So naturally I apologized like it was a much bigger deal than it actually was.

Fast forward almost a year.

I usually try not to date people from the studio. Why mess with one of the few places that feels peaceful?

But after seeing him enough, I started thinking maybe I’d make one tiny exception.

Nothing aggressive. Just enough smiling. A few conversations. Enough “accidentally” ending up in the lobby at the same time that I thought I was making progress.

Three weeks go by and I’m thinking:

Okay. I think we’re flirting.

Meanwhile, I downloaded Hinge after about eighteen months because apparently boredom starts sounding a lot like, Maybe I’ll give apps another shot.

One Wednesday night I’m lying in bed scrolling Hinge.

Who pops up?

Yoga guy.

D E S T I N Y.

We match. We message. We eventually go to dinner.

Within five minutes he’s dying laughing.

He says, “Blair… for the last couple of years I’ve assumed you were a happily married mom of three.”

Excuse me?

The entire time I thought we were slowly building romantic tension.

This man thought I was somebody’s wife.

He told me the moment I popped up on Hinge his first thought was, Holy shit.

Then he started replaying all of our interactions.

Oh… maybe she was flirting.

A couple weeks later, after my ibogaine trip, another guy I’ve known casually starts asking me questions about the medicine every time I see him.

Finally he says, “I’d love to grab a coffee or a drink sometime and hear more about your experience.”

Perfect.

Maybe he wants to learn more about ibogaine.

Maybe he’s interested in Forward Intent.

Maybe he’s a potential donor.

So I show up at Park House in baggy jeans and a white tank, completely casual.

We’re talking about ibogaine. 5-MeO. Life.

At one point I actually start crying talking about my experience.

Which, honestly… whatever.

We keep talking.

As I’m walking to my car, it hits me.

Two and a half hours.

Two bottles of wine.

Holy shit.

I think that was a date.

No, not bikini pics.

My actual life.

Divorce.
Ibogaine.
Healing.
Fear.
Hope.
Books.
Walking.

Turns out, after about the third video of talking into your phone… you start wondering if everyone else is getting sick of you too.

Like…

Does anyone really need another thought from me?

Am I helping people?

Or am I just talking to myself in increasingly better lighting?

It’s weird because two things can be true.

I genuinely want to tell the truth.

And if I’m being honest, I hope that by the time my book comes out, there are people who already know me a little.

Then something started happening.

Women I loosely knew started asking me to coffee.

Not networking coffee.

The kind where we’re both tearing up fifteen minutes in because someone finally says the thing they’ve been carrying around.

A guy stopped me at Mico and said he’d been following my story.

Then I’m sitting at the CC.

Reading.

AirPods in.

Every possible signal that says, “Please don’t talk to me.”

And a woman walks over, sits down on my chair, and starts asking about depression, therapy, ibogaine… life.

She told me she’d been following my story.

That it was giving her hope.

I spend all this time wondering if I’m just talking into my phone…

…and then real life keeps reminding me someone was actually listening.

So yes.

Every time I prop my phone up to record another video, I still feel a little bit like a jackass.

Because somewhere between feeling ridiculous and telling the truth…

People find each other.

Yes, I knew I would do it again eventually.

But not thirty-four days later.

And definitely not in Austin after accidentally stealing someone’s coffee creamer twenty-four hours earlier and somehow ending up surrounded by a room full of people I trusted enough to hand my entire nervous system over to.

But there I was.

One voice in my head kept saying:

It’s too soon.
You’re not ready.
Your body cannot handle this again.

Another voice kept whispering:

Look at how this happened.
Look at the timing.
Look at the alignment.

Maybe this is what trust looks like.

Before ceremony, I drew a card.

A woman half underwater. Arms reaching upward, barely above the surface.

I drew myself.

So I walked into the room shaking.

I was the last person to go that day, and by the time I sat down tears were already pouring out of me.

Not graceful tears.

Fear tears.

Full-body fear.

I didn’t want to go back there.

The flashbacks from the first ceremony were already alive inside my body before I even inhaled.

Justin looked at me gently and said:

“Take a lighter hit first. Just see how you feel.”

So I did.

Deep inhale.
Long exhale.
The sound of the torch.
The counting.

Three.
Two.
One.

And immediately—

whoosh.

Back there.

Bright white everywhere.

My body falling backward while their hands guided me down.

And then I saw my children.

All three of them.

And I was gripping them desperately.

Crying. Clinging to them with everything in me. My fists tight. My whole body tense.

Terrified to let go.

I could feel something pulling me toward the light, toward peace, toward surrender—

but all I could think was:

No.
Not them.

I could not loosen my grip.

The fear was overwhelming. Animalistic.

Like every survival instinct in my body had fully taken over.

And when I started coming out of it, my body was rigid.

Every muscle locked tight.
Hands shaking.
Jaw clenched.
Tears pouring down my face.

I curled into myself like a little girl and cried into my knees.

“I can’t do it again,” I kept saying.
“I’m too scared.”

But underneath the fear was this quiet knowing:

this was the moment.

The exact moment people talk about when they say:

go back in.

Not because it’s easy.

Because the fear itself is the threshold.

So eventually I looked at Justin and said:

“I will.”

I closed my eyes again.

Inhale.
Hold it.
Don’t cough.
One more inhale.
Get it all.
Stay.

And then—

I disappeared.

No fear.
No pain.

Just brilliant white light exploding everywhere.

Thousands of memories and moments moving behind my eyes faster than I could catch them.

Forty-one years of laughter and people and ordinary life shooting through me all at once.

Names.
Faces.
Ice cream sandwiches.
Friends.
Childhood.
Tiny moments somehow holding enormous meaning.

It was happening too fast to focus on any one thing.

I wasn’t watching memories.

I was feeling them.

Every ounce of love.
Every ounce of grief.
Every ounce of being alive.

And underneath all of it was this overwhelming realization:

my life has been filled with love.

Not perfect love.
Not painless love.

But love.

I could feel it everywhere.

In my chest.
In the memories.
In the people.
In God.

Then suddenly I saw the silhouette of my children.

My son.
My daughters.
Me.

And I realized something I had never fully admitted out loud before:

I have been gripping onto them like their survival depended entirely on me.

Like if I loosened my hands for even a second, everything would fall apart.

Because for so many years, I was the one holding everything together.

I was the safe place.

But in that moment something softened.

Not because I stopped loving them.

Because I realized maybe I am not carrying them alone.

Maybe God has them too.

And even as I slowly started coming back into my body, I could still feel everything moving behind my eyes.

Words.
Memories.
Laughter.
Thoughts moving faster than I could process.

I knew I wasn’t fully in the medicine anymore.

But I could still feel it moving through me.

Justin asked if I was okay and all I could do was smile through the tears and give him a thumbs up because I still couldn’t fully tell what was happening inside my head versus outside of it.

But for the first time since beginning this entire journey, I understood what people meant when they talked about peace.

Not euphoria.
Not escape.

Peace.

And underneath all of it was the answer to the question I’ve quietly carried for years:

Am I worthy of love?

And suddenly the question itself felt wrong.

As if love was never something I had to earn in the first place.

I’d been volunteering on a medicine journey. Holding space. Watching people crack open. Watching people surrender.

And somewhere in the middle of helping everyone else move through it…

I quietly realized I still had a little unfinished business myself.

I came home feeling softer. Open. Clear in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

And then almost immediately, life reminded me healing does not mean immunity.

Within a few hours:

a flicker of abandonment
something painful and familiar with my ex
and the ache of a friendship that no longer feels the way it used to

Three clean hits.

The kind that immediately make you think:

oh.
So we’re still here.

The anxiety came in fast.

Not dramatic.
Not spiraling.

Just that low pressure in my chest that quietly says:

something underneath all of this still hurts.

And for a second, I had the thought I hate admitting:

Did any of that even work?

I laid down anyway.

Did the breathwork I’d just learned.

Not gracefully.
Not peacefully.

I just stayed with it long enough for the sharpness to dull.

Then I did all the things you’re supposed to do.

Took a nap.
Moved my body.
Walked the trail.
Came home.
Went to bed.

And sometime during the night, my mind brought everyone back.

Not randomly.
Not chaotically.

We were all arriving and moving through the tiny FBO in Lubbock somehow.

The same one we used for years.

Old friends.
Exes.
People I loved in different versions of myself.
People I lost.
People I still feel connected to in ways I don’t fully understand.

Some hugged me like nothing had ever broken.

Some looked at me like we no longer belonged in each other’s lives.

Some gave me a version of closure I never got in real life.

Some reminded me there are still things that hurt.

And strangely…

I wasn’t overwhelmed by any of it.

I was just there.

Present inside it.

My heart felt full and a little broken at the same time.

Like maybe both things could exist together.

Like maybe healing is not becoming untouched.

Maybe it’s finally being able to sit with what hurts without abandoning yourself in the process.

Which sounds completely insane when I type it out.

None of this was planned. This trip fell into my lap two and a half weeks ago and happened to land on a weekend without my children.

Maybe that’s coincidence.

But maybe life also starts opening when you finally stop gripping it so tightly.

Because one thing I cannot deny right now is this:

I feel supported.

Not perfectly healed.
Not fully certain.
Not suddenly enlightened.

Just…

supported.

And that feels new.

Being here this week has been unexpectedly emotional.

Five days of service.
Nature.
Presence.
Meaningful conversations.

No phones.
No scrolling.
No alcohol.
No vaping.
No constant escape routes.

Just me.

And I think I’m realizing how little time I’ve actually spent sitting with myself over the years.

I’m still emotional.
Very emotional.

I cried during a kids movie with my daughters.

Someone mentioned something small the other day and tears immediately came up.

I still feel raw.

But I think I’m finally understanding something important:

Maybe my tears don’t need a story.

I realized recently that every time I cry, I immediately try to explain it. Label it. Justify it. Turn it into something meaningful with a lesson attached.

And I think that’s because feeling something without understanding it has never felt safe to me.

But what if the tears are not a problem to solve?

What if my body is simply releasing grief and sadness that I never fully let myself feel?

Maybe not everything needs a narrative.

Maybe some things just need space.

I also think I finally understand something deeper about my ibogaine experience.

For weeks I felt embarrassed by it. Confused by it. Like I somehow did it wrong because I slept through so much of it while everyone else seemed to be having these massive journeys.

But I’m starting to believe something different now.

I think I spent so many years wound so tightly that I began associating love, happiness, success, and worthiness with suffering.

Chaos felt familiar.
Pain felt productive.
Struggle felt earned.

And maybe that’s why the medicine confused me so much.

Because instead of giving me chaos…

it gave me stillness.

Eighteen straight hours of rest while chaos unfolded around me.

And maybe the lesson was never:

fight harder
dig deeper
suffer more

Maybe the lesson was:

you are allowed to feel safe.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to receive love, purpose, happiness, and even abundance without first crawling through devastation to earn it.

That realization feels bigger to me now than any visual ever could have been.

I still have moments of anxiety.
Old patterns still flare up sometimes.

But I notice them faster now.

The other day I felt myself getting activated and instead of spiraling, I laid on the ground and breathed.

Slow inhales.
Long exhales.

Regulating instead of running.

That would not have been possible for me before.

And weirdly, maybe the clearest sign that something shifted came during a breathwork session this week.

Within fifteen minutes my body opened completely.

Tingling.
Floating.
Long breath holds.

A feeling almost psychedelic in nature.

It reminded me that I am more open now.

More sensitive.
More available.
More connected.

And for the first time in a very long time, I’m beginning to believe that peace is not emptiness.

Peace is safety.

Maybe my body is finally learning that it no longer has to prepare for war all the time.

One month out, I’m still integrating.

Still emotional.
Still confused sometimes.
Still healing.

But underneath all of it there’s a quiet feeling growing that says:

You are supported.
You are safe.

And you do not have to suffer to deserve a beautiful life.

Oh, and he also casually mentioned she was a medium if I was interested in that.

Little did he know, I was.

Not fully skeptical.
Not fully convinced either.

Just spiritually curious and two weeks post-Ibogaine.

So we started talking about the medicine.

The sleep.
The confusion.
The weird lingering feeling that maybe I somehow missed the thing everyone else seemed to find.

No visions.
No life review.
No cosmic ego death.

I literally went to sleep on Ibogaine.

Which feels a little like showing up to the Super Bowl and taking a nap in the parking lot.

Then I said:

“And if you happen to pick up on anybody… I’m open to that too.”

And Renee goes:

“Amazing. I actually wrote for thirty minutes before our call just in case.”

Which is not a sentence I ever expected another adult to say to me calmly.

Then she pauses.

And says:

“There’s someone with a double name. Mary something. Very proper. Posture. Manners. Things needing to be done correctly.”

And my whole body goes still.

Because my grandmother’s name was Mary Jo.

Everyone called her Josie.

I just stared into space for a second and finally said:

“Oh shit.”

And suddenly the call felt different.

Because now it wasn’t vague anymore.

Now it was specific enough to make me uncomfortable.

Then she starts listing things:

Kansas.
September.
College.
Clayton.
Documents mishandled.

Breadcrumbs.

Enough details that eventually I stopped trying to decide if I believed it and just listened.

And the strangest part wasn’t the psychic side of it.

It was the feeling of being witnessed.

Like someone had been standing quietly in the corner of my life the entire time while I moved through years believing I was carrying everything alone.

That part cracked something open in me.

Then the conversation shifted again.

She starts talking about stress.
Survival mode.
The way the body eventually stops quietly tolerating what the mind keeps trying to normalize.

Which… yeah.

And then we finally got to the thing I hadn’t fully admitted out loud yet:

I thought I missed the medicine.

Quietly, ever since Mexico, I’d been wondering:

Did I do it wrong?
Did I block it somehow?
Did everybody else get the life-changing experience except me?

And Renee said:

“What if the medicine put you to sleep so it could actually do its job?”

And I just sat there.

Because if there’s one thing about me, it’s this:

I will try to control even the healing process.

And maybe the medicine knew that before I did.

Maybe it needed to work somewhere deeper.
Somewhere beneath thought.
Beneath performance.
Somewhere I couldn’t interfere.

Then she said:

“You don’t have to go through war to achieve.”

And I physically felt that sentence land in my chest.

Because I have built an entire life around the belief that suffering is what gives something value.

That if it hurts enough, maybe it finally counts.

Which is a deeply concerning business model for a human being.

Then we got to grief.

Not dramatic grief.

The quieter kind.

The:
this didn’t look how I thought it would.

The:
maybe I didn’t do it “right.”

And instead of trying to fix the feeling, she just said:

“Feel it.”

No silver lining.
No immediate lesson.
No “everything happens for a reason” Pinterest bullshit.

Just:

feel it.

Then she reframed the 5MEO experience too.

The panic.
The suffocation.
The feeling of dying.

Not predictive.

Stored.

Because suffocation isn’t always physical.

Sometimes it’s emotional.

And if I’m honest, there were years of my marriage that felt exactly like that.

Like slowly losing oxygen while pretending I was completely fine.

Then something else happened that I haven’t stopped thinking about.

Renee started describing physical Parkinson’s movements.

Immediately I knew she was talking about my grandmother.

Josie had Parkinson’s.

And later, while we were talking about the medicine again, she said something that shifted everything for me:

Healing was still happening even while I slept.

Neurologically.
Physically.
Deep in the body.

Ibogaine is being studied for things far bigger than emotional healing alone. Neuroplasticity. Regeneration. Repair.

And suddenly the sleep looked different.

Less like absence.
More like work.

Like something was happening underneath the surface the entire time while I sat there worried I was missing it.

And underneath almost everything Renee said was the same message over and over again:

You were never alone in any of it.

Not in Kansas.
Not in my marriage.
Not in the unraveling.

She brought up specific moments from my life almost like breadcrumbs.

Kansas.
College.
September.
Clayton.
The documents.

Not random memories.

Proof.

Proof that whoever was speaking through Renee had been there for all of it.

Watching me live it in real time while I moved through those years believing I was carrying everything alone.

And I think that’s what finally broke something open in me.

Not the mediumship.
Not even the accuracy.

The possibility that maybe I had never actually been carrying it all alone.

I still don’t fully know what I believe about any of this.

I just know something in me softened afterward.

Because loneliness changes you.

Especially the kind where you keep functioning while quietly believing nobody sees how hard it’s been.

Near the end she said:

“You died and came back. Now you get to choose how you live.”

And somehow it didn’t feel dramatic.

It felt obvious.

Because something has shifted.

There’s more quiet in my head now.
More space.

And instead of interrogating every bit of it, maybe the work is learning to trust it.

To notice what feels good.
What feels heavy.
What tightens my body.

Not to judge it.

Just to notice.

Because maybe healing isn’t in the analyzing.

Maybe it’s in finally allowing myself to be here while it happens.

Some minutes I feel completely at peace.
Strong. Clear. Like everything finally makes sense.

And then other minutes — or seconds —

I feel completely untethered.

Like I’m floating around trying to figure out if this is just what integration feels like or if I need to get back on my anti-anxiety medication.

Cool.

I’ve been trying to meditate, which is hard as shit because my brain does not stop.

Everyone’s always saying things like:

“just drop down.”

And I’m always thinking:

what the hell does that actually mean?

But Friday I went to breathwork.

And holy shit.

I went with one of my close friends who’s a doctor, which honestly made the whole thing even more interesting because she’s deeply rooted in western medicine while still being open enough to respect experiences she can’t fully explain yet.

She doesn’t dismiss things. She stays curious. Watches closely. Lets both worlds exist together.

We lay down.

Three rounds of breathing.

Inhale. Exhale.
Through your mouth like you’re breathing through a straw.

Six minutes.
Then faster.
Then faster.

Round one:

fingers tingling. Fine.

Round two:

eyes closed and I’m having more visuals than I did on Ibogaine.

Which honestly felt rude.

Body sweating.
Hands buzzing.
Everything heightened.

Round three and I’m completely locked in.

Inhale. Exhale. Faster. Harder.

At the end, you exhale and hold.

Holy shit.

I swear I held that exhale for two minutes.

I forgot about breathing.
I forgot about my body.

That same slipping-away feeling.
Like the edge of 5MEO.

Except this time…

it didn’t scare me.

And when I finally inhaled again —

there it was.

The “drop down.”

The thing every calm, grounded person has been talking about for years while I internally rolled my eyes.

For maybe thirty seconds — or thirty years — my mind went completely quiet.

Not numb.
Not gone.

Just…

still.

And honestly, it was one of the most peaceful feelings I’ve ever experienced.

So naturally, instead of simply sitting there appreciating this beautiful moment…

I immediately started searching for meaning.

Obviously.

Sunday morning I’m working an event and there’s a tarot card reader there.

And honestly, I wasn’t looking for answers to the universe.

I think I just wanted reassurance.

A little confirmation that I was on the right path. That all this cracking open and unraveling was leading somewhere.

She tells me to pick a deck.

I end up choosing two.

She starts laying cards down.

At first I’m listening closely.

Then slowly I start realizing…

nothing is really landing.

Chaos.
Work.
A child.

I mean… yes.

That’s basically every mother in Dallas.

Then she stops completely.

Looks at me for a long second and says:

“I’m so sorry… this is weird. I’m getting nothing.”

Nothing.

We just sit there staring at each other.

She says this never happens.

I am immediately embarrassed.

And weirdly defensive.

Like what do you mean nothing?

I am giving you SO much to work with.

She grabs another deck.

Still nothing.

Now she’s uncomfortable.
Now I’m uncomfortable.

Then she pulls out a third deck.
Her Hail Mary.

Has me shuffle.
Lay them out.

She stares at the cards for a long time.

Then starts slowly moving her hands above them like she’s physically trying to pull something out of the air.

Eyes closed.
Concentrating harder and harder.

And then finally says:

“Trying to read you is like trying to squeeze juice out of a dry lemon.”

A dry lemon.

I have never felt more spiritually humbled in my life.

I leave thinking:

you truly cannot make this shit up.

I went to Ibogaine expecting war and got sleep.

I went to 5 expecting peace and got hell.

I went looking for reassurance…

and got compared to expired citrus.

Cool.

Later that night I remember the card from breathwork.

I zoom in.

And it says:

Now is the time to surrender to not knowing.
The mystery is a mystery because it is unknowable.
Your job is to stay the course.
Allow what comes without trying to understand it in advance.

…

Well.

Hell.

Apparently the lesson isn’t that I’m blocked.
Or broken.
Or unreadable.

It’s that for the first time in my life —

nothing is decided yet.

No clear answer.
No perfect roadmap.
Just trust.

Which honestly feels horrifying.

And maybe…

I also kind of love it.

Because part of you expects trumpets.

Clarity.
Radiance.
Immediate transformation.

Like maybe you’ll float back into your real life somehow lighter. Cleaner. Fully healed.

Instead I came home and immediately got overstimulated at Target.

Which honestly feels more accurate.

The truth is, nothing looked different.

Dallas still looked like Dallas.
Traffic still existed.
Laundry still needed to be done.

And yet…

something underneath everything felt quieter.

Not gone.
Not healed.
Not fixed.

Just…

lower.

Like the constant buzzing in my chest had dropped from a scream to a low hum.

And weirdly, that almost unsettled me more.

Because chaos is familiar.

I know how to operate inside urgency.
Inside stress.
Inside survival mode.

But calm?

Calm feels suspicious.

Like your nervous system keeps waiting for someone to jump out and yell:

JUST KIDDING.

And I think about my mom after she remarried.

I remember her calling her therapist saying:

“I think I made a mistake. I’m bored.”

And her therapist gently telling her:

“No, Janice. That’s consistency. Breathe and embrace it.”

That story hits differently now.

Because maybe when you’re wired for chaos, consistency feels uncomfortable at first.

Maybe peace feels too quiet.

And maybe that’s the strange part about healing.

Sometimes nothing dramatic happens.

No lightning bolt.
No movie montage.
No giant breakthrough moment where your entire life suddenly makes sense.

Sometimes it’s just noticing you’re reacting differently.

Softer.
Slower.

Like the other day when something happened that normally would’ve sent me spiraling for hours.

And instead…

I just sat there.

Not numb.
Not dissociated.

Just okay.

Which almost made me emotional because I realized how exhausting it is to live your whole life bracing for impact.

And I don’t think I fully understood until recently how addicted I was to emotional intensity.

Not because I wanted pain.

But because chaos at least feels alive.

Stillness asks you to trust something.

And trust has never exactly been my strongest muscle.

So much so that after my divorce, I tattooed the word trust on my forearm.

A reminder to trust myself.
My gut.
My instincts.
God.

Sometimes I still catch myself looking down at it when fear creeps in.

Like my body reminding my mind:

you already know.

So now I’m in this weird in-between space.

Not fully healed.
Not who I was before.

Just… quieter.

Which maybe is enough for now.

Or maybe that’s actually where healing starts.

and didn’t get a Mambo Taxi.

Which honestly feels illegal.

I’m pretty sure I’ve ordered one there every single time for the last… twenty years.

So already this felt suspicious.

I leave my house around 8pm fully aware that I’m about to raw dog a social situation at my favorite bar where everyone drinks.

Cool.
Love that for me.

I walk in.

Noise.
Music.
People yelling my name.
Bartenders smiling.

And my heart does that little flutter like:

hey… are we sure about this?

And I’m like:

no.
But we’re doing it anyway.

I walk to the bar and order…

a soda water.

Who is she.

I join my friend and a group of his coworkers that I do not know.

Which is normally a one margarita minimum situation.

But here’s where it gets weird.

It was… easy.

Like actually easy.

Fun. Normal.

I wasn’t gripping a drink like a personality trait.
I wasn’t scanning the room thinking about it.

I literally didn’t care.

Didn’t want it.
Didn’t miss it.
Didn’t even really register it.

Which feels fake.

Because we all know “I’m not drinking tonight” energy.

Where you’re technically fine but also aware of every drink in the room.

This was not that.

This was like…

my brain forgot alcohol existed.

???

And then of course, as I’m leaving, I hear my name.

Because why wouldn’t there be a man I’ve had a fling with parked directly next to me.

Timing is honestly insane.

We hug.

Stand there talking for like twenty minutes.

And the whole time I’m having this quiet realization like:

oh.

This is me.

No buffer.
No enhancement.
No “maybe it’s the drink” energy.

Just… fully me.

Which is both empowering and slightly terrifying.

Driving home, I kept thinking:

wait.

Is this what they meant?

When they said the medicine could shift cravings?

Because I’ve heard it.
I’ve believed it.

But experiencing it like this feels different.

And then another thought slips in.

The quieter one.

What if we had found this six years ago?

How different would things look?
My life.
My family.

I don’t stay there long.

No rewriting the past.
No should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

But I let myself feel it for a second because it matters.

Then I come back to now.

To this version of me standing in a bar I’ve been going to forever completely fine without the thing I thought I needed.

And honestly?

That alone feels like something shifted.

It wasn’t feeling my heart ripped from my chest.
It wasn’t gasping for air.
It wasn’t begging to die.

It was what happened after.

The second my thoughts came back online, they didn’t comfort me.

They attacked me.

Quit crying.
Get it together.
Stop being dramatic.
There are people waiting behind you.

And even after all of that, after terror, after panic, after pain, I still sat there somehow embarrassed.

Embarrassed that my “bliss” felt like torture.
Embarrassed that I couldn’t pull it together faster.
Embarrassed that my healing didn’t look pretty.

Because apparently even in ego death, my inner critic survives.

Which is honestly impressive.
And deeply annoying.

The medicine may have ripped me out of my body, but somehow my self-judgment came too.

And maybe that’s the real lesson.

Maybe the most painful thing I experienced wasn’t the ceremony itself.

Maybe it was seeing how quickly I abandon myself the second I am hurting.

How immediately I move to:

clean it up
make it pretty
stop crying
be grateful
be tougher
don’t be dramatic
don’t be a victim
don’t be too much

Even now writing this, I can feel shame creeping in.

Because part of me still reads this and thinks:

God, Blair.
Get over yourself.
You sound dramatic.
You sound weak.
You sound like a victim.

But maybe saying something hurts doesn’t make you weak.

Maybe it just makes you honest.

And if I’m being really honest, there is still a painful part of me that believes even when I do what everyone else does, somehow my experience always ends up harder. Messier. More painful. More complicated.

I hate admitting that out loud because I’m terrified it sounds self-pitying.

But maybe the wound isn’t that life has been harder for me.

Maybe the wound is that every time life hurts, I convince myself I’m not allowed to admit it.

Maybe healing is not becoming less emotional.

Maybe healing is finally learning how to hurt without hating myself for it.

I cried in bed.
I cried in the sauna.
I wept like a child during circle.

When it came time to decide who would go first, Mark said we’d figure it out as a group.

Inside, I was silently begging him to pick me.

He finally smiled and said,

“Ladies first. Blair or Natalie?”

I tried to act casual.
Like I didn’t care.
Like either option was totally fine.

But inside I was screaming:

Please let it be me.
Please let it be me.
Please let it be me.

Thankfully Natalie laughed and said,

“Nah, Blair. You go first.”

And internally I thought:

Phew.

As the precious nurse, Gigi, saged my body, I cried again.

When I laid down on the beautiful bed staring out at the ocean, the sky was bluer than blue. Barely a cloud in sight. It was so beautiful it almost hurt.

I was nervous.
I was eager.

I had come off an unexpected ibogaine journey and was hungry for release. Hungry to feel God the way everyone describes with 5. Hungry for bliss. Hungry for something holy.

As Mark explained the process, I kept zoning in and out.

Nervous.
Excited.
Nervous.
Excited.

He placed the mask over my forehead and told me to take a deep breath in. Then exhale all the way out and hold at the bottom.

As I held, I heard the blowtorch hit the glass vial heating the molecules. I heard the crackle. I heard the inhale being prepared.

Then he brought it to my mouth and told me to breathe in until it was gone.

Then more.

More.

I inhaled deeper. Held it.

He started counting.

Ten.
Nine.
Eight.

I’m starting to feel woozy.

Seven.
Six.
Five.

My eyes are getting heavy.

Four.
Three.

Squeeze your body tight.

Two.
One.

Exhale.

My body fell back and exploded upward.

I could feel myself lifting.
I could feel tears immediately rushing in.

And like I had heard people describe, I think I got stuck in the in-between.

I could see my body folded on my right side into the tiniest ball imaginable, hugging myself like a child. My eyes were closed and I was crying harder than I have ever cried in my entire life.

Endless.
Violent.
Animalistic.

I believe I was having a panic attack somewhere inside that moment.

And as I must have been starting to come down from the 5, I remember thinking:

Don’t worry.
This happens.

You’ll ask for more.
You’ll get past this hill.
Then comes the euphoria.
Then comes the bliss.
Then comes God.

So I signaled for more.

I heard Mark’s voice in the distance.
I felt Gigi’s hands lifting me.
I heard the torch again.
The crackle again.

He brought it to my mouth.

Told me to inhale.
Hold.

The counting began again.

This time I disappeared faster.

I exhaled.
Fell back.
Shot up again.

Everything was white.

Bright white. Endless white.

I could see outside my body while still somehow feeling trapped inside it. Floating. Arms and legs completely limp.

Then suddenly:

My heart.

I could see it lifting violently out of my chest. Aggressively. Painfully.

And I could feel it.

Like someone was ripping it from inside of me.
Like I was having a heart attack.
Like someone was shocking my chest over and over and over with paddles but never stopping.

While my heart was being ripped from my chest, my head was thrown back, my throat opened, and I began gasping for air.

Second by second the gasps got shallower.
More painful.
Smaller.
Harder.

And I swear to God I believe I know what it feels like to die of suffocation.

It was the most painful thing I have ever experienced in my life.

Having your heart ripped from your chest while every last molecule of air is dragged out of your body.

Tears poured down my face and all I could think was:

Just let go.
It hurts so bad.
I want to die.
Just die.

Then for one millisecond:

Bliss.

I couldn’t see anything but bright white.
I heard what sounded like angels.

And the second I felt comfort:

it was ripped away.

Gone.

Just like that.

Then I lingered in this strange softness.

Not bliss.
Not euphoria.
Just… softness.

I could still feel the 5 in me, but I knew it was leaving because my thoughts were coming back and I was physically sobbing.

Actually sobbing.

And my thoughts immediately started attacking me.

Quit crying.
Get it together.
There are five more people behind you waiting.
Stop being dramatic.
Pull yourself together.

But I could not stop crying.

I physically could not stop.

Then I realized I could barely swallow.

Every time I tried, it felt like there was a lump in my throat. Like something was sitting there. Each swallow made me gag on my own spit.

I kept trying to clear it. Trying to swallow again. But the sensation wouldn’t go away.

I gathered enough strength to lift my hands to my throat.

Mark asked if I was okay and through tears and hyperventilating I managed to tell him:

“My throat… I can’t swallow.”

This went on for what felt like forever, probably only a minute or two, until I finally asked them to sit me up.

Gigi lifted me.

I slid the eye mask up and traded it for sunglasses because the light felt too sharp against my eyes.

Then I just looked at them.

Looked directly into their faces.
Into their eyes.

And cried even harder.

Partly because I still felt so sad.
Partly because I was still terrified by the pain of what had just happened.

But if I’m being honest:

mostly because of the shame.

Fuck.

There they stood, faces eager, looking at me like I had just touched euphoria. Like I had gone somewhere beautiful.

And all I had mostly experienced was torture.

I tried to smile.
I said I was okay.

But I could see it in their eyes. Eagerness, yes, but also concern.

They knew something was off.

And all I could think was:

Will I ever be able to admit this to anybody?

And then I cried even harder.

Eventually I stood and walked to the recovery area.

There was a beautiful blanket laid out, fresh fruit waiting, the ocean in front of me.

Even behind sunglasses the sky looked brighter than anything I had ever seen. The clouds whiter. The breeze softer. Everything felt impossibly beautiful.

And somehow:

I felt peace and sadness all at once.

I tried eating fruit but I still couldn’t swallow right. My throat still tight. Still carrying that strange lump.

I cried more.

I thanked God for the people who surround me and love me and support me.

I cried for the friends I’ve lost.
The husband I’ve lost.
The versions of myself I’ve lost.

And I cried for the unexpected gift of new souls this journey has brought me. People who showed up for me in ways they probably don’t even realize I needed.

Then I sat there confused.

Because ibogaine was supposed to be painful.

And 5MEO was supposed to be bliss.

And because my negative self-talk is apparently undefeated, I sat there thinking:

Of course my ego death came in two parts.

And apparently even my “bliss” ceremony had to hurt.

And my body said…

no.

No visions.
No downloads.
No ancestors lining up to tell me my purpose.

Just…

heavy.

Like someone stitched weights into my eyelids and every time I tried to arrive, I disappeared instead.

Mirror.
Rattle.
Try harder.

Nothing.

Again.
Again.
Again.

Nothing.

Everyone else is somewhere, purging, breaking, seeing, becoming, and I’m in my bed like a sedated house cat fighting for my life to keep my eyes open so I don’t miss it.

Because what if the darkness comes and I’m asleep?

So I ask for more.

Of course I do.

More medicine.
More depth.
More something.

Fix it.
Make it work.
Make me worthy of the story I came here to tell.

Finally they give me the booster.

Then another.

One of them fake.

Which feels… aggressively on brand.

Because apparently one real dose more and things could’ve gone very differently.

And still…

nothing happens.

Or maybe everything does and I just don’t recognize it because it’s quieter than I expected.

Eventually I stop trying.

Not in a spiritual enlightened way.

In a fine, whatever kind of way.

And for a while, I let go.

I stop fighting it.
Stop chasing whatever I thought was supposed to happen.
And just ride the wave.

Dozing in and out.
Floating with the music.
Watching soft psychedelic shapes flicker behind my eyelids.

Nothing profound.
Nothing earth-shattering.

Just enough to know I was somewhere.

And that’s when it shifts.

Not into fireworks.

Into… peace.

Which almost pisses me off more.

Because my comfort zone is chaos.

Give me the breakdown.
Give me something to fix, hold, survive.

Don’t give me stillness and call it medicine.

But there I am.

In my little cocoon with people throwing up around me, music moving through the walls, and somehow…

I’m not rattled.

I’m not searching.

I’m just…

there.

The only thing I see, really see, is my daughter.

Out in the woods.
At camp.
Smiling.
Thriving.

And suddenly I know…

she’s going to be okay.

Like some quiet confirmation that despite all the fear placed around her, all the doubt, all the questions about what her future will look like…

she’s got this.

And I’m smiling too.

Like I’ve just been given peace for something I didn’t realize I was still carrying.

Then it’s over.

Just like that.

Everyone’s got stories.

And I’ve got…

a nap.

Cool.

Love that for me.

The next morning I don’t rush.

I can’t.

While most people leave the journey room as soon as they can, I stay until almost 11:30.

My body is still somewhere else.

But my heart?

My heart is soft.

Ocean air.
Open doors.
No phone.
No vape.

Just sitting with myself like that’s supposed to be enough.

And the worst part?

It is.

People ask me how it was and I want to give them something good. Something worthy of the word ibogaine.

But all I’ve got is a shrug and a quiet little truth:

I think it told me to stop.

To be still.
To be safe.
To be held.

And honestly?

That feels a little embarrassing.

Because I would’ve preferred the chaos.

At least I know how to survive that.

36 hours later, the bill comes due.

And now…

I can’t stop crying.

Not cute crying.
Not meaningful crying.

Just—

turn your head
cry
feel the wind
cry
exist
cry

Like something finally found the door and decided to leave all at once.

No vision.
No explanation.

Just water.

And maybe…

that was the ceremony.

I took the medicine and waited.

For something to happen.
For the visions.
For the meaning.
For the unraveling.

Instead, I got tired.

Not normal tired.

Heavy.

Like my eyelids weighed a hundred pounds and no amount of willpower could hold them open.

I tried.
I really tried.

I stared into the mirror, shaking the rattle, willing my face to change. To feel something, see something, become something.

Nothing came.

So I laid down.

And every time I tried to fight it, to stay awake, to chase the experience, to make the medicine work, my body pulled me under again.

Sleep.
Wake.
Float.
Shapes.
Flickers of people I recognized but couldn’t place.

Nothing that felt like the big cinematic breakthrough I thought I signed up for.

At one point I asked for more.

A booster. Then another.

As if the answer was more intensity.
More medicine.
More something.

They told me later one of those doses was a placebo. If it hadn’t been, things could have gone very differently.

Which feels… important somehow.

Because eventually, I stopped trying.

I stopped chasing it.
Stopped forcing it.
Stopped asking it to be anything other than what it was.

And what it was…

was quiet.

I lay there in my little bed, in my little cocoon, with the music and chaos of the room around me, people purging, moving through something intense, and I wasn’t rattled.

I was calm.
Peaceful.
Safe.

The only clear image I remember was my daughter.

At summer camp.
Out in the wilderness.
Smiling.

I was smiling too.

That was it.

The next morning, I didn’t rush out.

I stayed until almost noon.

Heavy in my body, but soft in my heart.

Back in my room, I laid in bed with the doors open, the ocean air coming in, drifting in and out of sleep or just staring out the window.

No phone.
No vape.
Nothing to do.

Just me.

I sat on the patio and listened to the ocean, as content as I can ever remember feeling.

Later, when people asked me how it was, I just smiled and shrugged.

Because what do you say when everyone else has stories, visions, breakthroughs, transformations, and all you have is… sleep?

There’s a part of me that feels like a fraud.

Like I missed it.
Like I didn’t do it right.

I know we’re not supposed to compare.

But I’m human.

So I wonder:

Was it the medicine?
Or was it the message?

Be still.
You’re safe.
You’re held.
You don’t have to perform here.

And the truth is…

my comfort has always been chaos.

So maybe stillness felt unfamiliar.
Maybe it even felt like not enough.

But maybe it was exactly what I needed.

Because 36 hours later, the tears came.

Not gentle.
Not poetic.

Unrelenting.

If the wind blows, I’m crying.
If I turn my head, I’m crying.

No clear reason.
No story to attach it to.

Just release.

And suddenly, the quiet makes more sense.

And tonight, I’m trying to tell the truth about what I’m bringing in with me.

Not the polished version.
Not the “I’ve already healed this” version.

The real one.

The part of me that still believes I have to earn love.

That being chosen is something you work for.
Prove.
Wait for.

I can see the pattern now, which almost makes it harder to ignore.

I don’t choose people who choose me.

I choose people I have to convince.

People who are unavailable.
People who are searching for someone else.
People who keep me slightly outside of being fully loved.

And I stay.

Trying harder.
Giving more.
Hoping this time it will be enough.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that love could disappear.

That it could be taken away.
That it wasn’t safe to rely on.

So I adapted.

I chased it.
Performed for it.
Settled for pieces of it.

Even in my marriage, I lost myself inside that pattern.

I begged to be touched.
To be wanted.
To be chosen.

There’s a version of me that still carries shame around that.

And a version of me that still doesn’t feel fully at home in my own body.

And underneath all of it…

is fear.

Fear that I won’t be okay.
Fear that I can’t fully support myself.
Fear that even doing everything “right” still won’t lead to stability.

And yet…

there’s another part of me that knows I’m on the right path.

That my voice matters.
That my story is meant to be shared.
That the work I’m doing is aligned with something bigger than me.

But knowing that
and feeling safe inside of it
are not the same thing.

So I’m not going into this asking for perfect answers.

I’m not asking for guarantees about love or success or how it all plays out.

I’m asking to see clearly.

To understand where these beliefs came from.
To understand why they stayed.

And maybe…

to find out they were never true to begin with.

Not the kind you brush off.
Not the kind you Google, read “stress,” and move on.

This one stayed.

I was at the country club, which feels ironic now. A place where everything is supposed to look… intact.

And I was talking to a girl who used to be one of my people.

We don’t really talk anymore.

She had a bracelet on and I leaned in to help her clasp it. Something small. Normal. Muscle memory.

And somehow it got caught in my mouth.

I don’t know how.

But suddenly I was choking on it.

A bracelet.
A circle.
Something that used to close.

Stuck in my throat.

When I finally pulled it out, there was blood.

I looked in the mirror and my front teeth were gone.

Just gone.

I remember that panic. Running my tongue across my mouth, checking what’s still there, what’s salvageable.

And then more started loosening.

Not all at once.

One by one.

Sliding out like they didn’t belong to me anymore.

I started running to the bathroom and on both sides of me, left and right, were people from my past.

Childhood.
Best friends’ moms.
Old versions of my life.

Faces that held pieces of me I don’t even carry anymore.

And I remember thinking:

why is everyone here right now?

Why do they get to see this part?

I got into the bathroom and could feel them in my throat, like I was swallowing parts of myself I didn’t mean to lose.

At one point it felt like Legos.

Hard pieces.

Like something constructed was coming undone.

And then he was there.

Her husband.

The one who never really wanted the distance.
The one who didn’t choose it.

He was holding my teeth in his hand.

Like he had them.

Like pieces of me ended up with someone who wasn’t even supposed to be part of the story anymore.

And I remember thinking:

how did they leave me and still have parts of me?

I had no teeth.
No voice.
Nothing to hold onto.

And then I looked up.

And they were back.

All of them.

Like nothing had happened.

Like my body said:

no. We’re not done here.

It felt like mushrooms.

Like something was being stripped out of me and rebuilt at the same time.

And I woke up thinking:

maybe I didn’t lose my voice.

Maybe I just can’t use it the same way anymore.

I’ll wake up feeling good.
Slept great, clear, calm, like wow… look at me.

And then one text.

One.

And suddenly my body is like,
“oh hey remember this feeling?”
and just drags it out of storage like it never left.

Anxiety.
Fast. Familiar. Slightly humiliating.

And I’m like wait…

we don’t even feel this anymore??
Why is this back??

So I do the normal thing:
call a friend, try to “talk it out,” be logical…

and instead I just start crying.

Like fully crying.

Driving to a gas station.
Buying a breakfast taco.
Grabbing one last vape like I’m not about to go do the most spiritually intense thing of my life.

Crying again in a parking lot.

Which feels on brand and also slightly unhinged.

So I text my integration coach.

He’s like,
“yeah, this is exactly where you need to be. There will probably be more tears than you can imagine.”

And I’m like… cool cool cool LOVE that for me.

But also weirdly relieved.

Because at least it means I’m not breaking.

I’m just opening.

And then it keeps happening.

Next day, my best friend calls.

My emotional support human.

And I cannot even form sentences.

Just crying.
Like a literal baby.

And we’re laughing through it because what else do you do when you’re this far gone?

And she’s like,
“you’re so ready.”

And I’m like… am I??

Because this feels unstable.

A few hours later, her husband calls.

Business call.
Professional. Normal.

And suddenly I am crying AGAIN in the middle of Round Top.

Sun shining. People shopping.

And I’m just emotionally collapsing next to a rack of clothes.

Like excuse me?? Timing??

And he just listens.

Calm. Grounded. Not weirded out.

Afterward I text him:
“hey, so sorry I turned that into a full breakdown.”

And he responds:
“it means you’re ready” 🙏

And I’m like…

okay wait.

That’s actually kind of everything.

Because not only is that comforting…

it’s also this weird reminder like:

oh.

That kind of man exists.

Strong and soft.
Successful and emotionally available.

Not afraid of tears in the middle of a Tuesday.

Cool. Noted.

I’ll take one of those later.

Also the dreams???

What is happening.

I feel like I’ve been microdosing mushrooms in my sleep.

They are SO vivid.
So intense.

Old relationships.
Old friendships.

People I haven’t thought about in years just showing up like they’ve been waiting.

Last night I had a dream I was on something and people were coming at me.

And then I remembered:

“you can talk to it.”

So IN MY DREAM I’m like,
“okay we’re done here, I’ve had enough.”

????

And it worked.

Like I got a rehearsal for something I haven’t even done yet.

Which feels mildly insane.

But this one dream…

this one is staying with me.

I’m in a pool.
On vacation.

Wrapped up with someone in this easy, safe, no-tension kind of way.

And across the pool are people from my past.

And normally that would trigger something:
comparison, sadness, whatever.

But I just…

felt nothing.

Not numb.

Just complete.

And they looked over and saw me and it felt like this weird, quiet moment of:

oh.

We’re good.

And I don’t even know if that was closure or a preview.

But it didn’t hurt.

And that feels new.

It’s Sunday morning.

7am.

Kids asleep upstairs.

And I’m finally sitting down to do all the prep:
writing things out, burn sheets, all of it.

Which I absolutely should have done earlier, but instead I’ve just been emotionally spiraling in real time.

Which maybe counts.

Like maybe this whole week has been the prep.

Just not in a cute, organized way.

And if THIS is what the week before feels like…

random crying, dream rehearsals, emotional whiplash, and realizing I might actually be ready for a completely different life…

then something is already shifting.

And I haven’t even left yet.

and I’m completely sober.

Which feels ironic considering next week I’m literally going to go meet God
(however you define that)
on two of the most powerful psychedelics on earth.

But right now?

I’m just… driving to Round Top.

Which feels aggressively normal for the level of existential energy I’m carrying.

Car packed to the absolute brim
like if I hit the brakes too hard, SLV just becomes part of me.

And I’m about an hour out from one of the biggest events in Texas
something that’s been on my bucket list forever

and somehow I’m not just going…
I’m showing up.

Like… hi, yes, I brought my entire brand with me???

Blue Hills.
Which is apparently one of the most sought-after spots
which feels… casual.

And the next three days are just me
standing, selling, smiling, being “on” from 9 to 6.

And usually?

I would absolutely have a cocktail at lunch.
Just enough to take the edge off.
Let the day blur a little.

But I’m not doing that.

Because apparently I’ve decided
this is the era where I raw dog reality.

No buffer.
No softening.
Just full exposure to my own life.

Which feels… bold.

Also mildly concerning.

But also necessary.

Because if you want your life to change
you can’t keep doing the same shit
and expect it to feel different.

So I’m just… feeling everything.

The pressure.
The excitement.
The “who do I think I am being here?” energy.

Then Friday I pack it all up
drive three hours home
immediately switch into mom mode.

No collapse. No recovery day.

Dance tryouts.

Which means I need to be fully present
fully clear
fully there for them.

All heart. No fog.

And then Sunday night
I might go on a date
with a man I have never met.

Which feels like a chaotic choice
given everything else happening.

Also a Sunday no-cocktail first date
which feels like a social experiment
I did not fully consent to.

So… TBD.

And then Monday

I get on a plane.

San Diego.
Shuttle.
Strangers.
Crossing a border.

And stepping into something
that I genuinely cannot even articulate yet.

Like I’ve done the work
I have my intentions
I’ve been honest about what I want to release

old patterns, old wounds, old versions of me

but also…

what if it actually works?

What if I actually change?

What if I come back different?

And I think that’s where the nerves are.

Because it’s one thing to say you want a new life
and another to realize

you might actually get it.

So yeah.

Right now I’m just in my car.
Dancing.
Clear-headed.
On my way to sell clothes at a field in Texas.

And somehow…

it feels like the beginning of everything.

Same moment.
Same facts.
Completely different reality.

Light or dark. That’s it.

A year ago I wrote Pretty From Far, which, if we’re being honest, was basically a 250+ page journal entry that got a little too honest and a little too real.

And now here we are.

Recently got served.
We’ve had two court dates.
Which… lol. Of course we have.

Yesterday, Monday morning,
I didn’t get to sweat.
Didn’t get to teach.

Red flag.

Then I had to put on a conservative outfit.
Which honestly feels like a personality betrayal.
On a Monday. Of all days.

And I’m driving to court, listening to music,
weirdly… happy.

Like fully, confusingly, light.

And it hits me.

Holy shit.

Holden… thank you.

Like actually, thank you
for putting this much time, energy, and effort
into what is, at its core, my story.

My words.
My perspective.
My 250+ pages sitting on my computer
that somehow just got… weight.

Because the irony is almost too good.

You fighting it
is the very thing giving it weight.

You trying to contain it
is what’s expanding it.

Now that the part that matters most is protected,
it feels like a green light.

Not the kind you wait for.
The kind that was always there, you just finally see it.

So yeah.

From one perspective, it’s court.
Stress.
Paperwork.
An outfit I hate in a room I never wanted to be in.

But from another?

It’s momentum.
It’s confirmation.
It’s almost… romantic.

Turns out resistance
is just another form of marketing.

Turns out the snake doesn’t care about calendars.
Or lunar cycles.
Or my optimism.

That’s what you get when you assume.
It makes an ass out of you and me.

January came in hot.

I told myself the bite had already happened,
that I’d taken the hit, learned the lesson, survived the venom

But no.

The shedding wasn’t done.
The snake still had one last squeeze in it.

What’s kept me steady is the image I return to when my chest tightens:

On the right, everything blurred.
Old patterns. Old fear. Hands that once held me, but mostly just held me back.

Years where I let that blur cost me my strength.

On the left, it’s sharp.
Clear.

They’re still reaching for me, but I’m walking forward —
hand in hand with God and surrounded by the people
who actually see me.

I choose left.

This year asked me to do something I never wanted to do:
walk into a courtroom and represent myself.

No buffer.
No shield.
Just me and the truth.

I was terrified.

Like deep breath in the bathroom, don’t cry, don’t swear,
don’t black out terrified.

But I prepped.
I spoke plainly.

And something surprising happens when you’re telling the truth:

your feet feel heavier on the ground.
You don’t wobble as much.

Lesson noted.

Then came lunch with my ex.

That old version of me still wanted to believe
compassion might show up.
That respect would soften the rope I was already tired of gripping.

She’s adorable, honestly.
Delusional - but adorable.

It didn’t.

I let one tear fall.
Just one

Then I stood up, walked out, and didn’t let the day take
me down with it.

Head high.
Quietly proud.

Mid-afternoon, the judge ruled.

Motion denied.
In my favor.

The kind of win that should come with champagne, but
instead comes with a long exhale and the knowledge
that this isn’t over yet.

Still, a win.
And I took it.

I was home trying to let myself feel it, just a little,
when there was a knock at the door.

Every cell in my body knew better.
Attorney stuff teaches you that real fast.

But I opened it anyway.

Because apparently January was sponsored by
Poor Decisions.

Served.
By him.

I could see my kid clock the papers. The tension.

So I swallowed it, smiled, and waited until she went upstairs.

And for a minute, I felt the blur again.
Hands reaching. Pulling. Trying to drag me back into
the fog.

Instead, I sat down and filed my response.

I haven’t done anything wrong.

I’m allowed to speak about my life.
My vulnerability.
The trials.
The trouble.
The fact that I prevailed.

Then, because the universe has jokes,
a friend texts me from my old town.

By chance, is your ex at the Mavs game?

Yes, ma’am.

He was standing right in front of me at the bar.

Of course he was.

The bottles.
The alcohol.
The same fire I finally stopped running back into
with gasoline.

And suddenly, instead of fear, I felt gratitude.

Because that scene, that bar, that reality?
It’s not mine anymore.

To top it all off, the next hearing gets set.

Next Tuesday.

I’ll be in Costa Rica.

In a little town I found four years ago.
A place I return to two or three times a year because it
reminds me who I am.

The first time my toes touched that sand was three days
after I signed my divorce papers.

So here we are.

I get served.
I get sued.

And while someone else tries to pull me backward,
my bare feet will be in the same sand that helped me
find my light again.

Twelve more days.

February 17.
The end of the snake.
The beginning of the horse.

Let the shedding finish.

I’m ready to run.
Preferably barefoot.
Preferably away from courtrooms.

Just a few days in.

And even though I’m currently being sued by my ex-husband and by people connected to my divorce—for two completely different reasons—I’ve got my chin up, my heart open, and an almost suspicious amount of excitement about what’s ahead.

I’ve been reading about how last year was the year of the snake—shedding skin.

And honestly… yes.

That tracks.

So much happened.
So much had to happen.

I’m not exactly floating yet, but I can feel something shifting.

The year of the horse came in with a little momentum and a few unexpected smiles, which I’ll happily take.

We love to talk about being better, doing better.
We want the glow-up to be instant.

But growth is sneaky.

Sometimes it looks like noticing the small wins and not dismissing them just because they aren’t dramatic.

Last week, when I got a text from my ex saying he was suing me and filing a restraining order because of my book, the old version of me would have disappeared for days.

This time, I didn’t reply.

Step one: stayed calm.

For about two hours.

Then I cried hard, threw myself a brief pity party, took a 45-minute nap—highly recommend—shook it off, and kept going.

Progress, not perfection.

I’m learning I can’t keep blaming him or rewriting the story so I’m blameless.

I’m owning my part.
My dance.

And honestly?

I’m proud of myself for that.

But here’s the part that made me laugh out loud.

I finally set up my new printer—the one my ex and his new wife gave me for Christmas.

(I’m always asking them to print things, so this was their very polite way of saying: please stop involving us.)

I picked today because I have a meeting coming up and needed to print old billing statements and the grievance I’m filing.

So let me say this slowly.

The very first thing I ever printed on that printer—the one gifted to me by my ex and his new wife—was paperwork for the lawsuit involving the man who gave it to me.

You truly cannot make this stuff up.

Life is absurd.
Sometimes brutal.
Sometimes dark.

And sometimes it hands you a moment so ironic you have no choice but to laugh and keep moving.

Let’s find the light where we can.