Last week I threw a swimsuit and a cooler-bag full of snacks into my car and drove to Palm Springs to spend a few days with my sister.
Two things make this event more exceptional than it may seem.
1) I left town on a Monday morning—and did not need anyone’s approval. No one covered for me. No one required a heads-up or a handoff note. I just went, because I wanted to. This is, for me, what it looks like to be in recovery from burnout.
2) For many years I had crippling panic attacks when driving on freeways and bridges, which meant solo road trips were out of the question. (How bad were my panic attacks? So bad that I couldn’t even drive across the Burrard Bridge, which is very short, very familiar to me, and necessary for getting around Vancouver, especially when you live in Kitsilano and work downtown.)
I drive on the local LA freeways all the time now, and it’s been a long while since I had a full-blown panic attack, thank God. Still, I’m careful to set myself up for success on the road. I pick my preferred routes. I try not to be underslept or over-caffeinated when I get behind the wheel. And Palm Springs is only two hours from Los Angeles. But the fact that I can manage a trip like this at all is a pretty big deal. It is proof of healing.
Springtime in the desert is glorious, and Joshua Tree National Park was as fresh and pretty as I’ve ever seen it. Blue skies for miles. Wildflowers, grasses, and cactuses all at their brightest, set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks. My sister and I took sixteen thousand steps through its beautiful, rugged landscape together, our conversation winding around memories of the past and plans for the future. Like the spot on the trailhead map that says You Are Here, worn out from thousands of fingertips, we are orienting ourselves and measuring how far we’ve come.
This hike, too, is proof of healing. I would not have been able to attempt it last year when my body was in a near-constant state of recovery from one surgery after another, stiff with scar tissue, crisscrossed with pains, and weakened from inactivity. To notice the gradual yet unmistakable return of my strength and flexibility—emotionally and physically—feels like a small miracle.
As I drove home the next day alongside the San Bernardino mountains, I thought back on my first solo road trip. Two days after buying my first car, a silver 1982 Chevette, I loaded it up with a tent and sleeping bag, a big bag of cassettes, and a cooler full of way too much homemade hummus, and drove over the Canadian Rockies by myself. I was seventeen years old and fearless.
I did not have panic attacks on that trip, even when my tiny, gutless hatchback slowed to a crawl on the steep inclines of the Rogers Pass. Instead, I felt adventurous. Free. Like the world was one big, endless invitation extending, and extending, and extending itself to me, just like that ribbon of highway under my wheels. This land was made for you and me.
I felt that girl awaken in me this week, and I trust her to steer me through this next phase of life. Here’s where we are on the map today:
The winding-down of my business is nearly behind me. I respect and enjoy working with the team at Greenleaf Book Group who now operate the Wonderwell Press imprint. My new, right-sized role as its founding publisher is focused on connecting with new authors, selecting projects for the imprint, and shepherding them into the publishing program. I am relishing my newfound freedom from most operational duties; inbox traffic has dropped from 150 a day to about ten.
I am writing a lot. Here on this Substack, and other places, too, like this piece I wrote for Elephant Journal, and an essay collection I am working on privately. (I shared an excerpt from one last week, here). I do not know where this writing road will lead, and that’s just fine.
I am spending a portion of each week coaching writers and other folks who are going through big changes. (Want to work with me? I finally made a page on my website about it!) What started as a personal curiosity has blossomed into a surprising new arena of joy for me, and I intend to keep stepping forward in this direction as long as it feels good.
My health is my compass. Breast cancer, midlife changes, and burnout have taught me that no matter your dream destination, you cannot get anywhere with no gas in the tank. Our energy reserves are depleted or restored with every little move we make throughout each day: what to eat, when and how much to rest, and even which email to respond to next. I consult my energetic control panel now when navigating the options before me. If it feels right, I do it. If not, I don’t. (This has led to many more midday baths and long walks than I once thought an adult could reasonably have, and not one house has burned down as a result.)
I’m telling you this not to gloat about my good fortune, but because I want this for you, too—all of it. The freedom to set your own course. The fulfillment of your natural human needs, including your need for self-expression and self-actualization. The connection to that fearless teenager inside of you, giddy with their own limitlessness. All of this is more than a possibility; I believe it is your birthright.
You really can alter the trajectory of your life, even if it means quitting your job, closing your business, or otherwise bailing out of a journey you no longer want to be on.
You really can revitalize your emotional, physical, and mental health, even after the most grueling of seasons. Your body compass knows the way back to wholeness.
You really can ignite a creative practice that can fuel you for the long haul, even if it’s been dormant for decades. All that shit you went through is fertile soil for what you will plant next.
And whatever your age, today is the perfect day to embark on a new adventure. This land—this whole, beautiful, messy, challenging human experience, with its stunning vistas and varied landscapes—was made for you and me.
xo
So thrilling your trip was a success and you’re rediscovering your freedom. No panic attacks so 15,000 steps. Right on sister!