What Costs You…

I came to therapy trying to find the version of myself that I missed so much. The joy I once carried through life haunted me, like a song, to which you know only three words, yet it’s always stuck in your head. My therapist asked me to close my eyes and look for this version of myself. I saw her—she was standing far away, my vision of her obstructed by debris, like branches and weeds. But I could see her because there was a time when I knew her: my free and full self.

I was 25, living in California, where I had spent the last five years—five years of unbridled independence. I grew up as a pastor's daughter, the middle child among my parents' seven kids, in a small Midwest town surrounded by cornfields. Those five years on my own, across the country from everything I had ever known, exposed parts of myself I had never considered could exist.

Funny enough, I had moved to California to attend a non-accredited Christian school and it turned out to be the distance I needed to see life outside of religion. Christianity wasn’t just a part of my life; it was my life. I was consuming scripture before I was eating solid foods. I remember, as a young girl, fearing the “age of accountability,” the moment I would no longer have a free ticket to heaven because I was a kid and would have to start earning my way there. With my naturally spiritual personality, God and I had a bright and exciting relationship throughout my childhood. Eventually, I reached an age where I fully understood what I was reading in the Bible. I couldn't reconcile the stories with the teachings I had received. The whole foundation of unconditional love was wrapped in a threat of burning in an eternal hell.

My exit from and deconstruction of religion was slow—seven long years—before I found the confidence to speak about it with certainty and simplicity.

Upon leaving, I felt liberated, having only myself to check in with. At last, I started asking myself how I felt about issues like gay rights, abortion, and sexuality. Love just became love—plain and simple. I didn’t have to love people with the motivation to save their souls; I could throw love around as freely as a bird without any thought of eternal damnation. But leaving also left a gaping hole where my spiritual connection once existed. I didn't want to admit that maybe there was a “God-sized hole” in me, as they had promised would appear if I ever left. I had gone from waking up in the morning and asking the creator of the universe how I could be of service that day, to sitting in my bed, drinking watery coffee, wondering what the fucking point of living was.

During this period, I decided it was time for a real, hardcore adventure. I became massively inspired by the book Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, about Christopher McCandless, a young man who saw the world differently than most and in his pursuit of living an authentic life he got rid of all his belongings, hitchhiked to Alaska, lived off the land, and sadly starved to death. I was undeterred by the sad ending. I was inspired—I wanted to hitchhike to Alaska. Just as quickly as I announced my plan it was squashed by the fears of those around me. I decided that if I was not allowed to hitchhike, I would ride my bike—an idea almost everyone still hated, but I was determined to do it regardless.

Only a few small problems stood in my way: I didn’t own a bike, and I had never gone camping before. Over the next nine months, I prepared, planned, and created a route that took me and my bike 800 miles through the Alaskan terrain, alone. Guess what? I accomplished it! That experience showed me just how much bravery and ability lay within my bones.

After this incredible feat, someone said, “I haven't heard you credit God once for keeping you safe on this bike trip,” to which I responded, “You're right.” I was only a year into my departure from the church and still testing how much of me was, well, me, and how much of myself did God get credit for. I spent several dizzying years throwing darts at a wall trying to make sense of life without spirituality. With time I found my way. I found my spiritual connection again through my connection to the earth. Looking back, I believe God was with me on my bike trip. I felt God in every rush of wind and piercing blue river, each pump of my legs brought a heavenly rush of excitement. I believe God is the one who gave me the courage to do the bike trip at all, and was the “song” stuck in my head all these years later nagging me to find me again. I just don't use the word god for it anymore. Not that god is the wrong word, for me it just holds too many religious roots. Now I call upon the universe, the earth is my vessel to spirituality, every day I uncover something beautiful that holds lessons in overcoming, empathy, and offers an explanation for the role we play living on this floating rock. The universe captures the expanse, intricacies, and beauty of it all for me. 

My bike trip changed something deep within my soul. I decided I couldn’t continue working as a hairstylist; my life required a bigger, more permanent adventure.

I left my life in California, dreaming of moving to Alaska to be a kayak guide. It was December, leaving me several months before anyone would be interested in kayaking off the shores of Alaska. My bank account had grown fat from my successful career as a hairstylist in California, and I was ready to find what awaited me in this great wide-open life. I made plans to work on a farm in Hawaii and travel Europe with my two friends, but first, I returned to Michigan for the holidays.

It is this girl that I saw when my therapist prompted me to look for myself, this girl with so much freedom, joy, and self-belief.

But she and I were only together briefly.

Five days into my month-long stay in Michigan, I met Will, who would become my husband, and my life took on the shape of the person I might have been had I never left Michigan at all. Once I was back, my dad invited me to hear him preach on Sunday, and I obliged. I didn’t have it in me to speak firmly about my departure from the faith; it was astonishing how quickly I willingly shrank back to squeeze into the space I always fit at home.

There were four long years between my return to Michigan and the day I sat on the phone with my therapist, trying to envision my old self. I made some attempts to reconnect with the girl I once knew. I moved back to California, called off my engagement, but got married a year later anyway. I carried a lot of shame inside for constantly making choices that I knew deep down didn’t fit who I really was. But from the outside, they were the perfect decisions: I met the perfect man, we created the perfect house and eventually had the perfect daughter. Yet almost every night, Will would lie next to me in bed and listen to me say, “I miss the old me.” Every choice made perfect sense, the only thing that didn't make sense was the caged feeling that wouldn’t leave while I continued creating this perfect life. I opted to swallow the dread in the belief that I must be the problem and with enough time I would fix the problem that was me.

Having my daughter snapped me out of this trance. Most people, when they have children, feel more motivated than ever to create a traditional family. But when I looked at my daughter, I knew she needed to see her mother ALIVE.

I didn't know how I was going to get back to myself but I knew I had to start.

This month's pen pal prompt was, “What do you have that costs you a lot, but isn’t tangible?” My answer is, me.

I have me.

I had to finish the journey of getting to know myself, the journey that I had started at 25. I had to undo many choices, admit my shortcomings, give sincere apologies, and learn to live without hearing the apologies I thought would set me free. I had to be courageous in the simple act of being myself, even when I knew I would not be easily digestible.

It sounds cliché, but after growing up living for the next life—the eternal one—when I fully understood that we truly only get this one life, this one precious chance to live, I had no choice but to start living totally and completely - me.

I will close with this poem I wrote titled

"The Girl Who Danced"

"Eventually the sun burns off the fog, who is here to marvel at the blue sky, to become intoxicated by the sun?

I smile,

I am alone, but I am not lonely?

I begin to sway, laughter escapes my lips,

" I have me", I whisper as I dance.

I have me, that's more than I've ever had before"

Thank you for being here, talk soon.

xx,

Andi