THE LOOSE ENDS- Surrendering to Motherhood on a Wednesday Night.

I collapse into the smooth black leather Eames chair, the epitome of cool and comfort, bent plywood crafted into a squishy seat. I think this thing is so amazing, one of my kids shares a middle name with it. I can feel my body giving way to relaxation, as if bedtime granted voiceless permission. I notice the sensation of my breath for the first time all day, finally hearing my own thoughts, ginger chamomile tea in one hand and “You are a Badass” by Jen Sincero in the other. Heh, am I? Yeah... no, absolutely not. I've been trying to get through this thing for an unjustifiable amount of time, just like the other six books that are scattered throughout the house, adorning toilet lids, kitchen counter tops, pantry shelves, and nightstand drawers. They're everywhere, just in case the rare moment arises where I can indulge enough to open one.

And then it begins. I should've known my solution would crash and burn after two days of short lived successes. She’s crying. My muscles tense back up immediately, cortisol coursing through my veins.  It escalates quickly into shrill screams, “I waaaaant Mommmyyyyyyyyyyyy.” I decide I'm going to wait it out. I need this moment, and if I go upstairs, it's going to end with a toddler sleeping on my face, me in bed way too early, without any time to decompress from the constant parenting that just transpired all.day.long. I'll wake up exhausted, without any reserves to repeat the loop, patience lacking, quality parenting nonexistent.

My usual reaction to the onset of the tears is deep breathing and quiet acceptance, and sometimes she eventually succumbs to slumber. Otherwise, I kiss my husband goodnight, peacefully surrendering to motherhood, and make my way to bed without much complaint, not giving emotional energy to the sleepless night that lies ahead, reminding myself that this too shall pass. But, once or twice per year, I lose my shit.

Tonight is going to fall into that category. Sean is in his office, door closed, doing his buddy podcast. I've got the living room to myself, to act as irrational as I'd like, to be foul mouthed and full of lunacy. She's been screaming for 30 minutes now. It's clear that no one will be succumbing to anything tonight. I can feel the tension mounting, pity party assembling.

“What the f#%*k!” “Go to f#%*ing sleep!” “You're almost two years old!” I don't know who I'm yelling at, what I'm expecting from this solo, indulgent teenage-esque rant. Feeling ridiculous and completely aware of my absurdity, I continue, nonetheless. “Can’t I just get one kid that actually f#%*ing sleeps, just one!” I throw my hands up in the air, observing from the outside in, curious enough as to how far I'm going to take it, to allow more. “Eight years I've been dealing with this shit.” I halfway expect her to telepathically respond with silence. Foolishness, it doesn't happen.

Eight years of not sleeping for at least four of the seven nights per week. I'm starting to look haggard. Grey hairs and crows feet arrived with the third baby, seemingly overnight. My body broke its aging threshold after the second child, skin thinning as soon as he exited the birth canal. In my defense, all of my kids have sucked at sleeping, for the first three years of their lives, and as soon as I get one kinda doing their thing, I find myself knocked up again. I’m not cut out for co sleeping, except for the fact that I'm such a light sleeper, no one will dare get rolled over on, fall out of bed, or take a blanket to the face. But, I co sleep anyway, because I breastfeed long term, don't have consistent enough energy to sleep train well (due to said poor sleepers), and wallow in a guilty conscience.

It’s not all bad. The first 20 minutes are glorious, rife with snuggles and smooshy, pliable baby flesh… and then you want to sleep. Toddler co sleeping years are of a different breed. They still want to be on your person, simultaneously taking up all the prime real estate on the bed with the rest of their bodies, limbs strewn about, and there you are clinging to the edge, with a knee in your eye socket and toes in your mouth, wondering how you're going to survive 10 hours of this, because it's only 7 pm.

“Motherf#%*er!” “I can't believe this, I'm going to have to go to bed right now!” “Damnit, I just want to sleeeeeeep tonight.” “Whyyyy? What have I done to deserve this??”

We dismantled her crib three nights ago. I had a hairbrained idea that if we put her in the boys’ room, she'd fall asleep without crying for 45 minutes. My husband thought ill of it and via silent protest, just never took the crib apart. So, after weeks of waiting, I got out the hex wrench and started doing it myself, refusing his help, and assuming it would take 10-12 minutes, as I do for all projects. “We could take that wall out and realllly open up this space, in like 10 minutes.” “I'm going to paint the downstairs bathroom black, just give me like 10 minutes.” “Let's put reclaimed wood planks on the island in the kitchen. Should run us about 10 minutes.” I exaggerate of course, but not by much.

An hour and a half later, the very cute but very janky crib, crafted from pseudo lumber, has split in two spots. It's 8:30 pm, and we’re waiting for the wood glue to dry. My husband and I have had a shouting match over my idiocy and his selfishness. Things are going great. At 9:30 the circus is over, everyone is in their respective beds, and not a tear has been shed, other than by me. I go to sleep, silently triumphant, feeling justified for my transgressions, because it worked. The next night, it worked again. That catches us up to tonight and me aimlessly cussing at the coffee table like a drunken sailor, ten rums in, and looking to brawl.

I'm not going to tie this one up with a pretty bow. It won't be coming full circle with a parenting lesson at the end.

I make my way up the stairs, looking longingly over my shoulder at the empty chair, seat still taking the shape of my body, abandoned tea on the side table, and relinquish whatever badassery I thought I was going to pull off tonight. Cuz, she wants her mommy. I pull her from the crib, the crying ends so instantaneously, it's as if a switch has been flipped. All that remains are the sporadic heaves and huffs as her body recovers from the complete giving over of itself to a tantrum, not unsimilar to that of her mother’s tantrum moments earlier, both of us wrought with desperation, to different ends.

Her body pressed against mine, arms wrapped around me, I feel my resentment melting, the sweet smell of her hair infiltrating my nostrils, softening me further. We make our way to the bed, and she nestles on top of me, her position of choice since infancy. I gently rub her tiny back and fumble with a ringlet, caving to the moment, softly whispering “it's okay baby, Mommy’s here,” over and over again until she falls asleep.

-Angi

LIVING UNDER A FALLING SKY- The toll of social anxiety.

It hit me like an anvil, without warning. I was a typical 15 year old, in the midst of enjoying football games and sleepovers, and playing on the JV soccer team. My high school years are both foggy and painfully sharp. Every hour of every school day was spent with my heart racing, one cheek to the desk at all times, in an effort to cool the heat radiating from within, alternating cheeks, depending upon who was sitting on either side of me, head down, in hopes of going unnoticed.

The fear of being called upon was more than enough to incite the blood flow. And then, when it actually would happen, the reaction was so extreme, everyone had to look, trying to reason how someone could turn that red without an implosion. It was so physically painful, by the end of the school day, my body was exhausted and my head throbbing, all I could muster was sleep. The stress my body and mind endured is now incomprehensible to me.  

Erythrophobia, also known as a “fear of blushing,” not to be mistaken with social anxiety, this is an actual extreme social phobia. The fear is self perpetuating- the more one anticipates blushing, the more it will manifest. Eventually, the relation of time between thought and physiological response becomes non existent. Every minute of each day, year after year, it occurred in all situations involving any other human who would witness the rush of blood and inherent shame that traveled together, like old war buddies.

For years, it seemed the only logical answer was to never leave the safety of home. Or to die. Literally, two options. Then there is the rare and extremely irrational option that I elected- get knocked up and have a cute baby, so everyone will look at said baby instead of me. A distraction, a diversion- yes, that’s the answer. Never mind the stares and whispers I’d have to endure as a pregnant teen. This logic suggests just how desperate the situation was for me. Depression and anxiety had robbed me of clear thought processes and a level head. And, so it was, the answer to all my worries- Cassidy, born on the fourth of February, 1997, the second semester of my senior year.  

It was a lonely place, and social anxiety wasn’t yet the overused, common household term that it is today. Teenage depression was thought of as grunge era angst, trendy and fabricated. Flannel and sadness, for looks.  

I was semi comfortable in my skin when outdoors, free from the confines of my classroom/ pseudo jail cell. I lived for those few hours in the day I spent alone in my room, where I was safe from the endless pairs of eyes and the possibility that they may glance in my direction.   

Time passed and the nightmare of high school faded. Teenage love, that promised a lifetime of thrills, gave way to heartbreak and addiction. The hopes and dreams I didn’t know I had all came to life for me one day, hinged on a unheard of, brand new pharmaceutical entity, advertised and gobbled up by people looking for an escape from the angst that is anxiety. Paxil was fresh on the market. Until this point, how to give a voice to my struggles eluded me. But there he was, that red faced, sweaty, shaking little cartoon, hiding behind furniture, while the voice over asked viewers questions that shook my soul.

“Do you feel like everyone is looking at you when you walk into a room?”

“Do you search for the nearest exit?”

“Does the thought of speaking in public make you contemplate suicide?”

“Does your heart feel as though it may fall out of your ass?”

Undeniably, yes. How was it possible? All this time, I’d never spoken to anyone of what I’d experienced, and there he was, an animated oval, bouncing on the TV screen, spilling my innermost secrets, during the prime time viewing hour.  This was my answer. This was my new faith. This little pill would put to death every monster I’d been running from for the last six years. I was 21 now, armed with a prescription for synthetic confidence, and nothing was going to get in my way.

I could pen a generic autobiography about the life of a single mother party animal from this point. I will spare you the details of my parenting failures and just tell you that my daughter has grown to be an amazing young woman, in spite of my selfishness (thanks Gram and Pop). I will tell you I relied solely on a medication that I knew little about and consequently became indifferent to the poor choices I made. The only regrets I have are in relation to those I hurt.

I’ve been free of any anti anxiety/anti depressants for eight years. The withdrawals from an SSRI are a nightmare in and of itself, which speaks to how much of a mind altering effect they can have. I empathize with people who truly need them to function, but useage doesn’t come without a price. I can say discontinuing my daily dose, after nine years, was like waking up from a state of semi consciousness. I do okay without medication. I initiate friendships, I do lunch dates, preferably on a patio, and as of this last year, I let my clients face the mirror while styling their hair, so they could actually see me during our conversations. I’ll probably never opt to speak in public, but I’m okay with the that.   

I was recently chatting with my sister and teenage niece, while the kids played on the living room floor. The topic of feeling anxious in front of an audience came up, as she regularly sings on stage. I decided to briefly share my experience with her. For the first time ever, I told someone, face to face, that I had a very real, life altering, fear of blushing. Of course, the mere thought of it brought the fire. She chuckled nervously. I forced myself to sit through the discomfort and face the shame that once upended my life, aside from a quick glance in the mirror to see what I’d really been hiding from all this time.

To my surprise, it was just me, I was still me. Blood vessels inflamed, but still me.

We continued our conversation, and what once would’ve sent me into a tailspin, was just a fleeting moment. The shame of feeling ashamed was gone.  

I’ll never understand why I got stuck and fixated on the fear of a flushed face. I could do some more mental laps, lose more sleep, and probably never produce a solid conclusion. Or, maybe I’ll wave goodbye to the fear that once determined how I perceived myself, let it slip away in that rear view mirror and just be proud of the girl who’s had to figure out how to face the world.

With my cranium and sense of self intact, I walked out the door a little bit taller that day.  The sun shone bright, and for the first time in years, the warmth of my cheeks was a sensation I welcomed. My face was hot as it bared the sun, but I was no longer dodging fragmented pieces of a falling sky.

-Shelley

THE DIRTY ON WHOLE 30.

I’ve done a Whole30 before. It’s everything you’ve heard: time consuming in the kitchen, withdrawals that may cause you to lash out at loved ones, and significant weight loss accompanied by an eventual energy gain. And, when that thirty days is up and you engulf an entire sleeve of Oreos (what?! They were organic!), you will think your body is destroying itself from the inside out. A full week of comfort eating will be the only way to feel normal again.

On top of that, those extra pounds that took 30 days to lose, BAM! They’re back, helped along by sudden access into the land of quick and easy carb-options for dinner (pizza anybody?). And the worst part, after my body adjusted to 30 days without processed sugar and white flour, I gave myself eczema by returning to my old eating habits so quickly. The eczema lasted for over a year! And I had it on my face! Ugh. Whole 30. Worst ever.

So, why in the hell am I on day fourteen of another Whole30?! It’s the caveman diet. No, literally, you can have the thinking skills of a paleolithic man while eating this way. I am not counting calories or portion controlling my meals. I’m just cooking with the options that I have and making sure I feel full. I don’t even have to scan ingredients, because I know anything that comes packaged is basically a no-go. Am I in the kitchen cooking for the majority of the day? You would think yes, but I have tweaked this Whole30 to fit my agenda.

First of all, my husband is joining me this time around. It was actually his idea. Twelve years ago I quit smoking cold turkey because John suggested we both kick the habit, strength in numbers. Also I wanted to impress him... I am still the same girl.

We begin our day with a can of sardines. I can’t even call this breakfast because it feels wrong. This is something John has done for awhile. I chastised him for his disgustingly fishy smells while I wolfed down syrup-laden pancakes (what?! They were homemade!). But, I LOVE simplicity and nothing requires less effort than pulling open a can and eating. Bonus reward, no extra dishes to wash afterwards. Perfection. We pair our sardines with a hot cup of coffee, complete with a dollop of coconut oil. I feel satiated and have energy that pushes me through to mid-day, which means I’m not heating up the cold coffee left overs in the Chemex to keep my eyes open.

At lunch time, I make us a meal fit for a caveman-Thanksgiving. It is all combined in a single bowl and tastes like heaven . That is the saving grace; roasted squash (spaghetti, butternut, pumpkin, crookneck) or potatoes (sweet, yams, yukon) used as a base. Slow cooked tomatoes with artichoke hearts, mushrooms, bacon, eggs and herbs dumped on top, with a handful of fresh kale, chard, or arugula. It’s easy to mix it up and also to prepare an abundant amount of base carbohydrates for next day’s lunch. John comes home for his break and we feast.

Dinner is being completely disrespected. We juice the crap out of some veggies and suck it down through a straw, while distracting ourselves with a video game. Realistically, it’s not that bad tasting, but attaching it’s consumption to Ms. PacMan tricks me into enjoying the process. We use celery, cucumbers, lemons, and green apples as a base. We change the leafy green depending on what we have on hand: kale, chard, collard greens, spinach. That was the hardest part in the beginning, I guess because dinner feels like more than a habit. It is our custom, or what is left of our accumulative cultures, that seems to flourish as we share a meal together. If I hope to successfully keep some of these new habits after our Whole30 has ended, I will have to incorporate that feeling of family camaraderie during lunch as opposed to dinner.

The deal breaker for me will be sugar. As a steadfast rule, I should be saying no to sweets in all forms right now. By meeting my cravings for simple sugars, with protein, I am rewiring my brain (or so I have been told). But, I have already caved on this, by freezing ripe bananas and blending them with coconut milk and unsweetened cocoa. Mondays are our once a week family movie night, which includes eating ice cream. As I write this with Monday looming, I will make an extra effort not to let my cravings command me, and skip the fake ice cream until after our Whole30 is up.

The ultimate goal (for me) is feeling better. After eliminating so many foods that I ordinarily eat, I have an opportunity to introduce things back into my diet and gauge how I feel (dairy, grains, legumes). I am not quick to judge a food based on one day of reactions. I have frequent headaches, bloating, and mood swings, so I know that my gut is not happy about a lot that I am ingesting. After kicking my two main food evils out (processed sugar and flour), I hope to have a clean enough slate to determine if anything else is messing with me.

After all this is said and done, I hope to make great strides towards addressing my adrenal fatigue. Please read Angi’s brilliant previous post, "If you're a woman, you probably have adrenal fatigue. Here's how to fix it.". I know that we as mothers are faced with the insatiable needs of others and can’t imagine giving up on life’s small pleasures to carry us through the day. I have found myself in tears this past week when I realized that I couldn’t resolve my frustration over a bowl of cold cereal or drown my emotions in a glass of wine (I don’t actually drink that horrible stuff, but writing “glass of bourbon” sounded too raging alcoholic…). Crazy thing is, not having a crutch to rely upon made me deal with it, right then and there. It blew my mind how conscious that choice felt; be a pissed off mess or have power over my response.

Whole30 is not long term. To me, it is an extreme elimination diet that I am using to expedite detecting what foods mess with me. It isn’t a sustainable lifestyle. If anything, it sucks bad enough that once I reintroduce rice or beans, I might get that pleasure release I need to continue making better eating choices. I would kill a man for a taco right now, but I’m looking ahead. Once I can eat the things that make my body thrive, I have goals: I would like to begin a yoga practice (Tara) and begin supplementing the vitamins and nutrients I can’t get from my diet with other methods (Angi). I am so thankful for my Mindful + Mama women and this chapter in my life that I get to share with others (not to mention the accountability that just might keep me away from the cookies this time).

-Emily

TEACHING OUR CHILDREN THE POWER OF SELF TALK.

I've got these two amazing little boys who happen to have incredibly different temperaments. The oldest, in line with the definition of first born, is more serious. He plays by the rules; we don't have to worry about him acting reckless or taking advantage of others. He’s quick to notice shifts in our voices and details others might miss. His brain is methodical. He's empathetic but less sympathetic, because he's had to grin and bear the disappointments of Lego creations being destroyed, by two different toddlers, for several years now. He's observed the inequity of everyone getting a jelly bean after dinner, even if they didn't finish their meals, because mom and dad didn't have the mental stamina to withstand screaming. He's been punished for hitting the little brother that's wanting to be hit, asking for it in every way. He's felt the rejection of a parent who can't hold him because a baby is crying. Like his Mama, an oldest child myself, we pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and just deal with it, because we’ve accepted that life is notoriously unfair and we expect those around us to do the same, thus the lack of sympathy.

Then there’s the younger boy, who manages to find the giggle in every situation. The world is a friendly place, where if one asks for help or hugs, they're likely to get it. He requires more affection, but reciprocates in kind. If I stub my toe, he's the first to put his hand on my back and ask, “Are you okay, Mama?” in a gentle voice, sweet as honey. My oldest son let me know when he was four, and I’d tripped and fallen in a tearful heap on the ground, that “children don't ever want to see grown ups cry,” and that was that. A sentiment true and profound for a child of his age; sensitivity of a different breed.

I've had to push my eldest to play soccer each year. He's not innately aggressive and struggles when he doesn't feel adept. Plus, his life experiences have taught him to fall back in the face of challenges from others, because it's unlikely things will work in his favor anyway (i.e. aforementioned chronic Lego destruction). The truth is that he's a fantastic player, but his fear of failure and unwillingness to confront hold him back during every game. He relinquishes his upper hand to other players each time the ball comes his way. He's got the skill set, but he doesn't have the confidence to back it up.

The youngest isn't the hardest worker. He's learned that love is unconditional, and knows that even if he doesn't give it his all, life is still pretty peachy. He's a less than mediocre soccer player, with little to no skill set. I'm not sure he has ever even looked for the ball on the field, but he chases the crowd around, grinning from ear to ear. In his mind, the amount of fun he's having is in direct proportion to how good of a player he is, therefore he's the best player on the team.

Jen Sincero, who has put out a couple great books (see below), says “our ‘realities’ are make believe- whatever we make ourselves believe, we experience,” a simplistic yet mind blowing concept. My eight year old does not believe he is a good soccer player, and as long as he rolls with that mindset, his fate is sealed. I won't be surprised if the youngest goes on to bend it like Beckham, because he already believes that he is.

It's worth sitting down and questioning which beliefs you hold that are limiting. If analyzing the whys is important for your personality type, then do that too, but sometimes just the realization and subsequent behavioral shift are enough to be life changing. And, know that the opposite is true as well, if you believe you are amazing at something, then that's your reality.

As the eldest sibling, I identify with my oldest son’s struggles. I see him through the eyes of my eight year old self. I remember falling back in other ways, to prevent disappointment and rejection. There were so many things I never tried, because I didn't want to lose the label of “smart” or “good.” Even still, I refrain from attempting things I'm not sure I'll succeed at. It's tough to think about how much further I may have gone and how much more joy I'd have experienced if I hadn't given such weight to how others perceived me.

Helping my son through this is imperative, so that fear doesn't dictate his future experiences. It's my duty to protect him yet push him, sporadically allowing discomfort, so that he can acclimate to it.

The whole realization and process of seeing your own personal fears surface in your children is strange yet beautiful. It carries a weight, a responsibility, but it offers the chance to be introspective and to make right our own perceived inadequacies. In sculpting my child, I heal myself, one of the many gifts of parenthood. I find self forgiveness for not becoming who I’d wanted to, and grant myself grace because I am but a product of my upbringing. It is no more my fault than it is my parents for having me before my sister. My fear of rejection has evolved from being a weakness to an obstacle that I have the choice to learn from.

I hope that my son will find the gifts in my misgivings, in the parenting I couldn't give him while I nursed his little brother and sister, when I was too tired to play. There are such strengths to be found in forced independence. My other children will have their own sets of challenges from being the middle and the youngest. My intention is to teach them that every step of the way, they have a choice about who they want to be and that mere belief can change the outcome of their futures. And, of course, that the obstacles of who they are and how they were raised, will be the gifts that pave the way.

-Angi

ROAD TRIP- PART 2.

On the first full day away from my kids, the bewildered task of determining what I could do came at me in waves. I awoke from a foreign thing, something called “adequate sleep,” and slowly stretched from inside the confinements of my warm sleeping bag. My eyes slowly adjusted to the colorful art adorning Athena’s walls in her Cottonwood home. I rolled onto my belly to meet the gaze of Charity. She looked as leisurely perplexed as I felt. We crawled from the well rested embrace of our beds and embarked on a day of self. Breasts were tended to, and hot coffee was drunk in marvelous silence. We ate breakfast al fresco, at an adorable cafe, and meandered around the shops downtown until it wasn't too early anymore to have a beer. It felt oddly familiar, this continuity of independence. I could almost reach out and touch a person I had been, but she had known so much less than I did now.

Gratitude lifted with the elevation as we headed toward the hills of Jerome. We found treasures in the local shops and ducked into historical landmarks and sipped cool beers and stood in the wind on a ledge overlooking the growing twinkle of lights in the city below. I snuck away on several walks or fell behind in a store while the girls went ahead. I basked in moments of complete un-needed-ness.

Later that night, the pinnacle of our trip would be born on the lips of a drunk man. On the patio of a bar back in Cottonwood, we heard described a rarity called Childs, a hot spring hidden away down a dusty, beaten-up road. We took mental note of the obscure landmarks he mentioned and headed out early the next morning, eyeballs peeled for any recollection of what the old guy had spoken of. We rounded a bend, and felt sure that the road to our right, jagged with ravines and strewn with broken glass and shattered tumbleweeds, had to be the way to the Hot springs. We crawled along over the bumps and dips at a steady 5 miles per hour. As the landscape, unchanging, rolled past, Charity and I scrambled from the confinements of the car and ran ahead down the road like wild coyotes. We howled at the wide open spaces and kicked dust up as we jumped from tiny boulders sticking out of the dirt. Sara halted behind us at a particularly deep gouge in the road. Charity and I scrambled back to the car and went to work, filling the voids with rocks, to even out the way forward. The sun was just beginning to feel hot against our bare skin, as Sara maneuvered her Forester through another patch of rough road. We were too excited and the day was too young to feel exhausted. We eventually returned to the car, music blaring from opened windows, as well as a succession of feet, arms and faces. Anticipation filled each of our chests as we inched on. Suddenly the road veered to the right, our chins raised to see what lie ahead… We were back on the same stretch of highway we had turned off of an hour ago. Tears of laughter, ran over our dusty cheeks. We had gone nowhere and everywhere on what we deemed “the training road”. Afterwards I felt sure that the only way to Childs was making the mistake of that road before getting to the correct one. Which we did.

On the (real) road to Childs, a sheer drop off at our right provided ample views of buttes strewn with neon yellow flowers and a densely hidden gorge wedged between mountains. We stopped to peek over the cliff and move around. My dear friend, Athena, insisted that I paint. I was reluctant but try not to question the brilliance of this woman who seems to have an omniscient knowing about most things. She set me up with a water coloring picnic and let me be. No one rushed me or bogarted my supplies, or upturned my water. I painted the landscape before me and felt filled to the brim with peace, quietly inspecting the minute shapes of leaves as I attempted to replicate them. The girls clambered back from nowhere as I packed up and we continued on our way.

Two hours later we approached the camp area of Childs, a friendly sign alerting us that clothing was optional gave us a moment to reflect before Adam and Eve approached us from the shade. She had huge grapefruits (no, actual grapefruits...) to share with us. “Just follow the piles of rocks,” she said simply, pointing her tanned arm up beside the Verde river and into the great unknown. We set off, a bit behind schedule after our journey, but practically there. The river poured past us like green velvet. The light bounced off of rock cliffs illuminating the depths of those dark luscious waters. It was breathtaking.

We spotted our first cairn of rocks and picked up our pace. The second pile was off the beaten path but we trudged over large river rocks in search of our destination. We reached a second road that cut back up into the mountain toward the campsite. We had missed it somehow. We doubled back to search, the four of us spread out. Nothing. The sun had just ducked behind a mountain, stealing with it what was left of our day. I panicked. I headed out alone to brave the wild trees lining the shore, always keeping the river in view. Feeling beat, and tired, I almost gave up when a shamble of colors peeking through the thick mesh of willow trees caught my eye. I shoved forward through the dense plants and there, sitting on the shelf of a cliff directly across the river, was the hot spring. “I found it!!”

The girls appeared within minutes. We were discussing where to forge the river when a gentleman came striding out of the thigh deep torrent of water ahead. This was it. The water was freezing. We piled shoes and bags onto our heads and clutched to skirts and dry clothes and free hands as we painstakingly inched across the water. We followed a narrow trail along the cliff, back down the river, and rounded a corner until we were on a wide ledge. On our left, fifteen feet below us, the Verde river tore past. Up ahead an ample gash in the exposed rock cliff was filled with steaming water. I suddenly felt the (literal) weight of my insecurities as clothes were excitedly peeled off.

A brick room with an exposed ceiling, sat furthest at the back of the ledge. Voices and more steam lifted into the air above. I hopped into the warm water with bra and underwear on, feeling like a trespasser in this natural world. But the four of us together, buoyant bodies pleasurably embraced in nature, were quick to forget our cares. A baby’s faint cry pierced the air from the inner dwelling, followed by a man’s calm voice and the tinkling laughter of a woman.

Another traveler joined us in the hot spring and commented that the hottest spring was found within the tiny building. Just then a noise caused us to turn our attention towards the cliff. The woman had emerged. Her naked body strode to the ledge where a bucket was. She met our gazes with a friendly acknowledgment before bowing and lifting the bucket to her chest. Ogling, we watched as she poured the cold contents of the river over her. Exposed to the vast world, ample curls of dark hair flourished from beneath her arms and between her legs. The freezing water halted the mist veiling her body. Haphazardly she wiped the droplets clinging to her. I could not hide my riveted attention towards her. It was that red carpet moment, when the limo door is opened and out of it the most beautiful woman in existence commands all eyes on her. Only she is twisted and pinned, and picked. She is shaved, primered and dyed. She is stuffed, detached and packaged. My eyes were overwhelmed by the full force of this woman taking up space in a world that only seconds ago I felt I needed to shrink in. Confidence seems a meager word to describe the herald of this woman; not apologizing to anyone for her imperfections or lack of adherence to social norms, she was filling every corner of her own body with complete abandon. I’ve never been more impressed by someone’s beauty.

I think she may have changed all of us a little on that trip. After their departure, the four us took up residence inside. The walls were riddled with a mix of painted colors, quotes, doodles, and other offerings of art. I sunk into the shallow scalding water and imagined my insecurities vaporizing into the air with each wave of steam. Athena called us back to reality in time to make it home through the growing dark. Arizona gifted me the permission to feel beautiful by a different standard. I had traveled down the wrong road for the majority of my life to get to this place, and now I can return to it by heart, anytime I want. Emily