This installment of writing is very vulnerable and bit of an interlude during A History of Falling in Love. To understand the significance of the how the culmination of my three loves (Collin, Switzerland, and Tolkien) resulted in a grand adventure, it’s helpful to back up a bit and share with you the journey I’ve had with anxiety.
Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.
Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?
But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn’t. Because they were holding on to something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.
Due to some combination of biological (hormones, sleepless nights breastfeeding) and environmental factors (my family had just moved from Long Island, New York to Delaware prior to my birth, and my dad had shortly thereafter lost his job), when I was around 8 months old, my mom fell into a very deep and difficult postpartum depression. It was so bad that she developed aphasia and couldn’t speak for quite some time. She went to her doctor for help, but this was an era before antidepressants were readily available or doctors really understood how to support a female going through this type of depression. The first three years were the hardest for her, though she wasn’t fully recovered until I was around 9.
What a difficult journey my mom made through that psychologically and physically painful time. She did it, though, and she never gave up. For that, I am grateful. My mom’s experience with depression and the ways it affected her, in turn, also affected me. That is because nothing happens in isolation. We are all connected.
During the years when I was between 8 months and 3 years old, my main memories are of playing alone outside in our backyard while my mom would recline on a nearby lounge chair and keep an eye on me. My sisters were at school all day, and my dad was working again by this point. So, what bit of nature we had in my 1/4 acre backyard became my playground, my toys, and my friends. There were forsythia blossoms and ink berries, and I made potions from all the natural elements I’d gather and find. I’d stir them together in my pot with a stick and live in my plane of existence where my imaginal world and the natural world overlapped. When the sunbeams hit the water from my kiddie pool just so, the most ethereal rays of light would dance on the wall of our porch. I was convinced these were fairies dancing to say hello. I wore a small blanket like a cape (and often only a small blanket like a cape) and between potion-making sessions, I would engage in flying practice. I would run back and forth across our 1/4 acre yard convinced that if I got up enough speed I’d fly. My rich, inner world and my connection to nature kept me engaged for the most part. But there was a deep loneliness that grew inside me.
By three, I was eager to exchange my cape for some clothes, and I was ready for some friends who were more conversational than the refraction of light. The first day of preschool felt like Christmas. And so did days 2-180 of the school year. Social engagement and formal education became two of my deepest joys. I was never lonely anymore, and it felt amazing. Meanwhile, my mom was able to get more rest and feel some of her own life coming back into her being, and my dad’s new job was going well. Things were on the up and up for all of us.
But then, when I was 5, we moved to our newly built 5 bedroom house. For the first time, I had my own bedroom. My sisters, who were 9 and 12 years old at the time, were thrilled for the privacy they gained, but I hated being alone at night. I was terribly afraid of the dark. I’d lie awake at night and feel the weight of loneliness sitting on my chest. I hated how separate I felt lying in bed, aware that I was so small, so singular. I felt isolated in my own reality, and the loneliness felt like it was going to swallow me whole. All that loneliness that plagued me for those first three years came surging through my body at night time, and I was deeply afraid. Night after night, I’d spend hours afraid and trying to just wait out the night, but it was agonizing.
Unfortunately, my fear started to bleed into other areas of my life; I’d watch a movie where a character got cancer and then be terrified I was going to get cancer. I overheard on Oprah one day the high statistics of car crashes in the United States, and then I was a nervous wreck everytime I was in the car. The claustrophobia from some unfortunate incidents whereby I got accidentally locked in our garage several times when I was 2, transferred to plane rides and elevators. Everywhere my thoughts turned, they were tainted with fear, anxiety, and a feeling of helplessness.
One day, I realized that I was tired and overwhelmed by the anxiety itself. The quote, “A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but one” really hit home. I thought, “yes, here I am dying a thousand deaths of agonizing anxiety all day every day, and that is not better than if any of these fears actually transpired.” And furthermore, it occurred to me that life takes some measure of faith to not live in that cloud of terror. I could make up infinite scenarios of terrible things that could happen when I walk outside my door, but unless I want to resign myself to a life of terror-induced paralysis, curled up in fetal position all day, I’m going to have to have some faith that things are going to be alright.
So, I decided: I’m facing my fears head on. I’m sleeping through the night by the time I’m 12. And so, I set my mind to reaching that goal, and I did. Rather than lie awake, keeping myself alert due to fear and anxiety, I practiced trusting that I could let myself go off duty and that things would be okay.
If you’ve ever been anxious or fearful, you know: being brave and courageous doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It means taking heart in the midst of fear and doing the thing anyway. Those of us who are more prone to anxiety have the unique opportunity to develop courage. And so, I took that opportunity.
I took that approach and applied it to all my fears until one day I realized that I had become quite brave and adventurous.
By the time I was 16 and friends with Collin, I was exploring abandoned, old houses in the woods late at night, rappelling off train bridges with mildly condemned rope climbing equipment, and jumping off other 40 ft tall bridges into rivers below.
Because of this courage, I eventually went on to have some of the most extraordinary adventures. For our honeymoon, Collin and I flew to Thailand and hitch hiked and backpacked all over the country. Often we’d be in remote pockets where no one spoke English, and we weren’t entirely sure how to get where we were trying to go. I felt only exhilarated by the experience. We also hiked hundreds of miles deep into wild places like the Canadian Rockies, Patagonia, and the North Cascades in our 20s. We confronted a Grizzly Bear while it was eating an elk and we were days of hiking from civilization. I had a mild case of hypothermia at the time from crossing so many rivers in the high altitude snow fall. Another time we camped in a backpacking tent on the Masai Mara a quarter mile from our vehicle during the Wildebeest migration with lions hunting right outside out tent. They were so close we could hear them breathe. I was able to hold all of those experiences as part of the great adventure that is life itself.
With all these experiences on my life CV, I absolutely self-identifed as a courageous, adventurous person. I’d occasionally have dreams at night where I’d go back to my 2 year old self as my current self. I’d find her sitting alone, and I’d tell her all the amazing things we were going to do one day.
For many, many years, I had no anxiety and no fear. I barely remembered what it felt like as a child to be scared. I only remembered what it felt like to be strong, brave, and adventurous. As a young mom with little kids, I’d hop in the car and drive them anywhere—even to other states for overnight adventures when Collin was busy working. Los Angeles, Arkansas, Vermont—every state and every phase of life all my courage and competence to do big things transferred with me.
And then Covid hit. And for the first two months, I was okay—even though we didn’t see anyone besides our family for weeks at a time due to living on 64 acres on top of a mountain. Vermont took Covid very seriously, and so during those months we got most our food from self-pay farm stands or CSA pick ups. Occasionally (once a month) I’d go to the grocery store and they’d deliver the food I’d ordered online into my trunk. But during these months, everyone all over the world was pretty much was isolated at home. There was a cameraderie about it.
But then, the rest of the world started moving on, and we didn’t. Things were very strict in Vermont and we had decided to follow all the guidelines for reasons that felt very important at the time. Fortunately, my kids had their neighbor (half a mile away friend) and they bubbled up together. So the three of them had an epic experience and played outside daily. And we saw a handful of people occasionally that were in our bubble (including that particular neighbor’s family and a couple other families) but most days, I didn’t see other people for quite a long, long time. For a person who needs regular, positive social interaction to feel healthy, this left a mark. But I didn’t realize it while it was happening. I made it most of a year before I started to feel pretty topsy turvy internally. In fact, my lived experience of 2020-2021 felt pretty amazing. I loved the hygge of wintertime; I loved that the kids were playing outside only with friends because it meant they were outside every, single day. I loved that our family got even closer and made our own world up on the mountain. We went all in on our homeschooling and did all kinds of projects, read books, lived into the subjects we were learning.
Living through an unanticipated global pandemic on top of a mountain was such a bizarre set of insular circumstances that it was hard to know that the vast amount of time removed from society was having an adverse effect until the damage was done. Not leaving our homestead except to go somewhere else very rural in Vermont (and usually just our family) for over 400 days affected me more deeply than I knew until one day I had a severe panic attack out of the blue. I was about to just take a bite of my breakfast, and something snapped. After that, panic attacks became frequent—heart racing, blurry vision, hyperventiliating—I was afraid to drive without cell service because I was terrified I’d have a panic attack and not be able to get myself back home or call Collin to help. There was little to no cell service in the entire surrounding rural area where we lived. I didn’t want my life-quality to deteriorate, but the fear coming from within felt like it was going to swallow me whole. I was able to mostly hide it from my kids, but it became increasinly difficult to do so. My family members who are licensed therapists explained to me that my severe isolatory experience caused a re-trauma of the intense loneliness that I experienced as a young child. That checked out with how I felt; it was like a dam had broken, and all the fears of my youth that I kept retained came flooding through me without restraint.
Consequently, my world got very small as I hesitated to push out of my routine; and the smaller my world got, the sadder and more neruotic I felt. Then finally, Vermont started to re-open again; they started lifting some of the travel restrictions and social restriction guidelines. We started to see family members and friends from near and far more often.
But there was still some residual damage; some of those old fears had returned. Elevators, parking garages, tunnels, planes—elements integral to traveling—became a trigger for anxiety. I was still VERY averse to being without cell service. The feeling of being out of touch with the rest of humanity was too much after such an acute and yet enduring segment of time spent isolated from society. Anything that made me feel the potential to get lost or trapped—essentially, isolated—induced a lot of anxiety. My day to day world continued to feel small as I was only comfortable with a small routine.
Then Collin was presented with the opportunity to start Mass Culture, and we moved back to Topanga. The infrastructure of Los Angeles—the ubiquitous cell service, easy to figure out (albeit slightly frenetic) freeways, the ability to see where you are in reference to the ocean, the mountains, the valley (versus being down in the woods and having limited visibility), and the feeling that you’re never too far from other, friendly people—this was all extremely supportive to my nervous system. I was able to start to really heal enough to go outside my routine. But just barely. I’d still have to white-knuckle it through any circumstances that put me in a situation that felt potentially isolatory (going out of cell service on a day trip outside the city, elevators, etc).
The anxiety became a secret burden I kept under wraps. My friends would want to hike with me, and I’d always suggest the trails I knew like the back of my hand. If we went somewhere I didn’t know, I’d be supressing a panic attack the whole time. Likewise if I had to go on an elevator in a parking garage, or if I was driving somewhere where the cell service was sketchy I’d have a physiological reaction where my whole body would start shaking uncontrollably. I could barely access rational thought.
The anxiety, though hidden from others to best of my abilities, became something heavy and exhausting that I had to carry but never wanted in the first place. The fears and cautions whispered to me in the recesses of my mind like they were there to help me, to keep me safe. It was very easy to attentuate to those fears rather than the people around me (like Collin) who would say, “You’re really going to be okay. You don’t have to be afraid” to which I’d want to reply, “Well, if I’m afraid it’s YOUR fault!” In a way, my anxiety became much like the ring. It was altogether toxic, but heavy and mine to bear. I didn’t know how to get rid of it, and it was diminishing the quality of my life. I had been happy and strong before covid; I regretted that the anxiety came back. I wish the ring had never come to me. I wished that none of the trauma had ever happened.
“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us”
There is something indomitable about the human soul; maybe that’s the essence of Life itself. That unwillingness to give up, that drive to keep living, that will to keep reaching upward and onward—like a blade of grass growing through a crack in the concrete, we keep pushing towards light despite the obstacles and odds against us.
For me, the drive to keep trying has always been tied to Love. Across spiritual paths and traditions, the greats agree that Love is defined by a set of principles, attitudes, and behaviors. It’s a posture of the heart, one that remains humble and committed to growth. It’s the practice of being present with whatever one’s feelings are, but then making a choice to align your heart, your mind, and your life with goodness, unselfishness, generosity, forgiveness, hope, trust, and endurance. So for me, when all else feels uncertain, when my internal world is in disarray, I hitch my wagon to the star of Love. My Polaris.
I wrote in the last post all about falling in love with Collin so young, and I know that particular path of finding and marrying your first, true love young doesn’t go well for most people. I think we were lucky, and I also think we work our asses off to stay committed to a path of Love.
I also wrote previously about my deep connection to the Lord of the Rings and Tolkien’s creation of such a deeply moving story. The liteary arc and deeply moving, artistic mastery of that story hinges on the love and commitment of its characters for one another and for goodness per se. Each character had to rise up to their potential; to do that they had to embrace their identity at great risk and cost to themselves. That’s why it strikes such a chord with me. If Samwise would’ve thrown in the towel when Frodo harshly sent him away, the quest would have failed. If Aragorn wouldn’t have faced his fears and taken up the calling of his true destiny, all hope would have been lost. If Éowyn wouldn’t have defied the cultural limitations of what a female could contribute, the Nazgul would have survived. The success of the epic quest and the fate of good overcoming evil depended on each main character living into their potential and staying true to the path of goodness—or as I deem it—Love.
So when we were formulating our anniversary trip plans, I didn’t want to limit our long awaited celebration to that which wouldn’t cause me anxiety. I wanted to move beyond my fears and reach towards Love.
Collin and I had talked for many years about one day returning to Switzerland together. This would require a lot of courage from me as it would require a cross country flight by myself (to meet up with Collin after he had dropped our kids off at camp in Vermont), a long transatlantic flight to Europe, and then all the unforeseen elements that traveling abroad presents (trains, tunnels, elevators, getting lost, etc). Collin didn’t want me to have to be riddled with anxiety on our celebratory trip, so he offered to stay local in California to avoid all those potential triggers. I appreciated the offer and considered it.
But then, somewhere along the way of looking into different destinations, I happened upon a book written by a fellow Tolkien and hiking enthusiast called “Switzerland in Tolkien’s Middle Earth.”
The book, written by M.S. Monsch, is a well researched collection of theories about the specific places in Switzerland that inspired Tolkien’s creation of Middle Earth. It is full of hiking suggestions that take you on the routes that Tolkien himself traveled when he trekked across Switzerland on his own life-changing adventure when he was just 19 years old. From Rivendell to the Misty Mountains, passing by Caradhras, to Lothlorien, and even on to Mordor and Mount Doom—this book gives maps, hiking routes, and explanations into how to experience the journey that shaped the Middle Earth (and stories therein) that affected me so deeply.
So, while I knew that I’d have less anxiety if I stayed in California, I found my courage once again. I wanted to move beyond my anxiety, towards that grand adventure that the Polaris of Love is ever guiding me towards.
I packed my Kava Kava tea (an herbal anxiolytic), and my homemade adaptogen-infused energy bites. And with great trembling but an even greater resolve, I set out on the journey of a lifetime to celebrate my love with Collin, in our beloved Switzerland, tracing Tolkien’s steps through Middle Earth. Because I’m with Sam; there is a lot of good in this world. And it’s worth fighting for.
