Two weeks ago, my life exploded before my eyes.
I lost control of my bike, smashed full-speed into a wall, and crumpled onto the street. I hit my vulva on the crossbar as I crashed, which led to an 8×8 cm hematoma on my right labia (as discovered later).
Pain crushed my body.
Terror choked my mind.
In that instant, I was desperate for life. Pitiful prayers to a higher power wrestled a wretched fear in my head. I’m not ready to go, I thought. Please. Let me do better.
The days that followed were a blur of hospital visits and severe anxiety. I lashed out emotionally. I was clouded with anger and a throbbing reminder of the things I was no longer capable of. Like sitting. Or peeing. Or fending for myself.
The doctors said it would take a few months to fully heal.
And thus began the longest vacation of my life.
I’m learning that life is never going to be comfortable. It’s not supposed to be easy. No matter how much we plan and prepare, there will always be challenges, roadblocks, ambushes and pitfalls.
You can fail even if you’re playing it safe.
So I say fuck it and follow bliss. Again and again. When I die, I want to be covered in dirt and scars and drenched in tears. I want to have traipsed the world and built an empire and watched it collapse and built another. I want to fight. I want to be worn, used and fully spent, consumed by the fires of a deep and blazing love. I want to say I’ve been true to my heart. I want to say I’ve given it my best shot. My all.
And so here I am.
Big changes are coming again.