“I hate my fucking life”. Yep, that old familiar phrase began greeting me every morning with the sound of my alarm clock. Coffee became my daily motivator and source of confidence. And when the caffeine wore off, it was the heightened sense of urgency, fear and desperation that fueled me throughout the rest of my day. My body, mind, and spirit - albeit weary, fragmented and broken - became emergency responders working toward a singular purpose: SURVIVAL. Once again I was overwhelmed with “How do I fix my fucking life?!” while staving off any temptation to give up completely and accept defeat. I was terrified of what that might feel like. By all appearances it probably looked as if I had my shit together; like I had life all figured out. At least I hoped it did. God forbid people be privy to my weaknesses. Because I was convinced I was the only forty-three year old woman experiencing mid-life career crisis, no place to live and no one to love. I was just a lonely singleitis sufferer with a beautiful vision board and no hope.
I was tired of the daily grind; clocking in and clocking out with only short breaks of excitement, inspiration or pleasure. I was tired of being fully conscious of my talent, potential and creative ideas only to have them tamped down by circumstances that seemed out of control. Or were they? Because I certainly felt like the victim. I felt as if I’d been shoved off a NYC high rise and, as my body plummeted in slow motion toward its fate, everyone else seemed to rise far above me, achieving successes in every area in which I had failed. Self-pity, fear, disappointment and frustration added weight to my fall. But as life passed me by in rewind, my heart was also buoyed by memories of the deep connections I’d shared with others, liberating periods of vulnerability and creative self-expression, plus all of my career successes and personal achievements. I couldn’t deny those things. Yet despite my gratitude, I was still aware that I was falling and had no idea how hard I’d land or where. I wasn’t merely afraid of the inevitable blow to my ego but the permanent damage it might do to my character and integrity. I closed my ideas and decided to trust.
For months, my ability to trust was challenged with the discomfort of uncertainty, until my fall was eventually cushioned with the type of compassion you don’t expect in the concrete jungle. I opened my eyes apprehensively and tentatively. And as I looked across the expanse of clear aquamarine water all I could see was POSSIBILITY. At the same time, I felt GROUNDED, CENTERED and SUPPORTED by the softness of powdery white sand. I was in Turks & Caicos as an expat. The timing of my Eat, Pray, Love adventure came far later in my Indie Girl Recovery than I had imagined. But it was here. What felt like a death drop landed me in paradise.
