T Minus 14 Months
After I collapsed that morning, something inside me changed. I was ready to do whatever it would take to fix the mess I was in. The only problem was that I had no idea how.
I made an appointment with my doctor to try to get some help. My primary care doctor had previously referred me to a specialist to address my declining health. Somehow, the specialist saw right through me when I presented with symptoms of fatigue, headache, weight gain and forgetfulness. He refused to diagnose me. Instead, he recommended yoga and meditation. Seriously? Leaving the doctor without any pills sucked. But if there was one thing I had learned, it was that I had gotten myself into a huge mess by my own ignorance, and I better listen to people who knew more than me if I was ever going to get out of that mess. I was willing to try any and every suggestion offered to me. The doctor had suggested that I needed to make some lifestyle changes, and I knew he was right. I just wasn’t sure how to make those changes. But, being the straight A student I always have been, I was hell bent on figuring it out.
I found a new counselor, one that my insurance would pay for. I attend gentle yoga classes. I found a progressive church, filled with supportive people. I bought about ten books on relationships and drugs and verbal abuse and codependency and body image. I learned about manifesting my desires. I learned about thinking big. I learned about bio-hacking. I learned about honoring my body signals. I learned anything and everything I could to become a better, functioning human being. I credit Louise Hay, Abraham Hicks, Tony Robbins, Geneen Roth David J. Schwartz, and Rob Bell with helping to turn my life around.
I learned that when all seems to be in chaos, stick to the basics. So, I started building discipline to make my bed, drink enough water, wash my dishes, go to the grocery store, meditate five minutes, work out, text a friend, read a personal development book for thirty minutes, listen to an educational podcast while working out, and more. I knew I needed to find time to take better care of myself. My house was in chaos and my clothes stank. These simple tasks seemed to have slipped away during my time of darkness and depression, so I made myself lean into the discomfort of putting one foot in front of the other.
Each morning, I made time for stretching, reading something inspirational, deep breathing and food prep for the day. It was amazing, the ripple effect that this basic morning routine had on my lifestyle. That daily practice took up valuable time, which I didn’t have. The more I insisted on taking time for the basics, such as doing laundry, putting away dishes and writing a gratitude list in the morning, the less time I had to do work-related projects. I knew I had to choose, work or health.
I felt so guilty when I told my 6:30 am client that I could no longer see her. I didn’t really have a reason, except that there was no way I could get up at 5:30 to do my morning routine. As a kid, if I slept late, my Mom would yell up the stairs, “Get out of bed you lazy butt!” And I felt like a big lazy butt. But no matter how hard I tried, I simply could not do both a morning routine and a 6:30 client. One of them had to go. It felt like an act of violence to force myself out of bed before I was rested. To treat myself better, I could no longer violate my body in that way. My therapist and Al-Anon and personal development reading all told me it was better to take care of myself first. The client I had to refuse was one of my bread-and-butter clients, and I had no idea how I would go without the money when I already didn’t have enough. But the words of my friend Silvia, who had called me White Trash for making poor decisions based on a poverty mentality, still rang in my ears. I refused to do something that wasn’t in my best interests out of fear of lack of money.
Little by little, I started making small decisions to put my basic needs above the needs of my business: rest, personal hygiene, cleanliness in my home, healthy eating and recreation. It was scary, to be sure. Every minute that I spent cleaning my shower was a minute I wasn’t spending marketing my classes. Money came in slower and slower, the business was declining along with my savings.
During this time of self care I discovered surfing. I was already a surfer and loved the ocean, but I never went out when the water was cold or the waves were over waist-high. But those limitations disappeared completely as I gave myself time to enjoy it.
Surfing is a mission. You have to load the board on top of the car into the racks, drive to the break, get in your wetsuit, paddle out, catch waves for about an hour, paddle back in, get out of the wetsuit, get dried off, load the board back up, drive home, shower, get back in your clothes, re-do your makeup and hair and then get back to work. The whole process takes at least two and a half hours, and it is much better if you have four hours. On top of that, there is no way to stay in shape for surfing except to surf daily. If you skip more than a day or two, you start to lose your surf strength. Then there is the issue of needing to surf when the conditions, tide, swell and wind are lined up. That is why surfing is a lifestyle. My lifestyle was work. There was no room to be a true surfer. The problem was that every time I surfed, I felt good, and it was the only thing that made me feel anything other than depressed. Without surfing, I really didn’t want to live. Nothing else even came close to giving me hope. Surfing became the reason to get out of bed, the reason to go through my morning routine, the reason to go to the grocery store, the reason to make money.
The more I surfed, the more I surfed. I started taking off a whole day every week to hang out at my favorite surf spot, kicking it with my friends between sessions. I started taking afternoons off to surf with my friends at sunset. The more time I spent surfing, the happier I got and the worse my business performed. Even my teaching suffered; I just didn’t want to teach those people who were paying me pennies.
I had a classic convertible that I bought from my Dad. A 1971 Buick Skylark, cherry red with a black leather interior and a 350 under the hood. It was the perfect Southern California car. I drove the car mostly on the weekends, my surfboard sticking out the back, down Sunset Cliffs Boulevard to park at the end of the cliffs, in front of my favorite surf spot. I spent hours leaning against that car, parked on the cliff above the break. I would park and watch the waves and wait for the prime parking spot to open up. I would work my way toward the better spot and eventually get out of the car. I would slowly take out my surfing gear: board, wetsuit, wax, wax comb, leash, towel, and sunscreen. Just as slowly, I would ready myself for my session, all the while chatting with other surfers whom I recognized from the water. If it was a nice, sunny afternoon, it might be over an hour from the time I parked to the time I was actually in the water. Other locals also posted up in their vehicles, doors open and music on. It was always easy to find someone to hang out with just by taking a little drive out to The Cliffs.
After the surf session, I would spend hours more undoing the process: rinsing with freshwater, getting out of the wetsuit, putting the board back in the bag and congratulating other surfers on the nice waves I saw them getting while we shared a session. The energy was always good at the end of a day of good waves. People laughed and told stories about heavy clean up sets or sick little barrels. If the evening was pleasant, the waves were good and the sunset was a pretty one, we would all pretty much feel like life couldn’t get any better. At least, until thoughts of the impending doom of Monday morning robbed me of my joy.
One night, after one of those epic wave days, we nursed some post-surf beers. I sat with Paul and Rifiel, two of the local surfers who ran the break. It was a Sunday evening, and the dread of Monday morning cast a shadow over the epic day. I suddenly felt icky, tension grabbing my chest, ripping me from the present moment. I opened up a bit to my friends. I told them I was sad, how surfing was the only thing that made me happy. I admitted to them that my yoga studio wasn’t making much money and required endless work. I revealed that I was trying to recover my mental and physical health, and how much surfing seemed to be helping.
“I don’t want to live a life in which I take moments out to find happiness. I want to live a happy life and take moments out to work.” I expressed the American dilemma in my own words.
Somehow my friend Rifiel picked up on what I was saying.
“You could just go to Costa.” Rifiel suggested. Costa is how surfers refer to Costa Rica.
“Its cheap there, you could just bail your studio and go. You could just surf all day,” he continued.
Those words…”You could just surf all day” struck me like a truck. I got quiet. Paul, who no doubt wanted to marry me, also got quiet. I took a long sip off my cheap beer. I looked out into the warm darkness, repeating, “I could just surf all day.” I thought a few more minutes. Paul looked at me and saw the look in my eyes.
“Oh no,” he turned to Rifiel, “What did you just do? You shouldn’t have said that!”
The idea was planted in my head to take an extended surf vacation. I couldn’t stop obsessing on it. I realized that, at thirty-two years old, I was suddenly handed a second chance in life. Ever since I was a child, I had wanted to travel and see the world. As a teenager, I was obsessed with snowboarding. I wanted to snowboard every mountain in the world. It became my dream, my passion, my heart beat. When my older brother left home at eighteen to be a ski bum for a season in Denver, I was insanely jealous and assumed I would do the same after my high school graduation. But I put off my adventure to go to college and, once again, was insanely jealous of my little brother, who backpacked through Europe. I recruited my best friend to hike the Appalachian Trail with me the summer before my college senior year, trying to fill my need for adventure travel. She agreed, but at the last minute backed out. I spent the summer lifeguarding at a pool instead. That’s when I met my first husband and, once again, suppressed my thirst for adventure. My first husband and I talked of taking an adventure together, but we moved to California for me to attend graduate school. After grad school, we applied as a couple to the Peace Corps and received an assignment in Western Africa. We were slated to leave for our service the month after my graduation from San Diego State University. We got all our vaccinations and visas. But that was when the marriage fell apart. Once again, I put off my adventure and went looking for a good job. A steady paycheck, student loans, a new husband and opening a yoga studio kept me in San Diego for another seven years. Now, at thirty-two, I had created a life for myself. I had friends, solid friends who loved me. I was on the town council. I had stuff. I owned two cars and rented a garage for storage. I was established.
But I was slowly losing stuff too, money, health, my husband…
When I heard Rifiel say I could just go, I realized the opportunity to travel had returned. If I didn’t go this time, I might never be able to go again. But I still had a husband with whom I still wanted to reconcile. And I had a business. Both felt like anchors around my neck. Initially, I laughed at Rifiel’s statement. Still, the more I learned about taking care of myself, the more the idea took root.
Eventually, the guilt of irresponsibility set in. The pendulum had swung too far. I wasn’t doing what needed to be done to run my business properly. The time required and the financial gain just didn’t add up. Yet, I felt a sense of responsibility to the yoga community I had created. I decided to put myself on surfing restriction. I only allowed myself to surf as many times per week as I actually attended a yoga class. My teaching was becoming stale and I knew it. I knew I needed to practice more and learn from other teachers to improve my craft. I felt I wasn’t providing my students with my best.
Focusing on my yoga practice felt awful. Everything in me wanted to spend my time outdoors in the salt water and sun, but there I was, on my mat, feeling sick to my stomach. My practice was making me physically ill as I stretched into places that did not want to be opened. The yoga sutras teach us to practice non-violence as the number one priority, yet I felt that I was committing an act of violence against myself with each yoga class. I simply didn’t want to be there.
I was sure my body signals could be trusted. I was sure I should not have to miserable to run a business. I was not sure, however, that I wanted to throw in the towel. If there was any way to run my business, make a modest income and have a few hours of free time daily plus one full day off per week, I simply had to find it. I knew I deserved all of that. I knew humans were not meant to work like I was, but I also knew that my newfound, rebellious teenager attitude toward work had to go.
A friend set me up for a meeting with a very successful business coach who was wealthier than god and had an IQ off the charts. This guy was impossible to get a meeting with and was doing me a big favor. I will not soon forget how it went.
We sat down at an outdoor cafe. I ordered eggs, the businessman got coffee. Between bites, I told him my business model, the demographic in my location, the size of my building and any other details he asked of me. After ten minutes of him firing questions and me answering, he set down his coffee. He took a deep breath and looked sideways, staring off into space for a moment. He nodded his head a bit, and then looked directly at me. Then, decisively, he said,
“Nope, doesn’t work. Get out.”
My friend, who had organized the meeting, had also come along. Until that statement, he had been silent. Instantly, he interjected to defend me.
“Whoa, Melanie isn’t looking to become a millionaire. She just wants to teach yoga, pay her bills and have time to surf.”
The businessman thought for about fifteen seconds more.
“Nope, I’d still get out,” he bluntly stated, again.
Emotion overwhelmed me. I was quiet. I recognized a familiar feeling. It was the same feeling I had when Josh admitted he was still watching porn. It was the same feeling I had when I discovered Kurt’s relapse. I was neither angry nor defensive. I felt relief.
My friend tried to argue with the businessman, and the two of them devised a strategy that could actually work, a change in the business model. But I realized the amount of energy it would take to make the change was just not physically possible for me. When I started the business, it was a labor of love that took a tremendous amount of effort. But I was creating a life. I was working to be together with my husband and to make a family. Now, the only motivations were the fear of failure, the embarrassment of defeat, and the sense of co-dependence I had for my students.
I half listened to the guys talking, jotting down ideas for the new business model. My heart got really happy. I realized the business could be saved and the community would not have to be left with a hole. But I decided in that moment that I would not personally do the saving, for once.
I was just handed my ticket out, a ticket I didn’t even know I wanted but eagerly accepted. Within two weeks, I contacted a business broker and had my business listed for sale. I enacted the necessary changes to the model so the business would be robust and ready to sell. But I made up my mind to leave the rest to someone more deeply motivated than a girl who simply felt she need to prove herself.
But I still clung to Kurt. There was just one more gift I was terrified to give myself: permission to fail at love. What happened next would be the greatest gift life would ever give me, in the strangest package yet. I was about to know a new freedom and a new peace.
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*some names have been changed to protect privacy
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