As this year comes to a close, I reflect back on my continued quest to uncover behaviors and beliefs that have caused me unhappiness. I’ve examined in earnest my emotional behavior and my feelings, behavior and actions during all my relationships. After much painful and thorough introspection, I’ve had a huge revelation – those emotions are those of a five-year-old. And suddenly I’ve realized that my inner five-year-old child has been running my life.

A five-year-old child isn’t capable of thinking about anyone except herself. She’s not capable of considering anyone’s feelings but her own or the ramification of her actions. A five-year-old will often say or do anything so as not to anger or disappoint those from whom she receives love and approval.

My emotional five-year-old child has been most keenly evident in my personal relationships. Looking back not only on the most recent relationship, but also several of my previous relationships, I realize that I have manipulated my partners. Not at all out of malice, but completely in the way a five-year-old manipulates – out of fear. Fear that my partner would be angry, reject me, stop loving me, and leave me feeling alone and unloved. That’s when my little five-year-old would surface, doing anything she/I desperately could to feel secure and avoid that sting of rejection.

I’ve looked back into my childhood, hoping to uncover the source of that fear and feeling of rejection. I can think of two specific events very clearly having that awful, desperate feeling in the pit of my stomach.

For a span of a couple of years, my mom and I had a difficult relationship. I never felt it more keenly than one Mother’s Day back when I was about eleven years old. I’d done something to anger her, I can’t recall specifically what it was.  I remember being down in the basement with her – she was standing over the washing machine, cold and silent in her anger – and trying desperately to get some reassurance from her. I tried talking to her, reasoning with her and finally I cried out, “but I still love you,” hoping that she, even amidst the anger and frustration she felt at the moment, would reply in kind. I waited… but she said nothing. It was the one of the most painful rejections of my life. I felt, to my core, bad and unlovable.

The second incident happened when I was around twelve. One summer night, a group of my friends and I sneaked over to the forest preserve just past the high school, less than a mile from my house, without notifying our parents. We had pilfered a bottle of Southern Comfort, and  got ourselves thoroughly drunk drinking the sweet liquor straight out of the bottle. I had no idea of the passage of time and no idea of the time of night as I staggered home in the dark. Halfway home, a car pulled up next to me; it was my older brother Joe, who had been frantically driving around town looking for me. He loaded me into the car, and I have a vague recollection of him driving us around the dark parking lot in the nearby mall, waiting for me to sober up as he told me about the similar stupid things he’d done when he was my age. The next morning my mom greeted me with stoic coldness. A few hours later, I approached her on eggshells to ask if I could go up to the local swimming pool for the afternoon and, without even looking in my direction, she replied coldly, “Do what you want.” I’ll never forget the lurching, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at her reply. I felt utterly rejected.

I’m not blaming my mom at all. I’m sure that in the midst of her emotions she just didn’t know how to manage them enough to reassure me that although she was furious with my actions, she still loved me. I know that my mom loves me completely, with her whole heart, and she always has, even in the midst of our struggles. But at the time, all I felt was the anger and rejection, and for some reason, I internalized that into, not that I’d DONE something bad, but that I WAS bad.

That feeling of shame and unworthiness stuck and has followed me my entire life, lurking in the shadows, waiting for any criticism, any failure, or any rejection to spring forth and punch me in the stomach, reinforcing my feelings of shame and unworthiness.

Coincidentally (or not), I recently watched a wonderful lecture by Brené Brown. In that lecture, she discussed the important difference between shame and guilt.  Guilt is I did something bad. Shame is I AM bad. It’s a distinction that has the capacity to make a huge difference in one’s life. With guilt, you realize you made a mistake, and you can choose the next time to do things differently. With shame, however, there is no redemption. You are bad, and no matter what anyone tells you, from your parents to your teachers to your friends to your significant others, you disregard that and go back to that belief that you are unworthy of love. Growing up, I was totally unable to make the distinction between guilt and shame, and I believe that’s where that little scared five-year-old surfaced. Now, however, I finally get the distinction between shame and guilt, and for the first time in my life, I realize that I’m not bad….I’m human. It’s like a weight is off my shoulders.

As I look back on this year, I’ve had ups and downs and many struggles, but I believe I’m moving forward. I take responsibility for the immature, fear-based behavior of my five-year-old in my most recent relationship but thankfully, I’m not overwhelmed with shame. I believe very strongly that our relationships serve as opportunities for learning and growth. I look at the huge lesson that I’ve learned, a revelation that has the potential  to change my life, not only in future relationships, but in all other aspects of my life as well.

My five-year-old? I’ll embrace her, I’ll nurture her, and reassure her that she is truly worthy of love and belonging. Then, I’m hopeful that she will no longer feel the need to act out and I can have healthier relationships with everyone in my life.

My family has been planning Christmas Day for well over a month. For the first time in a couple of years, we are all planning to be together at my mom’s – my siblings, in-laws, and my niece and nephews. My plan was to leave Missoula on Sunday and arrive home at my mom’s by Monday or Tuesday. I had meticulously planned the last days before my departure: last day of work Friday, get laundry done and everything packed, load the car on Saturday with all my belongings and my bike, then leave on Sunday morning and take two days, three at the most to arrive in Naperville. I would enjoy the days leading up to Christmas with my mom and spend Christmas Day with my entire family.

But sometimes my plan is not the Universe’s plan.

Last week it started to snow. All day Monday and Tuesday. It kept snowing. Thursday the snow was predicted to end by 11am…but it kept snowing and was then predicted through Friday at 11am…but it kept snowing throughout the day. The temperatures dropped dramatically below zero, and all the snow that had fallen became packed on the roads. Saturday I forged ahead with my plan and packed up my car, but as the day progressed, my anxiety increased as road conditions deteriorated to the point that I-90 shut down in central Montana and a Sunday departure became impossible.

I wasted that day consumed with worry. Worried about when I could leave. Worried about which route home I should take. Worried about the road conditions that would be along the drive.

Totally miserable and at my breaking point, I decided to sit and meditate on why I was worrying and what was at the source of my worry. I worry the most when I feel powerless and a loss of control. Worrying makes me feel like I have some kind of control, as if catastrophizing prepares me or helps me in some way. But it doesn’t. Next I realized that the source of the worry was the attachment I’d placed on getting to my mom’s by a certain day. I had become so attached to that outcome that I’d developed huge expectations. But the reality of the current situation dashed those expectations and caused me incredible disappointment. It’s risky to place so much attachment on a certain outcome, and it’s wiser to practice detachment and surrender instead. Marianne Williamson says in A Return to Love that we surrender more easily those things that aren’t important to us, but things that are REALLY important to us, that we are most attached to, are the most difficult to surrender. The attachment I have to my family and even more so FAMILY AT CHRISTMAS makes surrendering this difficult for me. But I am choosing to place this in the hands of the Universe and have faith that everything is working out for the best (even if it’s difficult to see it in the moment).

Saturday night I allowed myself feel all my emotions and I cried and cried, disappointed that my trip was not going to happen as I planned. But as I cried, I suddenly felt all the resistance melt away, and at once I felt at peace.

Yesterday, I woke with an entirely different mood and mindset. I talked to Kat and she asked me “what can you do to make today great?” So, I made a conscious choice to enjoy the day. I had a couple of cups of coffee at my favorite coffeehouse, I talked to my mom twice, I watched a great Bears game, I started this blog, and I watched BOTH The Sound of Music and Oliver. I kept smiling through the entire day, relieved to feel peace instead of anxiety.

At this point, I’m not sure when road conditions will improve enough for me to head East. Hopefully I’ll make it home by the end of the week. But I have come to a place of acceptance. In fact, I’ve even faced the possibility that I’ll spend Christmas here in Missoula and actually…I’m ok with that!
I’m lucky to be learning that it’s ok to have a plan, but then surrender the results to the Universe. And that, my friends, is the difference between feeling powerFUL, and powerLESS.

In mid-August I carried a full 5-gallon bucket of mayonnaise at work and tweaked my back. It was sore on and off for two weeks, but I just dismissed it as muscle soreness and assumed it would eventually pass. One day in late August, I got out of bed and my back exploded in pain. Desperately I tried to find a position that offered some relief, with no success. For the rest of the day I could not get comfortable or escape the pain. Thankfully, as the next few days passed, the pain subsided, but as the pain decreased I became aware of numbness spreading down the outside of my leg into the heel of my foot. I also realized that I was unable to raise up on the ball of my foot, which led to an uncomfortable borderline painful limp as I walked. After a visit to the doctor, I started regular physical therapy. Reluctantly I put my gym membership on hold for the month of September, but was optimistic that I’d return to my daily gym routine by the end of the month

September passed, and despite twice weekly physical therapy the symptoms persisted, so I tearfully put my gym membership on hold for another month. October passed with little to no improvement so I set aside my gym membership indefinitely. At the end of October my physical therapist, concerned with the lack of improvement, urged me to request an MRI. The MRI indicated a bulging disc which, albeit small, was situated such that it impinged on the S-1 nerve root, leading to the symptoms I was exhibiting.

Almost 4 months have passed during which I have not been able to work out. I honestly thought that I’d be out one, two months at the most. I haven’t taken more than two weeks off from the gym for the past seven years, and this unintentional break has been one of the biggest lessons in acceptance that I’ve ever faced. Those of you who know me well know how big a part of my life that fitness is. I’ve gone from disappointed to self-pitying to angry to depressed to scared. I have never had an injury that has kept me out of the gym until now. My recovery has been so painfully slow that I’ve been terrified that I won’t get better; that this numbness and decreased muscle strength will persist and keep me from the activities I love.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things I’m really lucky. This is not life-threatening. Fortunately, except for the first couple days of the injury, I’ve had no pain, and my sleep hasn’t been affected at all. I haven’t had to miss even one day of work. I know in my heart that the Universe gives us challenges to learn from and to grow, so I must trust and have faith in Universe’s plan, even if I think that it’s not MY plan. There is a line in the text of A Course in Miracles which has given me great comfort: One of the most difficult temptations to recognize is that to doubt a healing because of the appearance of continuing symptoms is a mistake in the form of a lack of trust.”

Over the past three weeks, the strength has SLOWLY started coming back to my calf muscle and my limp is significantly less pronounced. Last week I saw a spine specialist who was extremely heartened at how well I was doing given the MRI results taken at the beginning of November. My physical therapist has just given me the green light to carefully start working out again: perhaps a spin class, the elliptical, or weight machines. I’m a long way from doing any hill sprints, crossfit or powerlifting activities – perhaps never – but hey, I’ll take it. Up until this event, I’ve taken for granted what my body has been able to do. I know for certain that I will never take it for granted again.

Right after I arrived in Missoula in January, I received a facebook message from one of my gym friends. She invited me to go with her to a community meditation being held at a wellness studio just around the corner. I was so excited to see her again and looked forward to the meditation too. I enjoyed the session and really liked Laura, who facilitated the meditation. Two weeks later, I enrolled in a weekly mindfulness meditation class at her studio. At the beginning of the first class of the session, Laura told the class, “Ok, for the first five minutes, we’re going to do power introductions. Spend 30 seconds getting to know the person next to you and then move on! Go!”

I turned to a young woman next to me and asked her how she came about to taking the class. She motioned towards Laura and said “I know Laura because we both play flute in the Community Band.” I exclaimed “Omigosh, there’s a Community Band in Missoula?! When do they rehearse?”  She replied, “Yes! They rehearse on Monday evenings, and rehearsals start this month.”

Here was an opportunity to get back in music and to get to know people. And was it a coincidence – I just happened to have brought my horn with me to Missoula. The following Monday, I drove to Sentinel High School and walked into the band room. Everyone was so nice and welcoming, the music for this concert was very enjoyable, and the conductor was fun and energetic. But after the initial excitement of the first couple of rehearsals, I wasn’t enjoying myself. What in the world was going on?

I started playing horn in 4th grade. It came very naturally to me and I loved it. I had found something that I was really good at and threw myself into it 100% – my mom never had to tell me to practice! In high school I started taking private lessons and by junior year I knew I wanted to major in music. After my undergraduate degree, I went to the University of Michigan to get my master’s degree. Those were the pinnacle of my horn playing years. I was surrounded in school with some of the most talented musicians in the country, I was playing tons of gigs, and just completely loving my life.

After graduating with my master’s, I stayed in Ann Arbor and took on a large studio of private students to go along with my orchestra gigs. That Fall, the principal hornist in the Ann Arbor symphony was unavailable for the first concert of the season, so between the rest of the section we shared the principal parts. I was assigned to play principal on a little Milhaud piece. It had a easy little slurry solo, nothing technical at all and in a very easy range. When we started rehearsals and got to that piece, I thought, nothing to it – a piece of cake.  But….something was just not right. I struggled with this simple little solo. I couldn’t explain it or put my finger on it, but I just couldn’t do it. My playing just wasn’t easy and natural like it always had been. All I could think was that I wasn’t practicing enough since I was teaching lessons all day long. So I practiced more and more, thinking it would fix itself, but it didn’t get any better – in fact, it got increasingly worse. I started to become a little frantic. For the first time in my life, I started losing my nerve. Those nerves manifested in a quiver in my lips as I tried to play. Like a total loss of control. I tried with all my might to control it.  The harder I tried to control it the worse it got. I didn’t confide in anyone and tried to hide my increasing discomfort and declining performance. 

One of my gigs at that time was Assistant Principal in the Flint Symphony Orchestra.  We were performing Brahms Symphony #3 and I was offered the chance to play 3rd horn. I jumped at the opportunity to play my own part. The third horn part in that symphony is beautiful, with a multitude of solos, most of them high, soft and completely exposed.  But as the rehearsals commenced, the pressure I put on myself in the wake of my declining performance started to take its toll. I was surrounded by colleagues with whom I’d played for years at the University of Michigan, and who had known me as one of the strongest horn players in the studio. I felt like I had such a high standard to live up to, and the harder I tried to regain any semblance of my past level of playing, the worse it got. My performance and confidence deteriorated over the span of the rehearsals and not surprisingly culminated in an awful performance. My mind was racing in overdrive with fear through the entire symphony.  I was petrified of and dreading each solo as it approached. Completely overwhelmed with nerves, feeling totally naked, alone and exposed, my whole body shaking along with my lips, I obliterated each solo. It was the worst, most humiliating and embarrassing experience of my life.  I felt like I let myself down, I let the conductor down, I let the audience down, I let all my friends and colleagues in the orchestra down.  I was completely devastated. It was like a betrayal. The one thing in my life that I had always depended on to make me feel good had deserted me.

My struggles continued over the next several years as I desperately tried everything I could think of to turn things around. I took lessons from several teachers around the area, hoping that someone might be able to help, to find out what was wrong and why my lips were quivering. I took several months off, hoping that when I picked my horn back up that the problem had gone away. Finally I decided to go back to school for my doctorate, hoping that I might right the ship. I went to the University of Iowa, and once I was back in school, I was able to manage my nerves and the discomfort. I started to gain back confidence in myself. After receiving my doctorate, I was hired at the University of Louisville as the Assistant Professor of Horn. But the pressure I continued to put on myself to perform to a certain standard – now in a full-time professional job situation – brought about a decline in confidence and along with that, a rapid decline in my performance.  After my short two-year stint at U of L, I was not rehired. I gradually stopped applying for other teaching jobs, and soon gave up playing my horn for a career.  I played and taught less and less as each year passed. Finally, three years ago I gave up teaching and playing altogether as it just became way more struggle than fun. I gave away my huge library of music, put my horn in the closet and closed that chapter in my life.

Back in Missoula, I wondered why I was struggling when this should be FUN? There was nothing on the line. There was certainly no pressure in this community band.  I sat in a quiet meditation one morning searching for clarity, and I realized that the discomfort I was feeling in rehearsals was because I was worried that people would hear my lips quiver. That they would judge me for that. That I would let everyone down again. But – no one was expecting anything from me.  The expectation was coming from myself. From still not accepting myself and that my lips quiver and I don’t play like I used to.

I wasn’t ready to give up again. Even though it was uncomfortable for me to hear myself, I started to play every day, just a little bit. I set the timer on my phone for 15 minutes, and gradually increased until I was practicing 30-45 minutes a day, just to get my muscles used to playing again. Because of that, I had a bit more endurance during rehearsals and it helped me relax and by the dress rehearsal, I felt more comfortable and confident than I had in a long time.

The night of the concert arrived. As the concert started, the nerves reappeared in full force and my lips started quivering almost uncontrollably. I sat there and thought to myself, there is no threat here. I am under no external pressure whatsoever. I was hoping that realization would allow me to relax, but years of conditioning cannot be overcome with one thought. All I could do was to accept how I was playing at that moment and do the best I could. I came home after the concert with mixed emotions, but I looked in the mirror and told myself “Good for you Alise. Good for you for getting out of that closet and putting yourself and your fear out there.” I realized that I couldn’t expect DECADES of my expectation for perfection to disappear after just my first playing experience in years.

The pressure that musicians put upon themselves to be perfect can be overwhelming. We judge ourselves and judge others on missed notes or other imperfections. Gigs and jobs are based on competitive auditions in which missed notes are the difference between employment or unemployment.  I was easily able to handle that pressure up until a certain point in my career, but once I had playing challenges, I completely crumbled under that pressure. And allowed it to take away a real source of happiness and fulfillment in my life. Years ago I remember talking to an old colleague from the University of Michigan. She had also given up playing and said she felt overwhelming relief. She said that the pressure to play at a certain level felt like an albatross around her neck. A ball and chain that she carried around on a daily basis. I instantly related to that. What a shame that the joy that we originally had from playing our instrument turned into such pain.

I have said for the past three years that I will no longer let my fears rule my life. And playing my horn has been one of my biggest fears. But I’m keeping my horn out of the closet. I’m going to play in the Summer Band here in Missoula and continue to play in the Community Band. This is a great opportunity for me – can I love and accept myself  despite having what I’ve believed to be a huge flaw? It’s been part of me for over 30 years and I’ve been fearing and fighting it. I’ve been rejecting myself that whole time. Can I let go of the belief, created over decades, that something is wrong with me? If I’m trying to love myself unconditionally, I must accept that it is just part of me and part of my journey, and it’s ok. What if I embrace it and make friends with it instead? I just might allow myself to recapture the old joy – I know it’s right there waiting for me to come back.

The year was 2009. I belonged to JCC and participated in several group fitness classes, including spin and bootcamp. My favorite instructor was Susan, a no-nonsense trainer who led very challenging classes. Her Sunday morning spin class was my favorite. Through time we became friends and soon she started a Meetup group that she named FitChicks. She set up outings in which we’d share fitness and nutrition goals over a healthy meal, and coordinated group outings to various fitness programs around town including hot yoga, zumba, bodypump and jazzercise. One day in December she informed us she had set up a visit to a local crossfit gym. I was intrigued and couldn’t wait for that day to arrive.

The day finally arrived – Thursday, February 18 at 6:30pm at Derby City Crossfit on Market street. When I walked in my senses were overwhelmed – loud music, big metal rigs with heavy metal weights clanking loudly,  big men with weightlifting belts, people swinging kettlebells and lifting barbells. Slowly our group of Fitchicks gathered and was greeted by a tall, good looking bearded man who gruffly introduced himself as Ben, the owner of DCCF. With him was his girlfriend, a slender and gregarious girl who introduced herself as Kat. Ben explained what the evening was going to hold for us – we’d be given a brief description of what crossfit was all about, followed by some stretching and mobility, skill work, and then a “WOD” which stood for Workout of the Day. The skill work involved pullups and although most of us fitchicks couldn’t perform an unassisted pullup, we worked on scaled versions using resistence bands. I felt like I was entering some new secret and wonderful world of fitness. So many varied exercises! Once we were done with the skill, we had a little routine with some incomprehensible name of  “AMRAP.” All I remember was that it was comprised of assisted pullups, pushups, and airsquats.  When the routine was over, I told Kat that I was relieved to get through the WOD. To my chagrin Kat laughed and said, no that was just a little warmup! The actual WOD that we were going to perform that night was comprised of dumbbell snatches and burpees. I was excited and scared at the same time, I had no idea what a dumbbell snatch was but I loved burpees!  Ben and Kat went through the movements with us – showing us the proper technique of the single armed snatch, first with no weight and then using dumbbells. Finally the WOD began and I absolutely loved it! I even remember the Motley Crue song blaring in the background, Girls Girls Girls. I was instantly hooked, and Susan, another girl and I signed up for memberships on the spot.

 After that, my days at JCC were over as I threw myself wholeheartedly into Derby City Crossfit. Every weekday, I’d eagerly wake in the wee hours of the morning to attend the 5:30am class, thrilled with all the different challenges that crossfit presented and the camaraderie cultivated among my classmates. Crossfit wasn’t for everyone, it seemed, and new members came and went. One day, as Kat took a group of beginners through a workout, I noticed a tall, dark haired girl throwing herself into the workout with an incredible amount of enthusiasm. I remarked to Kat “She really gets it!”

That girl was Erin, who ended being one of my best friends and the best workout buddy I could ever ask for. Throughout the next several years, Erin became one of my biggest sources of support, inspiration, and motivation, always cheering me on to do more than I could on my own. She had an unfailing faith in the abilities of everyone at the gym, a determination and drive to improve her own life and the lives of everyone with whom she surrounded herself, and an energy and optimism that was without comparison. We worked out together in the 5am class, lifted together in Darkside Ladies (a powerlifting program), cooked together, trying out new recipes to fuel our bodies (she is an amazing cook!), and generally just encouraged and supported each other in everything we did, in and out of the gym.

Another dear friend who joined the gym later, coached classes, and also worked out alongside us was Lauren. An on-off but beloved member of DCCF was Erin’s best friend Jess. I firmly believe one of the biggest elements to succeed in achieving your goals in the gym is to have motivating workout partners. I enjoyed many fun-filled workouts in the gym and raucous antics outside of the gym with my girls.

Erin was an inspiration not only to me, but to our 5am class and the entire DCCF community as well. She took the initiative at any opportunity to have fun. Not a holiday went by without Erin coordinating appropriately themed costumes. If you dared to show up without one, invariably she’d pull a spare or two out of her duffle bag and hand it over. Our 5am crew became a tight-knit group, in the gym and outside the gym as well. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of folks with whom to work out.

Erin loved any excuse for a party with our class members. She coordinated paleo meal nights, a memorable NON PALEO cereal eating contest (in which she demolished everyone, including some pretty strong men), and a cherished summer weekend trip to her lakehouse with several gym girlfriends.

Crossfit and everything that went along with it became such an important aspect of my life that throughout the next several years, I became Level 1 certified and also achieved crossfit certifications in powerlifting, mobility, and Olympic lifting. For a few months in 2012 and 2013, I focused on powerlifting and participated in Laura Phelps-Sweatt’s women’s meets in Cincinnati, surrounded by some of the strongest and most talented female powerlifters in the country.  Later in 2013, inspired by Erin’s lead, I went totally outside of my comfort zone and prepared for and participated in a figure competition, and in June of 2014 participated in my first crossfit competition, Four Barrel Crossfit’s Beginners Competition.

The evolution of Derby City Crossfit itself has undergone much change since those early days on Market Street. In the spring of 2011, the gym moved to its present location in St. Matthews. Just a few months after that, Ben and Kat parted ways and ventured out on their own, leaving the gym under the leadership of a quintet of men. One afternoon in the Fall of 2011, I received a text from Sean, one of the founding owners. Some folks had gathered drinks at Drakes and he asked me to stop by for a drink. A loud and most likely tipsy group including the other owners, Slater, Shark, Sean and his soon to be wife Kellie, and Ryan sat around the table. To my astonishment, they asked me to coach some classes at the gym. Humbled and honored beyond words, I accepted, and was lucky enough over the next three years to coach some of the most dedicated, talented and strong athletes I’ve ever known. I was so thankful for the opportunity to bring to light my passion to inspire and motivate others to do more than they think they can.

When I started back up at the gym after returning from Montana this past June, much had changed. Shark and Slater were the only remaining owners and ran the gym full-time. A new rig and shiny new equipment was in place.  Most of the “old guard” in the 5am class had moved on. Erin had taken a position at another gym after working as a loved and respected coach at DCCF and I felt a bit out of place. But 5am is always a special group, and for the past 6 months I was blessed with other wonderful workout buddies (love you Tyler and Nathan) and two very special coaches, Kara and Robbie. I will always remember their kindness, encouragement, and love.

I am so grateful to everyone at DCCF – every single coach I’ve ever had, every single classmate with whom I’ve worked alongside, and every single member I’ve had the honor to coach. To be a part of such a unique (yes, you Clinton and Leslie), loving, and inspirational gym community is something I will cherish forever. I love you all and miss you!

My drive to Missoula last week was not as easy as it was last year when I made the same journey. Although I’d scouted the weather reports for two weeks and determined that my desired window of travel looked like clear sailing, Mother Nature is often unpredictable and she threw me a bit of a curve ball. I left my mom’s house and almost immediately drove into some light snow flurries. As I headed north into Wisconsin the snow increased in intensity until I crossed the Mississippi into Minnesota. Adding to my anxiety was the fact that for the first time ever I had my bike mounted to a rack on the back of my car. After 8+ hours of driving, I arrived in Sioux Falls, SD quite tired but certain that the snow was behind me.

I was wrong. The next day, as I drove across the interminable expanse of South Dakota, snow squalls interspersed with very short breaks followed me almost all the way into Wyoming. With nothing in that area of the state to break the howling gusts of wind, the snow blew and drifted and froze across the interstate, leaving only one lane moderately clear and limiting visibility considerably. Numerous cars slid off into the median as I crawled along, determined to make it to Sheridan and my waiting hotel room no matter how long it took. 10 1/2 hours later I arrived as the skies finally cleared and the sun shone brightly before setting around 4:30 behind the mountains. I celebrated New Year’s Eve with a bourbon toast over the phone with good friends while watching Louisville in their Bowl game. Exhausted by the long stressful drive, I fell sleep around 9.

I woke early on the final day of my trip, eager to arrive in Missoula and be done with driving. I checked the road reports and the weather, both predicted to be fairly clear. After grabbing some coffee in the hotel lobby, I departed at 5:15. The stretch of I-90 between Sheridan and Montana was eerily void of any other traffic in the wee hours of New Years Day, and I felt increasingly alone as I drove along the dark and icy interstate. I felt pangs of longing to be back home with my mom, or back in Louisville with Kat and among my friends. I took the opportunity to ask myself why I was feeling the loneliness so intensely. The answer came quickly that I was looking for comfort and reassurance from others rather than from within myself.

As the sun rose that morning, it lit up the most amazing and sparkling hoarfrost coating the outside every tree along the way. I arrived in Missoula around 1pm and began settling into the same little condo where I’d been so happy last winter. As I unpacked my car and brought my belongings upstairs, I took the tv remote to turn on some New Years Day football, only to find out that the cable wasn’t functioning. Mildly disappointed, I continued unpacking. Throughout the rest of the weekend, as I continued to organize my little condo, the full impact of my decision to move and the resulting consequences hit me full on. I had moved away, not temporarily this time, from all that was comfortable and safe to me. The city in which I’ve lived for 18 years. My best friends. My gym and my buddies there. VOICES, the most supportive part of my life in Louisville. I felt the most loss from the breakup with Kat and the separation from her and the kids, as I realized how much my life centered around them. I even felt the absence of the comfort of the TV in the background in my condo, and it hit me again just how much I searched for external means to love, comfort, and validate me.

This is my real lesson, to be able to be for myself what I’ve always tried to get from others. This was exactly what I had asked for and intended to do – to take away all my safety nets so that I could not fall back on them, to force me to learn to rely on myself for love and approval. It’s easy to say – but I didn’t realize until right now how difficult it really is.

I’m a huge fan of Mike Dooley and his book The Top Ten Things Dead People Want To Tell You. He describes setting the intention of your life just like you program a destination into the GPS system of your car. You put in the address, and you put your car in gear. You know without a doubt that the GPS is going to take you to your destination. You don’t question it when the route looks unfamiliar, you don’t stop and turn around, thinking that it has failed to do what it’s programmed to do. The Universe works the same with your life dream, Dooley writes. You set your intention with the Universe, you put your car in gear by taking inspired action, and you sit back, enjoy the trip and trust that the Universe will take you to your destination. It makes perfect sense to me.

I’ve thought of that analogy over the past several days since arriving here in Missoula. This journey that I am on now is so unfamiliar, so scary and unknown, that I want to turn the car of my life around and return back to my starting point. To run back to the comfort and familiarity of the life I had in Louisville. But that is unfortunately in the wrong direction and will not help me get stronger.  I’m so scared and have felt so lonesome since I’ve arrived, second guessing and desperately doubting my decision and my inner strength. But at one point over the weekend I looked out my window, at the expanse of mountains surrounding this city, and a calmness washed over me. I thought to myself, “I will let life lead me.” I remember my own inner GPS destination and the intent that I have set with the Universe, and I trust that I am on the route which will take me there, no matter how scary it looks along the way. Having faith that everything is going to work out is the best comfort I can give myself.