On Monday, I started the drive from Los Angeles to Oaxaca, moving my whole existence 40 hours south.

Unlike when I drove through Mexico the first time, this time, I know exactly how hard it is. This time, I have one less rabbit. This time, my partner and I are breaking up, not starting our relationship.

I haven’t felt “at home” for a year and a half, since I left for that first trip in search of a new life.

But this time, I know exactly where home is. It’s waiting for me. I just have to get there. 

I’m 2 days into 2 weeks of this solo drive. And this time, I am really feeling the solo-ness.

As an only child and recovering independence addict, I used to do everything by myself and not think twice about it. 3 months driving alone through Mexico? No problem. 

But something changed. Since opening myself up to deeper connection, finding my people, and letting myself receive love and care, it’s not so easy being alone anymore. 

I was so used to it for so long, I didn’t realize what I was missing. I didn’t realize how much it hurt. But now those scabs are fresh, pink skin. And I FEEL it.

I feel everything so much - the heartbreak, the incremental progress, the sweetness of companionship - life is at full volume. And I am trying to meet it with gratitude, in addition to crushing heartbreak, fear and exhaustion. 

My companion on this long drive is a seven-year-old rabbit, Gnocchi.

This time last week, I thought she was dying. She’s recovering from health issues that left her unable to breathe and unable to move. I had to wake up every few hours to clear out her nose. I had to hold up her head so she could drink.

Oh my god, how precious life is when you think it’s over. When you think you might not have another day, every moment has so much gravity. Every flop, every cuddle, every shared glance, almost wasn’t and may not be tomorrow.

But she’s getting better. A couple days ago, she started hopping again. I’m crying right now looking at her sitting contentedly under the desk in this hotel room.

I cry when I think about how grateful I am to have her with me on this long journey.

I cry when she drinks water. I cry when she’s stable enough to groom herself. I cry when she gets comfortable and rests.

I am so affected by her every movement, because I am ACUTELY aware of her fragility. And I have lost some of the beings I’ve loved most this last few months. So every little development, every little blessing, every little connection, hits my heart so hard. 

On this drive with this precious little creature, I can’t plan more than a few hours ahead. I have to live in this exact moment, slow down and take it easy enough to actually enjoy it. I have to surrender to the absolute enormity of existing in a body on Planet Earth.

I can’t take anything for granted. I can’t take anything too seriously.

The point is to feel it and enjoy it. Not necessarily to sob for all 40 hours looking at her weepy eye and bald chin and wobbly legs and stress about if she’s living or dying. 

Because she’s living AND dying. We all are. 

So I cry.

And I kiss her soft forehead.

And I laugh when she can’t get back up after a sharp turn.

Last week, I wrote about my discovery from sex coaching that I’ve been putting off pleasure. All kinds of pleasure. I resist life’s sensory delights and don’t stay present for the good feeling parts. That was a big revelation.

This week, my coach said, “it sounds like you don’t trust it.”

(Imagine me dumbfounded…and a little sad.) She’s right.

The story under the hood was that I didn’t deserve it. I already have so many blessings, it would be UNFAIR for me to also ENJOY them. 

UMMMMYEAH, it’s absurd. It’s obvious when I write it down. Of course this is not my philosophy. I don’t believe this for myself. I don’t believe this for anyone.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s been living in my body. And I’ve made all kinds of excuses to keep it there.

Right now as I’m typing, I’m thinking, REALLY? I’m going to put these words on a page for people to read? 

Yes. Because if I don’t, I’m letting it stay in the shadows and in power. If I don’t, I’m putting a story about myself above my actual self. 

I’m done protecting an idea about who I’m supposed to be, over my living, breathing human body.

Where did this idea even come from? I’m sure working hard to uphold it. Is it mine? Or is it a parasite I let in to make myself small enough for someone else’s ego? (Guys, it’s the second one.)

It’s been there for a long time. It’s taken a long time to get myself to the point of declaring it openly. It’s taken a long time to start getting help about it. It’s scary to take the CHANCE I could trust pleasure.

And while I can’t dig out overnight, what I CAN do overnight (overday, overblog) is make this declaration to myself, loud and clear: 

I am no longer feeding the story that I don’t deserve my blessings.

I trust pleasure.

WHEW. It’s scary to say because it makes it real.

Writing is powerful. It helps me crystallize my thoughts and make them real.

I like writing as a poem or a prayer. Things I hope. Things I feel. Things I want to make real.

I hope this gets you closer to whatever you want to make real.

I deserve to be closer to Me.

Closer to the Heart that never stops beating in this chest. 

Closer to the Blood that never stops pumping, never stops feeding, never stops cleaning, never stops trying. 

Let me see the abundance of invisible thread holding us together, 

so I can remember, I am never alone. 

Someone touched everything around me.

Someone sewed, someone washed, someone dreamed, someone sweat. 

Someone cared, to create my world. 

It is here. And I belong.

Help me be humbled by all that is meant for me.

Help me receive with grace so I may share with generosity.

May I shine my light fearlessly, so others may see through the dark.

May I be fearless in asking others to show me through the dark.

May I clear the wounds that block reciprocation and connection.

May I be righteous in my pursuit of pleasure.

May I know my true gifts.

May I feel them so my cup may be full. 

May all of our cups be full. 

Full, 

full, 

full.

OH boy. The Vulnerability Hangover. That mixture of regret, uncertainty, overthinking and shame after we open up to someone. AAAGGHHHHewwww.

Why does it feel so cringey?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I feel it just about every week when I post this blog. Some weeks, I feel confident and I just move on. Other weeks, the fear that no one will connect with what I’m saying, that I shared too much or didn’t say the right thing haunts me for hours, even days. I still feel a little haunted by the photo from last week, if I’m being honest. (If I’m not being honest…what’s the point?)

When I feel residual ick after posting, I remind myself why I do it. I made a commitment. To write every week. To put myself out there. To model the vulnerability and authenticity I want to see in the world. I remember that embodying those values is more important than avoiding discomfort.

BUT IT STILL FEELS GROSS!

Last night, I told a friend I was attracted to her and wanted to explore that. She did not. ohHHHboyyyy. I was proud of myself for being direct. But I also felt sad, rejected and ashamed afterward. Opening up opens a portal. Your biggest insecurities are just waiting to jump in. And you can’t hide behind not caring or not being clear. You have to just sit in the mud. Bare assed. Trying to convince yourself you did the right thing even though it feels bad.

At least it’s the good kind of bad. It sucks. It’s unavoidable. You can’t control the outcome. But you honored your insides. And stood bravely next to your wet, shiny pile of guts and said, “Yep. That’s me.”

I think this is my third post now about receiving. I keep learning how important it is.

This time last week, a very special rabbit named Cosmo died. He was 9 years old. He’d been sick multiple times, and this time, he didn’t come out the other side. 

At 6 months old, he was a feisty and fearful little escape artist. He was found abandoned in a New York City apartment building cowering in the corner (his favorite place to cower).

I took one look at this terrified little creature, hiding at the back of the cage in the shelter, having clumsily bolted behind his box of hay, and said, yes, that one.

He was with me for 8 and a half years. All this time, I thought I was taking care of him.

2 weeks ago, he started sneezing.

I was leaving for Mexico in a couple days and the boarder was going to bring him to the vet that same day. But he was getting worse leading up to my departure.

The night before he died, I watched him eat and struggle and sneeze. I sobbed, and occasionally laughed at how weird and gross his mouth sounds were.

I hoped it wasn’t the end, but I knew I needed to be with him and express what I needed to in case it was.

I sat on the floor next to him and thanked him for the time we had spent together. 

I thanked him for his presence in my life. I thanked him for moving across the country with me. I thanked him for getting me all the way to Oaxaca and back. I hadn’t planned to take him on that trip, but he needed intense care to remove an abscess. I had to do warm compresses twice a day and squeeze puss out of a tube coming out of his cheek. Then after several weeks, remove the tube myself. It was disgusting.

But those moments, where I got to care for him so intimately, were some of the most meaningful. They were an initiation into a deeper mothering than I had ever experienced.

I noticed myself wanting confirmation that I had done a good enough job. Feeling guilt and self-doubt over the times I wasn’t there or didn’t know what was best. Recognizing that, I emailed my own mother, letting her know she had done her job well, that I was a complete person, thriving and standing on my own two feet. I forgave her, I apologized, and I offered permission for her to release any fear or doubt she may have been holding.

I turned back to Cosmo, having released what I’d been carrying in both directions, as the mother, and the child. I looked in his eyes, my heart open and free, and just listened. 

The air between our eyes warped, like how the air warbles over a flame. Two distinct pulses. I recognize this as energy moving between us. He shifted into a different posture. 

I knew intuitively that he had received what I expressed, and he was now giving something to me. 

Because his nose was stuffy, I could hear each exhale. The rhythm was consistent and specific. He was using his breathing to soothe me. 

From his sweet little furry body, he was beaming his breath and attention, creating a frequency of love, assurance and nurturing. FOR ME. 

I was stunned.

Trying not to assume I knew better than the wisdom of nature, I laid down, closed my eyes and accepted it.

His breathing maintained its rhythm, steady and uninterrupted, as if to say, yes, it is still okay for you to receive. I am here.

I let his energy flow into my body. It felt like magic. It felt like mothering. It felt like love. 

I felt my body progressively relax. Starting with my heart, softening and washing over me in waves. Relaxing my own breathing and my chest, then my throat, my neck, my mouth, my jaw, and releasing tension I’d been holding for as long as I can remember. 

I felt cold air in parts of my nose that had never been open. I cried, humbled by the power of this deep, instinctual wisdom. And his generosity in offering it to me. 

When I got caught thinking “How did I not realize this the whole time” or “I don’t deserve this,” it disrupted the connection. And he simply kept giving, so I let it go, in honor of what was unfolding beyond my understanding.

Putting down my doubts, my stories and my fears unlocked a deeper connection to this being and the insane magic of this weird, wild world. 

Cosmo, I love you. Thank you. I will continue to receive. And I will share your magic rabbit medicine.

Well, I’m finally home from this trip…home…

It’s been a long stretch of not really knowing where to call “home.” 

In spirit, I moved to Mexico last year. 

In practice, I’ve been back and forth and all over. I miss Mexico every day I’m not there, but something else is happening.

3 weeks before my first trip to Mexico, after boldly declaring that my chapter in Los Angeles was complete, I met Ike.

We kept in touch, got to know each other deeply and built a connection that has humbled me to my core.

We communicate seamlessly, we do crazy, tantric energy work that catapults us into our highest selves, and, oh, we’re one soul split into two bodies somehow. (Not soulmates, twin flames. Look it up, it’s wild stuff.)

After my most recent trip to Mexico, I moved out of my apartment and into his…in LA. 

You may be thinking, “I thought you were done with LA.” Yeah. Me too. 

But also, moving in with him felt right. It was easy. We fit together.

Ike feels like home. And Mexico feels like home. 

I’ve been grappling with that for a year now. Trying to figure out what to say when people ask, “where do you live?” Well, I live in Mexico, and the person containing the other half of my soul lives in Los Angeles.

It’s not simple or conclusive. It doesn’t fit into a tidy box when I’m asked these questions at cocktail parties.

But maybe, that’s not how life works. We don’t really know what the fuck is going on. We just get out there and do it. Get dirty. Forge a new path where there wasn’t one because your soul demands it. 

The last year has brought the most aliveness I’ve ever felt.

I’m about to go back to Mexico. I will miss Ike. It hurts to pull apart. I’m also excited. To swim in the ocean every day. To sweat in the oppressive heat. To soak up the spirit. To grow my friendships. To keep embracing the wilderness of the unknown.

Home is where my heart is alive.

It won’t always make sense. But I FEEL IT. And that’s what matters.

This time last week, I was struggling. 

Writing to you now, I am on the other side of the breakthrough I couldn’t see, but trusted was coming.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been traveling around the East coast, where I lived before I was ALIVE. For most of my life, I had no faith, no self-trust and no will to live. I thought I was broken with no chance of repair. I hadn’t tasted true intimacy or unconditional love. I didn’t know my soul. I hadn’t discovered how powerful, how deep, how sensitive, and how worthy of love she was. 

I’m currently visiting New York City, where I lived from 2012-2018. I was miserable when I left. Suicidal, working in a field I had just gotten a masters in, but no longer had the mental or emotional capacity for. I had already been on antidepressants and in therapy for years, self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, keeping myself alive on obligation to others and the imagined peace of being dead. 

In 2018, I moved to Los Angeles as a last-ditch effort to see if happiness was possible. I didn’t have faith, but there was nothing to lose. 

Fast forward to 2023. 

My five years in LA gave me exactly what I needed. Happiness, healing, spiritual connectedness and purpose in a deep, unshakable way.

But this trip to the East coast resurfaced the depression I worked so hard to heal.

On Monday, I went on a walk through one of my old neighborhoods and stopped in a spiritual store. I love them. I can’t get enough of them. Let me touch all of the crystals. Anyway. I decided to get a tarot reading.

It was a much needed affirmation of what I already knew. I was doing the right thing. I was on my path. And the emotions I’m feeling are guiding me. They’re telling me what supports my aliveness and what does not.

My soul knows that my next chapter is in Mexico, but I’ve been trying to hold onto the partnership I built in LA.

Unlike leaving New York in 2018, there’s a lot to lose this time. So I’ve been keeping one foot in as I poke the other out, doing everything I can to see if it’s possible to have both.

I still don’t have the answer to that question. But I needed to be clear about one thing.

My soul knows what it needs to be alive, and I’m not willing to sacrifice that.

I had a difficult conversation with myself. And I had a difficult conversation with my partner. Setting that boundary freed me to lean into the uncertainty of the present moment. To weather the emotions. Trust myself to listen. And enjoy the ride.

Two days into renting a camper van, it’s pretty clear van life isn’t for me. I spent the weekend confidently telling everyone at my sister’s 50th birthday party that my partner and I were planning to build one so I can live between LA and Mexico. 

Probably not.

Major respect to people that make van life work. Personally, I can’t stop hitting my head on the ceiling, finding Internet to do our jobs is its own job and although we can cook because it has a fridge, a stove top, a microwave, a sink and a pantry, they just take up space because all we want to do is escape to the sweet, sweet sanctuary of a restaurant. 

I thought having everything in one small, well-designed space would make life easier. But in trying to do everything, it’s doing nothing.

On the heels of the Super Bowl of family time, two weeks into traveling and cohabitating, and now squeezed into a van while on my period, I watched myself contract into someone unrecognizable. Except, I recognize her as who I used to be. Someone living for others at my own expense, while trying to be invisible.

It didn’t work.

Hearing old thoughts bouncing around my brain again is scary. I forget that it’s only temporary, that we can weather these emotions, and that we know exactly why we’re here. This whole trip is about revisiting the past to clear the wounds those thoughts were born from. 

But it’s hard to keep the flame alive in these suffocating environments.

In a much needed session with my coach, I got a message:

Wide. Open. Magic.

She needs breathing room and connection. To herself, to others and to the bigger universe. To remember herself as a carrier of joy, spontaneity, inspiration. To feel her part of nature, emotions flowing, undammed and free.

Thank God I can lie down, diagonally across the mattress, stretch and feel the sun on my face through the tiny window above my head, and remember what I am.