skinnydips

In case you missed my tragic telling of this story, a strong wind actually did come out of nowhere and snapped Ted, my little aspen tree, clear to the ground. One-minute, the breeze swaying him like he's at a Maren Morris concert and a swift, violent gust later, he's laying lifeless in the grass. I opened the back door and literally gasped, the way anyone would who just witnessed something horrific, hand to mouth, breath stolen, paralyzed by disbelief. Did I even blink? I don't think so. Instead, tears flooded my eyes. My oldest boy put his arms around me and said, "You named him, that's where you went wrong, mom". It made me laugh. I appreciated his words, but not as much as his embrace. Nick is a good "hugger", as it's called. A strong hold, but more than that, he doesn't pull away immediately, he pauses. He stays.  

If you read my column, The Human Experience, written just over a year ago, you'll know about Ted, the quaking little aspen tree I planted shortly after moving into the Lake House. Ted wasn't just a tree planted; he was the start of a journey. I'd been officially divorced for about 6 months and was pretty sure my ex was already involved with someone. To his credit, I did the leaving, technically, but he was opening doors that felt too intentional to ignore, so I stepped through them, one after the next until I found myself in a whirlwind of divorce logistics, separating everything from bank accounts to furniture, Spotify subscriptions to time spent with our boys. I found the most perfect house to rent that I adoringly refer to as my Lake House, but as soon as the physical fatigue from dividing and divvying and moving began to fade, the emotional healing was just ramping up, and if you know the children's book, We're Going on a Bear Hunt, then you've learned, you can't go over it, you can't go under it, you have to go through it. And through it. And through it. And. Through. It. 

There's nothing quick about the through, no fast forward, no bypass, no easy button, and I may have chosen divorce, but that didn't give me a hall pass from the grieving that comes from it. So, through I went. Healing work is hard. Leaning into myself, figuring shit out is hard. Watching my ex move on is hard. Remove Shelly, insert New Girl, seemingly so easily swapped out. And living in this tiny little town, I've been a captive audience, I call it, exposure therapy. Yes, I chose it, and also. Why does it feel like a sacred space violated, like memories stolen? It's getting easier, but deconstructing habitual thought patterns and forging new pathways for a different future isn't exactly a weekend therapy session, but damn, every step forward, every deep dive, every guttural cry has been...so worthy.  

More than a year later, here I am, nearly unrecognizable and more in love with my life than ever. I've lost friends, had my sexuality questioned, been called crazy, selfish, and probably a dozen other things, but I'm doing the work. I didn't run out and jump into another relationship, I swam in an ocean of time with myself. I cocooned and transformed. I untethered. There's something magical in the hard work. Don't get me wrong, it's equally annoying and heartbreaking, but diving into the deep, swimming in the layers, learning what is for you, letting go of the rest is brave, it's powerful. It's air. And even though I feel rooted and strong, it won't stop a strong wind from rushing in and flattening me to the ground. But I know something now that I didn't before, I'm capable. I get back up, again and again. As they often do, Glennon Doyle's words fill my head...I am not crazy. I am a goddamn cheetah. 

I applied for a job and didn't get it. I wasn't even sure I wanted it but my ego doesn't know the difference, only that it's been rejected. I felt crushed, then insulted, angry, mishandled; and it didn't take long for the insecurity to cue up and scrutiny to begin. Rationally, I know everything happens for a reason, or in this case doesn't happen, and I don't mean I have to repeat it over and over trying to convince myself, I truly believe the universe has my back, I know it to my core. But still, the self-criticism creeps in. Where did I go wrong? I should have shown up differently, professionally, taken it all more seriously. With a critical eye and sneering narrative, the interview replays in my mind not less than 487 times, until it's official, I suck.

Eventually the pendulum swings, perspective centers and I start to lean in, look closer at what I'm actually upset about, and like a roadside warning sign, words are scrolling in my mind...they didn't pick you...they didn't pick you. These four words unlock the floodgates of my life and suddenly all my greatest rejection moments come rushing in. Every job I didn't get, every boy that wasn't interested, every 'like' or swipe right I didn't get, every team I wasn't picked for.

Why does rejection feel so personal? What if it's not about being less than or not good enough, but instead, is an intentional outcome designed specifically for us? What if you just show up bravely and are met with either, yes this is for you, or no, this is not for you. Maybe it's not about rejection at all, but about having trust. Trust that there's something else, someone else, another team to belong, and not necessarily because it's better, but because it's more aligned, more...for you. Can it be that simple? If we can keep our ego in the backseat, I think it can, should be, and is. Without exception, there will be countless moments of being turned down, of feeling jilted, unwanted, but this is where the growth lives. These are the cracks that allow us to let go of our expectation, and be consumed by the prowess of rejection. To be scorched and stretched, and feel the heat of growth that can only arise from not getting picked.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I love my 4-Runner more than most humans. I've often referred to it as an unnatural love affair. It was an instant attraction, love at first drive and seven years later, it still excites me to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the glass storefronts. I thank him for getting me home safely and apologize when the bug corpses have been stuck to the windshield too long. He's seen me laugh, cry...the ugly sobbing cry, in fact, heard my most private conversations and listened to me sing off-key entirely too many times. I've even reached my arms across his grey metal hood hoping to transfer all my adoration through an embrace. I feel the most genuine love, and he never lets me down.

So, after a BTN workout one morning, a Better-Than-Nothing effort that is incrementally becoming my norm rather than the quickie exception, I step into the shower. I'm noticing the strain in my right shoulder, the twinge in my left hip and relentless tension that's been hanging out just above my sciatica the past few years. And then I'm struck with this thought....what if I loved my body as much as I love my 4-Runner? What if I felt as truly grateful for it? I mean, I check all the maintenance boxes. I eat well, hydrate (if wine counts) and let's not forget those BTN workouts. But, do I actually love my body? Do I thank it, catch a glimpse when I can? Do I wrap it in the same affection I give my 4-Runner? And then I wonder, what if I did?

Why is it easier to value my vehicle more than my body? Aside from the obvious, it's a Toyota, duh. But also. If I'm capable of such regard for a mass of metal, then surely, I must be capable of an even greater adoration for my own body. Like the 4-Runner that carries this body...MY BODY is the very vehicle that carries my soul. How is that not worthy of all the reverence, the gratitude, the love? Pure love that we're inherently born with but becomes buried under layers of conditions, comparisons and expectations leaving us with a significantly distorted lens, void of value, full of flaws. Fuck that. Shouldn't the relationship we have with our bodies actually be the most natural love affair? I don't know about you, but I think I'll take that second glance in the mirror, and not hate it. I'm going to fall in love with it, everything about it. What if you did the same? What if we all just did the same?

Speaking of music, you know what song I love? Total Eclipse of the Heart. The words, turn around, are in my mind. I was writing in my journal this morning, intent on shifting my focus to what I want to bring into my life, to move away from what was, and instead, step forward into abundance, release any sentiment of lack that shackles me. You know, all the journal basics. The words turn around, turn around are flowing from pencil to paper. Seems so easy. Just, turn around. And suddenly, a vision floods my mind and plays like a slow-motion movie scene. My head swiveled, one shoulder pulled back, body twisted at the waist... looking back, I swing forward, back, forward. Someone must have cued up a breeze for this scene because my hair is fluttering in the currents of it, skirt flipping about. And just like that, I shift. You know the moment you see something so clearly - the slow blinks, mouth slightly ajar - it's so obvious, so rudimentary in fact, the simplicity is blowing your mind. Until these three simple words, just, turn around, and clip played in my mind, repeating over and over, I didn't realize how much time I spent looking back, or the exorbitant amount of air that would fill my lungs in looking forward.

Now, I can't not see. No wonder this knot that has taken up residence just under my right shoulder blade, all the time I've spent swiveled, twisted. But in this space, looking forward, taking a step, knowing or rather, trusting, the ground will rise to meet each stride I take... everything releases. Why do we spend so much time afraid to let go? My mom has infused more advice into my subconscious than I'll ever be able to recall, but these words live in the forefront of my mind and tip of my tongue, what's the worst that will happen? Every time I feel paralyzed by indecision, I draw in her voice, see her face as she asks me with all the certainty I'm looking for, "Michelle. What's the worst that will happen?" I let myself go there. Let every scenario wash over me and just sit with it. Then fearlessly, or maybe with all the fear, it's hard to know the difference sometimes; I turn around, feet planted, body aligned, heart strong and take a bold step north. North, where the passions of my soul live. Yeah, that's where I'm going, who wants to come with me?

Well, I didn't plant tomatoes but I did plant a tree, an aspen tree. I have special affection for these trembling trees, attached to a favorite memory of my mom, Grandma and I carrying a ridiculously oversized rubber raft across a field thick in Aspens. Trying to keep it off the ground, we were laughing so hard. The kind of laughter where your knees give out and tears stream down your cheeks. I see it in my mind like it was yesterday, so when I decided to plant a tree, an aspen was a simple choice.

Finding the right aspen was almost as simple. I loved him immediately, barely bigger than a weed but working so hard to stretch himself to the sun. Why the tree is a boy, I don't know, some things just feel obvious, and in that moment this little guy was a boy and he seemed perfect. Relatable even, but we'll get to that. It took less time than I expected to plant this tree, or maybe it just felt that way. In fact, I wanted it to take longer. I wanted to dig another hole for another tree, get on my knees, put my hands in the dirt, jump up and down on the shovel like it was a pogo stick. When I was done, my friend asked how my tree planting went, and I replied, 'It felt like therapy". The next day, I was watching the spring wind rip through the yard, unsure how this little aspen was going to handle it, and suddenly I have the Tubthumping lyric playing on repeat in my head, "I get knocked down but I get up again". Not unlike me these days. Relatable.

The ebb and flow of emotion never fails to give me pause. Wind pushing down, then relief and sunshine. One day, air-filled lungs, self-assurance, grounded strength. Both creating and feeling every detail of the future you want to step into. Believing, without hesitation, that anything is possible. And the very next day, uncertainty, doubt, fear. Questioning everything, feeling so completely incapable, desperate to tether to something safe, something familiar even if it's not something good or right for you. What happens in those seven hours of sleep that flips the cart? What seeps in and shifts our narratives so effortlessly, without our consent? Is the hard shift as uncomplicated as the moon moving into a new sign, or Mercury is in retrograde? Hell, Mercury is always in retrograde. Or is our subconscious constantly showing us something and we just need to pay more attention? Not look the other way, instead show up, for others, but mostly ourselves. Get back up again and again and again, like this little tree that I named Ted, by the way, Ted the tree.... again, some things are just so obvious.

I want to plant a garden, grow tomatoes. But I don't actually. In the fleeting moment I bite into this tomato, its sweetness satisfying every tastebud, I think, I should grow these. I don't really want to, but I should. Like getting out of bed this morning. My body's alarm wakes me about 5:50 a.m., but I know my phone alarm isn't going to burst out in song for another 20 minutes, so I lie there. I should get up, work out. But I don't. Instead, I wait for the alarm and then hit snooze…three times. It's 6:37 a.m. and I'm still lying in bed, practically hiding under the covers. Because it's Friday and it's raining outside and my bed is the coziest space, ever. I absolutely do not want to get out of bed. But I should. And by 6:44, I can't put it off any longer. I groan, throw off the covers and step into the day.

I could talk about all the 'shoulds' that define, some even demand, how we navigate through our days, our lives. But it's the undone 'shoulds' that I'm actually thinking about. The boxes that go unchecked, no matter how important you know they are, to someone, probably not you, but someone. The ones that sneak up and wrap us in guilt, in shame. You don't even notice it, until you're sitting at work unable to stop the tears...the tears that have been collecting in some untouched well for the past 35 years. Emotion ravishing every fiber in your body leaving it feeling like a jointless rag-doll, a puddle.

Ironically, I've never thought of myself as someone who 'doesn't feel'. In fact, I likely feel to a fault, if there's such a thing. So how do the layers begin, where...when do they begin? And, why? Do the layers have to exist, to protect us...until the time comes for us to unravel?

Such a tiny little thing. Sitting at the airport in Tucson, I take a breath. I checked my bag, survived security…which, if I’m honest, was a breeze. I finally chose the right outfit, the right bag that didn’t paralyze me with anxiety and take 23 minutes to undress, redress, unpack, repack. I’m getting the hang of this. I'm headed for my gate and pass this little cantina. I hesitate and think, I should take a seat at the bar, order a drink. Just because I can. But I’ve never actually done this. Not as, just me. I’ve seen it in movies a hundred times, watched other people do it, seemingly with comfort and ease. Not that it’s brave, but it feels brave, so I take a seat, order a drink, take out my laptop and here I am…beginning a story.