3 Stories / 3 Types of Resistance
Hiking through a gorge in Crete, 2023.
A Time When I Decided to Quit
(When resistance is a red flag)
12 years in, my workplace was a sinking ship,
And I was clinging onto the side of the boat.
"But it used to be so good. It could be so good!”
My gripping fingers turned white.
I couldn't see the tropical island a short swim away.
I impressed people at parties when I told them about my job,
Yet I cried on my way to work, in the bathroom at work, and on my way home from work.
When I got dressed for work each day, I imagined it was armor.
I needed it to fight my ongoing battles.
When I entered the building each morning, I sucked in a giant breath.
When I left at night, I let it out.
I thought everyone would hate me if I slowed down or left.
I hated myself for not slowing down or leaving.
I couldn’t imagine what life would look like if I left.
I didn’t imagine what life could look like until I left.
A Time When I Decided to Pause
(When resistance is wisdom)
I wrote 80% of a book manuscript.
It felt like an alive being.
I felt like an alive being.
I was helping it become something.
It was helping me become someone.
It lived in my center,
Then it faded into the peripheries.
Tangible one day,
Elusive the next.
I read it now and say, “Yes. This is something.”
I set it aside, adding, “Something for another day.”
The book rests on my shelf, content and patient.
I’m dancing with other projects, the ones that thrum and talk to me.
I’m a devout follower of what feels most awake,
And that book is currently snoozing.
A Time When I Decided to Keep Going
(When resistance makes the story better)
My husband said, “I really want to do this hike.”
“Sure, why not?” I said, sprawled across the couch.
Four months later, I crawl out of bed at 4am: coughing, fever.
Cursing this commitment to catch a tour bus.
We are winding through Greek countryside.
I am nauseous.
We are dropped off on a mountaintop.
I am freezing.
He’s grinning like a maniac,
Skipping down the trail,
Making me pose for photos.
I don’t feel good I don’t want to do this I hate this
I curse the sound of my own whiny voice
We meet Phil
From the UK,
A sweet stray tourist who follows us,
Chit-chatting in a charming accent.
“You’ve got this! Keep going! Isn’t it spectacular?!”
The guys cheer me on
With school-boy tenacity
As I try not to fall behind.
For 8 hours,
Sun beating down,
Body on fire,
As we walk through a literal gorge.
I keep going
And going
And going
Until we make it to the ocean
Shedding shoes
Climbing over rocks
Feet throbbing
Stumbling into the Mediterranean
Salty, icy redemption
Submerged relief
Wild triumph
A cackle escapes me
I walked from the top of a mountain
Past rocks and bridges and blisters
All the way to the sea.