On Public Words of Lessons Learned and Private Lose Your Shit Moments

A couple of weeks ago—two days after sitting on cactus-covered mountains in Phoenix and journaling words of life and growth in the desert—I lost my shit. You know these type of lose-your-shit moments: the one where Truth and Reason go on an overnight trip without you, leaving you alone at home with all these crazy, irrational thoughts—thoughts that you KNOW aren’t true, but thoughts that you decide to throw a rager with anyways.

I became convinced that—despite any actual evidence that would hold up in a court of law—I was a failure, no one supported me, and I was all alone in life. Literally NONE of this is true, but Truth and Reason were absent for the mo’ and so I had no one to talk me down from my headspace cliff. I was ready to pack my bags and live in a remote seaside cave like Leonardo DiCaprio does in Shutter Island, living off gluten-free peanut butter sandwiches and huddling around a fire that my never-been-camping-before self was somehow able to start. Given Tennessee is a decidedly landlocked state, I settled on the next closest alternative to cloistering myself in a miserable seaside cave: Atlanta (no sea, but just as miserable). I was *this close* to turning off my phone and relying totally on burned CDs from high school (aka a lot of 2000s-era Coldplay) to soundtrack my four-hour drive south to Atlanta to hide away for the weekend at my brother's place.

But as these lose-your-shit moments tend to go, by that afternoon Truth and Reason had returned from their trip away and I could humor myself over just how ridiculous I had been that morning.

But then I felt like a hypocrite. Because here I was in the middle of writing this story of the desert season—a story (cue One Direction’s “Story of My Life”) that has done an HGTV level of renovation on my heart, profoundly influencing my perspective, my priorities, and my relationships—and yet I was losing my shit, lashing out at friends, convincing myself that I was all alone in life, ready to run off to a cave just two days after sitting on a desert mountain feeling all sorts of trust and peace with the unanswered questions on my heart.

That night, I recounted my shit-losing to a friend, exasperated that I had let my mind go on a jog all by itself that far down the Path of This Is Not AT ALL True. Was my story of healing in the desert season valid if, only days later, I was ready to go MIA like a rogue plane that has turned off its radar capabilities? Could I share that story without being a straight-up hypocrite? Because sometimes I receive praise in return for my words—encouragement that is especially helpful when I find myself doubting my words—but, I wondered, am I worthy of this encouragement when I have these hypocritical freak-out moments? How do I write with a heart that’s pure, a heart that honestly writes words of lessons learned and then actually applies them to life?

I brought this up with my unpaid counselor who doubles as my roommate, Chelsey, as we drank mochas and Americanos in that coffee shop that I reference in at least 80% of my blog posts—the one that feels like home. And since she’s practically a counselor (minus the degree or license, but a counselor nonetheless), she often has wise things to say.

“Writing with a pure heart means knowing your humanity in the midst of it,” she said. (I kid you not, this is a direct quote, she’s like friggin’ Gandhi sometimes.)

The girl is onto something. We can learn the lessons, we can grow, and whether or not we write about these lessons publicly or simply share them privately with others in our social circle, we’re still going to lose our shit and want to hide away in a remote cave (or Atlanta) sometimes.

But this doesn’t invalidate our growth or mean that the change that’s happening within you isn’t real. Growing up—the real kind, not the just the another-year-older kind—doesn’t mean you achieve zen-like perfection. I think it just means acknowledging when we’re having our hypocritical moments, but still believing that the change we felt two days prior is real, that growth is happening. So maybe we lose our shit, but instead of dwelling on our failure or giving up altogether on pursuing this growth, we offer apologies and grace to others and to ourselves, and then we try again, recognizing our humanity in the midst of it.

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, RelationshipsAlly WillisFebruary 4, 2018FeaturedComment

On Public Words of Lessons Learned and Private Lose Your Shit Moments

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