When Life Imitates Heart

A few weeks back my husband and I took a relatively impromptu trip to Big Sur, California.

We were both, independently (and also, by default, together) in a funk. But we both, independently (and together) really love beautiful new places—so we consciously left our funkiness in LA and let the Pacific Coast Highway views fill us up with new life.

There were a lot of magical things in the air that weekend: the new moon in Gemini was asking us to examine where we were feeling disconnected—from ourselves, from each other, and from the world at large. It's a scary place to be, to openly question your connectedness to all things. It's scarier to realize how disconnected you really feel. And even more terrifying: to have to live in that disconnect.

Life has a mystical way of forcing you to confront your inner battles through external circumstances.

On Saturday morning, Jaren and I woke up early to hit the Andrew Molera State Park—we packed some water, a sandwich, and some sunscreen, and headed for the 8.8 mile loop that takes you along Big Sur's bluffs and wraps up and around the hillside's ridges.

To get to the trail, we had to wade through a little creek, where I lost one of my favorite pins. (My backpack strap ripped my little enamel porcupine from my jacket, where it plummeted to its new home in the sand somewhere.) It was a bummer, and I looked around for it for a hot second, but justified it as a sacrifice to the nature gods and moved on.

This was, unfortunately, not going to be the most disappointing moment of my day.

We decided to kick off the loop on the bluffs and circle toward the ridge. We had prepared for a long hike. We had prepared for a potentially strenuous hike. We had not prepared for a hike that would be riddled with ticks and traces of poison oak that neither of us *really* knew how to identify.

We certainly didn't prepare to feel like two out-of-place city kids on a trail overlooking the ocean.

It started off beautifully. We were immediately welcomed by gorgeous views. I stood by the cliffside and instinctively spread my arms out wide and closed my eyes. Weeks before this moment, my therapist had asked me to envision my most freeing moment. In that visualization, I was at the edge of a cliff, overlooking an ocean, spreading my arms out wide. Bringing that sensation to life was nothing short of joyful.

But then, about a mile in, the trails began to narrow to the point where they could barely be seen.

Flanked by tall grass, I thought out loud, "this looks like tick territory." Sure enough, I'd verbally predicted what would become the bane of our existence for the next two hours. I was protected in leggings, but Jaren was wearing shorts. At one point, he looked down and had three ticks crawling up his leg. That was the beginning of the worst of it.

For the duration of our time winding through that bluff-lined trail, we were flicking ticks left and right. The paranoia—that one of us, probably Jaren, was going to get bit and stuck with Lyme disease for the rest of his life—was real.

I recently read a meme that went like this: "When you are holding coffee and something bumps into your cup, you spill coffee. If it had been tea in the cup, you would have spilled tea. Whatever is inside the cup is what spills out. So, when life comes along and shakes you (which is inevitable), whatever is inside of you will come out. What's in your cup? When things get hard, what spills out? Joy, gratitude, and humility? Or anger, bitterness, and fear?" 

My reaction to this situation was pure frustration. That's my go-to. I felt an anxiety for the whole Lyme disease outcome, but kept telling myself it wasn’t set in stone. I was doing everything I could to justify a positive outcome.

Simultaneously, I was frustrated that these trails were so never-ending. I was angry that I had to keep pushing through—that I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't stand the idea that I just had to be IN it.

I look for the positive, and when I can't find it, I spiral. I didn't realize it at the time, but this is my way. This is how I deal with adversity.

Jaren was going through his own frustrations. He was beating himself up for not wearing full coverage, even though he was far from the only person on the trails that day whose limbs were exposed.

He was taking it out on himself. He didn't realize it at the time, but this is his way. This is how he deals with adversity.

This was what filled our cups. And it was a wake up call.

The silver lining was that Jaren and I were on the same team. We were vocal about our own frustrations, but supportive of each other's. Since I was in leggings, I trudged through the grass first, hoping to either attract most of the ticks—or at least look out for them. Meanwhile, he reminded me that being "in" it is just part of the deal. The only way through it is to accept it.

at a certain point, maybe 30 minutes in to the roughest section of trail, we decided to submit.

At that point, what was done was done. We were in it. The only option we had was to continue doing what we were doing.By the time we got to the southern edge of the trail, about 4 miles in, it started to bend upward toward the ridge. As we reached one of the designated lookout areas, I felt a wave of exhilaration rush through me. Is this it? The light at the end of the tunnel? About ten minutes later, we reached the top of the ridge trail. The terrain switched dramatically, from tall grass to a wooded wonderland. After a quick lunch in the shade, we carried forward.

The energy was different now.

We had just pushed ourselves through an emotionally draining endurance exercise. Reinvigorated, we laughed. We were prepared for the next leg of the journey, whatever it had in store for us. It didn't matter that we didn't know what was ahead. We just knew we had what it took to get there. To our surprise, the ridge trail was a well-manicured, wide path that offered zero challenges aside from its hilly terrain. I turned to Jaren and laughed, "maybe this is a metaphor for life. You slog it through a seemingly endless trail of weeds, but once you push through, you just get to coast." (There I go looking for the positive again—old patterns die hard). We looked at each other whenever a group passed dressed in tank tops and shorts. They don't even know what's about to hit them. At one point a small group stopped us, huffing and puffing, and asked, "is the bluff trail as hard as this one?!" We looked at each other. "Um... define 'hard?'" We rambled a bit about how the terrain was tough, but ultimately they decided to believe the next trail "just had to be" easier than the one they were on. We all have to confront our realities in our own ways.

The next day we faced a different kind of challenge.

We decided to embark on an "easier" 4 mile hike. But in order to reach the loop, we had to scale a small waterfall. I took one look and said, "um, that doesn't look fun." Jaren looked at me, "we don't have to do it if you don't want to." I thought about it. "I just need a second to process this," I said. I looked at the rocks we'd have to climb to get to the trailhead.

Would it be worth it? What if the trail continues to present these kinds of challenges? If we turn back, when will I ever get another chance to tackle this?

I decided to do it. Scaling the wall wasn't so bad, aside from my moderate sense of vertigo when I get off the ground. Strangely, though, I was in my head for the first couple miles of the trail. We had other challenges to face: fallen trees hovering across tight trails that hugged a slippery hillside. At one point, my two greatest fears--bees and heights--collided as we rounded a narrow trail. One one side, a harrowing drop. On the other, hundreds of wildflowers buzzing with activity. My heart stopped every time I heard one whiz by me. Jaren's voice kept repeating the same words of warning, "if you have to freak out, make sure you jump to the left and NOT the right." It was sweet, you know, him not wanting me to plummet to my death and all.

But the challenges didn't wig me out the way they had the day before. I'd accepted, thanks to our tick-infested hike, that they were par for the course. What wigged me out was my initial hesitation to walk this trail in the first place. I kept thinking about it. I always do that, I thought. If something looks too challenging, I just assume it isn't worth it. I turn back before I ever start. Where else am I doing that in my life?

It's tough, to recognize a way in which you might be holding yourself back.

But it's important, too.

I learned a lot from these two hikes. So much, in fact, that's it's hard to sum it all up with a ribbon. I learned how hard it is for me to just accept the suck while I'm in it. But that accepting it while I'm in it is actually the best way to get through it. I learned that my default mode, while in the suck, is frustration. I learned that I desperately believe in the light at the end of the tunnel—and that it does exist, but it's not indefinite. The "light" is simply a resting place before the next life lesson is served. Assuming the light will be indefinite will lead to disappointment. Accepting that where you are is where you are takes a bit of the pressure off. I also learned that I hold myself back—often—from wading through the suck at all. And that keeps me from those exhilarating plateaus that feel so good, that get me to the next level, and that make me feel proud of all I'm capable of.

Long story short: get outside. In uncomfortable places, if you can.

It's incredible how much you can learn about yourself through a little bit of physical adversity. Our outward experiences really do hold a mirror up to our inner states of consciousness. So. Get. Outside. I'll see you out there. ✌🏼◬