Busy Being Brave

Thanks for being here. Thanks for keeping me going.

Oof.

I sincerely apologize for the awkward silence; the long time no talk; leaving you hanging on my last word. 

“It is a gift to age.”

And my oh my, you’ve aged four months and three whole weeks since we last talked. Tell me, how have you grown? Do you have a new wrinkle? A grey hair? Have you received any gifts?

And I’m not talking about anything that can be wrapped. 

I got my first grey hairs when I was 17 - at least that’s when I found them. Well, actually, my first boyfriend found them when we sat down for dinner with 198 other kids our age in the mountains of Switzerland on a music trip. He was taking note of my features; studying the color of my hair with his green eyes when they suddenly widened.

“Oh my goodness,” he said as though he uncovered a terrifying discovery. “You have grey hair!” He was 16 - a whole year younger than me and this new development, I’m sure, only made me look and feel that much older to him.

There were eight to be exact, and for years after I used to pull my hair to the side, reach the tips of my fingers under it all to the base of my scalp, slide my hair between each knuckle, transforming my hand into a comb, pulling down and then squeezing my knuckles shut at the very tail ends of my curls to search for the known eight and any new friends. I’d separate them from the rest of my hair, playing a game of “which one of these are not like the others.” Once they were gathered all together, I’d hold them in my hand and stare at them, analyzing their coarse texture and nearly translucent appearance up close.

Sometimes I still do. 

I’ve always loved my grey hair. And when I look at them now, they ironically remind me of my youth; of being 17 across the world, waking up in a new country every two to three days, singing the whole way through, and head over heels in love - not just with my 16-year-old boyfriend with the dreamy green eyes, but with my friends, my life, and the present moment. 

It’s not to say I haven’t been happy since, but I’m sure you’ve found that the further you move from 17, the more complicated life gets - sometimes good, sometimes not-so-good. But who are we to judge?

You know what makes life complicated towards the end of your 20s though? Your Saturn Return. I know, I know - to quote a recent favorite meme of mine: “I look normal, but deep down I think about love and the moon a lot.”

The closer I got to 30, the more I became an astrology nerd. We all have our hobbies. Why not make one of them the planets, the stars, and the moon? Is there anything more beautiful? When I first heard about Saturn Returns just before my 29th birthday, I wish I would’ve done a little more research rather than just singing along with a Kacey Musgraves song, because it turns out that my Saturn Return began on my 29th birthday.

Anyone who knows, knows it’s a gift in disguise and we only get three of them in life if we’re lucky.

I remember the morning of my 29th birthday when it all began all so clearly. I woke up in a remote cabin in the woods with my husband and my dog, embers in a wood stove beginning to burn out. It was quiet and all the signs were there - literally. On the wall above the toaster was a sign that said, “You know all those things you’ve wanted to do? You should go do them.”

And then there was a book, and when I opened it, it turned right to a page that said: “The secret to a long life is to be willin’ to grow older.” (willin’ because we are in Montana after all)

And then, the very next day, my astrology app sent me a notification that simply said, “Start from the beginning.”

And I can attest that ever since Saturn found its way back to the same place it was when I was born, my world more often than not, has felt like one big, beautiful progressive sh*t show; a roller coaster ride with the highest highs and biggest drops - no seatbelt, white-knuckling, and the Gs just aren’t even fun anymore because your nervous system is completely maxed-out. (It turns out that this is not a good time to actually go on a roller coaster, especially the second longest wooden roller coaster in the entire country of China, even if you’ve loved roller coasters all your life because your nervous system is already maxed out.)

Just after I turned 29, I did some pretty incredible things in my own book - some I told you about and some I didn’t.

I told you about how I biked 46.10 miles to the top of the Going-to-the-Sun-Road with my own two legs less than a year after my second kneecap dislocation. I didn’t tell you about how I ran my first 10K across the infamous Megler Bridge in my hometown and fast, with my sister (my favorite person to run with) and a dear friend who also injured their knee the year before, wearing a shirt that said, “I can do it,” across the front and “I can do anything,” across the back. The personal mantra came from beyond me and out my mouth in the middle of an interval on the treadmill and it carried me through every interval after. 

Just months before that, the goal of my final physical therapy appointment was to run again and I physically. couldn’t. do. it. 

As I came to the top of the steepest part of the bridge - the hardest part of the race, a woman pushing a stroller came up beside me and said, “I’ve been running behind you for a while and your shirt has kept me going.”

I crossed the finish line poetically with P!nk’s “I Am Here” in my ears, placing 486th out of 3,000, with a pace high school Meg never would have dreamed of - let alone running a six-mile race in the first place, especially that six-mile race.

But when I came home, something strange happened. I tried to ride my beloved Peloton bike again and I couldn’t. I physically couldn’t. Every time I hit play on a ride and began to turn the pedals, extreme panic would set in - the type of panic where you literally feel like you’re going to die. I had never experienced this kind of panic before and the first time it happened, I thought dying was exactly what was happening. 

When I realized what was happening, I couldn’t figure out why it was happening. As you might know based on some of my past notes, I love riding my Peloton. And it was weird. Sometimes I could get on and everything would be fine, but more often than not, I would have to stop the pedals and quit the ride or else, I could feel my body warning. 

So, that’s how I landed on the couch of a new therapist after I came back from China in February. No, she doesn’t know why it’s happening either. Of course, we have suspicions, but nothing to point to. Saturn Return? Absolutely, positively perhaps. At this point, I’m convinced. That’s the only explanation my woo-woo-leaning heart and soul can come up with and it actually makes a lot of sense.

And I still haven’t told you about my third trip to China to visit my husband’s family. I’ve written about China, but the second I started writing about it I felt compelled to ask someone who knows how to know if you’ve started writing your book. But then I realized that if that’s the question it has me asking, I already know the answer - yes. So, you’ll have to wait, but I promise it will be worth it because what I’ve written so far is my most favorite thing I’ve ever written.

So, all this to say, you haven’t heard from me in a while because, aside from reevaluating my love of roller coasters, I’ve been busy…

Healing my nervous system.

Holding boundaries. 

Moving towards peace and protecting it. 

Stepping out of my comfort zone.

Growing. Expanding. Evolving. Transforming.

Reevaluating my values.

Striking balance. 

Learning how to slow down. 

Finding a new formula to fit this time. 

Creating rituals and new routines.

Practicing radical self-acceptance. 

Grounding. 

Recognizing my worth. 

Pouring into my people. 

Pulling back from takers and time sucks.

Creating a new life.

To sum it all up, you haven’t heard from me in a while because I’ve been busy being brave.

If you’re in the middle of your Saturn Return/messy middle/somewhere in-between your salad and main course and truthfully just looking forward to the desert, me too. Even though I have a hard time believing the words more often than not these days, I’m still wearing my shirt.

“I can do it.”

“I can do anything.”

I have no idea how far I am from the starting line or the finish line, but I’m just about to reach the top of the climb. Look for me.

I’ll keep you going.

Thanks for being here. Thanks for keeping me going. 

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written while listening to “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane, a song that takes me straight back to that sweet, sweet summer of 17 and it reminds me of my Dad, who rarely strays from the singers and songwriters of the 70s and 80s that he raised me on. but he fell in love when he heard me playing it when I came back home from my first trip abroad. it’s had a spot on his master Spotify playlist ever since. I’m not crying, you are.