All Paths Lead Me Here
A different way to reflect on where you came from
We booked this Hipcamp site 2 days before we arrived — on the Thursday of a holiday weekend.
It checked all the boxes of what we wanted for an end-of-summer camping trip: less than 2 hours from home, beautiful photos, great reviews, well-stocked with supplies and a short walk to a pond promising fishing, kayaking and water exploration (Bison’s FAVORITE activity).
When we arrived, the campsite itself, though definitely well-stocked, did not seem particularly remarkable.
Then we walked 100 yards to the pond.
A short path through the woods leads us to an expanse of nature that still, even after days with and in it, seems unreal.
After getting settled, we got in the water.
While Bison was out exploring with his uncle (our good friend), I stayed closer to shore, waist-deep in the pond, taking it all in.
The stillness of the water. The golden light brushing the trees. The bluest sky.
I asked myself out loud, “How did I get here?”
Then I closed my eyes, took a breath and tears rolled down my face.
I started to choke them back — I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what I was crying about — maybe honestly, I didn’t want to actually figure out what I was crying about — but I told myself it was safe.
Dan would understand. Bison would understand. Our friend would understand. And nature, she always understands.
So I let her — nature — hold me and offer me compassion, grace, comfort, stillness, forgiveness and peace.
Every tear that fell was filled with grief and gratitude.
Grief for the years I’ve spent feeling disconnected from nature — disconnected from myself.
Gratitude for being able to feel a part of nature at this moment.
Grief for my life-long belief I — a mixed-race, Asian-American girl who grew up between families, between races and cultures, constantly in survival mode, a parentified child, on the fringe of poverty (but with too much familial pride to admit we were on the fringe of poverty) — could truly belong anywhere so beautiful.
Gratitude for being able to see the beauty around me and accept that same beauty lives within me too.
Grief for all the time I’ve spent chasing safety but also running from it because it felt…unsafe.
Gratitude for learning to allow safety, stability, and calm whenever it is available, even if it is uncomfortable at first.
As I stood there, hands brushing the water, tears falling over a slight smile, I realized how much intention and action it took for me to get here. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t pure luck.
Every choice I’ve made in my life has led me here.
IMPORTANT ACKNOWLEDGMENT: Every choice I’ve had access to has been a direct reflection of my own privileges and identities. The paths, options, and opportunities I’ve been presented with in my life — whether easily accessed or requiring legwork — are not available to everyone in the same way. This does not diminish the effort and intention it’s taken me to get where I am AND it does not imply this is replicable if you just “make better choices.” The systems we exist in are so much more complex than that.
It suddenly became obvious to me at some point in the last decade or so, I stopped running FROM the life I used to have and started running TOWARD the life I wanted.
Every tiny decision (like trying a new cheese) to the big decision (moving away from CA) led me to this place, at this time, with these people (and creatures).
And the question popped up again, “How did I get here?”
But it was no longer filled with so much doubt. It was no longer a question of whether I belonged there or not — no longer asking me to “justify” my presence.
It was now an invitation to remember how I really got there.
The inner work. The boundaries. The quitting. The starting. The learning. The unlearning. The courage, bravery, persistence, forgiveness and faith. The leading. The following. The rest. The doing things I had no idea would work out or not. Asking for help. Slowing down. Falling apart. Coming back together. Letting go.
The answers reminded me of what I’ve always been capable of — of what cannot ever be seen on the surface — or captured in a conversation or a simple social post: the strength of my internal nature and my ability to create a really fucking magical life, one small decision at a time.
