No deodorant or shower for a week? Ok not too bad thanks for letting me know. I’ll bring wipes.

Unscented wipes? Oh. Okay. Bugs and all, got it.

Ok so do I bring the toilet paper with me – and how many feet away from camp? Ok. Cool. Wait, I do WHAT with the little orange shovel? Ah got it. Gotta do what you gotta do. And this little red bag is called a bio bag? Ok thanks.

We’ll cook in the woods that’s great. I love cooking and I love the woods! Oh we save the leftovers for the next day? Including the cheese slices? I see

Hey, sorry I know we just woke up but my bag is no longer tied up in the tree and my toiletries are all punctured — oh, oh okay a bear pulled it down. Hmm okay wow. So the bear was how many feet from our tent? Okay, cool, no that’s cool, I wish I saw it.

I have to brush my teeth with my toothpaste and a little water from my water bottle and – sorry show me again – I spray the toothpaste instead of spitting it? oh to not attract animals yeah that makes a lot of sense

I leaned into discomfort in the middle of the woods with a bunch of strangers and chilly nights and no makeup or deodorant

But when I leaned I learned I was standing with an incredible group of new friends

There was enough rain to feel like we took several showers a day
My hair was the healthiest it’s ever been
And turns out, you make friends quickly when you have to find somewhere to use the forest bathroom
I learned how to make my best stir fry and that pepper jack can go a long way without refrigeration
I saw a beautiful black bear enjoying the scenery just like us. Turns out they like sour patch watermelon too
I learned how to protect myself from lightening
We kept walking and walking until dusk was coming and we wondered where we would sleep, and that’s when we saw the water falls and set up our first camp
Good things come to those who walk and wonder
Our fingers were crossed for sunshine but we had to cross a large stream swollen from the rain
I leaned into discomfort and into the hands of our leaders and strangers who became friends as they picked me up to keep me from falling in the river when my foot slipped on a rock
Sometimes leaning into discomfort means falling into something beautiful
A wonderful net of beauty and nature and friendship
Sometimes it’s the intricate silk strings of discomfort that becomes a web, delicate and strong all at once

In the center of a classroom, where quietness emerges,
Upon a platform of education, a narrative is being shared.
A quiver in my voice, a tremor in my spirit,
A journey away from familiarity, towards a distant objective.

A cloud of nervousness, a cloak of unease,
A stumble in my speech, oh, so evident.
A sentence felt like a demise, words difficult to guide,
Reflecting upon myself through their eyes.

Shadows of judgment, perhaps real, perhaps not,
An inner turmoil, a daunting idea.
My words, they stumble, they hesitate, they fought,
Yet in this struggle, a noble lesson is learned.

Each syllable a challenge, each pause a difficult situation,
In the depths of uncertainty, I search for guidance.
A multitude of faces, a dizzying height,
Nevertheless, I stand firm, prepared to confront.

The sound of laughter, the whisper of sighs,
An unspoken poem of quiet despair.
Yet amidst the chaos, a mythical bird resides,
From the remains of fear, bravery will arise.

I stumble, I stutter, yet I proceed,
In the face of adversity, a victory indeed.
For it’s not in perfection that heroes are bred,
But in the tireless spirit that refuses to concede.

The words may not flow, as smooth as the breeze,
But every stutter is a step, every pause is a tease.
In the heart of the struggle, I find my ease,
For in the echo of my voice, I’m learning to seize.

So here I am, beneath the scrutinizing sun,
My journey of self-discovery has just begun.
A stuttering start, a war not yet won,
Yet, in every spoken word, I find myself spun.

A daunting task, a fearsome trial,
Yet every struggle is worthwhile.
For in the silence of my speech, there lies a smile,
A testament of courage, crossing the mile.

So though my voice may waver, and words may fray,
I rise from my ashes, in the light of day.
For it’s not the eloquence, but what I say,
That truly matters at the end of the day.

Thinking back on a time where I felt fully comfortable in my own skin is difficult to say. What is comfort? How much change must one go through to become comfortable? Where does the zone of comfortability begin? How long does it last? Like the sting of a bee or the spark of a firefly, they come and go. The only thing constant in nature, is change; and there is no morality in nature. What once was alive, eventually dies. Now, I don’t consider myself to be a pessimist by any means, but hear me out. Living in a home with handicapped siblings, recovering from cancer, while vowing to your father that one day you will be the sole care taker of his children once his time on Earth expires, is anything but your typical “follow your dreams” shpiel or leave your “comfort zone” speech in which I am about to share with you. This was a special case. Little behold, I can recall three occurences where I plowed through change in hopes of becoming comfortable with a better resolution for my well-being and what seemed to be at the time, a dim-lit future; only to find myself right back where I started. Except once.

It was October 2022, I was an Assistant Residential Manager in upstate New York, aiding and caring for disabled adults in a residential home. There were 5 residential homes I monitored, with a total of 25 residents. Each home had its unique group of individuals. All having completely different disabilities and health related issues. The company was low on staff with a high turnover rate, the job is anything but a job to me. Afterall, this was all I’ve ever known. For most people it was a job and certainly, not an easy one. The more people left or didn’t show up for their shift, the longer I stayed. On my days off, I worked as a Direct Support Professional for my disabled siblings and did construction work on a house. My father bought a beat down home on a nice piece of land with a backyard that overlooked a golf course with a small pond. He decided he was going to bring down the house and start from scratch. I had been working on this newly renovated home project for 3 months, while balancing my work life at the residential homes, work life with my siblings, and balancing a personal life of my own. One evening mid-Fall after coming home from work, my father proposed an idea to me, which seemed impossible to refuse. He said, “Would you like to live in this house for the rest of your life with no bills? You can go to work full time, continue working hours with your siblings, and one day when the time comes, you can take care of them. Out of all the other kids, they love you most, you know that.” He wasn’t wrong, I had spent 21 years of my life changing diapers, bathing them, feeding them, and spending time with them, while the rest of my siblings went off to college, built romantic relationships and created a life of their own. “Absolutely!” I said to my father, there was no question or doubt about it that a future home I didn’t have to purchase, with no bills to pay, while continuing a full time job would be the American Dream. The following week, I was finishing the interior painting of the living room and kitchen in my soon-to-be home, and decided to take a break. I walked to the master bedroom and glanced out the window, watching the cars drive by until there was nothing but silence. I closed my eyes, and breathed in deeply with my head against the wall. By the time I opened my eyes, it hit me. The harsh reality of missing out on a life of my own. A life where I can choose to do anything I want and become what I want, without the guilt, shame, or resentment of leaving, hit me dead in the face. The harsh reality that I was not and have not been living a life of my own, I was living someone else’s.

It was Thanksgiving 2022, I was spending the holiday at my personal favorite residential home out of the 5. I prepared chicken parmesagn with spaghetti and meatballs, put the Andy Griffin Show on in the living room after supper and placed everyone to bed. Once my shift was over, I arrived home at about 10:30pm for my family’s leftovers in the fridge and hung out with my siblings in the computer room where they watched tv and ate their snacks before going to bed. I felt the walls were caving in around me and nothing was the same anymore. My mind and heart both battled against each other, until there was nothing left for me to do besides “bleed on paper,” a term my creative writing teacher in high school used to say when certain feelings are too hard to face or express by mouth, put it on paper. Well, I did. Then, I sent it out to 10 childhood heroes asking for their help. This was my first true, nervous and mental breakdown. But man, did writing all of those emotions and personal memories down on paper make me feel good and so relieved after. The next morning, I woke up and continued the same routine at work, followed by coming home and hanging out with my siblings in the computer room. Once I got to the computer room, my oldest sibling approached me and said, “Stupid! Stupid!” I responded to him with confusion and fear, “What are you talking about?” Seconds after, my father walked into the computer room and asked to speak with me in the kitchen. My heart stopped and as strange as it sounds, I could feel my face turn white. I remembered thinking to myself, “God, there is just no way he knows about the letter. It’s impossible!” Well, it would have been impossible if my father wasn’t such a control freak with the abilities to hack into my email account. There it was, the 8 page letter printed, laying flat on the kitchen table next to his root beer float and Medjugorje prayer cards. He looked at me and said, “Everything you wrote is a lie! I don’t want you in this house anymore. If you want to go, go!”

I spent 3 1/2 weeks at my friend’s house while contemplating different ways and scenarios to make peace with my father, while also forgiving him for invading my privacy. The two appeared to be impossible, my name was already tossed in the mud throughout the entire family. My letter was nothing but a joke, my feelings were received as anything but valid, and any words that left my lips was a lie and bitter attempt to seek attention. The car he had given me, was politely returned, and I was forbidden to step foot on his property or receive any more than “two trips worth with the pick-up truck” for the rest of my belongings. The rest, he donated to the Salvation Army, or so he says. By mid-day on December 25th, I had already been 14 beers deep trapped in the spare bedroom of my friend’s house, in and out of sleep and tears. The morning after, I decided to make a decision that would change my life forever. I called my mom and asked to live with her for a while to start over, start new. Without hesitation, she drove from Florida to New York, picked me up in a rental van with all of my things and brought me someplace safe, her home. I was 4 years old the last time I lived with my mother, a lot happened. None of it being her fault in my opinion, but that’s another story. Fast forward ten months later, I’ve landed a position in the hospitality industry, becoming Operations Manager next week, still no contact with my father or siblings. After countless nights of tears on the pillow case, wondering if what I shared with the world was a good thing or a bad thing, and if I was the villain in my family’s eyes, I finally learned to let go. A comfort zone isn’t always comfortable, but habitual. Sometimes, leaving your comfort zone isn’t something one plans or sets out to do, it is simply pushed or eagerly encouraged by the Universe and everything around you. The chapter of a life without guilt, shame or resentment for leaving, was here. All that once appeared to be a dim-lit future and a nightmare away, is now a distant memory. If I had not left or taken the risk of losing my vehicle, future “home,” and family members from a single letter, I would have ended back where I always started. Living someone else’s life.

To live is to endure levels of discomfort.
We step beyond our own limits to learn, fail, and experience.
We limit ourselves to the encounters of life when we confine our limits to a box.
Being uncomfortable is when we learn the most about ourselves and our abilities to live.
What we are willing to sacrifice, embrace and fear.
Without these experiences, life would be meaningless.
A seed without growth. A bird without flight. Music without sound.
Comfort is a warm embrace, much like a nest is to an egg.
But we all have to leave the nest someday.
Knowing the risks, we take that first step, we play that first note.
We endure the discomforts of being “newborn” to bring more purpose to our lives.
We must do so by leaving our comfort zone.

Dear Unsealers,
If you’ve made it this far, I applaud you. For by opening this letter, you have indulged your curiosity. You’re no longer fully content to stand at the edge where you feel safest. You’ve dipped your toe in that murky water of uncertainty. Even in the shallow end, courage can be found.
What can be said in these words from the edge? By the way, those boundaries move as you push up against those walls. What once was a dark border of mysterious lands is now illuminated and you’re on to the next, slashing at the terrain with the machete. Or at the very least sitting on a rock, hopefully thinking about how you made it this far and wondering what lingers just beyond your line of sight, beyond the campfire light. I find myself at least peeking around the corners, even when I spend most days scared shitless. I’ve been diagnosed with panic disorder. Prescribed a regular spectrum of pill shaped relief to fill a not-so-pill shaped hole. I’ve had three periods in my life where I was unable to even leave the house. What if I can’t find my way to my destination? What I someone gets angry at me when I step on their foot accidentally at the bus stop? The neat thing about panic disorder is that you don’t even need these slinky narratives to get you to your very own, full blown panic attack. You can just get a few steps beyond your welcome mat, out of your comfort zone and your arms begin to weigh a hundred pounds. Your heart rate spikes up. You get a real nice sweat going on a cold day. Pretty soon you lose feeling in your arms. Your nervous system sounds the alarm. This is not a test. You’re dying.
The colors are too saturated and the air too still and the rattle of an old sprinkler is far too loud. Everything is overcooked and, in the foreground, bombarding you. You try to walk your dogs and try to make sense of it or ignore it, all the while trying not to bump into the painted scenery. You apologize to the pavement you tripped on and then become acutely aware you don’t remember getting to your present location.
Every thought is like reading the same sentence in a book over and over again.
Every thought is like reading the same sentence in a book over and over again.
Spoiler alert: you can’t hide indoors while the world keeps spinning and be able to pay bills, connect with loved ones, or go to your favorite coffee shop. So, you go. You take those miserable steps beyond the mat. You sit miserably in classes and social situations. You return to that space you feel safest and hold the memories. The memories of living your life. You survive these times, these everyday experiences, again and again and again. Pretty soon, the overwhelming urge to hide in the bathroom becomes less frequent. Oh, it will show up again. But please, above all, keep living as best as you can. Enough time goes by and you forget how you felt such impending doom at happy hour and on the bus and in the blank spaces down town. You remember your friend laughing at your joke. You remember the song playing in the background. You remember your life.
We don’t do the dying in these moments when we feel like our hearts will most surely burst. We die behind closed doors. We die slowly in days spent saying “Tomorrow I’m going to beat this thing.” Rush out as far as you can every day from behind those fortress walls and satiate the curiosity, even if you must on your hands and knees. Maybe one day, we will meet out there in the great unknown.

Dear Younger Self,

Just a little note from your future self who has become wise in some ways through time and experiences… When we stay in our comfort zones we make a little cozy space to cocoon ourselves which can cause for us to never move forward. Sometimes, we find ourselves pushing past that comfort zone that elevates us into a newfound mental and physical place. Other times stepping outside out comfort zones are just an illusion of the mind. The stepping outside of my own comfort zone comes with that first leap forward. Oftentimes, I get so wrapped up into my own headspace that I struggle to move. I become so paralyzed with that first step forward that at times I need to be shoved face first into a new phase of life! If only I just leaped more often rather than just mentally decipher the pro’s and con’s of the possible scenario before me, I would save myself so much mental turmoil! It is that first leap that is far more intimidating than staying in the unsteady place of not moving forward or just moving at all in general. Adapting to ones own comfort zones also leaves little the complex uncertainty of leaping forward that professionals argue is healthy for us. I am still not so sure about that.

When I was 21 years old I had pre-determined that I would never be a mother. I had planned through birth control, safe sex, and at time abstinence to insure I would never become a mother. I was certain I would screw up any child that I could raise and that I would forever have regret about how much I would mess up my own child. I had just decided to never go there and that in no way would I ever become a mother. Life had a different set of plans and did not fill me in on the plan. This year the child I had pre-determined I would mess up turned 21 herself. She was meant to be here and if ever I could pinpoint an exact moment where I see how one action radically changed my life is the day I took 10 pregnancy tests that all turned positive! She is my birth control, condom miracle child! I just didn’t know I would be any good at raising her! Becoming a mom meant I would need to shed the pre-determined manner in which I would metamorphosis from being a single entity into becoming someone else’s mom! If I was going to do this job well it meant I would have to strip away the selfish layers I had decided when I was younger I was going to wear with pride. No more self agendas for my life anymore because as I was growing her I felt the connection I had never experienced with anyone else ever before! My daughter was meant to be here and looking back 21 years I can honestly express that I would not have changed the circumstances that forced me out of my cocoon of comfort into being a mom! In fact, I did not mess her up! I am proud to admit I was one-hundred percent wrong on that front! Becoming a mom changed me forever and while some moments where you step out of your comfort zone only have momentary alterations into our lives, for me, becoming her mom radically changed me inside and out for the last 21 years of my life. I am not the same person at all. I was no longer a “me” but a “we.” Even as she has become an adult, I am still tethered to an invisible line of connection between her and myself because I grew her and I grew up with her. I grew up because of her! I didn’t allow myself to even entertain the idea that I would stay the same while I was pregnant with her. I could feel the change happening as I made very choice to be a present mom. I allowed myself to become completely changed as a person, and even more so as a woman. Did I make some mistakes along the way of raising her? Of course I have! I have however, radically owned the mistakesI know I have made with her. I have taken those many mistakes as opportunities to grow and to learn more about myself! Sometimes, that first leap towards growth is the best one you will ever take and changes you in a way that you only see years after you have moved forward.

Warmest Regards,

Your Future Self

S. Ludlum