“Can I help you find something?”

I was wandering around the Barnes & Noble store in Mission Valley (San Diego) with one mission in mind - to see my book, Hiking Your Feelings: Blazing a Trail to Self-Love, on the shelf.

This is a dream I’ve been holding space for since I was a little girl. I self-published my first book before the pandemic and contacted the bookstores directly to host an event and sell the book on consignment, so the “see your bookstore on the shelf” moment wasn’t fully realized for me on my debut book.

Before my new book launched, my team at the publishing company could tell me which vendors purchased books, but didn’t have specificity as to whether those books were planned for e-commerce or in-store, and if in-store, which stores. After launch day, I checked out the listing on Barnes & Noble’s website to see if the book was available for pickup in stores near me.

It was.

I went on a mad dash, plugging in zip codes and cities I’ve lived in or visited throughout my life, just to get an idea of how spread out this was, each discovery ringing in my body like a slot machine payout sound.

*want to play along? click the image above and see if the book is sold near you!*

Coast to coast. From San Diego, California up to Portland, Maine, and everything in between, my book was on shelves across the United States.

So here I was, a week after publication, wandering around the store, trying to remember every second, every step, every glance, every spine touched until I held my precious book in my hands.

I had dreamed of this day forever, though the dream has evolved. In my visions of how this milestone would play out, I would float effortlessly through the store, my blonde curls flowing behind me. For some reason, I’m wearing a poofy dress, even though I don’t like wearing dresses - this part of the dream was clearly from the Sex and the City chapter of my life and I am a poor version of Carrie Bradshaw. I wouldn’t have to float far, though, because in my dreams, the book is featured front and center, on a table, and the only copies on the table are of my book. I’d approach the table and I’d hear whispers from the employees and patrons - I’m being recognized. A young woman would approach me, gush about how my first book changed her life, and she’d be oozing with excitement about my new book. She’d thrust the book and a Sharpie in my face, and while she continued to gush, I would hear everything, feel everything, and sign an effortless quip in the book, thank her for sharing and trusting me with her stories, and return her signed copy to her excited hands.

My dreams about monumental life milestones rarely play out the way I imagine they will, and for much of my life, this has been a massive point of frustration. As if what is isn’t enough, because it doesn’t meet my expectations. Historically, I struggle to get past the point of frustration, I rarely gain the awareness that what is is better than what I imagined, because it is what is happening. I’m hopeful that will change today, but it’s not looking good.

So that was the dream I held space for in my mind, body, and spirit through the years. Here’s how it actually happened.

I woke up weepy. The previous 17 days of my life had been an absolute whirlwind of press interviews, speaking engagements, and the book launch itself - a victory lap for this story, but also for the publishing process - this book took everything I had to pull together. The reminders of the energy required after diving so deep still ripple through my core from time to time.

I rode the high from publication day as far as I could - Tuesday to Saturday - and then nose-dived straight into PMS. With a slower pace, fewer commitments, and nowhere to be, I was finally feeling the feelings I didn’t have time to fully embrace when it was all happening at the moment - the gratitude for the opportunities, the joy from a goal achieved, the support I felt from the folks who showed up to celebrate with us, the awareness of how far I’ve come - all of it.

Plus PMS.

As we left the ranch for San Diego to run errands and Have The Moment, I whimpered and had dramatic single-tear moments down the mountain into town. We ran a few errands before Barnes & Noble, and I felt disassociated, hovering above my body, watching myself grab a bag of arugula from Trader Joe’s, fumble for tomatoes that weren’t moldy at Grocery Outlet, waffling between complete exasperation and contentment in line at the post office.

Once we arrived at Barnes & Noble, we circled the building twice to find parking. I was crying, but also breathing, very much in my body and also completely separate from it. As I felt the tears damming up behind my eyes as we approached the store, I picked up a piece of trash - an Almond Roca wrapper that was left in the parking lot. I’m a good samaritan, sure, but this is also an active strategy I picked up from a healing protocol I was gifted last year - picking up trash helps me move out of survival mode and toward thriving again.

The first receptacle I thought was a trash can was an empty planter. I couldn’t put it there. This not-trashcan was a personal attack. I’m just trying to pick up trash and make myself feel better and this planter has the audacity to look like a trashcan. I let out an exasperated sigh, walked up the stairs, and spotted a trash can. Upon releasing the trash into it, I refocused on my breath.

As we approached the store windows, I checked out the displays.

Not my book. Okay. That’s fine. I probably would have heard if they planned to do a window display, so that’s fine.

As I enter the store, I notice I’m not floating, I’m not wearing a poofy dress, and as I approach the front table, I’m thrust out of my dream and back into my (snotty, swollen, tear-streaked) body. The dream ends here, at the front table, where my book is not. I take another deep breath and start exploring the store, taking my time - not because I’m being intentional, but because I’m all but blacked out at this point, and I’m watching myself from the outside, having this moment, not the one I imagined for decades.

Behind the front tables is the “New & Noteworthy” section. I scan the shelves. None of these books are my book.

I start wandering around the outside perimeter of the store, passing the sections I know aren’t mine: Business, History, Manga, Travel Guides, Children’s, Young Adults…

Then I see it. Personal Growth.

I get to the shelves and start scanning. My mind is completely incapable of comprehending this information and executive function is non-existent - I can’t tell if the shelves are organized by titles, authors, or something else. Is this shit even alphabetical? Everything blurs together. I’m looking for my cover and my cover only and when I don’t see it, I move on to the next section:

Personal Transformation - nothing.
Diets & Exercise - nothing.
Wellness - nothing.

“Can I help you find something?”

Her question breaks my daze. The fact that I don’t look at her nametag, address her by name and ask the question I’ve always dreamed of asking is indicative of my mental state. Instead of welcoming this woman to participate in the best day of my life, I haphazardly stammer,

“On the website, it said my book is available for in-store pickup but I don’t see it on the shelf.”

“Did we pull it for you?” she asks.

I feel the heat that comes with a panic attack start to rise with the shame. I’m thrust back into my own story, the scene where I’m trying to remove myself before the trauma tornado took over when I worked at the beauty startup as outlined in Chapter 10. I’m not communicating clearly, and her response is indicative of that. I fancy myself a gifted communicator and in this mindset, this simple misunderstanding sends me on a little mini-spiral in the middle of the one I’m already experiencing:

Oh, she thinks I’m a customer inquiring about a purchase. Way to go Sydney, you’re so messed up right now that you can’t even ask for what you actually need, ugh, get it together.

“No, I wrote it.”

“Oh, would you like to sign it?” she replies.

“Yes please.”

She motions for me to come over to the computer, asks me the title, and then walks me back over to where I was previously searching - Personal Growth.

I follow her like a baby duckling, find the book right away, and follow her back to the computer.

“Sharpie okay?” she asks.

Memories of working on a Sharpie campaign during my first agency job come flooding back in. Simultaneously, I have an instant awareness and appreciation of how far I’ve come since then, white-hot shame of not having a marker myself as if people would be asking for an autograph at any point and even though she’s offering one, and a little more embarrassment that I’m not experiencing this the way I thought I would.

“Yes, a Sharpie is great.”

She hands me the Sharpie, I see Barry going for his camera, and the lady darts away, not wanting to be part of this moment. I can’t blame her, and that’s certainly her right, but the quickness with which she moved out of my moment felt like another personal attack. I open the book, frustrated that there isn’t an easy page to sign in this book and sign the inside cover. This feels like a big faux pas like I should know how to sign books and that this isn’t acceptable.

I hand the book back to her.

“We have the stickers, I’ll put one on there,” she says, adding it to a short stack on the desk. When she doesn’t immediately go for the stickers, I feel a sense of urgency rising.

“Can I take that? I want to get a photo.” I ask.

She hands it back to me. I walk directly back to the shelf it came from, get a photo, take a video, and return the book to her.

“Good luck with that,” she said, not unkindly, but absent of any warmth whatsoever. I can’t blame her, I’m a mess.

“Thanks,” is all I can muster, and we proceed to exit the store and walk back toward the van.

Before we stop to go back down the stairs to where we’re parked, I turn around and get a shot of the front door. Despite feeling blacked out, disassociated, and completely removed from my body during this experience, I have enough awareness to get the shot.

I float above myself back to the van, and once I’m seated with my seatbelt securely fastened, I give in to the weight behind my eyes and let it rip.

I have worked so hard to get to this point. To this place where I can see my words on a shelf. Tears of gratitude spill down my cheeks and Barry says the thing that always gets me, “I’m proud of you.”

I’m feeling every possible emotion all at once, and yet, it feels nothing like what I imagined it would.

It’s not bad, it’s not wrong, it (and I hate this phrase but here I go) is what it is.

After Barnes & Noble, we hosted our Virtual Launch party for the book, and I was delighted that there were people on Zoom that I had never met before. As I’m sharing, I’m engaged, alive, excited, on-point, and feeling over the moon. Hovering outside of my body that is hosting this launch, I’m wondering - how is it possible for me to go from one extreme to another so quickly? How can I be sobbing one minute and soaring the next?

We wrap the virtual launch, meet with one of our new sponsors, and pick up some gear for an upcoming backpacking trip.

On the way home from the gear fitting, I stare longingly out the window, alternating my view between the scenery that surrounds us on the highway, and my reflection in the side mirror - face blotchy and red, eyes and cheeks swollen from all the crying, feeling extra pathetic as I watch the tears run down my face.

As we pull off the highway and start driving side roads descending into Harbison Canyon for the cheapest gas in town, Barry and I discuss the future of Hiking My Feelings.

We’ve had a rough start to the year. Our title sponsor for our tour backed out in January, leaving us high and dry with no funding for the biggest year of our organization’s history. The weeks that followed sent me to the depths of my despair, questioning everything I’ve sacrificed, all the choices I’ve made, my old friend, white-hot shame rising from my toes to the top of my head.

Continuing the conversation I’ve been having in my head, I blurt out, “I have nothing to show for this.”

Barry pauses, leaving space for me to continue.

“If this van breaks down, we’re fucked. We don’t have enough money to fix it, we don’t have enough money to get a new one, and we are out of stuff to sell. I’m sorry I upended our lives like this, I am so sorry I didn’t figure this out in time.”

I’m referring to the end of Hiking My Feelings as I know it. Earlier in the week, despite having a tremendous amount of interest in what we’re doing as a result of recent speaking engagements and the book launch, I realized there isn’t any new money coming in until my last advance check clears next month and I started to panic about our financial situation. I saw a job Barry might like on LinkedIn and sent it his way. He applied, willingly seeking new employment opportunities that pay actual money so I can continue to do what I’m doing with Hiking My Feelings. The weeping that I’ve been doing all day? It started when we woke up. I asked him how he was feeling and he said “I’m going to miss working with you.” The waterfall started after that and alternated between a slow trickle to full gush throughout the day.

Bringing me back to the van and out of my shame spiral, Barry reminds me of the lives we’ve impacted, the landscapes we’ve restored and cared for, and the adventures we’ve shared.

Like a petulant toddler, I keep sulking, up to my eyeballs in my pity party.

“I’m trying to help you, Sydney. I won’t let you quit on Hiking My Feelings, that isn’t an option. If I need to go get a job so you can keep doing what you’re doing, that’s what I’m going to do. We’ll finish up our commitments through the end of this year and we’ll go from there. At least this way, if the van breaks down while you’re on the road, we’ll have the money to get it fixed, or at least fly you home.”

I hear what he’s saying and it makes my heart swell and my face flush simultaneously. I can’t believe I have to be explicitly told he’s trying to help and I wonder if there will ever be a time when I’m able to know that he’s trying to help me without hearing him through the filters of my pain and my past.

“I can’t do this without you, Barry. I literally cannot do it all. I can barely do what I’m doing, I don’t know what kind of help I need, or how to ask for it, but I can tell you that if you’re not part of Hiking My Feelings, I don’t see how I can continue with it. But I also don’t see how I can do anything *but* this, because I am not okay doing anything else. I can’t not do this.”

Barry reassures me that his taking a job is not him abandoning me or Hiking My Feelings, but doing whatever it takes to ensure that this work continues.

I realize I’ve never been loved like this before and I hate that there is a part of me that thinks I don’t deserve this kind of love.

We drive home, mostly silent, save for an occasional audible choking sob and sniffle from me.

When we get back to the ranch, I tell Barry,

“I need to go stomp and scream where nobody can hear me, I’ll be back.”

And without my phone, water, or anything other than my feelings, I head out to the easement road and start stomping toward the gate. I wail and sob and beg and plead with the Universe, God, unicorns, anything and everything, and everyone who might be listening. I don’t want to live like this anymore - hand to mouth. I don’t want to choose between purpose and paychecks. I want to be grounded and free. I can hold multiple truths at once, but checking a monumental milestone off my life list and filling out forms for food stamps on the same day was not on my Trail of Life Bingo Card.

So I stomp and cry and wail and whimper out loud until I get to one of my favorite sitting spots. Facing Cuyamaca Peak, I cry and plead and beg and surrender to the moment. I allow the birdsong to break through my swirling thoughts. I feel light precipitation, the slightest drizzle, from a passing cloud. I cry out to my ancestors, my angels, anyone and everyone who can help me, for help. For guidance. For support. For a sign. Anything.

I am tired of crying but still wound up, so I bring my arm to my face, close my eyes, and scream into my elbow. Once is not enough, so I let it rip again. I swallow after my second shoutfest and feel the tingling sensation of screaming at the top of my lungs fade from my throat.

When I open my eyes, everything feels still - my inner wilderness mirroring the wilderness that is holding me through this moment. I sit with the stillness, noticing how quiet it feels when my mind isn’t in absolute chaos. I take as many deep breaths as I need to until I’m bored with the idea of sitting here any longer, and then take a few more deep breaths, an attempt to encourage my nervous system to trust stillness instead of returning to chaos.

I give a little sniffle, wipe my face, pout for a minute, then stand up and start walking back. As I do, my pace varies with my thoughts. As I start to feel the anxiety creeping back in, I pick up the pace and stomp it out a bit. As I feel stillness return, I breathe through it, slow down my pace, and take notice of my surroundings, hoping that doing so will anchor me in the calm long enough to skip whatever wave of emotion is coming behind it. This seems to be working, so I keep breathing, keep walking, keep noticing.

I return to the van, gather my water and phone, and head up to where Barry and Dustan are sitting on the porch they built. Barry’s got a half-smile that indicates that the wine has taken the edge of anxiety off, and now he’s got a perspective shift. I’ve seen this face before and he doesn’t even need to open his mouth, just the half smile eases my nervous system.

“I just had to cry and scream about it, I feel better now,” I say as I find my way to a chair on the porch.

“Did you know that in Japanese, crisis and opportunity are the same word?” Dustan asks as I sit down.

I didn’t know this. He googles to confirm.

“Kiki, that’s how you say it. It means opportunity, but when you start to break the characters down, it’s also dangerous and crisis.”

Just this nugget of trivia alone shifts my perspective.

The jury’s still out on this, but what happens next is either a coping mechanism, complete and total delusional thinking, an indicator of my growth, or perhaps a little bit of each;

I start thinking about all the things we have on the horizon for Hiking My Feelings, all the seeds we’ve planted over the past nearly six years, and say,

“Guys, what if everything good comes true and it’s just not happening on my timeline? For as much as we’ve dissected the worst-case scenarios today, it’s also entirely possible that everything works out, right?”

And so we dive into the best-case scenarios.

The van company we’ve been chatting with will get back to us and extend the offer we’ve been discussing.

That Barry gets this job and all the seeds we’ve planted result in the most beautiful collaborations that only make our programs stronger and serve more people in a more direct and impactful way.

That the wait for my first royalty check will be worth it, and come October, we’ll have sold so many books that we’ll be able to fund our programs, buy a new van, a plot of land, and a dome outright.

That the dreams I’ve dreamt that didn’t come true are not an indicator that history will repeat itself, but that every no has gotten us closer to the ultimate, life-changing YES we’ve been working so hard for.

That every single sacrifice, every comfort we’ve given up, getting shot at and hauled out of the van by police at gunpoint, will be worth it - that the life we’ve created for ourselves can only get bigger, better, more expansive, and more impactful.

That, maybe, just maybe, I can have it all because I’m crystal-clear on what “having it all” means to me.

It feels risky to dream this big. It feels terrifying to get my hopes up, to allow myself to get excited about the infinite possibilities that life has to offer, that are out there in the ether, just waiting to make their way to us.

But what is the alternative? To wallow in the discomfort? To remain disoriented? To allow the difficulties of this particular chapter to take me out, despite all of the much harder things I’ve survived and overcome?

We come to a natural close on our porch chats and make our way back to the van to start to wind down for the night. Sitting on the bed next to a fully reclined Barry, I keep it simple:

“I’m scared.”

I don’t need to explain what I’m scared of, or why I’m scared of it. He knows. And I need to say it. I need to allow it to cross my lips, I need to allow it to land, and I need to allow him to be able to hold it.

“Me too,” he replies.

We share a bit more about our fears around everything that is happening, and our hope for how it might correct itself, and then Barry grabs his phone.

He turns on the Bluetooth speaker and cranks it up. I know the opening chords but I can’t place the song.

“Johnny used to work on the dooooocks,” Jon Bon Jovi sings.

Barry starts singing. I whimper through the lyrics. This song is hitting differently at the moment.

By the time we get through the first verse and to the chorus, I am consumed by emotion.

“We gotta hold on to what we got, it doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not,” sobbing, we sing together.

I think to myself - we got each other, and that’s a lot - and try to hold on to that knowing - that we built this together so we could do this work together, so we could live this life together. Whatever happens, everything is going to be okay. Historically, that’s always been true, even if we’re playing fast and loose with how we define okay.

Once the song ends, he gets up, pulls out the Dometic fridge so he can sit on it, and faces me as I sit upright in the bed. He’s waving his phone around like John Cusack holds up the boombox during Say Anything. I can’t place the song.

“It's all the same, only the names will change,” Jon Bon Jovi and Barry now sing.

“Sit back and relax, I’m singing this song for you, and then you’re gonna sing one for me,” he says.

And so we go, back and forth, picking songs and crying and singing and laughing and living in this very exhausted Hallmark-ending to a chaotic day, until we’re ready to lay down.

“I have never been loved in this way, or this much, Barry,” I whimper through what I hope are my last tears of the day. “Thank you for loving me.”

In a typical, entirely predictable Barry one-liner, he responds, “What else do I have to do?”

Within minutes of my head hitting the pillow - emotionally and physically exhausted, stuffy, swollen, and uncertain of what the future holds - I fall asleep.

TRAIL OF LIFE

Sometimes we allow ourselves to dream as big as possible.

We practice mindfulness, visualize success, and write journal entries to our future selves, planning how we'll celebrate once this goal is accomplished.

Sometimes the biggest dreams come true. The book deal. The promotion. The Thing You Said You'd Buy When You Got A Raise. The rainbow baby. The degrees. A successful launch. Whatever you measure that matters to you.

And sometimes, the reality around us when we check the biggest boxes doesn't feel the way we thought it would or could.

Learning how to feel through this, process it, and come back to our work is critical to our creativity, no matter how it manifests.

May we all give ourselves grace when navigating the space created after we accomplish a huge life goal. If we aren't curious, we might mistake it for emptiness and chase something to fill it, instead of allowing room for something delightfully unexpected to come through.

MINDFUL MILES

If you're seeing some of your story in what I've shared here, or are inspired to reflect on your own life, I encourage you to journal, take a hike, talk it out with friends, whatever helps you process. Here are some prompts to get ya started:

When was the last time I allowed myself to dream as big as possible?
What is/was the dream?
Expectations vs Reality: how did it unfold?
What does it feel like to accomplish a big goal or milestone?
How does disappointment feel in my body?

NEXT STEPS

Take inventory of your hopes and dreams. Which ones have you been hanging on to because you think you have to? Which ones are you most excited about? Sift through them, examine them, try them on for size. If it feels like something you still want to have hope for, keep on hoping! But if it feels heavy, let it go. If you need help letting it go, refer to Chapter 8 in Hiking Your Feelings: Blazing a Trail to Self-Love and learn more about our next class of Blaze Your Own Trail to Self-Love which starts in April!