Q1: The Struggle
Similar to New Year’s Eve in Sun Valley, my life has always included an element of — for lack of a better term — winging it.
When it comes to the perpetual degree of confusion that dictates more of my decisions than I’d like to admit, it’s not always easy to know if this laid back approach to life is inspiringly bold or recklessly stupid. And, really, the only distinguishing factors between those two polar opposite classifications are whether or not you die, go bankrupt, or get hurt / hurt someone else.
That being said, “intentional living” has always been a goal and area of improvement for me. However, considering the utter lack of intention that began my year (who the hell misses midnight on NYE?) it’s no surprise that my dive into 2018 was as graceful as Bambi on ice. And I ultimately found myself stumbling and sliding powerlessly into three months that would test my heart, resolve and sanity.
In the first two months of 2018 I went through a break-up, moved apartments, and took on an intimidating amount of new clients/projects that were meant to keep me distracted, but ended up further stressing me the f*%ck out. There’s actually a list of the most stressful life events, and I had endured three chart-toppers in a matter of months.
Needless to say, the year didn’t start off on a strong note… whatsoever. (During that time there was also a missile threat and volcanic eruption, but those paled in comparison to my own personal drama).
Since I’ve always believed life is a balancing act, I would balance the aforementioned low points with my own highs: drinking, partying and essentially attempting to cleanse my stress with wine in the way that one might flush out an infected wound with antiseptic. When I found those temporary highs to be just that — temporary —I decided to try something more… dangerous.
While most normal people turn to stiff drinks, hard drugs, religion, or Ben and Jerry’s, I found my “pick me up” in the ocean, freediving with over 15 HUGE sharks. No Netflix and cry sessions, no protective cages between me and a bite that could take my arm, just recklessly swimming through shark infested waters like Nemo (which, in retrospect, is a great metaphor for how my life was going at the time).
I needed an adrenaline rush big enough to fix the perpetual numbness I had used as an irreversible defense mechanism during those miserable months, and getting within touching distance of several 15-foot sharks definitely did the trick. I felt alive, and scared, and excited and amazed and vulnerable and invincible. But more importantly, I felt something.
