I don’t know what it was about that Greece portal, but something ancient shook free.

Palpable.

Embodied.

No apology.

A primordial exhale.

I think I often used alcohol—or “spirits”—to reach these peak experiences, to find ecstasy. I chased it in a bottle and through the desire of the male gaze. Then it started chasing me down a road that grew narrower with every turn and would never lead home.

Caution: Turn Around. 

But comfort became louder than freedom.

Slowly, after I stopped drinking alcohol and left the protector/admirer relationships behind (one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot of hard things), the little girl inside stopped waiting for someone or something outside herself to awaken her.

She remembered who she was.

The ecstasy of simple moments.

And recently, on a work trip to Greece, my body remembered too.

The sensuality of being alone in deep woods. An unspoken language. A faraway place.

Climbing a mountain on two strong legs that remain steady despite all the falls.

Water laughing over rocks, making the same sound as my sleep machine—except this is real life.

A bright purple wildflower standing alone, beckoning wild souls to adore her.

The power is here.

Right here.

This is it.

The bone-aching gratitude of being alive, amidst the sometimes edgy emotions, where the anxious buzz is witnessed and washed clean by a pale orange sunset slipping through smoky mountain cascades.

Cradling me, who was never just me.

The footprints of all who came before walk beside me now, delighting in our dirty, messy, brutiful tracks. A reflection of the force we call nature—wild and chaotic, calm and full of peace.

The soft, wet smile of the black dog, Rayla, rolling belly-up to greet me. A sister. A playmate. A reminder.

She finally stopped searching outside herself for the ecstasy she thought she could only find in him.

It was all an illusion.

A story that kept her sleeping.

They told her to wait for the prince. To wait for someone to whisk her out of slumber and save her from herself.

And a part of her was still waiting—until that moment.

The dam broke open on those winding mountain roads, scarred hands gripping the steering wheel with a trust that felt reborn. Alone, yet surrounded by greatness. Beauty beyond language. Awe beyond understanding.

Her body shook with grief and gratitude as the Cinderella story disappeared into the rearview mirror.

No one is coming to save you.

But you are the safest one.

The one in your own skin.

Tears came like a long-awaited exhale.

It was always her. It was always here.

Remember.

Rise.

It was always this moment.

Her soul bows to the Greek mountains. To the wildflowers scattering joy in abundance. To the street dogs who greet her at sunrise and invite her into the pack.

She was never alone.

I cannot make sense of this experience with my rational mind, but I trust its wisdom to keep working me, guiding me, and tenderly shaping my wings.

It is time.

Time to leave the womb of comfort.

The world is dark, but my soul is filled with wild things and wild places.

I do not know where I’m going.

But I know exactly how to get there.

~