face. My voice. My every quirk and essence, right there for the world to see. It just felt like too much for me to handle.

While overthinking all week, it hit me at 4 a.m. yesterday. Writing was uncomfortable for me in the beginning as well. It was terrifying, if I’m honest. Particularly as I began to write about my life, not just my travels. With each essay, I wrestled with clicking “publish,” and at least one made it to Substack only because I took a deep breath and quickly clicked before I could talk myself out of it.

As I continued to interrogate my YouTube hesitancy, I realized that vulnerable writing is not easier. I just became more comfortable with each essay. The other interesting thing was that for every essay that terrified me, I received the most thoughtful and engaging feedback. Much of it privately.

I realized that practice helped me become more comfortable with being vulnerable in my public writing. It wasn’t that I was fearless. The more I’ve written, the less afraid I’ve become.

This camera, though! Whew. That’s not vulnerability; it is exposure.

Writing gives me a natural distance from my audience. I control the pacing, the rhythm, how I tell the story. The camera collapses that distance. It becomes physical vulnerability, not just emotional or intellectual. The camera makes the physical body a part of the story. That understanding led me to consult with Sydney so many times. The latest was on whether I should wear makeup for the video, even though I rarely do so. “No, Mom. Natural videos are more in style.”

I shared my fears with someone earlier this week, who gave me some clarity on why it was so hard for me in particular. He said that when we grow up in dangerous environments, silence and privacy represent survival mechanisms. So, you learned to keep secrets. It wasn’t a matter of preference; it was a matter of safety.

I had to sit with that analysis for days because it landed so hard. In my neighborhood, what you say and who you say it to can mean the difference between a quiet night and a home invasion, by the police or by robbers.

It also reminded me that my natural tendency toward being private had another root, and perhaps wasn’t so natural after all. Expression wasn’t just about outside dangers; for me, it was also not safe inside my home. My mother was masterful at weaponizing any disclosure. Silence, however, was safe.

Visibility presented consequences that I didn’t like. I learned quickly to fade to the back. Children should be seen but not heard, as my father would say. Video, however, will require adult Nicole to be seen and heard.

Here’s where the writer I am becoming is bumping up against the rules of a life I haven’t lived in decades. I am nurturing a public creative life. My essays are out there. I am writing a book that I want to be out there. I have a grand vision for creating visual essays. I’m choosing visibility. On purpose and with intention.

But my body still thinks it is twelve. It still feels the danger in this and keeps making me second-guess everything.

For the last two days, I’ve been reminding myself that I’ve successfully done much more difficult things than simply clicking “publish.” Even when I was afraid. I’m still standing; I’m still intact.

I had to reframe my thoughts. Fear isn’t a sign that I’m not ready or capable. It is a sign that I am standing at the threshold of something new.

What I learned from these last eight weeks is that my delay in publishing this video was not procrastination. Nor was it perfectionism. They were just the costume my body was wearing as it asked me to assure it that this was safe. This is what becoming feels like.

I settled on Kendrick Lamar Radio and let the music play. As I drove, I bopped along to tv off. Then it happened.

Passionfruit. Skip.

Nuthin’ But A “G” Thang. Skip.

Gin and Juice. Skip.

Flashing Lights. Skip.

Hypnotize. Skip.

Hotline Bling. Skip.

I had to change stations.

What I thought would be a playlist full of my nostalgia ended up being a graveyard full of unease.

Luther had to sweep in and save the day. I belted out love song after love song for the next hour.

Much of the entertainment of my youth did not age well. Think pretty much any John Hughes film, American Pie, and Married…With Children, for example. But music felt different.

Music plays such a unique role in our lives. Specific songs anchored my college years and twenties. The parties, the cookouts, the life events. I cannot hear We Belong Together by Mariah without being transported back to being eight months pregnant with Sydney in the sweltering Baltimore summer. Or, painting my first house to the Gap Band.

I felt great joy the first time I heard Sydney rap all the lines to a Tupac song; I raised her right. During her middle-school years, one of our favorite activities was watching Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party together. It gave me a chance to share a piece of my youth, in an age-appropriate way, with my young child. It was beautiful. We even made meals together from his cookbook, which I had him sign at a fundraiser. I stood there with a smile so big you could see all twenty-eight of my teeth.

So here I found myself on this open stretch of highway, unable to stomach so many of the men whose music formed the soundtrack of my life. Drake said, “Things change, people change, feelings change too.” I’m wondering which is it for me, and at what point did it all happen?

As with most things, this isn’t a black and white answer for me. Neither is the rubric that I’ve set up for how I deal with the men and their music.

Some are easy; R. Kelly is dead to me. Full stop. There is no separating his music from his predation and abuse of young girls.

Snoop, Nelly, Ice Cube, and any other MAGA. Dead to me. But I can’t lie, Snoop hurt me bad. He ripped away a point of connection for Sydney and me. Granted, we bonded over the breakup, but he was part of “us.” She even had a huge poster of Snoop and Tupac dressed in suits hanging in her bedroom. While driving to see Kendrick’s Grand National Tour together, we discussed what she would do with the poster because she just couldn’t keep Snoop on her wall anymore.

Then it hit her. “Mom,” she exclaimed, “I’m gonna print Kendrick’s face and tape it on top of Snoop’s!”

“Yes, Baby Girl,” I said. “That’s my girl.” I raised a smart and thinking feminist, I thought as I beamed with pride.

It wouldn’t take long for her to turn that feminism on me, and let me tell you, it stung. Not because I was wrong, but because she wasn’t wrong. When she was a child, she would often come to me to express a thought and would lead with, “Mom, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but…”

I would stop her dead in her tracks and simply say, “Then don’t be.” It felt so black and white.

Well, Chris Brown suddenly became very black and white for her, yet I found myself feeling the same, “I’m not trying to be hypocritical, but…,” when I asked her if she wanted to go to the Breezy Bowl concert with me.

“Absolutely not,” she emphatically told me. “And, I can’t believe you’re willing to spend money supporting him.”

Ouch.

But I went anyway, with a friend.

Many have written on Gen X, and they aren’t wrong. We were feral and experienced a lot. It manifested in our ability to compartmentalize, and that’s effectively what I did with Chris. My child and her generation simply will not. Hence, her covering of Snoop’s face because she found his newly publicized politics to be repulsive. And again, she’s not wrong.

When she was younger and would try to get away with something, I would often tell her, “Sydney, I’ve been ten. You’ve never been forty-two. I can see everything you’re trying to pull over on me.” That wisdom, which is only earned over time, has proven challenging for me when it comes to music.

Lately, I’ve been disappointed over and over again. I’ve worked through what can only be called grief. I keep trying to remind her (myself) that some of this is grey. Like, do I have to give up the entire Bad Boy catalog? Surely, not?

Understanding that environment can dramatically influence behavior, I’ve compartmentalized some of my former favorite artists like R. Kelly and Puff Daddy, a little differently than I have people like Chris Brown, Usher, and Jodeci. I understand that horrible acts aren’t only committed by evil people. Yet, it still doesn’t feel good.

I can do hard things, though. That includes choosing not to cancel those who’ve done great harm to others. Perhaps selfishly. Because they also played a role in shaping me.

That was why, on I-45, I finally had to call in Luther to clear the air, and my head. I needed a palate cleanser because the music and my thoughts had become too bitter. Instead, I let the greatest ballad singer ever croon me into Dallas.

Whoa! I gasped when I saw the orange, yellow, and green giant thing hanging from the ceiling. “What in the world is that?” I wondered. I stopped where I stood to behold it.

I’d come to the Museum of Fine Art Houston during Member Mornings this past Saturday to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition before it closes in a couple of weeks. As I trekked from the parking garage through the various buildings to reach Frida, I happened upon this.

It was so colossal that I tilted my head back to take it all in. My eyes scanned from left to right, trying to make sense of it. Then, with eyes still on it, I walked over to the staircase up to Frida. Every few steps, I stopped and looked over my shoulder at it again.

Because it was still an hour before the museum opened to the public, I made a mental note to return to this exhibit before I left.

Frida was, well, amazing, of course. As I wound my way through the final section, I happened to see the earlier installation through a gap in the wall. So, I walked over to see it from this higher, more distant vantage point.

“Oh my god!” People were inside it!

Sorry to Frida, but I have to admit that the last section did not get the same level of attention from me. I was too distracted with thoughts of making my way over to that thing.

I rushed through the requisite shop at the end of the Frida exhibition; I didn’t need a thing from there, and walked down the stairs to it.

“I can go inside it?” I asked the first employee I saw, who was directing museum visitors to the other side of the installation.

“Yes! Isn’t it great?” she replied. After speed walking my way over, I signed the release and donned my free gripper socks. Then I read the rules and stowed all of my belongings in the free lockers. As I walked toward the entry point of the actual art, I thought, “Oh, I wish I had my phone,” but the directions were clear: Do not bring any items with you. Use both hands to hold on at all times.

Brightly hued fishing nets and plastic whiffle balls were combined into a series of pathways in the air. I stood at the entrance and smiled at the attendant for a second as she encouraged me to enjoy the experience. Then, I began my careful ascent up the gradual incline. With each step, my feet shifted from the movement of the balls. My fingers were intertwined into the net to keep myself stable. I stepped slowly until my body gathered enough confidence in its ability to balance in the nets.

Now that I felt more comfortable, I began to look around through the netting. I saw the Frida exhibition across the way, and other people winding through this installation ahead of me. Keep moving, Nicole, I kept reminding myself. Each step took me higher and higher. I kept looking up, down, and around.

Wait a minute! Are they taking selfies and pictures in here? I couldn’t believe it. The women ahead of me were doing a whole-ass photoshoot inside the installation. I wanted to take pictures too, but the rules were clear, and I naively followed them. Dammit.

Then, insult was added to injury as I approached the center of the piece. There were three separate paths that you could choose, and the path that obviously took you to the very center, the eye, so to speak, was blocked by these women taking pictures. I was so damned mad because now I had to either take a different path and miss the eye or wait for them to finish.

I suspect my irritation was as much about the fact that I was jealous that I couldn’t also take pictures as it was about having to detour. I stood for a few seconds trying to decide what to do, but also feeling pressured to move because someone else was coming up behind me.

Finally, I stepped forward and selected the middle path. “I’ll just come back through this again. …with my camera,” I told myself. Then I took a breath to center myself and stepped forward. Because I was now alone on this new path, I took a moment to pause and look down to the floor so far beneath my feet. I could see the exit from there, but didn’t see how I would get to the exit.

As I continued snaking my way through the nets, I noticed that my detour took me right back to the center eye. I hadn’t missed anything. All of the paths led to the same place. “Hmph,” I thought, “ain’t that a metaphor for life?” I’d been irritated I might miss something, my brain running its nonstop efficiency script, when none of it mattered in the end.

By the time I made my way out of the contraption, I was giddy. The museum employee at the exit smiled, and I said to her, “You know, it isn’t often that adults get to frolic like this and experience such whimsy. I loved this.”

I then booked it over to the lockers to grab my phone. As I approached the entrance for the second time, I stuffed my phone into my pocket so that my plan wasn’t obvious. Or, maybe I should say it wasn’t blatant, because I’m sure they’ve seen it all before at that point.

I, once again, made my way up the plastic ball net ramp using both hands. Safety first! Then, once it leveled off, I, too, had my own photoshoot. And, when I reached the three paths again, I selected the third option before making my way back down for the second time.

Then, as I walked underneath the structure to take pictures of it from beneath, I smiled. That my tendency to follow the rules gave me such an unexpectedly joyful experience wasn’t lost on me. In hindsight, I was grateful for that fully present first pass.

*****

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Should you find yourself in Houston, go check out SunForceOceanLife by Ernesto Neto at the MFAH. Thank me later.

“Mom, I don’t know how to tell you this, but if you weren’t here, I’d be going. I’m going.”

After a ten-and-a-half-hour flight to London followed by navigating Marble Arch for some dinner, Sydney and I were both exhausted. She’d taken a nap during the afternoon while I went in search of a travel converter. After dinner, while it was still early but dark, I lay out on my bed and watched her digging through her bags and texting someone.

“Mom, Gabby is in Kensington, I’m going to walk through the park to go see her.”

I shot up in my bed. Hyde Park was between Kensington and us. “What did you say?” I clearly did not just hear my child tell me she’s going to walk, alone, through a park in the dark in a foreign country.

She repeated herself until I interrupted her with, “No, I don’t like this idea, Sydney. You cannot walk over there in the dark by yourself!”

“Gabby said the same thing,” was her reply.

Gabby for the win, was my thought, but I kept it to myself and instead said, “The fact that we both said the same thing to you is a sign.”

That’s when she hit me with that line that made it clear that I would not be able to stop her. And then the air left the room, and I had to lie down.

She was right. She’s an adult now, at twenty. She can and does make her own decisions. When did this happen, and why didn’t anyone tell me about this phase of parenting? I kinda knew I’d been relegated to just an advisor, but this settled it.

I sat back up and just looked at her. “Tell you what,” she began, “I won’t walk through the park. I’ll take the longer way and stay on the sidewalks, ok?”

All I could do was nod my head and mutter, “Ok.” And then she walked out the door.

The greatest gift my father, a factory worker, gave me was the ability to think. We’d spend hours together talking, debating, and arguing because he’d said some ridiculous thing to me to see how I would think my way around it.

I took that lesson into how I parented my child. If I can teach her how to think, she will be just fine. And so, from the time she could speak, if she could make a logical argument for herself, I would push back on her, but eventually relent and allow her to win.

One morning when we lived in Baltimore, I found a contract waiting for me on the counter. Sydney had recently celebrated her tenth birthday and was just shy of starting fifth grade at the time.

“I, Nicole Leonard,” she began on a sheet of wide-ruled paper. Then all of her proposed terms and conditions followed. She closed the contract with a signature line for me to sign.

I was so proud of her advocacy for herself. I stood there beaming as I reread it. Later that day, we entered into negotiations. If we’re going to do this, we must do it right. In the end, she secured a nine p.m. bedtime for herself with an immediate effective date. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to secure morning outdoor pool time, but that was beyond my control.

Two weeks after I’d left her in London, she would remove any lingering doubt from my mind about her ability to remain safe during this semester abroad. She and her suite mates created a group in Life360. One morning, Sydney noticed that one of them had added a stranger to the group. Outraged at the violation of her privacy, she immediately exited the group. “Mom, that’s not cool,” she shared during a FaceTime call. Then she continued, “That’s how people get trafficked!”

“Yes, Baby Girl, that’s exactly how people get trafficked.” She reminded me that this was not new for her. She’d ridden the Los Angeles subway to high school in Hollywood for years long before this day.

Now, here I was sitting on a bed in a London hotel, a decade after her contract negotiation and seven years after her first solo subway ride. Meanwhile, my independent child was out there somewhere doing exactly what I had been training her to do since birth.

But, damn, did it sting.

To soothe my irrational nervousness - she was walking from Marble Arch to Kensington, one of the safest stretches in the world - I pulled out my phone and opened Find My. And then I watched her bubble as it slowly made its way along the longer route before finally stopping.

She did not text me to let me know that she’d arrived. I did not expect her to, such is the nature of our relationship. I knew that if she needed me, she would let me know. This was her showing me that she would be just fine during her next four months alone in London.

That first night in London, as I lay back down, I chuckled to myself about tracking her route. It was ironic because just a few weeks earlier, while we were still in Los Angeles, I was getting my nails done in West Hollywood when I received a text from her that read: I like Argentine steakhouses.

I was so confused. I responded: Are we not supposed to like them? I thought I’d violated another one of her generation’s rules, like not eating at Chick-fil-A.

She told me that she was doing her Find My rounds on her friends and saw that I was at one before she zoomed in closer and saw that I was at the nail salon next door to one.

That memory gave me comfort enough to let me doze off. I made sure to leave the bathroom light on for her so that she wouldn’t enter a dark hotel room. Later that evening, I heard the door open quietly. She was trying not to wake me, but I’d learned long before that night that when she is out, I can never really surrender to deep sleep.

“Goodnight,” I said to her, relieved that she was back. Then I looked at my watch and smiled because it was only eleven p.m. She didn’t stay out late.

“Goodnight, Mom,” she said and climbed into her bed.

A confession: I am still internally wrestling with this new parent-child dynamic that we’d just entered.

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“I need to lie down. Like, right now,” I said to her.

She kept right on talking, so sudden was my pronouncement, she didn’t even register it. But this was my third time having this experience since my surgery.

I couldn’t understand why I kept doing this to myself. In the previous two weeks, I’d done the insane:

• Wrote a Substack essay two days after surgery,

• Walked nearly a mile to get coffee three days after surgery

• Drafted nearly 5,000 words for my book

• Reworked the entire structure of the book

• Managed some legal matters

• Ordered and learned how to use new video equipment

• Scouted filming locations and rewrote a script

• Filmed first YouTube video, and hated that video so I scrapped it

• Launched my YouTube channel with an edited and repurposed Matador video

My body, hating me during that timeframe, decided I needed to learn a lesson and forced me to stop, mid-bite, during dinner. On two separate occasions, I’d been forced to put my fork down and make a beeline to my bed, where I curled up in a ball and wept.

The thing is, my mind and body were completely disconnected. While I’d had a major surgery, it was done laparoscopically with only tiny incisions. On the surface, I felt and looked fine. No pain, no recovery needed, or so it seemed to me. Meanwhile, inside, my body was trying to put itself back together. It needed rest.

Instead, I gave it its usual Tuesday pace. And it rebelled without any warning that I could recognize.

During one breakdown, I was talking to a friend who said to me, “Nicole, you literally cannot stop, can you?”

“Apparently not,” was all I could whisper in return.

I spent the rest of the day wondering: Why is it so hard for me to stop? Why do I keep behaving like I’m fine when I’m not? Why do I always feel like I should be doing more?

Old habits die hard, though, so after a few days, I went back to working on my book. It was then that I came across some text messages. I was simply looking to verify a date when I read the exchanges. They were from the height of the pandemic, and just as now, I was behaving as if nothing was wrong. I read them and thought that woman was unhinged. I couldn’t recognize myself in her at all. And then I was simultaneously embarrassed by and furious with her.

I felt no compassion for that version of me, just as, apparently, I was feeling no compassion for this version of me.

My cousin, a rehabilitation counseling professor, looked at me spiraling in her leather chair. Two things she said to me that evening stuck with me, even if I haven’t completely integrated them. “The brain will do whatever it has to do to survive,” and “You need to find some kindness for yourself.”

I went to bed that night thinking to myself, I don’t know how. I mean, I know how. I’d literally just published an essay about how I’d prepped my apartment to ensure an easy recovery environment. I’d made my travel arrangements to ensure I’d have the help I needed. But here I was still stuck in a pattern I didn’t seem able to turn off.

And then came my trip back to Houston. With my bags on the luggage cart, I walked up to the baggage counter in the California airport and let the airline agent know that I required wheelchair assistance for my trip. In the air, I also asked the flight attendant to confirm that I would have assistance in Houston. Each time, I was assured that I was fine. On the ground, I was told that I wasn’t on the list of passengers and was left to manage on my own. So, at the conveyor belt, I said a silent prayer and struggled to hoist the two bags off myself.

The irony of my actually asking for help repeatedly and still needing to take care of myself was not lost on me. It confirmed for me the belief that no one is going to take care of me except me. But it also made me wonder if maybe I’m also failing myself by assuming so quickly and resolutely that I am on my own. What I do know is that by the time I arrived home to my apartment, my body had had all that it could stand.

And on Sunday, it told me again, definitively, ENOUGH.

That afternoon, after resting for a couple of hours, I took my recovery into my own hands and scheduled a lymphatic massage. Then I ordered Chipotle instead of cooking salmon for dinner as I had planned. I am determined to break this cycle.

I slept so well that night.

On Tuesday, Sydney called me on FaceTime, and we talked while she packed up her room. I was sharing with her how my body shut down again on Sunday, truly exasperated with myself. She said so casually, “Yep, my body does that too.”

She’s twenty. I felt immediate heartbreak and horror at her recognition. She’d learned this from me. This cannot be what I give to her as a demonstration of what it means to be a woman. And, with her as a mirror for me, I cannot ignore how I apply this to my own life.

I told myself that I must, once again, do for myself the thing that I want her to learn. She has to see it. And she must see it from me.

Now, I just need to figure out how to teach my daughter something that I never learned myself.

Part 1 gave you the exoskeleton of traveling halfway around the world. Now let’s go inside, to the heart of it.

We’ll start with the Atlanta shuttle driver who drove me from my day hotel to the airport. As is common, she asked which terminal I was flying out of, and I told her, “The international terminal, Qatar Airways.” Instead, she pulled up to one of the Delta terminals and started pulling my suitcases off the rack. “This is your stop.”

I looked at her, not sure because all of the gates said Delta. Then, I gently protested that, no, I needed the international terminal. “Delta’s right there. This is it.”

“…but…” Vroom. She was back on the shuttle and pulling away. That terminal was, in fact, not it.

Thankfully, a kind soul inside took pity on me when I asked how to find the Qatar Airways counter. She gasped, exasperated that the explanation was going to slow her down, but she was too much of a Southern Girl to wave me off. After following her complex instructions on how to go over the river and through the woods, I landed on a bus and took a five-minute ride to the international terminal.

A few hours later, I found myself boarding the plane. Giddy, nervous, and dare I say a little embarrassed about how excited I was about having my own private suite. For some reason, I felt the need to pretend like I’ve had nice things my whole life. But pretend for whom? These people don’t know me.

At the moment, my brain did what it does to make me feel comfortable. It switched into assessment mode. We weren’t even yet taxiing, and I could feel the difference in service on this flight. With Qatar Airways, it was clear that every element onboard was considered, and that contributed to the calm energy of the cabin. This wasn’t simply transportation; this was an experience replete with a candlelit dinner and a soft mattress pad on the freshly made bed.

There were several other Niggas In Paris moments that contributed to the I ain’t even ‘posed to be here feeling. The first was the flight attendant asking me if this was my first time in a QSuite, and my urge to answer quietly, “Yes.”

The next was the side eye that the male flight attendant gave me when I returned the size medium and asked for a size large pajama set. He knew that they were going to be too big for me, but he just let my ignorant self have exactly what I asked for. Too timid to ask for another pair that fit, I swam in that pair for the rest of the flight. Then I encountered the only other black American woman on the flight who asked me if I worked there. Ma’am, do you not see these immaculately dressed flight attendants? Do I really look like I work here just because I have on my too-large pajamas?

Through it all, I simply couldn’t shake how odd it felt that so many people saw me and made certain assumptions about who I was while I was in the middle of this amazing experience. I’d spent a life in elite spaces, so I was no stranger to being an Invisible (Wo)Man, moving through the world and carrying a life that no one else could see. I won’t lie, while I brushed them off, including more to come, it was the black woman on the plane that really bothered me. I went back to my seat and texted a friend, “It be your own people.”

Upon our arrival in Doha, I made a beeline through immigration to head to Souq Waqif to explore during my eight-hour layover. Navigating the airport and trying to figure out my transportation options, I felt so foreign. Yes, English was everywhere, but English only took me so far when I was trying to navigate cultural differences.

I arrived on the first night of Ramadan, as the city gathered for iftar. As I walked through the market, I found myself nervous and uncomfortable with my phone out, recording everything. I watched vendors closing their shops early, families gathering in the square, and women covered from head to toe. I’d done enough research to ensure that I was dressed appropriately, and knew that as a Westerner, I would be afforded certain graces, but it was important to me that I behave in a way to not need that leeway.

With most of the Souq now closed, I walked over to the Al Corniche waterfront to see the West Bay skyline across the water. There, I encountered a very persuasive boat operator who convinced me to join his boat for the low price of 20 riyals. Punch drunk from travel and recognizing a deal, I said yes. As soon as I was on the boat, I thought, “Nicole! What are you doing?” Then immediately did a walk around the boat to find the life vests, just in case. On the boat, I met a British gentleman celebrating his 83rd birthday with his son.

Once we exited the boat and began walking back towards the Souq, the old man stopped me and said, “Oh, American. The Mc Donald’s is right over there,” and pointed down the street. I thanked him, told him I was going to the taxi, and thought, “Are you freaking kidding me?” And that’s how I ended up in the taxi with the Pakistani driver, who was stunned that I needed to be dropped off at the first-class entrance. “No, economy?”

No, sir. No economy. I’m convinced my taxi fare went up with that disclosure.

Back at the airport, exhausted and hungry, I headed straight to the Al Safwa First Class Lounge. Well, sorta. The entrance to the lounge is hidden in plain sight. I finally asked an employee to take me there because I’d unknowingly passed it several times.

You know how all the influencers say wealth is quiet? Wealth is muthafucking QUIET!!

I’ve been blessed in this lifetime; I’ve seen and done a lot. However. Comma. I have never seen or done anything like this in my life.

This lounge was a literal art museum. There was no sound. I have never in my life been so thankful that I sprung for expensive luggage with silent wheels. Even the massive fountain was silent. I felt as disoriented as I did the first time I floated in an isolation pod.

As I slowly walked the hallway, I gave myself a pep talk, “Nicole, act like you’ve been somewhere. It’s *just* a lounge.” Except it wasn’t. I squared my shoulders and walked straight back to the bar area with my suitcase because figuring out where to check it required more of me than I had.

Suddenly, a man appeared and told me he’d be happy to seat me in the restaurant. The restaurant was strictly à la carte, he shared. Huh, I thought, no massive lounge buffet. I was escorted to an empty dining room. Two glasses of champagne later, and my belly filled with steak and asparagus, I made my way back to the silent fountain. I needed to figure out where the showers and quiet rooms were. I think the champagne gave me the courage to ask for help finding the showers.

After showering, I went looking for the quiet rooms. Like the entrance to the lounge, they, too, must have been hiding in plain sight because I never found them. Instead, I returned to familiar territory to find a cubicle near the restaurant. I was surprised to find the bar was now crowded with ten people and decided that I would make an attempt at being social. People in first-class lounges at midnight are not social.

I sat there pondering how foreign this experience felt, starkly juxtaposed with my Monaco experience. Both are extremely wealthy countries. But the demonstration of wealth in both was diametrically opposed.

Wealth in Monaco was loud. At the time, I told a friend that it felt like I was observing cartel or oligarchy money. It all just felt dirty to me.

But Doha? This was refined. I’m not naive enough to think that it doesn’t have a dirty side, too. The experience was too curated for that not to be the case. But, I will say that it was discreet. It did not announce itself, nor inundate you with sex workers.

While sitting in the lounge, I began processing my trip. It serendipitously landed right in the middle of my old and new lives. That fact put a contemplative lens on the experience for me.

I noticed that it was time to make my way to my gate for a five-hour flight to Malé. That flight would be followed by an undetermined layover and another forty-five-minute seaplane ride.

Now on the plane, I settled into my seat behind a British man. As I organized my things, I heard the strangest hissing sound. I looked up to see this guy standing, shirt up, spraying aerosol deodorant under his arms! After I picked up my jaw, I thought to myself, “And here you were giving yourself a pep talk about belonging.”

The audacity to have felt any sense of not belonging was crazy talk. I not only belonged, but I’d occupied these spaces for years in Los Angeles. That was my “Stop your shit, Nicole,” moment.

Exiting the airport in Malé, I had a preview of what my new life in Houston would feel like when the humidity and 82-degree heat hit me. My hair instantly grew three sizes like the Grinch’s heart.

Greeted by the representative from my resort, my feelings were trampled when he told me that I had to check both of my suitcases. I felt like such a rookie opening both suitcases in the middle of the airport. I needed to remove my must-haves - computer, iPad, chargers, swimsuit, flip flops, sunscreen, and sunglasses - and quickly stuff them into a tiny shopping tote. There was no guarantee that my luggage would be on the same plane as I.

Next, we were escorted to the lounge to wait for our departure. After my experiences in Al Safwa First Class Lounge the night before, I walked in and had a Little Sydney moment.

When we were exploring elementary schools for her, we went on the private school open house circuit. Upon our arrival at the Montessori school, Little Sydney sashayed in, did a pirouette, looked at our hostess, and said, “Y’all don’t have any lemonade and cookies, or something?”

That was me when I walked into the lounge.

Three seconds later, I realized how absurd my thoughts were. So, I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and went outside to watch the seaplanes as they took off from their invisible runway in the ocean. All of it was so surreal, the lack of “lemonade and cookies, or something,” no longer mattered. After two days, I was moments away from actual paradise.

Finally, it was time to depart, so I boarded the tiny seaplane, taking the very first seat behind the pilots. I didn’t realize that would prove to be a mistake. That seat was where a small but mighty fan was mounted.

For forty-five minutes, it pulled out one individual hair after another from my now gigantic afro and blew directly into my eyes. My meticulously applied eyelashes, which were supposed to last the duration of my vacation, didn’t stand a chance. I arrived looking like a caterpillar had crawled across my face and settled on my eyelids.

That was when I understood that for this specific vacation, the experience was going to be just as much about the trip as it was the destination. For that, I am thankful.

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The video companion to this essay coming soon on YouTube. It goes places the essay couldn't.

This was the first time my new apartment was clean and organized. Je’roam (my robot floor cleaner) had vacuumed and mopped every surface. I’d even hung artwork and placed some crystals. It finally felt like home, not just the place I lay my head.

What I didn’t do was write the Friday Reflection for Substack that I planned to publish the day before. Nor did I outline my essay for my regularly scheduled publication deadline on the upcoming Tuesday. I didn’t complete the 2,500 words of my book that were due in a few hours. And most disappointingly, I didn’t even have the concrete plan for my launch of the YouTube channel at the end of next week. I’d been planning that launch and wringing my hands about it for weeks.

I stood there looking at the things I had accomplished instead. Yes, I’d spent the last four days doing things that in the moment felt like a distraction from writing. But what I’d really done was something much more important. I had emptied every remaining box and organized everything. I moved every unnecessary item to my storage unit.

Then I whispered to myself, “Nicole, it will be ok.”

I had created a calm and soothing space to return to. Productivity these last few days was me taking care of future Nicole. For once.

And yet, standing there in denial, I just couldn’t accept that my meticulously planned schedule had been disrupted by an urgent opportunity that appeared out of nowhere. Just four days earlier, I’d given myself approximately two hours to revel in the pride I felt from creating my entry for the Matador Equipment competition. The ten days leading up to the March 31st submission deadline were spent teaching myself several new skills and then executing them. My video turned out great. However, I had to restrain myself from immediately jumping right back in and getting started on the other twelve things on my list. I fully expected myself to absorb the unexpected opportunity that was the Matador video and still meet my original goal on time.

This time, though, I was unable to get started. My video was complete, but my apartment was a mess. In just a few days, I would be leaving for two weeks, and the call to clear the mess was much too strong. I knew that if I returned to this environment, instead of allowing my body to recover, I would feel compelled to get it in order.

The problem was that I felt such guilt about it. I felt guilt that for the last week and a half, I had not written a single word for my book, and the deadline for my assignment was looming. I felt guilt that I had already pushed back the YouTube launch in order to complete the Matador video. I felt guilt for not having the next two Substack essays drafted.

I felt guilt for not producing.

For too long, I believed that my ability to endure and carry everything myself was noble. Rest wasn’t for me; it was a luxury. It was something I was able to have only after I’d pushed myself to the absolute edge. Further, despite a twenty-five-year marriage, my lived experience was that no one was going to take care of me, except me.

As I spent Sunday before my surgery resting and thinking about this truth (lie), something in me shifted. I began the day still feeling guilty for not having produced any new words, but also knowing that I needed to rest. The next day, Monday, I would have surgery, and frankly, both my body and mind just needed a minute.

The complicated truth is that I’d spent my entire life enduring things much longer than I should have. I had been living with a medical issue for nearly twenty years, completely minimizing the pain. Finally, I decided that I deserved to not suffer. Just like living in that marriage.

But here’s the complication. Medicine has advanced so dramatically that had I taken action on the medical issue years ago, it would have been a much more invasive procedure. Likewise, had I left that marriage years ago, that Nicole didn’t have the tools to be open, to be optimistic. To trust herself and her future. To not be bitter.

As I type this on Wednesday, I am just forty-eight hours out from surgery. Thankfully, I am able to rely on only OTC pain relievers. That would not have been the case even five to ten years ago.

Today, I won’t romanticize suffering and waiting. But, I had to get to a place where I will not punish myself for not taking action sooner.

Here’s what I am clinging to: I did it. Now. And now is still in time.

Now, I will not white-knuckle the pain. I took my pain meds on time. I will rest without guilt. When I return to Houston, I will utilize wheelchair assistance at both airports and check my bags instead of trying to carry them. My transportation will handle my bags for me, and I will order my groceries instead of shopping myself.

I am allowed to receive help. I am allowed to experience comfort, care, and ease. I am caring for myself BEFORE I collapse.

I am still me, however, as evidenced by the fact that I felt the pull to write this piece while recovering. But, I will release urgency and self-punishment for not meeting my own goals perfectly. My book will be there, still waiting for me. I will get back to it. I will still launch the YouTube channel this week. It’ll just launch differently. And, no one other than me will know that that was not how I planned it.

The good will be better than perfect because I will be whole and cared for when I create it, instead of depleted.

What surprised me most was not the response to the Maldives or the travel itself.

It was how many people said they felt inspired.

Over the last year, I have been navigating a major life transition. I left a long career, moved across the country, and began building a life that feels more like my own.

At 53, I am learning that choosing yourself is not selfish. It is necessary. It is life.

I don’t travel to find myself. I travel because I’ve already chosen myself.

Maybe that is what people are responding to.

If you’re in a season of reinvention too, I hope this reminds you: it is not too late to build a life that feels like yours.

The film is for a Matador Equipment contest. The prize is $100,000, which is not exactly small potatoes. More than that, though, it is the first time I have tried to take what I do here, the stories, the voice, the way I see the world, and translate it into something visual.

I taught myself iMovie. I taught myself how to film myself without feeling ridiculous. I taught myself how to edit video, smooth transitions, layer B-roll, clean up audio, mix music, export files, and somehow keep all of it under two minutes.

I have spent the last several days flying the plane and building it at the same time. Mind you, I’m type - A, highly competitive, and a perfectionist. So, it had to be the absolute best that I was capable of making because I believe with my entire soul that I can be an expert at anything.

But honestly? I needed a break.

So Friday night, I got out in these Houston streets and went to happy hour at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. I wandered through the Louvre fashion exhibit, became a member, and reminded myself that life exists outside my laptop.

I was supposed to go back Saturday night for another event, but I was tired and stayed home instead. I am trying to honor my social and emotional energy. I am getting out when I can. And when I can’t, I don’t force it.

Then Sunday morning, at 7 a.m., I was at the Houston Arboretum & Nature Center with my tripod, trying to teach myself yet another thing I’d never done before.

I filmed all of the A-roll for my Matador video there.

And I fell in love with the place immediately.

It is quiet and green and somehow feels tucked away from the rest of the city. It reminded me of how much I loved the National Arboretum in DC, where I used to go a few times a week. This one is close to me too. I have a feeling I am going to become a regular.

At one point, I hiked out to the Meadow Pond, which is apparently where the alligators live. Or, at least where the signs informing you not to feed the alligators live. I kept seeing movement in the water and immediately went from “what a peaceful morning in nature” to “hold up, there are alligators in here?” in about three seconds. I did not take a picture because I was too focused on filming, and also because I suddenly felt the need to get up out of there. Apparently this is just a normal Houston experience.

Then Sunday afternoon, because a girl needs a break, I went to the Sunday Jazz series at Discovery Green.

The evening began with The Culture Society Orchestra, a Houston group that takes hip-hop and reimagines it through live instrumentation. Yes, I was swag surfing with an orchestral beat on a Sunday afternoon. Then came Cimafunk, an Afro-Cuban artist whose music somehow felt like jazz, funk, soul, and joy all at once. I didn’t understand a single word, but my body knew how to move to it.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized how much I had missed this.

Not the live music. I had that in spades in LA. I missed being around Black people.

After ten years in Los Angeles, I had forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by Black families, Black couples, Black joy, Black people just existing. I had forgotten what it felt like to blend into the crowd instead of standing out in it.

Houston has given me that in ways I did not even realize I was missing.

I am trying to make new friends. I am trying to get settled in this city. So far, I have mostly just been getting out there, by myself, and seeing what happens.

This weekend, what happened was that I realized I can be happy here. I do not have to perform a version of myself here. I can just be me.

And last night, after eight straight hours at my computer, I finished what is very likely the final version of the film.

I am so damn proud of myself. If I do say so myself.

Not because it is perfect. It isn’t. That admission took a lot for me to admit because I still have no idea what I’m doing half the time.

I am certain there are 25-year-olds on YouTube who could have done this in an afternoon.

But I did it anyway.

At 53 years old, I taught myself an entirely new medium in a week because there was something I wanted, and because I am finally at a point in my life where I am no longer willing to leave things on the table.

That feels worth documenting.

The YouTube launch did not happen yesterday because I was so focused on making this film. The Maldives essays will continue. The YouTube channel is coming, just not quite yet.

It turns out building a new thing takes longer than I wanted it to. But maybe that is the story too. Not the polished launch, but the messy, exhilarating, slightly terrifying middle where you are becoming someone new and you have no choice but to keep going.

You know, The Distance Between.

This afternoon, I’ll share the film.

For this morning, I just wanted to mark this moment.

A week ago, I didn’t know how to do any of this.

Now I do.

“Hello, Miss Anderson. Is this your first time flying with us in a Qsuite? Would you like me to show you how to operate the door?” the Qatar Airways flight attendant asked me. I was seated in 7A, a reversed seat in business class.

I exited my Uber and walked into Terminal 3 at LAX just twenty-four hours earlier. I’d weighed my checked bag three times with my scale, but was still nervous about it being overweight. Success! Then I entered the CLEAR line to clear TSA.

I had arranged a 4 p.m. PST check-out from my hotel (thank you, Bonvoy Elite), but I had nowhere to go, so I arrived at the airport four hours before my flight. With over an hour before I could enter the Delta Sky Lounge, I walked over to the international terminal to window shop and sample perfumes in the Duty Free shop.

Sense of smell sufficiently blown, but neck smelling delicious from the Dior Hypnotic, I made my way back to the lounge to rest and write. I love the LAX Delta Sky Lounge’s terrace, where I like to sit and pretend to park the airplanes with my fingers as they turn down the aisle to stop at the gates nearby. Parking planes is hard work, so I eventually made my way over to the buffet for a late dinner before my redeye positioning flight to ATL.

After four hours of squirming in my economy seat due to residual knee pain, I finally arrived in Atlanta at 5 a.m. EST. I thought I would meet a friend for lunch and hang out in Atlanta for the afternoon before my 7 p.m. EST flight. I’m not as young as I used to be, though, so I booked a day hotel to sleep and shower before my nearly 14-hour flight to Doha.

After finally checking in for my Qatar flight, I headed to the new Amex Centurion Lounge in the international terminal. The lounge was breathtaking, with a huge olive tree in the middle and warm, dark wood walls. I did a loop of the lounge to scope it out and figure out where I might like to sit. Then, food in hand and bags in tow, I saw the manager wave me over to a set of lounge chairs.

“Do you need a place to sit? I saved this spot for you,” he said as I approached. Pretty privilege wins the day. I enjoyed my meal and kindly shared the space when another solo female traveler approached.

After finishing my food, I hopped from section to section. I filmed planes from the windows that felt close enough to actually touch. When I went back to my seat to charge my phone, I noticed the boarding notification on my phone.

Oh shit, I was so wrapped up in the experience I totally missed my early boarding window! Here I was wasting time in an airport lounge. I quickly threw all of my things into my suitcase and speed-walked to my gate.

At the gate, I walked straight to the empty business class lane and was ushered through. After scanning my boarding pass, I walked toward the entrance to the jetway only to see that we had a totally separate boarding area. I don’t think the economy class passengers even saw our route because I never saw them again.

I walked down the separate jet bridge to the business class door. There, I was warmly greeted and escorted to my seat. I’ve flown in business class before, but this was unlike any of the other airlines. First, there was a much larger lie-flat seat and footwell than I’ve ever seen, and there was a separate little seat to the left. Waiting for me was a warm towel and a Diptyque amenities kit with all manner of treats, including perfume. On the seat were two pillows. I took my seat and began getting myself organized.

Just a few seconds later, my “cabin hostess” introduced herself and offered a preflight drink. She recommended their signature mint lemonade, which clearly I had to accept if that was their signature drink. She explained that I should review the menu and she’d be back shortly for my order. I was downright giddy about it all.

As I sat there looking all around, I did some people watching over my wall and remarked to myself about how private this whole experience was. I could only see the top of the head of the guy in front of me if he stood. And once the door was closed, I really couldn’t see anything.

Soon, the flight attendant returned and asked, “Ms. Anderson, is this your first time flying in our Qsuite? Would you like a demonstration on how to use the sliding door?”

She proceeded to tell me that it would be locked for takeoff and landing. She also showed me how to use it and where the emergency exit was, should I get stuck inside.

“Please do not use this if it is not an emergency, though, as the entire door will come off, and well, we don’t want that unnecessarily.”

Next, a male flight attendant arrived with a package of pajamas and slippers for my comfort. I saw that he was offering a size medium and immediately let him know I’d need a large. He lifted his eyebrow at me, “Large?” but quickly returned with my requested size.

I slipped off to the bathroom, which was large enough to spin around in, to change. Then I realized that I should have questioned that eyebrow raise because I was swimming in size large. At that point, I should have asked for a different set, but I sucked it up, rolled up my sleeves, and spent the rest of the flight in my extremely loose flight clothes.

Now in the air, I was offered a pre-dinner drink. Sparkling rosé Champagne, thank you very much. Then, about ninety minutes into the flight, the dinner service began. I reveled in the fine linen tablecloth and candle centerpieces. The multi-course gourmet meal was plated and served as if I were in a restaurant.

During the meal service, I noticed that the flight attendant set up the bed with a mattress pad and sheets for the family across from me. They were eager to put their toddler to sleep and bypassed the dinner service. Sufficiently watered and fed, I figured it was time for my bed turn-down service too, so I rang for assistance.

While she worked on my suite, I made a detour to the bathroom again to brush my teeth and freshen up. When I exited, there was another Black woman standing there waiting. She looked at me and said, “Oh, hi, do you work here?”

I was so confused and asked her to repeat herself. Then realizing her mistake, she said, “Oh, those are the lounge clothes.”

Um, ok.

Finally, the time had come to cocoon myself in my suite. I closed the door, pulled out my laptop, tripod, and phone to record, and connected to the free Starlink wifi. The quality of the service was better than my Spectrum service at home. In my solitude with a movie on the screen and my seat reclined, I worked a little, watched the movie a little, and smiled a lot.

Such was the rest of my thirteen and a half hour journey. Sleep, wake, eat, and champagne. Wash, rinse, repeat until we landed in Doha.

While taxiing to our gate at 5:00 p.m. AST, the pilot made a few announcements to acclimate us to our new location. Now, in a Muslim country, he told us there would be no tolerance for other religious propaganda. He also warned that it was the first day of Ramadan, and as such, eating or drinking in public was prohibited. Noted!

Exiting the plane first through our own door again, the business class passengers were ushered over into a private immigration area. There were no lines, just a lounge full of comfortable chairs. With no discernible queue, we were called over individually to the immigration officer.

I don’t know if mine was just gruff, or if he wasn’t having my English-speaking-only American self, but we had a couple of tense moments with him asking me questions I couldn’t quite understand due to his accent. With as much humility as possible, because Dorothy wasn’t in Kansas anymore, I smiled and tried to be compliant as quickly as possible. It didn’t work; he expressed utter disgust with me for not getting something that I needed in advance (I swear I had researched all of my entry requirements!), and then he made me pay for something before finally sending me through and into the Doha airport.

Now it was time to go in search of the first-class lounge. I swear that the entrance is intentionally invisible. I was walking all around it and unable to see it until I finally asked for help.

After clearing multiple checkpoints, I finally found myself inside what can only be described as a museum. It was visually stunning and overwhelming at the same time. The first thing I noticed was the beautiful art everywhere, followed by the water wall and a separate, completely silent fountain. I stood spinning and looking all around. I was trying to play it cool, “Act like you’ve been somewhere, Nicole.” But I can’t lie, I was floored by the understated but opulent luxury of it all.

The entire place was so quiet that I could hear the wheels on my expensive suitcase as I slowly strolled down the hall of the lounge. The energy of the place made me automatically exhale and stroll a lot slower.

Wanting to take advantage of everything, I walked over to the dining area, which was deserted. I was quickly greeted by a hostess who escorted me over to a dining table. As we walked, she explained that everything was made to order. And here I’d been so impressed with the buffet food in the Centurion lounge in Atlanta. There are levels to this!

Other than a table of six or so men on the other side of the huge partition in the dining area, there was no one else around. Belly full, it was now time to find the shower and maybe even a resting pod. On the other side of the museum, I found the spa, prayer rooms, and a quiet space. As if the entire place isn’t quiet! There, I took the most luxurious shower and indulged in all of the amazing products that were set up for me.

Showered and fresh, I looked for the quiet rooms to take a nap. I never figured out where they were. I ended up back in the main area, where I found that the bar was now downright jumping with a full crowd of about eight to ten people. Refreshed, and with only an hour before I would board my next flight, I decided to sit at the bar and people-watch.

Next up was my 1:00 a.m. AST flight to Malé, which would take about four and a half hours. This business class section was much more like the other planes that I was accustomed to. It also had lie-flat seats, but much smaller given the size of this smaller plane for a shorter flight.

As I stood in the aisle getting my bags situated, I heard a hissing sound nearby, so my attention quickly snapped into focus. I had to clasp my pearls when I figured out what it was. The British man sitting in front of me had his shirt lifted and was spraying deodorant under his armpits! I couldn’t decide whether to be aghast or thankful.

The arrival into Malé at 7:50 a.m. MVT also included a level setting announcement from the pilot. Once again, we were reminded that we were entering a Muslim country and things might be different here. Specifically, he told us that untamed dogs are prohibited, and they don’t care where we are from or what the laws were in our country, because they do not apply here.

Exiting the airport, I was immediately snapped into heat and humidity. I think my curls puffed up to twice their size in a matter of minutes. A member of the resort staff was waiting for us and took us over to be processed for our seaplane transport to our island. The seaplanes are small and therefore have very strict weight requirements. Of course, my bags were overweight, so I had to pay a penalty. The other thing was that even my small international carry-on needed to be checked. I wasn’t ready for this and didn’t really have a personal item other than a small canvas shopping bag.

I had to quickly open my suitcase, pull out my computer, iPad, chargers, and a swimsuit to stuff into my shopping bag. I didn’t know how long it would be before I got my other bags, and there was no way I was letting my laptop out of my sight.

All set, we were taken over to a lounge to wait for our specific flight. Boy, after that first class lounge in Doha, this one felt, let’s just say, lacking. It was air-conditioned, so there’s that. They had coffee and snacks available. Picture a cheap high noon tea service with egg salad sandwiches and dry pastries. I opted to head out to the balcony and watch the seaplanes take off and land.

When I was finally called to board my flight, I followed the employee out onto a long pier where we climbed into these tiny propeller planes. I was seated in the first seat, which had a strong fan blowing in my face. That was our air conditioning. It was so strong that it blew my eyelashes right off my face! The other thing that stuck with me was how loud the planes were. I found myself wishing that I had earplugs.

I was fascinated watching the planes operate. There were clearly multiple runways right on the water bc the process worked just like if we were on land. But soon, we were off and into the air. The views of the ocean were spectacular. The vibration of the plane was not.

Forty-five minutes later, we glided across the blue water to our island, where we were welcomed and transferred to check in.

Stay tuned for Part 2!

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I’ll be expanding this series beyond the page next week with the launch of my YouTube channel, where these essays will take on a visual form. The first video follows this journey.

It was day one of the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference in Baltimore. My name badge hung around my neck on the cerulean lanyard: Nicole Anderson - she/her. I was excited to conquer the Bookfair.

I stepped through the closest door into the exhibition hall and stopped dead in my tracks. I gulped, and the room spun for just a second like I’d had two drinks too many. Except it was noon, and this wasn’t a night of too much drinking from my twenties.

This was hundreds of exhibitors - small presses, literary journals, MFA programs, and writing organizations, to name just a few. There were thousands of attendees moving between aisle after aisle, after aisle of tables. With innumerable tchotchkes, books, and merch on display for sale, it was beautiful. But this was also completely overwhelming. I felt flooded.

Once I slowed my breathing, I told myself that I would walk allllll the way down this aisle and back up the next. It would be immersion therapy, so to speak. I would later map out a plan for how to attack this in a meaningful way. Despite the vastness of it all, one thing immediately stuck with me. Everyone was so nice. Every person that I made eye contact with smiled. I thought to myself, this is refreshing.

Midway up the return aisle, I paused to recalibrate, and suddenly I heard, “Nicole!” I looked up to see the smiling face of Yvette, a poet extraordinaire and fellow healthcare executive. I was so happy to see a friendly face. I’d previously collaborated with her and The Good Listening Project to bring my vision to life in the form of a poetry anthology titled Say Her Name: Honoring Henrietta Lacks’ Legacy and Impact on Medicine and Research Ethics.

We hugged and commiserated on how different AWP was from our usual healthcare executive conferences. This was the first time attending for both of us. Feeling a little rejuvenated, I bid her adieu to attend another morning session and wait for Rochelle to arrive.

Later, I excitedly met up with Rochelle, and after the hugs and squeals, we decided to find some food before attending an afternoon session. We decided to go down to the book fair area because I told her there were vendors there, but also warned that it was A LOT. Giggling, cackling, and all around enjoying each other, we walked in the doors. Rochelle stopped. The people. The sound. The sheer scope of the space. We looked around, and she said, “Oh, no. This is a lot!” A quick heel spin later, we were back out in the main convention center in line at the restaurant. It wasn’t just me!

The next day, having learned my lesson about showing up to a session a couple of minutes before it starts and being turned away, I arrived at what I thought was the most important panel discussion: “Ask an Agent Anything.” I’d done my homework the night before and was prepared with a plan. I knew that the moderator was an important agent who represented writers in my genre. If there was ever a time for me to introduce myself, this was it! I arrived at the convention center an hour early. That was no small feat, given that this was the first session of the day and I had a headshot photo session scheduled for the end of the day and needed to look fabulous!

I found a seat in the first row, closest to the steps to the stage, to give myself the best chance at being first in line when the panel discussion was over. I was determined that I would make the absolute most of this moment like Eminem in 8 Mile. You only get one shot. I had my intro memorized, “Hi, I’m Nicole Anderson, and I’m working on a literary memoir…”

Whomp, whomp. The panel ended. I froze. I felt my heart rate begin to increase as sweat formed on my forehead. Get yourself together, Nicole, I told myself. Then I distracted myself by trying to stuff my puffer into my conference bag, while also asking myself why I didn’t just use coat check. Deep breath. Ok, let’s go. Dammit. Now the line is 7 people long.

I ended up slinking out of the ballroom, defeated and not recognizing myself. I’ve been in rooms like this innumerable times. I’ve been ON THE PLATFORM innumerable times. Just not this type of room, with these kinds of people. Am I even supposed to be here?

As an aside, you should understand a few things about me. The first is that I genuinely believe that I can do anything. If I don’t believe that I am capable of being excellent at what I’m doing, I am unlikely to pursue it unless my ego is involved. Second, if I do pursue something, I will figure it out one way or another. And finally, fear will never stop me from tackling a problem. My whole life, I’ve been doing it afraid.

And yet. This day, I froze and couldn’t do it. My head was reeling, and I couldn’t understand why this time I wasn’t able to walk up to the stage.

Enter the friends. I found Rochelle, and we attended a few afternoon sessions before heading over to my photoshoot. I decided that this Nicole needed a new author headshot. Every photo I have has been the standard stuffy, blue suit, perfect executive photo. It was time for a fun, laughing, vibrant headshot that illustrates the full Nicole. Side note, breaking out of corporate Nicole for the shoot proved harder than I expected. It seems that I must find a happy medium between vacation Nicole, who loves the camera, and corporate Nicole, who knows how to be stiff and conservative.

After joining Rochelle and another writer friend for dinner, I ended the night retreating to my lodging and giving myself a pep talk. I may have stumbled today, but tomorrow would be different.

My goodness, tomorrow was DIFFERENT!

On Day 3, I entered the convention center and, for some reason, realized that I hadn’t engaged in my gratitude practice in many days. As I rode the escalator up to my session, I recited the many things for which I am grateful and ended with my standard, “Universe, show me how good it can get. I just know that something amazing is going to happen today.”

With two days of poking my toe in the water of the Bookfair and running back to shore under my belt, this was the day that I would force myself to jump in feet first and swim.

First up was a quick trip over to a specific organization’s table. I wanted to make sure that I said hi to the Executive Director, and I’d missed her the prior two days. I missed her again.

However, as I passed a booth at the corner of the aisle, I paused briefly to learn more about the organization (it supports black women writers). I’d barely stopped for two seconds when a smiling face asked me, “Are you a writer?” I looked up and immediately said, “Yes. Yes, I am a writer.” She immediately invited me to join them in the photo of Black women writers at AWP.

With a big smile on my face, I floated on to the next aisle. Not fifty feet away, I was flagged down by another smiling face. She was the editor in chief of a highly esteemed peer-reviewed Black literary journal. We chatted for a few minutes, and she invited me to submit my writing for consideration for publication. She even suggested that when I submit, I also include a note that we’d talked at the conference.

I took these two moments as the universe indeed showing me how good it can get. Just like that, without question, identity shifted. Other people saw me as a writer. If yesterday I felt like an imposter, today I knew I was a member of the tribe.

Validation would come to me in the form of two kind black women’s faces. Whereas just the day before, I was too nervous to even allow for this possibility. I ran from what might have been two kind black women's interactions with Roxane Gay and the agent panel host because I didn’t yet believe that I belonged.

I. Am. A. Writer.

I continued my winding through the aisles and once again tipped back over to a specific table to see if the executive director was back, and this time I was in luck. We’d collaborated in the past, and I really wanted to see her in person. To my utter amazement, as she approached, she said to me, “Nicole, you’ve been on my mind at 3 a.m. several times. Not in a weird way, hear me out. When someone keeps coming to me, I take it as a sign.”

She then began sharing that the organization was in a critical growth phase and a maturity shift. As such, they could use strong leadership on their board. Continuing, she shared that, between collaborating together, and enjoying my writing, would I be open to her submitting my name for consideration. I didn’t even let her finish before I said yes.

Something amazing happened.

I am a writer. I am an executive. Both/and. I am not moving between two different worlds; I am merging and connecting two different worlds.

To date, my professional world has been one filled with data, metrics, and objective evaluation. Rank, hierarchy, and title are what mattered. Now I was entering the literary world where taste, interpretation, and subjective judgment are the currency.

That unfamiliar terrain was why I was so nervous the day before. I understand objective measurements. With them, I can easily determine where I rank. In this new world, the executive in me didn’t understand the criteria. In this world, it isn’t about criteria. Art is just art.

What I learned from attending this year’s AWP is that sometimes even highly capable and accomplished people sometimes hesitate when standing on the edge of a new world. It’s me. I am highly capable and accomplished people.

But by sticking it out and reminding myself of who I am, I was able to see the small signals from the universe to stay in the room.

I belong.

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Let me tell you a story about how my meticulously engineered system for moving across the country collided with a fundamental law of the universe: entropy.

To manage my move across the country, I used Notion to create a “Houston Command Center.” Within the Houston Command Center, I developed three separate databases. They were labeled Tasks Tracker, Item Inventory and Route, and Box and Container Log. It was an absolute work of art … if, like me, you geek out about such things.

But to actually build it from scratch, I had to first teach myself how to use Notion. So, I consumed untold amounts of content by watching YouTube videos and reading various blogs.

Building systems that can survive a logistics audit used to be part of my professional life.

My bespoke system included key data fields. There were room assignments, priority levels for unpacking, and even a check box to indicate when a box was fully packed and sealed. And, because I’m fancy, I made sure to link the Item Inventory database to the Box and Container Log database. This allowed me to quickly know that my pink Le Creuset Dutch oven was in Box #7 and would ship via a POD, versus my car, versus the Gulfstream.

I then started the long process of sorting, purging, and carefully packing the items of my life into dozens of boxes. I even used wardrobe boxes to hold my carefully hung clothes. This allowed me to both save time on packing and unpacking, and keep them wrinkle-free.

Fast forward one month. Due to challenges with logistics earlier in the day, it wasn’t until 9 p.m. that the movers could unload my POD. I found myself tired, but needing to manage a flurry of activity which lasted ninety-minutes and left my head spinning. In the end, I was standing in my new kitchen looking at a hodge-podge of boxes and furniture which filled my living room to the brim.

The moving guys didn’t give a damn about my elegant system. They simply wanted to finish the job and go home. They paid no attention to the labels. There was no sorting of the boxes by room. My priority system was meaningless to them. Did the box make it into the apartment? Yes? Then shut up and pay me.

I began sifting through the warehouse of boxes in my living room to dig out some sheets for the bed. As I pushed a bathroom box to the side, and scooted the heavy kitchen box to the left, I bumped smack dab into one of the large wardrobe boxes.

It was delivered UPSIDE DOWN!

All of my carefully hung clothes were crumpled at what was now the bottom of the box. Adding insult to injury, the shoe boxes that were packed under the hanging clothes were now sitting on top of my fancy dresses.

I shook my head and just laughed to keep from crying.

The next morning I awoke, physically tired, but mentally clear. Looking back, I know that creating the Houston Command Center was my attempt at exerting some control over the absolute chaos that was my life at the time.

I was living in a staged home for months while waiting for it to sell. Then, with escrow opened, I quickly needed to pack and coordinate a multi-stage move which coincided with multiple pre-planned trips. All of this had to be completed within four weeks that also included international travel. It was insane.

Now in Houston, I opened the first box I saw. At this point, the priority assignment no longer mattered to me either. I had no idea what was in said box.

In fact, the box showed me that my system had actually broken down long before the upside down wardrobe box. Entropy had entered the scene back in California. You see, the box that I labeled “clothes” in my inventory system didn’t tell me which clothes. And, Box 38 out of 38? My inventory list said it was full of “Random shit in dining room.” What does that even mean? LOL!

New city, new Nicole. I shrugged my shoulders and decided to head to the store for some provisions.

I was walking through the aisles of Lowe’s Home Improvement looking for a lighter. I needed to ignite the sage I would use to smudge my new home when I noticed a bouquet of beautiful wooden roses. I instantly grabbed a bunch and with my other items, returned to my apartment. My new life in Houston would start with good energy and beauty. Each time I felt a wave of anxiety rising, I would look to the roses for comfort.

The next thing I did was locate my espresso machine. Thankfully, that box was labeled clearly in my inventory list.

Today, I sat sipping a latte amidst unopened boxes and with my items strewn all over.

Chaos may rule the day, but beauty and ritual center me and calm my mind.

**************

Postscript:

For those who are curious, the instinct behind building the Houston Command Center didn’t come out of nowhere. Throughout my career I’ve been the person who identifies complex operational problems, designs systems to address them, and then builds and executes the solutions from start to finish. Creating order out of chaos has long been part of my professional work.

If you ever find yourself facing a problem that needs that kind of thinking, feel free to reach out.

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I intended to post an AWP dispatch on Tuesday.

Instead, I arrived in Houston on Monday to an empty apartment and a long list of logistics. First up was picking up my car. Then there was the waiting game for my POD, which didn’t arrive until late Tuesday. The movers showed up even later, at 8 p.m. By the time they finished unloading everything, it was 10:30 at night, and I was cooked.

So yes, this week has been a little chaotic.

Everything is finally inside now, although the current state of the apartment can best be described as organized chaos. I’m slowly unpacking and figuring out where things belong.

Despite this, I made sure to set up a little pocket of beauty on my desk. At some store or another, I found a bouquet of deep red (otherwise known as angry pink - IYKYK) wooden roses that I couldn’t resist. I’m sitting here this morning with coffee (I finally located and dug out my espresso machine), looking at them while the rest of the apartment still looks like a ransacked shipping warehouse.

Houston has already been interesting.

Yesterday I somehow ended up filming a commercial that will apparently air in multiple states (yes, really). Afterwards, I exited the building to a few droplets of rain. No big deal, I thought, considering I just moved here from Los Angeles, where “rain” means maybe a quarter inch a few days a year.

By the time I crossed the parking lot and closed the door of my car, the sky absolutely opened up. Torrential rain. Flooded streets. The whole nine.

I immediately ordered two pairs of rain shoes before I even put the car into drive. One to keep in the car and one for the apartment because clearly I have some environmental adjustments to make.

Another discovery this week: my building has a private cocktail bar on the first floor for residents. Tuesday night, when I went downstairs around 10:15 to pick up a couple of packages, the place was jumping with music playing and maybe a dozen neighbors hanging out. I stood there for a second, taking it all in, and thought, okay…this might turn out to be a very social building. That feels like a good thing, given I’m new in town.

Last night, despite the chaos, I still logged into my memoir writing class because some commitments to myself are non-negotiable.

I’ll be writing the AWP piece(s) soon. The conference invigorated and excited me more than I expected, and this extra time has allowed me to sit with it and think about it more deeply.

For now, I’m settling into this new chapter of life one coffee and one moving box at a time.

More soon.

In life, there are outdoorsmen.

And then there are outdoorsmen.

The first kind arrives at a frozen lake carrying supplies, manually drills a hole, and sits outside over open ice.

Then there is me.

I’m the type of outdoorsman who books a guide.

I was on the edge of my personal tolerance for roughing it. My wool long johns, while not stinky, had certainly seen fresher days. And, my overall exhaustion had me tired of putting on 13 layers only to strip them off again. My Chena Lake ice-fishing experience would be exactly what I needed at this point in my trip.

I drove my rental car straight onto the frozen lake, parked beside the hut, and stepped out of the warmth. The bright sun reflecting off the white snow temporarily blinded me while the bitter cold air stung my cheeks. Pupils recalibrated, I did a mini photoshoot to memorialize the moment, and then walked straight into heat and light.

The hut was outfitted with a wood-burning stove, a cooler full of snacks, and underwater cameras. I hung up my coat and took a seat to wait for instructions. Discomfort would not be an excuse should I not catch any fish in this environment.

I’d selected an early afternoon session because when I was planning the trip, I knew I would not have the energy for an early-morning start. That would turn out to be a mistake. One I should have avoided, given my upbringing. My daddy had long ago taught me that the best fishing occurred just before dawn.

Over the course of our afternoon, we watched fish after fish swim up to our bait and pass right by. The early morning fishing group had already fed them, so by the afternoon, they were wholly uninterested in our offerings. Only one person caught one fish.

I had to accept that even with all this planning and technology, you can’t bend nature to your whim.

The biggest disappointment for me wasn’t lack of catching the fish, it was the fact that no fish equaled no fresh-cooked fish to eat. Instead, for the second time that week, I had reindeer sausage. This specific small batch mix of reindeer, beef, and pork was so damned delicious I almost went home to glory. I sat there wanting to have a second one, but opted to not be greedy.

Then, the absolute highlight of the day occurred above the ice shortly after lunch. For the second time in my life, I saw a majestic bald eagle. She glided through the sky right above us before she perched atop a spruce and watched.

Our guide ran to the cooler to get some fish heads to put out for her. She immediately swooped down and grabbed them with her talons before returning to her tree to eat. My heart pounded from excitement and awe.

She was less than fifty feet away from us.

She would swoop down a few more times, but never picked up any more of the fish. Unfortunately, because one of the other tourists placed a tripod out on the ice to record her, she was too spooked by it to grab the fish.

Humans. A double-edged sword. We gave her food, but also scared her.

No fish, but we had an eagle. I’ll take it. I was accepting that my Alaska experience would unfold exactly as it was meant to, not as I forced it to. Alaska had a way of giving me what she wanted me to have, not necessarily what I asked of her.

Because I never made it to the hot springs, later in the evening I decided to drive there on my own. After a quick pregame of three espresso shots, I was off into the pitch-black night.

As a child, I suffered an eye injury that left me with only peripheral vision in my right eye. As such, I lack depth perception. It is particularly acute at night and often makes driving challenging.

I found myself on a dark, winding two-lane highway. It was covered with snow and ice. Given my lack of familiarity with the terrain, degraded winter driving skills, and healthy fear of moose crossings, I had a decision to make. Not seven miles into the drive, I turned around and drove back towards the lights of Fairbanks. I accepted that the springs were simply not going to be part of my trip.

The next morning, I awoke to my last day in Alaska. My flight home to Los Angeles was scheduled to depart at 1 A.M., and I had to check out of my hotel at noon. I had a full twelve hours ahead of me to fill. Living out of the car and with no access to a shower, I decided to fill the day with slower inside activities.

First up was a visit to the Museum of the North on the University of Alaska’s campus. Given that it was Black History Month, they had a special exhibit called Blacks in Alaska. I was so glad that I made the effort to go because the museum gave me a much deeper understanding of the allure of Alaska. I saw it embodied in the myriad of people that I’d interacted with over the course of the week, but the museum provided insight into the culture and community in a different, more intellectual way.

A confession: When I first moved to North Carolina and would share that I was from Wisconsin, the first thing everyone would say is, “I didn’t know there were Black people in Wisconsin.” As I took in the exhibit and learned about the rich Black American history in Alaska, I realized that I was now “people.”

With nightfall approaching, I decided to grab a bite to eat in ‘downtown’ Fairbanks at a cute little spot called Library Bar Bites. The warmth and liveliness of a Saturday evening were welcomed as I craved a little connection. I chatted with my fellow bar mates, people watched the various couples on dates, and inhaled an amazing seafood bisque.

Belly full, it was now time to head over to the opening of Ice Alaska. I’d made sure that my trip included this annual two-week ice sculpture festival. I adored the various ice installations and even pretended to be a kid again when I joined in on sliding down the ice slide. The event was a mixture of whimsy and amazing talent. The pieces of art that were already set up were stunning to see, but I found the entire event underwhelming because they were still setting up.

Ultimately, the brutal cold would take me out. I lasted a full twenty-two minutes before I tapped out!

With hours to kill before my flight, running on steam after such an eventful week, I had nowhere to go. I decided to go see a movie, figuring it would give me a place to warm up. The movie theater popcorn would be the icing on top, to mix a metaphor. I bought a ticket to see One Love. I’m sure it was a good movie, but it watched me instead of the other way around. I woke myself up snoring in the empty theater.

Back at the airport, this time with a coat, I headed over to the stuffed polar bear to snap a picture. The grizzly welcomed me, the polar sent me on my way. Before leaving, I pulled out my Seattle sweatshirt and a few other items like the hand warmers, and left the pile on a bench in the airport. I was done with winter and no longer had a need for winter things.

Sitting at my gate, I reflected on the entirety of my trip. While I was initially disappointed that Iceland was acting a fool and forced me to completely rework my aurora dream trip, I was also grateful for the unexpected detour.

I went to see the lights and received so much more. Alaska expanded me. It showed me, an admitted control freak, that I have the capacity to not just tolerate uncertainty, but to enjoy the ride that comes from it without crumpling. It tested me in ways that I could not have predicted and allowed me to practice surrender.

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***********

Alaska, complete. On to the next horizon.

A new day, and I found myself awaking in a warm, comfortable bed back in Fairbanks. I went to sleep with a full belly and confident in my “Auntie” wisdom to NOT go aurora chasing one more time last night with Stacey.

During the planning stage of my trip, I found a place called Borealis Basecamp. It’s basically a nearby outpost that offers various winter and Alaska activities. In addition, they have these transparent domed igloos, which allow you to lie in your bed and watch the northern lights from the comfort of what passes as luxurious accommodations in Alaska. Sign me up, I thought, as I clicked through page after page on their website. By October of 2023, the entire winter season was sold out.

Even if I couldn’t stay there in one of the igloos, I could still go and meet some reindeer and ride a snowmobile, so I arranged my travel and found myself in a veritable winter wonderland. Can’t lie, though, when I arrived and saw the actual igloos, I shed a tear because I really wanted to experience it.

Before that, though, the day began with a little snow machining, or snow mobiling as we in the lower 48 refer to it. Or, is that only a Wisconsin thing? In any event, I loved the rush of zipping through the snow. It also allowed me to see so much more of the pristine land. Initially, I found myself exerting a lot of energy fighting with it, trying to control it. Soon, though I noticed that it had a natural rhythm of pulling gently right then gently left, over and over. Once I stopped trying to force it to be the way I thought it should be, everything became easier.

Next up was the reindeer experience, which began with a walk over to the pen where the reindeer are housed. There I met a small, big boy named Mr. Dwight. At only 350 pounds, he was on the smaller side. The size of his antlers indicates that he was fully mature. I loved how soft his fur was and found myself regularly stroking it as we walked along. Because they kept him pumped full of Depo-Provera, he was quite docile and didn’t require too much steering.

The weather this day was a balmy 30 degrees and felt downright tropical given the bitter cold of the Arctic. I found myself needing to strip layer after layer of my clothing. After the reindeer walk, I tried out the snowshoes and cross-country skis. I lasted 3 minutes on the skis and 14 minutes in the snow shoes. I tried a thing, but then quickly retreated to the restaurant. With regard to lunch, I’ll just say that Coldfoot spoiled me.

While at Borealis Basecamp, I met a new friend, also named Nicole. She shared that it was her birthday and encouraged me to go out aurora chasing that night with her. With nothing planned for the evening - it was Valentine’s Day, and I was alone, I agreed.

I had originally planned a trip to Chena Hot Springs on this night. I’ve been carrying the fantasy of sitting in a hot spring with snow all around me since I was 19 years old and first saw a film with monkeys in Japan doing just that, ice forming on their eyelashes from the steam. However, when I went to execute, it clicked that my planned hot springs visit coincided with Valentine’s Day. I absolutely did NOT want to be in a dark, secluded, wet place on Valentine’s Day. Nope!

Aurora chasing it would be.

I had an interesting experience as soon as I climbed into the tour bus. The driver was outside prepping for the evening, but told me to sit in the passenger seat next to him.

I boarded and immediately felt an odd energy. The bus was silent and tense, but I didn’t pay much attention. It was a late hour, and we were all strangers in a strange place.

Then, I quickly understood the tense energy.

I wasn’t seated for a full minute when I heard a deep man’s voice in the back yelling at his wife. “Shut the fuck up!” He barked. I twisted my head so quickly to look back.

Within seconds, he was yelling and telling her to shut the fuck up again! I was speechless; the silence was absolute.

Finally, the bus driver opening his door and hopping in broke the tension. Ready to start the evening, he asked how everyone was doing.

I said, “I’m good, but I also didn’t get told to shut the fuck up two times in the last 2 minutes.”

Stunned by my response, he immediately asked if someone had told me to shut up, to which I said, “No, not me specifically.”

Embarrassed and knowing I was talking about them, the man was silent, but his wife spoke up. She apologized for him and said that her husband wasn’t speaking to me.

I replied, “Oh, I KNOW he wasn’t talking to me.”

That set off another fight, this time in their native language. I don’t know what was said, but it was hostile, and his voice was harsh.

Later, at our destination, when the husband exited the van, I leaned over and apologized to the wife. She was quietly weeping. She turned her head slowly and made eye contact with me, and nodded ever so slightly.

I had privilege. I left my husband, but not every woman has that ability.

The thing about aurora chasing is that it is a whole lot of waiting and hoping because the aurora will do what the aurora wants. The locations are remote, desolate, and pitch black for the optimal viewing conditions. Tonight’s spot at Birch Lake Military Recreation Area fit the bill perfectly.

We all marched out to the middle of the frozen lake following the pin light of our guide. The only sound was the crunch of the snow beneath our boots.

The tour operators do what they can to make it comfortable and fill the time with meaningful experiences. This night, we had open fire pits, hot chocolate, music, and caribou sausage to roast over the open flames.

As I sat cooking my sausage over the open flame, it suddenly dawned on me, reindeer is the name given to domesticated caribou. OMG! Am I about to eat Mr. Dwight?!?

I flashed back to my childhood in Wisconsin. My father was an avid hunter and fisherman. I’d spent countless days in our front yard skinning and dressing freshly killed rabbits, squirrels, and all manner of fish. We even kept the squirrel tails as toys. We used them to tickle under our chins or the back of each other’s necks.

Then I remembered that the meat tasted like nothing else. The rabbit and squirrel fried, then slow-baked in gravy. The ‘coon slow baked in barbecue sauce.

I looked back at my sausage, put it on a bun, and tore into Mr. Dwight, I mean, that reindeer sausage! It was delicious.

Tonight’s aurora was quite different than the night in Wiseman. It began with an immediate glow that illuminated the tops of the trees in the distance, not as a small pop of color. It did not dance, but it did perform.

With each passing minute, it continued to intensify. Soon, it layered additional colors in the band across the black sky. A faint pink began to form at the uppermost edge of the glow. As we stood watching the aurora rise like the sun, the other side of the oval became visible.

If the aurora dancing in Wiseman felt otherworldly, tonight the aurora emitted an eerie vibe across the lake. The light from the fires made one side of the trees glow orange, while directly on the other side, the aurora continued to intensify, radiating and tightening into an obvious ring.

The entire horizon glowed above the tree line, lit up in pinks and greens. There was bold iridescent green at the center, an ombre transition to pink on the outer rays, and yellow rays spiked out along the side. I held my breath; it was so astounding. Small. That’s the only word that comes to mind. I stood there staring at a natural wonder over the sixty-foot-tall spruce trees.

I found myself frustrated because our phones were unable to capture the full color spectrum. What I saw with my eyes did not translate onto my screen because the exposure time was too short. Without a tripod to hold the camera perfectly still for ten or more seconds, it was virtually impossible to record the color. Fortunately, the photographer set up his tripod and took pictures of us and the lights using long exposure times.

We saw the full aurora oval glowing in the sky. It was a complete oval circling above the trees. Geometry in the sky.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this gift, but I whispered a thank you.

Stopped in my tracks, I felt the cold air against my cheeks. I decided right then that I was done aurora chasing.

I came to Alaska for magic, and it gave me the sublime.