The Middle Way

My intention was to share the rocky road I have been on since I returned from Portugal, but as I opened these pages to write, I found myself smiling at the irony. The truth is, I've been on a rocky road for much longer than this summer, and it's that very road—with its sudden potholes and one very large cliff—that has actually prepared me for this significant, but comparatively tame, path I've been traversing thus far this summer. One that feels annoyingly—but also perfectly—adult.

Upon arriving back in NYC after the retreat in Portugal, I decided to hop into a yellow cab. Ride shares are always at least 35% more expensive, and the process is a much bigger hassle than simply jumping into the short taxi line—which, on this particular day, was empty—and off you go. We were off to a great start. Traffic was moving, despite Google Maps warning of a significant slowdown, and I was enjoying the "fresh" city air drifting through the cracked window after eight hours on a plane from Lisbon.

As there isn't much to see along the Queensboro Expressway, my gaze drifted down to my phone when a sudden jerk of the brakes, the screech of tires, and then a crash sent me flying forward into the partition. There was no time to brace myself; I simply propelled forward. Luckily, I walked away with a sprained wrist, a sprained ankle, neck pain, and a fractured nose. It could have been so much worse.

And so, the first lesson - one I knew but chose to forget: WEAR YOUR SEATBELT. (Remember when I mentioned adulting?)

Let's fast forward to this past week. 

I am usually diligent and vigilant about spam and fraudulent texts coming through my phone. So when I was distracted in a meeting and saw a text come through from "Chase" about a fraudulent charge, I looked it over and decided to respond. That one text somehow led to access to my Google and Chase accounts, along with my name, address, phone number, and Social Security number, and has kept me spinning for over a week trying to thwart attempted attacks from these scumoftheearthdeservetorotinhellassholes. Luckily (again), they weren't successful in taking any funds, and I've minimized their ability to do further damage.

A second practical lesson, and one I wholeheartedly encourage you to also take: FREEZE YOUR CREDIT. It's a simple action with the three credit bureaus. Create an account, click the freeze button, unfreeze it when you need to apply for a card or loan, and freeze it again. It has no impact on your credit score and can save you an enormous amount of stress.

But perhaps more than that came a lesson that has been weaving in and out of my periphery for some time: loss of identity is inevitable.

Not just the criminal theft of identity, but the many ways life shifts and wobbles beneath us. A change in career. The loss of a loved one. Becoming a parent. Moving somewhere new. All perfectly normal life experiences, and yet they can leave us feeling completely untethered. There is something profoundly lonely—and anxiety-inducing—about finding yourself awash in your thirties or forties, having to discover yourself all over again.

We as humans love to hold tightly to what we know. We diligently create these identities for ourselves, full of loves and dislikes, routines and rituals, all the little pieces that come to define us. Then the sands shift beneath our feet, we lose our footing, and suddenly we're trying to right the ship and navigate a new course without the familiar tools we've always relied upon. It's a bit like sitting down to steer a ship only to realize you're actually landing a plane. Where does the information come from? How do we know we're doing it right? And how do we keep moving through life with some sense of confidence and assuredness while everything feels unfamiliar?

Throughout the whole identity theft process, the lovely woman at Chase couldn't believe how well I was taking it all. Calm. Judicious. Assertive. I even managed to bring some levity to our hours-long meetings in her office. And when my father said the same thing, I realized that, well...yes. This is the fruit of many years of work. The kind of work no one else sees. The kind that breeds from self-study and brutal honesty, from lying sputtering on dry earth after fighting to rescue yourself from years of drowning in a deep sea of grief and depression.

This version of me is new. I am even a bit surprised by her.

These practical lessons are merely that—pieces of knowledge I can put in my pocket and utilize for future reference. But the calm within the storm, instead of immediately being pulled back under the waves, is different. It feels powerful. It deserves a moment in the spotlight.

What happens when the anxiety, the stress, and all the stories we create don't get the oxygen they need to fan the flames? You find calm. Evenness. Effectiveness. Clarity. You begin to see the issue at hand, separate yourself from the noise of the what ifs, the nows, and the buts, and simply do what needs to be done next. And then the next thing.

Eventually you can look at all that noise and say, Yes, I know. That shit was crazy. But it doesn't define you. You are right here, right now. And this is what matters.

Then, almost without realizing it, this new version of you is in charge. You're no longer splish-splashing about. You've practiced showing up in the not knowing. You've found your internal compass—that deepest part of you that makes you, you. And that, my friends, is an eternal gift.

To know yourself so well that when the waves come, you can simply ride atop them—because they never go away, nor should they. They are lessons in themselves. But the lesson for me this summer has been this: keep going. Keep walking this path and letting it all in. Because even with the chaos, there has been such joy. To feel it all, yet still experience it while seated atop what I envision as a floral-wreathed surfboard, living with compassion and understanding—that, to me, is the true lesson of life. The Middle Way, as the Buddhists call it.

It might seem a bit lofty, I realize, but I also know, through extremely well-lived experience, that it can be true. So perhaps, while also wearing your seatbelt and freezing your credit, I encourage you today to sit for a moment with all that you have within you. All that you have accomplished, learned, and experienced. The great unraveling that is life. Perhaps it will bring you a sense of calm—or even a smile—to recognize just how much you have survived, and who you have become because of it.