Rewilding the Spirit: A Journey Back to the Self
Coming Home to Myself
I’ve spent most of my life in Texas, yet my soul has always been restless, drawn to horizons beyond my reach. I’ve shared meals with strangers, sipped coffee brewed over open flames, and written poetry in some of the world’s most beautiful places: Mexico, the Netherlands, Germany, Egypt, Vietnam, Uzbekistan, and Puerto Rico. These journeys have woven themselves into the fabric of who I am, merging my love of culture, storytelling, and myth-making with the lived experiences that inspire my writing.
As a student, I ventured into the world, leaving behind the familiarity of home to live in Mexico and Germany. In Mexico, I experienced life away from home for the first time, navigating new spaces with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Germany brought its own lessons. Twice, I found myself there, navigating the train system and sometimes ending up in completely unfamiliar villages. Hours walking the downtown streets of Hanover left me feeling more alive and in tune with myself than I had ever felt. My old life fell away during those moments, and I realized how far I had traveled—not just physically but emotionally and spiritually.
There’s no way to fully encapsulate those experiences. Was it the distance from who I thought I was meant to be? Or the shedding of the young girl I once was, burdened by baggage and abandonment issues? Whatever the reason, I felt alive, unshackled, and free to discover who I was beyond the confines of expectation.
The Call to Rediscovery
In 2018, everything shifted. Living in Vietnam with my husband, I embarked on what I now recognize as a journey back to myself. Vietnam offered more than beauty—it gave me space to breathe, reflect, and rediscover.
One of the most transformative experiences was hiking through the bamboo forest in Sapa with Hmong women from the hill tribes. These women, carrying their history and resilience in every step, guided us through a world untouched by the frenzy of modernity. We stayed in their village, deep in the middle of nowhere, where the air hummed with the quiet rhythms of life. The journey was arduous—rocky terraces and steep inclines tested every fiber of my being. I carried my bags uphill, stopping frequently, winded and out of breath. Every step demanded effort, every breath a reminder of my own fragility.
The struggle was grounding. Pain and effort stripped away everything but presence, yanking me into the moment and demanding my full attention. It was a lesson I’ve encountered time and again while traveling—the unfamiliar, and often the uncomfortable, heightens awareness of life’s subtleties and the growth unfolding within.
I felt this acutely during my time in Egypt in 2014 and 2015, where life itself seemed to pulse through every experience. I sailed the Nile in both a felucca and a cruise ship, visiting the temples of Luxor and marveling at the vastness of their histories. I watched workers mine stones and smooth out lapis lazuli, the cold surface of the gemstone surreal against my fingertips. The unfamiliarity demanded my presence, just as it had in Vietnam, grounding me in the immediacy of the moment and reminding me that growth often comes from the discomfort of confronting the unknown.
Writing as Healing
Vietnam didn’t just rekindle my sense of presence—it reignited my voice. Writing, for me, has always been about experiencing life fully—being deeply connected to myself and the world around me. It’s the awakening of the senses, the vivid clarity of details, emotions, and moments coming alive at my fingertips. Travel heightens this awareness, transforming the intangible into something unmistakably real. Yet at home, submerged in the monotony of daily routines and obligations, that clarity dims. I lose sight of the world’s vibrancy, and in doing so, I lose sight of myself.
From my balcony in Hanoi, I began to see the world with fresh eyes. The symphony of life below—the hum of motorbikes, the rhythmic calls of street vendors, and the everyday choreography of people simply living—invited me to notice, to observe, to feel. It was in these moments of quiet observation that the threads of my voice began to weave themselves back together. Writing became a lifeline, pulling me back into alignment with myself and the present moment.
Experiencing this awakening in Vietnam, a place so rich with collective transformation, amplified its power. In a country where resilience is etched into every story and struggle, the act of writing became more than an expression—it became a way to anchor myself in something larger. Each word felt like a bridge, connecting the sensory, emotional, and spiritual landscapes unfolding around me.
That reconnection to my voice wasn’t just about reclaiming my creativity—it was about rediscovering who I was. And it became a vital thread to hold onto when life changed yet again.
A New Understanding of Wholeness
Returning to the United States, I faced an unexpected crisis—a health battle that demanded everything I had. For over a year, I endured relentless symptoms without understanding their cause. By the time I was hospitalized, coughing up blood, a bacterial infection had ravaged my body, leaving me teetering on the edge of life and death. The autoimmune condition they finally diagnosed felt like a reflection of years of disconnection and neglect, my body literally attacking itself.
Healing became both a physical necessity and a spiritual awakening. Writing offered a lifeline, anchoring me in the moment when my body and mind felt fractured. Just as my travels had taught me the importance of presence, my illness forced me to confront it again—this time with an urgency I had never known.
The same clarity I found while writing about while in Hanoi returned in moments of stillness and reflection. Every breath, every heartbeat became tangible in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I spent over a year undergoing tests, monitoring a growth in my lung, and managing the complexities of my condition. But in the midst of it all, I began to see that healing wasn’t just about containing the illness; it was about reclaiming my wholeness.
Through mindfulness, meditation, and writing, I found a way back to myself. Writing became not only a form of creative expression but also a practice of survival—a way to feel alive and connected in the face of uncertainty.
Living with Intention
The lessons of writing, illness, and travel all converge on one truth: life demands intention. Writing teaches us to pay attention to the world, to strip away distractions, and to be fully present. Illness reminds us that presence is not a luxury but a necessity. And travel reveals that growth often comes from stepping into the unfamiliar, from being awake to the possibilities of each moment.
These days, I live with the knowledge that balance is both fragile and sacred. Writing, once a way to make sense of life, is now a practice that sustains it. Every choice, every word, every act of creation is an invitation to honor the life I am building—a life rooted in intention, presence, and authenticity.
Whether it’s the physical challenge of climbing a hill in Sapa, the surreal chill of lapis lazuli beneath my fingertips in Egypt, or the quiet act of writing at my desk, each moment asks me to show up fully. These experiences have shaped me into someone who no longer takes the mundane for granted. I’ve learned to see the sacred in the everyday, to cherish the connections between body, mind, and spirit, and to live a life that reflects the values I hold dear.
Travel reawakened my spirit, reconnecting me to the world and my inner self, while my illness redefined what it means to be whole. Together, these experiences have taught me that balance, mindful pacing, and presence are the true foundations of well-being.
